FATHERHOOD

Love

love

I have come to realize that my sons do not say “I love you.”  I am trying to train them to at least respond, “I love you, too.” But lately, I’ve shied away from doing so.

One night, a while back, I was tucking Hayden(7) in to bed and I said, “Goodnight, buddy, I love you.” Silence filled the room. His face was buried in his pillow.   Frustrated, I said, “I love you, too, dad.” Still nothing. I tickled him. He relented. “Sort of”, he mumbled into the pillow. “Sort of?” I shouted back. “Yeah,” he said, “it means a little.'”

For a time, this incident made me sad. He knows I love him, I’d think. I hug him, kiss him, tickle him, and show him affection daily. And I know, deep down, deeeeeeeeeeeeep, deeeeeeeeeeeeeep down, he loves me, too.

Lately, though, I’ve changed my attitude about the lack of “I love yous” I hear.  I’ve had to search for why this affected me so much. There’s the obvious need to love and be loved, but I knew it ran deeper than that.

Why do we say “I love you”? What purposes does it serve? Certainly, it varies from relationship to relationship. Ultimately, however, I think it serves to remind people how much we care about them. But, as I consider this spoken gesture more, I also think it’s a way for us to remind them that they love us, too–or they SHOULD, we think (we hope).

Whenever I tell Owen (9) I love him, I do not get a response, but I feel a sense of acceptance. If I could read his thoughts, it seems they would say something like, “Of course you love me, I’m your son. I’m your first-born. I’m a good kid…but you don’t need to say it all the time–it’s a given. Relax.” Yet, often, when I tell Hayden I love him, there is almost a defiance in his reaction. His mouth turns into a half-smile/half-frown–a frile, if you will. I’m not sure I want to read his thoughts. I think he fights my love–I feel him rejecting this level of emotion because either he doesn’t feel worthy of my love, or he doesn’t want to care about me so deeply–or maybe a little of both.

But the love my boys identify with today, they will remember decades from now.

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I still remember the lunch my mother packed me for my first grade field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo. I walked home for lunch everyday, so packing a lunch was a treat. The bag was stuffed with all kinds of deliciousness: a ham and cheese sandwich, potato chips, a soda, cracker jacks AND a candy bar. I knew I had the best lunch in my group. I wanted to shout for joy from the top of the monorail. That day, that lunch made me feel so  special, so loved.

I still remember the time in second grade when I came home with a bad grade on a spelling test. I was so nervous to show my parents. And even though I was supposed to get it signed, I decided to hide it where no one would find it–under the clothes dryer. It was someone’s birthday that night and my grandparents were over for dinner. Towards the end of the meal, it dawned on me that the dryer gets very hot. As a junior neurotic, I decided that my spelling test would catch on fire and burn the house down. I began to cry. “I’ve done something bad–really bad.” My whole family, grandparents included, marched down to the laundry room. My dad laid on the floor and fished the paper out from underneath the dryer. He was not mad at all–about my subterfuge or my poor spelling. He smiled and said, “Next time, just tell us, okay.” “Okay,” I said, whimpering. As we ate our cake, I felt oddly elated–my dad loves me even when I make mistakes!

Both of these memories evoke times when I felt wholly loved by my parents. A very pure, somewhat magical feeling.

I grew up in a house where “I love you” was spoken a lot. Ours was a large family in a small house. Day-to-day, amid the chaos, it was hard to sense the love, but the words were uttered. As we left for school each morning, these three words would be part of the exchange between the seven of us and our parents. And each night, before bed, I would kiss my mom and dad, and say, “Goodnight. I love you. See you in the morning.” My mother would respond with her now-infamous “God willing,” leaving me to conjure her death as I laid down to sleep. My father? I don’t remember his response. I think it varied. But, I marvel at the fact that I kissed him goodnight throughout my childhood, and with every hello and goodbye as an adult.

For me, for my past, love was a spoken reminder. Perhaps the words were said in an attempt to add calm to the fray. Yet, those words hung like an albatross around my neck for much of my life. Often, love felt heavy, sad, anxious, chaotic. Often, love felt conditional.

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To this day, my mother says “I love you,” to me every time we speak. If she calls me four times in a day, she says it four times. In an attempt to not become obsessive about this (which I think makes me more obsessive about it) I purposely do not respond with an “I love you, too” every time she says it–I shoot for fifty percent of the time. I am aware that my mother takes note of this.

