Daddyism. A Father's Day Tradition Like No Other.

As another Father’s Day approaches, one muddles over the unfortunate things inflicted on the kids over the years, despite a Dad's best efforts and intentions to do the right thing in the right way. Given the relevant, recent history with a divorce and now a new marriage, I worry if my own issues might have permitted the kids to fall a bit into the cracks.

I should have known things had gone off-kilter when my Father’s Day gift a year or so back was a glass butter dish. A butter dish! Seriously! This kids crack falling thing is not the most celebratory thought right before another Father’s Day. Yet, it is just another part of Daddyism.

Daddyism relies on a heavy concept that, all in all, the kids are relatively resilient. Whatever mistakes and missteps their Dad makes, the mere attempt at doing the right thing as a father seems to prevail. One can only hope.

June 19th, 2011 is my 15th Father’s Day celebration. The number itself means very little except to offer a bench mark in time. It is easy to get caught up in it all, to look back upon experiences and events and feel time as fleeting. Looking forward to events yet to come there are driving lessons and SATs; high school graduations and proms; and, just a handful of remaining family vacations around the corner. All too soon (poof!) they should be off to college where both the fatherly influences and inadequacies shall have a relatively zero mitigated impact (thank goodness). Then, if history predicts anything, it’ll be another ten years before the kids return to perhaps see ‘ol Dad wasn’t/isn’t so bad after all.

The other day, I saw where the Houston Zoo had a rather unique day for Dads planned. Kid’s can name an endangered toad after their Dad and celebrate that splendor. How appropriate and funny and a wonderful illustration of a hidden truth. Somewhere in the layers and layers of parental phobias and decisions and daddy dogma, there is an uplifting calm, not to mention hilarity, in the humanity of Daddyism. I embrace that concept and philosophy, completely.

Daddyism holds perspective power. Most of us don’t truly realize our own kid-dom. We are mostly a product of the chronological listing of stretched stories and half-truths. Our memories change, filter, and reprioritize the important who-ness, what-ness, where-ness, when-ness, why-ness, and how much-ness (as well as, bad ass-ness) of our histories. Much is forgotten in the timelines from diapers to driving. We watch it happen, take a few notes, document it all as best we can, but the minutiae and wonderful details get lost on the shuffle to get to the inevitable what is next in life. Yet, the best part of Daddyism is our front row seat to watch it all unfold so we can, hopefully, talk about it later.

And it does unfold in strange ways. What seems like yesterday, I remember a small, chubby baby barely able comprehend the beauty of a simple fart, yet smiles anyway. Today, we belly laugh as we quickly roll down the windows of the car, knowing full well the profound accomplishment. Now THAT is human progress; an illustration of the overwhelming human experience boiled down into chunks one can more readily digest.

Yes, true Dads laugh. A lot! They harbor no overwhelming sorrow. No obvious fear. They are compassionate, yet strong. There is no status-envy as one would be hard pressed to think of a more cherished position for a man. True Dads love unconditionally. We promote productive, positive possibilities and a propensity for play, purposefully.

Sounds fun, doesn’t it? For those non-Daddyism endorsers, there isn’t a much more compelling argument for or against Daddyism than that. Daddyism doesn’t offer a cure-all to what ails you; quite the opposite, actually. It sells to Dads that front row seat perspective as the days, months, and years parade by offering you rare conclusions or quick fix solutions, but a heck of a lot of enjoyment along the way.

The risk is that, one way or the other, the kids might turn out to be just like you. Not the solace you are looking for, huh?! No harm, no foul. Life is elusive in handing one explanations and directions for happiness, significance, and reason. The Zen in me says, right there, THAT IS Daddyism in and of itself.

Maybe, the only real risk is that one day the kids offer you thanks by naming an endangered toad after you as you bask in the immense capacity of their love. This thought gives me hope. It is better than a butter dish and that there is progress. They are learning, in spite my fatherly falters and many misgivings.

Happy Daddyism and a wonderful Father’s Day to the Dads out there.

Can you get to that? I want to know

I once had a life, or rather
Life had me
I was one among many
Or at least I seemed to be
Well, I read an old quotation in a book just yesterday
Said "Gonna reap just what you sow,
The debts you make you have to pay."
Can you get to that?
Can you get (I wanna know)
I want to know if you can get to that (hey!) (get to that!)
Can you get (can you get to that)(I wanna know)I want to know if you can get to that – Funkadelic

I must admit to bit of writer’s block, although it feels more encompassing. My computer archive folder with all my “thoughts on paper” looks more like a smattering of words on the screen with little current meaning. Now that I have (almost) completely unwrapped my brain from last month’s move and merge, I look at myself and feel nowhere close to any expected routine. Granted, there has been little regular practice of any sort for a year or so now. And it isn’t just the writing now either. Cooking, exercising, music, reading, painting/drawing, as well as this creative outlet called writing, have all fallen off the regular radar.

But I have to admit, I feel ready. I want to get to that.

