Monday, February 27, 2006
The rise and fall of Daddy Power
by Russell King
You know you can’t avoid it, but you hope it’s farther off than it is. You’re never quite sure what’s worse: the pain of an end and a loss or the helplessness and hopelessness of dreading what you know is coming. There is always the rationalization that the ending of this is merely the beginning of that, but the consolation is slight. When it strikes, it leaves an empty, cold space where once there was something of a miracle.
"It" is the loss of your Daddy Power. (Moms, I’m sure, have a Mommy Power of their own to lose and mourn, but I’m an American dad.) Daddy Power is the supernatural ability of a father to "make it all better" when his kid’s world falls apart. Some of these feats are accomplished with ease: when the training wheels are uneven; when a fish needs removing from a hook; when there’s a spooky noise in the dark.
When my eldest, Daniel, was small, he went through a time of bad dreams. Monsters, he insisted, entered his room when the lights went out. I grabbed a feather I’d collected on a walk and explained to little Danny how when dads hold a magic feather – just right – they gained immense powers, and when dads shake that feather at the four walls of a room -- just so – they create an invisible barrier that is impervious to monsters. In my most solemn manner, I shook that feather and mumbled nonsense chants at the walls. Danny slept soundly, and I’ll be darned if that room didn’t stay monster-free.
Some Daddy Power feats are not so easily performed. Hearts broken by young loves require far greater and more serious attention and care than do bedtime monsters. Saying "no" when your grounded teenage daughter pleads with her beautiful eyes and sweetest voice to be allowed to go to out despite the grounding – "just this once" – can make an American dad break into a sweat. Encouraging your child to stand apart from the crowd, remaining true to personal values, when the pressure to conform, from peers and pop-culture, approaches the point of overwhelming is nothing short of a repeated (or is it continuous?) act of heroism.
Sometimes, Daddy Power takes you by surprise. A recent snowstorm made our roads all but impassable for a day. Thanks to four-wheel drive, my 12-year-old, Logan, and I were making our way to a sledding outing with a friend, when we encountered a car stuck in the snow. I got out and pushed it free. Moments later, we found the same car stuck again. I pushed it out again. When the snow stopped the car for the third time, I gave the driver a ride home. As we were pulling away, Logan said with a hint of pride, "When I’m bigger and stronger, I’m going to push people out of the snow, too."
"That’s just what we do," I told him. "Whatever folks are stuck in, we give them a hand so they can be on their way." Nothing more has been said about it, but I know the Daddy Power was magical that day.
The time comes, however, when the Daddy Power is gone. There can be monsters lurking in DNA, against which Daddy Power is useless. There can be wounds they world inflicts that Daddy Power may soothe but can never heal. There are choices made that cannot be unmade, that direct lives down dark and dangerous paths where the Daddy Power cannot reach. There is nothing to do but endure and (we hope) learn until emerging on the other side.
The limits of Daddy Power are a frightening, disillusioning lesson for children, but there is a great payoff at the end. When I was young, my father was a god in my eyes, and it was a an unsettling shock to find his feet of clay – but my payoff is that he’s an even better man than he was a god. I could never have loved him then as I do now.
The first of my children are venturing beyond the reaches of my Daddy Power, and I’m not handling it well. Somewhere in the hidden spaces of my soul, I rage against the fates that put them outside my protection, even though it’s where I know they must go. It’s where, sometimes, I’ve had to push them. Maybe pulling yourself down from that celestial pedestal is the last ounce of magic you’re allowed. Earth’s the right place for fatherhood: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
by Russell King
You know you can’t avoid it, but you hope it’s farther off than it is. You’re never quite sure what’s worse: the pain of an end and a loss or the helplessness and hopelessness of dreading what you know is coming. There is always the rationalization that the ending of this is merely the beginning of that, but the consolation is slight. When it strikes, it leaves an empty, cold space where once there was something of a miracle.
"It" is the loss of your Daddy Power. (Moms, I’m sure, have a Mommy Power of their own to lose and mourn, but I’m an American dad.) Daddy Power is the supernatural ability of a father to "make it all better" when his kid’s world falls apart. Some of these feats are accomplished with ease: when the training wheels are uneven; when a fish needs removing from a hook; when there’s a spooky noise in the dark.
When my eldest, Daniel, was small, he went through a time of bad dreams. Monsters, he insisted, entered his room when the lights went out. I grabbed a feather I’d collected on a walk and explained to little Danny how when dads hold a magic feather – just right – they gained immense powers, and when dads shake that feather at the four walls of a room -- just so – they create an invisible barrier that is impervious to monsters. In my most solemn manner, I shook that feather and mumbled nonsense chants at the walls. Danny slept soundly, and I’ll be darned if that room didn’t stay monster-free.
Some Daddy Power feats are not so easily performed. Hearts broken by young loves require far greater and more serious attention and care than do bedtime monsters. Saying "no" when your grounded teenage daughter pleads with her beautiful eyes and sweetest voice to be allowed to go to out despite the grounding – "just this once" – can make an American dad break into a sweat. Encouraging your child to stand apart from the crowd, remaining true to personal values, when the pressure to conform, from peers and pop-culture, approaches the point of overwhelming is nothing short of a repeated (or is it continuous?) act of heroism.
Sometimes, Daddy Power takes you by surprise. A recent snowstorm made our roads all but impassable for a day. Thanks to four-wheel drive, my 12-year-old, Logan, and I were making our way to a sledding outing with a friend, when we encountered a car stuck in the snow. I got out and pushed it free. Moments later, we found the same car stuck again. I pushed it out again. When the snow stopped the car for the third time, I gave the driver a ride home. As we were pulling away, Logan said with a hint of pride, "When I’m bigger and stronger, I’m going to push people out of the snow, too."
"That’s just what we do," I told him. "Whatever folks are stuck in, we give them a hand so they can be on their way." Nothing more has been said about it, but I know the Daddy Power was magical that day.
The time comes, however, when the Daddy Power is gone. There can be monsters lurking in DNA, against which Daddy Power is useless. There can be wounds they world inflicts that Daddy Power may soothe but can never heal. There are choices made that cannot be unmade, that direct lives down dark and dangerous paths where the Daddy Power cannot reach. There is nothing to do but endure and (we hope) learn until emerging on the other side.
The limits of Daddy Power are a frightening, disillusioning lesson for children, but there is a great payoff at the end. When I was young, my father was a god in my eyes, and it was a an unsettling shock to find his feet of clay – but my payoff is that he’s an even better man than he was a god. I could never have loved him then as I do now.
The first of my children are venturing beyond the reaches of my Daddy Power, and I’m not handling it well. Somewhere in the hidden spaces of my soul, I rage against the fates that put them outside my protection, even though it’s where I know they must go. It’s where, sometimes, I’ve had to push them. Maybe pulling yourself down from that celestial pedestal is the last ounce of magic you’re allowed. Earth’s the right place for fatherhood: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