Perhaps my refusal to overstate my love stems from the fact that, even now, there seems to be an unspoken obligation with those words, as if love can magically erase all the burdens of our past, or is the antidote for all that ails the relationships in a family. Love cannot. At least the words cannot. As cliché as it sounds, “Actions speak louder than words.” I love my mom, and I know that she loves me, but I’ve realized in life that saying I love you and doing I love you are very far removed.

When I first became a part of my wife Pam’s family, I marveled at the fact that they rarely said “I love you.” It is written in cards, but not said at the end of every encounter. It was as if I were finally connecting all the dots: Hmmm. They don’t go around saying they love each other all the time, but I know they do. They are kind to one another, and respectful of each other’s opinions, and they do thoughtful things for one another–DING! Oh, you can feel it but not have to say it every day, every phone call, every exchange. I found this to be very refreshing.

Pam and I do say it often–even several times a day, which I appreciate, because she is the most important person in my world–my life partner. In that case, I find it strengthens our bond.

As for the boys, I find I say it often to them, and usually there is no response. At first, this made me feel angry, worried. Then it dawned on me–they feel loved. They feel my love. Their needs are being met daily. They want for very little and we spend a good deal of time together, interacting or just in each other’s presence. I believe that structure, that sense of stability, makes these words seem unnecessary to them.  Thus, there is no need for them to say it back to me. For now. For now, they just need to know that they are loved and feel they are loved. And in the end, all of us need to accept that we are worthy of the love we are given.

Once again, having children has taught me valuable life lessons. Kids may be the result of love, but we cannot create life as a way to force someone to love us back. Love is cultivated over time. For a parent, it seems that love begins with an ultrasound. For a child, that love manifests itself in stages. It is our job to teach children how to love, and the best way to do that is to show them. In short, to love them. Unconditionally.

“I love you” can serve as a reminder that you love me, too. Or it can serve as a reminder that you are loved. As a parent, I choose the latter, and I know what the answer is, even if it is unspoken.

Now, I seem to ponder the concept of love more. Whom I love. Who loves me. Not, who I have history with, or who I am in close proximity to, but who I have an abiding emotional connection to and for. It has been a very enlightening journey–emphasis on the lighten. I DO feel lighter. I used to think of love as something that anchored me, like a rock. Now, I try to view love as a feather, as a breath. Light and soft.

 

 

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You’ll never know: A Father’s Day Tribute

1975. I am six years old and I am riding with my dad in his Buick Skylark. Maybe it’s a Chevy Malibu. Whatever the car, it’s the size of a small tank with an endless front hood, Batman-like tail lights, and bench seats that are equal parts cushion and spring, and 100% bounce.

It is a moment that is forever etched in my mind.

carseatMy dad and I are riding in the car. It is a Saturday morning. I know this because the mood is light–the weekend is here and the day holds much promise and possibility. It is summer because I am wearing shorts and the windows are cranked all the way down. I don’t remember where we are headed. I don’t care. I am riding with my dad–alone. ALONE. Not one of my 6 brothers and sisters to bother me. No one to share the front seat with. Yes, the front seat.  I sit across from my dad in the front seat, my legs dangling over the edge of the embroidered nylon bench. No seat belt to trap me in. Just me and my dad cruising on a weekend morning.

The car glides around a bend and I fly across the seat, toward him. I stay there. My bony leg next to his. My elbow resting on his lap. I watch his hand dance along the steering wheel, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’s so cool. He’s my dad.

As I bask in this time alone, he starts to sing:

You’ll never know just how much I miss you

You’ll never know just how much I care

And if I tried, I still couldn’t hide my love for you

You ought to know, for haven’t I told you so–a million or more times

You went away and my heart went with you

I speak your name in my every prayer

If there is some other way, to prove that I love you, I swear I don’t know how

You’ll never know if you don’t know now

I am awestruck. “Again!” I cry. “Sing it again!”

He protests, realizing he is vulnerable now.

“Please?” I beg.

He obliges. You’ll never know…

We drive on. A dad serenading his son. I feel like the most important kid in the universe.

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For a while after that, on the rare occasions when my dad and I would be driving alone, I would ask him to sing that song. It turned into our little duet, as I would echo the last part of each line. HOW MUCH I CARE…MY EVERY PRAYER. It always made me happy, and could serve to draw him out of a mood if he was a little brooding that day.