A day or two ago, I read in a fitness magazine (while in line at the grocery store) that even if one doesn’t feel like exercising or working out at least get up and make the attempt, that each individual has a personal “point of no return,” where, once you’ve reached it you’ll complete the workout. For me, my “point of no return” for exercise is simply getting my feet on the floor at 5 a.m. and out from the warmth of the snuggle. Once upright in the morning, I have no problem with the rest of the exercise program (as long as my iPod is charged).

Cooking still happens out of necessity, love, and fatherly duty. But it is far away from the way it used to be organized. I once had a chalkboard in the kitchen that displayed the scheduled meals for the week. Originally, this was out of necessity in order to avoid the post-work “what do you want to have for dinner?” conversation, the post-work run to the store, and the subsequent unhealthy options that inevitably became dinner due to the lack of time. With the chalkboard, there was no stall to think and debate. I simply made what was planned and on the board. Early Saturday mornings the quiet of the house is rather Zen-like with a cup of coffee, the weekly grocery ads spread out on the kitchen table, and blank menu board awaiting the plan for the week’s dinner menu/shopping list. In fact, the Saturday morning ritual only got better as The Girlie joined in on the tradition. So, what is the P.O.N.R. here? It is simply the chalkboard. Unfortunately, at the last house I created a bad, bumpy chalkboard with blackboard paint. I’ve been artistically offended at my own handy work since then. So, using it ceased. As a result, the weekly routine suffered. So, this weekend the board is getting sanded (after some quiet time with a cup of coffee and the grocery ads). I can get to that.

I can get to that!

49er's Got Game

Unka Tim and I took the kids to their first NFL game. 49ers v NYJets. Quote of the day came from The Girlie:

Is Jet Favre on the New York Bretts?

The Play Station and the Financial Crisis

The Boy asked this morning, “Dad? What’s goin’ on in the news? What’s this crash they’re talking about?” The morning news was talking about another couple hundred point fall in the DowJones and the President just made a quick speech to the American public.

I started to explain it simply enough, but I could tell it wasn’t registering. The Boy had a glazed look in his eyes. And The Girlie looked up from her cereal bowl obviously semi-curious about the news, too.

“Ok, let me put it this way,” I started again. “Let’s say you wanted to buy yourself a new PlayStation. It cost $100 dollars. You promise to pay it back by earning it over time doing yardwork. However, I don’t just want my $100. I want $110. The extra $10 is called interest….. Does that make sense so far?”

“Sort of,” he admitted. “But, won’t charge me more than the $100, right? You’re my Dad!” he joked.

“No, I’m a bank. I make money for the bank by charging you a bit more than the money I loaned you. Banks need to make money, too. They don’t just give away money for nothin’,” I clarified with a finger in the air as emphasis.

“Fine. I get it,” he admitted, “What about this crash though?”

“I’m getting to that. Stay with me,” I continued. “Now, not only are you promising to pay me back the $100 plus the $10 interest, I want something called collateral. Collateral is something of similar value you let me hold until you can pay me back. So…. Let me think …. I give you the money to buy the PlayStation, but in the meantime I get to keep all your GameBoy games until you do.”

“So, basically,” he continued, “You get to do whatever you want with my GameBoy games if I don’t pay you back. Right?”

“Yep!” I said, “now for the crash…. One day, you and all your friends decided GameBoys were kind of old school and nobody plays them anymore. GameBoys became like Eight Track tapes.”

“What?” the Girlie scrunched her nose.

“Never mind,” I back tracked. “You all decided Gameboys had cooties. You all are into Rock Band and Guitar Hero now, anyway. Those GameBoy games are now not worth the $100 anymore. They MIGHT be worth $20 on eBay.”

“That stinks,” the Girlie chimed. The Boy chuckled.

“Exactly,” I pointed to her and she smiled. I looked at the Boy “Plus, you’ve been spending so much time playing your new PlayStation that you haven’t done any yardwork. You don’t have any money to pay me back for the PlayStation. So, since you can’t pay me back, you just let me keep the GameBoys. Make sense?”

“Yeah, I got a new PlayStation for some worthless Gameboys,” he beamed.

“That’s right,” I continued, “the bank, or me, just lost a bunch of money because we thought GameBoys and PlayStations would be popular for a long time. And, now they aren’t so much anymore.”

“You shouldn’t have loaned me the money, huh!” the Boy admitted.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “I, as a good parent, should have asked you to raise the money on your own first. You should have been able to afford it on your own. As a good bank, I should have had you be a bit more responsible. Instead, I let you just get whatever you wanted.”

“So, now,” I continued, “Think of the PlayStation as a house. Instead of a hundred dollars, think of hundreds of thousands of dollars. What the banks did was loan a ton of money to people to buy houses, like I just did with you and the PlayStation money. Only, nobody predicted that the value of their houses, or in this case your games, would go down in price. PlayStations, as we speak are being replaced by Wii’s. Even your PlayStation isn’t worth as much anymore and you just bought it. For years, when you bought a house, it was thought that it would keep its value, that it would be worth more tomorrow. What is happening now, is that our house isn’t worth as much as when we bought it three years ago. A lot of people borrowed money based that their house would be worth more in a year or two. That isn’t happening. Houses lost a lot of value and now the banks are losing a ton of money. It started a really bad money cycle. And it has caused a lot of worry.”

