Friday, November 30, 2007

Being There

What does it mean to be there for our children? I think the definitive answer to that is that there’s not a definitive answer.

At this point in my parenting life—after a whopping four years and two kids worth of experience—I think that being there means just that; being there. It means that nearly every night, before he goes to sleep, my four-year-old Alex asks “Dad, will you tell me about my day?” And, then, dutifully, I review the events of his day. Sometimes, I’ll ask him “Alex, will you tell me about my day?” And, he does, always starting out the story with “Once upon a time, there was a boy named ‘Daddy.’”

It means reading the same book five times in a row because that’s what my 18-month-old daughter wants. And, because there’s nothing sweeter than watching her approach me, book in hand, and then do an about-face as she backs her padded butt into my lap, ready to have me read to her.

It means saying “Yes,” when Alex asks “Daddy, will you watch this movie with me?” even when I know that, at that moment, there’s something more productive I should be doing. More productive, yes. More important, no.

It means sharing the load. Too much is being written these days that men who are active parents are somehow “Super Dads” who need a medal simply because they can change a diaper. This ain’t the 50s anymore, guys. If you want to stay single and kidless, then do it. But, don’t expect to become a dad and then continue to live the life of a single guy. I see some guys in my work and personal life universe doing it and, trust me, it’s not working. It’s putting stress on their marriage and impacting their children.

Jen and I have split the duties fairly effectively since Day 1 of our parenting career began. However, we still have pressures and stresses and arguments. No sympathy needed; we chose this life. It’s just that it’s a lot of work and it takes communication, dedication and patience, a lot of patience.

And so we do those things and make those split-second decisions because that’s what I think parenting is all about. It’s not about how many activities you can drag your kid to during a crazy Saturday. It’s not about making sure your young child can make it to hockey practice after basketball camp and right before play practice. It’s about rolling around on the bed on a lazy Sunday morning, just you and your wife and kids and thinking that there’s really no place I need to be right now. And that’s just fine, thank you.

A few months ago, Jen was cleaning out some old letters and papers from college and came across this poem that she’d hand written on a piece of yellow note paper. She’s not sure where she got it, and we don’t know who wrote it, but it hit me and it’s worth a read.


To My Grown Up Son
Author Unknown

My hands were busy throughout the day
I didn’t have much time to play
The little games you asked me to.
I didn’t have much time for you.

I’d wash your clothes, I’d sew and cook
But when you’d bring your picture book
And ask me please to share your fun,
I’d say “A little later, son.”

I’d tuck you in all safe at night
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door
I wished I’d stayed a minute more.

For life is short, the years rush past. . .
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide

The picture books are put away
There are no longer games to play
No goodnight kiss, no prayers to hear. . .
That all belongs to yesteryear.

My hands, once busy, now are still.
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to.