And then, like too many things in childhood, it just stopped. One day, I stopped asking and he stopped feeling comfortable singing it to me. There were many times when we would be driving in the awkward silence of my teenage years, where I would think about that song, where I would wonder what would happen if I requested it, where I would laugh in my mind at the absurdity of my dad singing to his son, now almost an adult. I never asked, though, and as the song implies, now I’ll never know.

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About nine years ago, I heard that song in, of all places, Disney World–the happiest place on Earth. The land of make believe? I was walking down Main Street by myself. It was nighttime and the crowd was thin. I had never heard the song performed by anyone but my dad, yet here I was, being serenaded by the lilting voice of Alice Faye–I checked. My dad had long since passed away, and now I had an infant of my own. I looked up in the night’s sky from the streets of the Magic Kingdom. You went away and my heart went with you…

Yes, a piece of it did. But larger pieces remain behind. Embedded in my first-born son, and soon thereafter, his brother. There are many car rides for us now–smoke free with them tethered safely in the back seat. But I try to remember the glory that can transpire between a father and his son in the more subtle moments of life, on an insignificant car ride, on a random weekend morning.

Car rides that may, in fact, last a lifetime.

 

 

Spring Sting: A Runner’s Reflection on the Boston Marathon

Originally published April 23, 2013.

The irony of the Boston Marathon: America has stopped running! This epiphany came to me as I was participating in a 5k at my boys’ elementary school over the weekend. I have these moments of clarity when I run, and during the annual Spring Zing, I was preoccupied with thoughts of the bombing victims in Boston. Then it came to me: America has changed. This latest attack was different.

If you’ve been reading my blog, you have learned that I am a runner. I am as a shocked as everyone else who knows me that I am this athletic in my forties–much more than I ever was as a child. I have participated in close to fifty races in the past two decades. Fifty! And invariably when I run, there is usually a moment in the race when my eyes well up with tears. I am overcome with emotions–pride, joy, disbelief, humility. This is not the person I was slated to be in my youth. Not the overweight, unmotivated, smoker. Yet, here I am. And beyond the disbelief that I am an adult runner, is the pride I feel for being a part of something so palpable, so uplifting. I am forever grateful to have discovered running. For it is my love of running that has helped me explore the world around me and within me. Running has allowed me to process so many things I would have missed otherwise in my daily routine.

landscape-photo.net

Cherry Tree, by: Bruno Monginoux

The Spring Zing is a very sweet affair: A 3.1 mile race that winds through  the neighborhoods that surround our local school, and a 1 mile fun walk for the younger kids. These events are followed by an auction of gifts and crafts created by the various grades–paintings made out of thumb prints, mosaics and garden baskets constructed with tiny hands, etc. The money raised benefits our elementary school, and its partner school in Africa. One of the highlights of the school year, this event has become a reminder for me about the joys that springtime bestows on us. Sadly, this year’s fun was tarnished by an exhausting week of national sadness in the wake of the Boston Marathon bombings.

Saturday’s race was especially bittersweet because it is the one race I do that involves many young children. Over one hundred young people, ranging from first to fifth grade, participate in the 5k. My sons have yet to do this race, but truthfully, many of the children who sign up for it are out of their element. They are not ready for this distance. But I don’t think that matters. The point is, they are developing an awareness for running distances–for setting a goal and doing their best to finish it. Many of them do end up walking some, most, or all of the course–but they all cross that finish line! Whenever my boys ask me if I won a race (NO), I always reply, “Anyone who finishes the race is a winner.” This might sound lame in our “I am number 1” culture, but I mean it. In running, as in life, the race is only against yourself.

As I watch so many children “running” with their parents, I am filled with excitement, looking ahead to the day when I might run side by side with my boys in a race. I have dreamed of such a day since they were born. This thought alone is enough to fill my eyes with tears. But on this day, my smiles toward these families are interrupted by images of other runners whose limbs were lost just days ago pursuing the same passion. I feel the power of my stride hitting the road, only to imagine my feet missing. Next, I envision the youngest victim, Martin Richard, running beside these innocent, naive children, and I shudder at his image that is now burned in my mind: holding up his P-E-A-C-E poster with the plea “No more hurting people.” Richard was my son Owen’s age.  Such stark thoughts of this heinous act try to sabotage my race.