“So, basically,” the Boy wanted to be done with this lesson, “I shouldn’t borrow money. I should raise it first.”

“Yes,” I answered, “With one last point … be careful what you buy. Nothing holds value very long. Not a PlayStation. Not a house. You have to be careful with your money. Americans and the banks and the government haven’t been very careful over the last ten years or so.”

“Obama will fix it,” shouted the Girlie striking a cheerleader pose.

“I hope so, Girlie. I sure hope so,” I finished.

A Safe Place

When I get into the house every other Friday, I’m typically not prepared to cook for either me or the kids. The Girlie and I do the weekly shopping on our Saturday morning ritual. So, Fridays tend to be pizza night. Last night was no exception. I still push for the three of us to at least sit down, stare at each other, and for me anyway, try to catch up on the missed week of my children’s lives. Sometimes all I get is a “not much”. Sometimes I get last night.

Between bites of pizza at a quiet moment, The Girlie asked me “Why are we still at war in Iraq? The news showed some little kids that were lost. I don’t like that at all.”

I was briefly taken aback and over chewed my pizza, hiding behind a façade of a smile so I could think about my explanation. I needed to think of comforting fatherly words to ward off the evil world that wormed its way into my daughter’s consciousness. I fished for the words that could blur the edges of an impoverished child or tanks or soldiers or worse.

I will admit, I’ve wanted to see more of what the war is all about on tv. I don’t believe it is good to hide our actions from the American people. We already seem to be a culture of sheep to a certain extent. I believe if we actually could see all the caskets with draped American flags and more of the devastation these leadership decisions have caused, the American public (I’m talking mostly about the Republican conservative folks) might not have been as supportive.

However, in this moment with my kids I was torn and I knew with frightened clarity that events happen every day. This wasn’t just about the war. I was actually a bit relieved she didn’t ask me about the fall of the American financial world, as I’m not sure I could have really explained that to my nine year old. Not sure I could explain it to me right now. But it was immediately apparent there is a new nightmare nearly every day. Nine year olds must ponder these things all the time. Or they blindly choose to ignore it all and go naively playing with their dolls all sugar and spice with everything nice.

If given the choice to rewind those moments for her, I would have gladly hit the double arrowed left button and rerecorded a newer, nicer video over her Memorex. After all, in spite of my personal world-view, I am her father. I’m Daddy. I protect. It is my job more than any other. If a part of this life didn’t depend on the tv as baby-sitter whilst I prepare dinner (and my addiction to big screen football Sunday), the tv would be on the curb.

Yet, the news is the news. It is on tv every night, and despite the lack of a credible reality counter for the Good to balance it all out, it should be a reminder to all of us that life is not fair. There is no escaping the injustices this world forces upon us. Dark things exist around some of the most seemingly normal places looking all rainbows and ribbons.

And that clue is what The Girlie wanted to know. She is a smart girl and getting more grown up all the time. She simply wanted a version of the truth she could stomach.

So, without going into my politics I tried to explain the basics of the war in Iraq to a nine year old girl; how it started, why we are still there, and my hopes that we end it soon.

I watched her think. I was apprehensive. I’d given her too much to chew on, politically speaking. Her face scruntched up with cute, little thought lines above her eyebrows, “If Obama wins the election will he get us out of the war?”

That’s my girl, I thought as I took a swig of beer to down my bite of pizza. “I hope so,” I stated.

And that was that.

I sort of wish the conversation had turned back to the scary things. I know she sees a lot of it anyway. There are other kids that go to school with her where the parents have restraining orders. She knows kids from abuse. Hell, she knows life can go pretty quickly from an assumed happy family of four to a divorce and alternating parents every other week. She knows.

After dinner, I cuddled up with both kids for a rousing round of Rock Band on the PlayStation. And I wondered if my heart could slow down a bit and keep time with the drum beats coming at me on the screen. I think it is important for us all to laugh.

That is my counter. That is what I, as dad, do. Teach, warn, prepare, love, encourage, and provide that one and only safe place. Home.

Slippers

I was looking for some stuff under my bed and found a pair of slippers. I don't wear slippers. I don't know why I own them. My daughter saw me pull them out and look at them questioningly.

"Daddy, why don't you ever wear your slippers?" she asked.

"Because, I don't want to fall down," came my response.

She looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

"They don't call them 'slippers' for no reason, right!?" I continued. She paused, thinking.

"Daaaddddyyyyyyy!" came the realization.

Then she punched me.

Girlie Talk

I brought The Girlie back from LA with me yesterday. We blasted music and danced in our seats. It was a beautiful drive through Malibu and the coastal route home to MudHole.

At one point, the music got quiet and acoustic. We both became a bit introspective and alone in our thoughts. We watched the waves and a plethora of surfers awaiting the right wave.

The girlie reached over and lowered the volume and said, "Something is going on with tomatoes!" and then promptly turned the volume back to normal.

She didn't want an explanation. She just wanted to warn me because she knows I like tomatoes. "Thank you," I stated over the music. She smiled and went back to her thoughts while adjusting the skirt on her American Girl doll.