Like most of America, I was riveted by the bizarre turn of events that began on Monday, April 15th and ended with cinematic flare five days later. I still cannot fully comprehend what transpired. Yet, I am proud of the reaction that so many have had in response to this latest act of terror. In numerous news accounts it has been noted how, rather than flee the horror caused by the bombs, many people ran into the fray, determined to help, refusing to kowtow to cowardice, adamant that these monsters would not continue to paralyze our national consciousness. Strangers held one another, clothed one another, administered first aid and comforted one another. They remained. This approach echoed throughout America in the days that followed. Rather than cancel races in the wake of such destruction, more races were organized. I witnessed this locally in Philadelphia, where thousands of men, women, and children ran through Center City just three days after the attack, in honor of the victims and all who ran the Boston Marathon. And many other races have been created in response to this act. 

Yes, the irony of the Boston Marathon is that America has stopped running! As a nation, we are tired of being fearful. The city of Boston has demonstrated the bravery and dignity that is required to stand up to evil. Sadly, we have seen this bravery too many times. But with every new attack, we just grow stronger, more determined. The American people will not live in terror. We will not let this defeat us. In the end, the bad guy will not win–good will continue to outweigh evil. This courage is inspirational, and indicative of what America is becoming, has become, post 9-11. 

Halfway through the race, I realize this. I am emboldened by the courage of all those people who were in Boston that day, and put others before themselves. I think of all the brave law officers, military, and medical personnel who worked tirelessly to save lives, capture these perpetrators, and restore order and safety to the streets. I decide to put my fears–my thoughts of blood and death–away. I look up at a beautiful sky, where the sun begins to emerge from a billowy cloud. I breathe in the crisp fresh air. I smile. As I backtrack the mile and a half left of the course, I see a collection of children on the other side of the yellow line in the road. They are running. We are running. We are all united in this race. We are all united in our freedom as a country. I raise my hand, and begin to high five anyone and everyone. Kids respond without thinking. Parents reflexively put their hands up to match mine. We connect. I spend the rest of the race connecting with all of the amazing people who have come into my view on this glorious day. Each of their smiles, every high five, is a testament of our will to continue. For make no mistake–the race is not over. 

cc by-nc-nd Bruno Monginoux www.photo-paysage.com & www.landscape-photo.net

Monginoux / Landscape-Photo.net (cc by-nc-nd)

XOXO

The following comic was inspired by a previous post of the same title.

Whenever my wife travels for work, she peppers the house with little post-it notes of affection for all. And she likes to put them everywhere.

A note like this will greet me when I come downstairs for my morning coffee.

xoxoxo

And there will be notes for the boys on their cereal bowls.

xoxo

We come across them in familiar spots throughout the day–from beginning to end.

xoxoxoxo (1)

Last year, as I was putting the boys to bed, they finally became intrigued about the ubiquitous XOXO that adorns all of her messages.

At bedtime, I usually sit in the hall while the boys settle into sleep. I had just opened a book when Hayden (then 6) called out from his room, “What does XOXO mean?”

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“Or is it kisses and hugs? X is for kisses and O is for hugs,” I clarify.

“Okay,” says Hayden. Their rooms grow quiet. I continue reading by the glow of the nightlight.

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It’s strange, but I actually enjoy this time, sitting on the hard floor in the drafty hallway. The boys are safely tucked in for the night and I get lost in a book. I am just that when Owen pipes in from his room.

“Dad, what’s sex?”

My eyes shoot up from my book, panic-stricken.

xo3

Why is he asking about sex? What the hell have they been watching? What should I do? Pam’s away!

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I think back to how goofy and innocent these two are. Like the time I thought they were coloring when they were really doing this with all of their crayons:

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I can handle telling them how to properly use their crayons. But this is another matter altogether.

I take a breath, about to say, “Sex is something that mommies and daddies do when…” Just then, Hayden yells from his bedroom.

xo5 (1)

 

I exhale a sigh of relief. He was asking about X! X is a kiss. X is a kiss. “Goodnight you two!” I say, relieved. “Goodnight!” they reply, innocently.

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Post Script:

As I reflect on this incident over a year later, two things stand out. One, my mind really has gone to shit since having kids. I was not capable of recalling the conversation the boys and I were having minutes ago–I actually thought he was asking about sex, not X! That quickly, the thought is gone.

Second, in hindsight, I understand why I became so panicky in this situation. It’s not that I’m afraid for my boys to have such knowledge. Pam and I have always wanted to be open and honest with them–from the start, we’ve called things by their anatomical names in this house. No “noodle” or “woohoo”–two terms I’ve heard other parents use for penis and vagina. And I do think I would have begun the conversation as I did in my head: “Sex is something that mommies and daddies do to show they love each other…” And in time, that conversation would have developed into “Sex is something that two people do when they love each other…” It’s not the topic, per se, but the realization that I must be prepared at any time to confront questions my sons will have, and to answer them in an honest and respectful way.

I don’t think my panic arose from them knowing about sex, but just that it came out of nowhere. Even though it wasn’t even the question they had, I was reminded about the fact that, like all things in life, we cannot be prepared–we never know when something will occur. We cannot schedule the conversation, block off a half hour of our time for discussion, then cross it off our to-do list. Kids remind us that life is unpredictable, and we must try to be ready for anything.  ANYTHING!

XOXO,

Dadicus

To see how I handled a similar situation this year, click here .

MEET THE CARTOONIST: Jimmy Murphy
When he’s not performing Shakespearean Sonnets at The Great Wall of China, Jimmy Murphy draws everything from the creatures that haunt his imagination, to the ones that haunt his 9th grade reading curriculum, to the squishy noseless people like those seen on this website [figure1]. Although not yet at the peak of his popularity, artistically or high schoolistically, this fourteen year-old has been drawing since he could hold a crayon–the first recorded drawing being a rainbow–[figure 2]. Jimmy’s artistic influences include Shawn CossGris Grimly, and himself. He enjoys reading a good book, ranting about things he hates, raving about things he likes, sleeping, and can be endlessly entertained with a label-maker [figure 3].
[1] Jimmy.1 (1)      [2] Jimmy.2        [3] Jimmy.3 (1)

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March Madness

As the nation immerses itself in the craze of the NCAA College Basketball Tournament, I thought I’d give you another perspective on the rules of the game. I found this gem in Owen’s room, where the boys have weathered some of this winter playing hoops with one of those over the door basketball nets.

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Number 3 continues on back with …for defense.

Number 4 continues on back …a rope tie someone up.

Number 8 is particularly interesting to me, since Owen’s brother Hayden is 7.

Swimming in Loch Ness

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I try to be very calm in my approach to life–at peace with the world, aware of the positive forces in my presence, appreciative of the beauty and joy that surround me. But try as I may, the anger seems to dwell just below the surface. On the outside I am tranquil, but on the inside, I am one negative encounter away from reeling. Emotionally, I feel like I am floating along on a raft in the warm water on a sunny day–on Loch Ness. The surface is smooth, it beckons me to relax, but the prehistoric monster lurks just beneath, waiting to rear its long neck and swallow me whole. Curse you Nessie!

nessie.1

The reminders of this struggle bombard me daily.

After school, I happily make the boys a snack, glad to have this time to unwind with them at the kitchen counter. THEN, I spy some jerk out the window speeding down our street. I immediately seethe, envisioning myself chasing down the car, climbing on the hood, stomping in the roof, and yelling:

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At a recent basketball game for my 9 year-old, I try to be supportive of all the kids–even cheering when the other team sinks a great shot. But there, on the bleachers, is one dad–only one–who keeps barking at his son for all the wrong things he is doing. I try to ignore him, but his negativity gets the best of me. I fantasize about walking over to him and screaming: 

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Ahhhh. The rage subsides, but it leaves a sting.

These dream-like confrontations make me feel better momentarily, but then deflated in the long run. I cannot be so confrontational in life–even if only in my mind. Too often, I feel like I got my approach to parenting not from Dr. Spock or Dr. Phil, but from Dr. Banner–you know, David Banner, aka The Incredible Hulk (Mr. McGee, don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.)

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But, every so often, the world teaches me a valuable lesson about this struggle. Such a reminder occurred the other day when my boys were sledding in the fields behind our house.

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I wait for a groan, but I’m met with  enthusiasm.

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 nessie.7

It was idyllic. The dogs frolicked through the white, powdery trails, and I could hear the boys’ shouts of delight as they raced down the hill. The air was crisp and the sun danced through the barren branches. I became more elated with every step.

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As I made my way out of the woods, I saw that more kids had joined my two–about seven in all.

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I wanted the dogs to remain off leash, so I continued to watch the sledding action from afar. Owen (9), was now attempting to ride his snowboard–something he has adapted to quite nicely. As he came down the slope, I noticed he fell right after he passed two older boys–middle schoolers, perhaps.

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No parent likes to see his kid fall, but I was proud he got up right away to try again. My radar was raised, though: “Who are those kids? I don’t recognize them.” I watched him trudge up the hill for another attempt. The same thing occurred–he cruised down the trail effortlessly, only to fall immediately after he passed the two boys, who erupted into some kind of shout when he tumbled. My mind raced: Those #@!@##$$#@%! They’re making Owen fall. They’re teasing him and making him self-conscious, and then laughing when he hits the ground. JERKS!

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I decide I will get closer and yell at them. Something like, “Yo, knock it off! At least he’s trying. I don’t see you two making any attempts! Leave him alone!”

I rehearse my diatribe in my head, reminding myself not to call them any names, and then I get distracted by one of the dogs–it seems Huck has chased after a deer.

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By the time Huck comes back, Owen has switched to the sled again, and seems content. I call over to them, trying to detect any stress in his voice. “You guys ready?”

“No, Dad! Can’t we stay–just a few more runs?”

“Okay!” I am relieved–and those two punks should be, too. Lucky to be spared of my wrath.

On the walk home, the boys are cold and snow-caked. They each hold a dog leash while I carry the sled and snow board. I try to get a sense of what happened with the other boys.

“Did you know any of those kids?”

“No,” they reply.

“Were they all nice?”

“Yeah,” they say.

As if I just thought of it, I say, “Hey, I saw you fall a couple of times when you were on your snowboard after you made it all the way down the hill.”

“I know. Those guys were trying to teach me how to stop,” Owen replies.

“How. To. Stop?”

“Uh-huh.”

“They were helping you?”

“Yeah, but it’s really hard to learn how to stop. Every time I tried, I’d slide out of control, and we’d just all crack up.”

“Oh. Well, that’s cool. I’m glad they could give you some tips.”

They were trying to help. They were teaching him. They were laughing WITH him.

SIGH.

Water splashes me from Nessie’s tail as he swims back under the surface–I’ve spared you THIS time, it seems to say. But what about next time? I think.

nessie.13

**************

Why do I constantly see the conflict in everything?

When it comes to parenting, there is a fine line between protecting and over-protecting our children. I am aware that I must teach my sons to address their own conflicts in life. I cannot fight their battles for them. But more importantly, I want to instill in them a sense of awareness: not to view the conflict in everything, not to feel constantly embattled.

The best way to teach this is by example. If I continue to allow anger to thrive, I will never be able to fully enjoy where life is leading me.

I want this sledding incident to serve as a reminder for me. I want to recall it the next time I am quick to judge a situation.

 But most importantly, I want to find a new lake to rest on–one that doesn’t house monsters–real or imaginary.

Take that, Nessie!

nessie.14

MEET THE CARTOONIST: Jimmy Murphy
When he’s not performing Shakespearean Sonnets at The Great Wall of China, Jimmy Murphy draws everything from the creatures that haunt his imagination, to the ones that haunt his 9th grade reading curriculum, to the squishy noseless people like those seen on this website [figure1]. Although not yet at the peak of his popularity, artistically or high schoolistically, this fourteen year-old has been drawing since he could hold a crayon–the first recorded drawing being a rainbow–[figure 2]. Jimmy’s artistic influences include Shawn Coss, Gris Grimly, and himself. He enjoys reading a good book, ranting about things he hates, raving about things he likes, sleeping, and can be endlessly entertained with a label-maker [figure 3].
[1] Jimmy.1 (1)      [2] Jimmy.2        [3] Jimmy.3 (1)

My Son Turned 100 Today

Here is a picture that my seven-year-old drew of himself at 100–to celebrate the 100th day of school.  photo (46)

I love his red hair–which is brown now, and that he gave himself glasses in his old age. I could make out the cane easily enough, but I was confused about the thing he was holding in his other hand: A wand? A microphone?

“What’s that pink thing you’re holding, Hayden?”

“A lollipop!” he says, matter-of-factly.

Of course it is. If anyone will be eating lollipops at 100, it’s this guy.

Thanks for the glimpse into your future, Hayden. Enjoy every decade!

 

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