Year 1 is behind us. Our daughter had her birthday (and two birthday parties). I haven't posted in a couple of weeks mostly out of exhaustion.
Both birthdays went really well...I have a good template now as to what will work and what will not work for future parties. One thing I believe that worked well was having one party for my side of the family and another party for my wife's side of the family. This strategy prevented us from becoming too overwhelmed (although both my wife and I had our moments).
With family dynamics, I feel like I'm inside a painting and I'm the only object moving. I can see every detail of the painting: the paint, the thread of the canvas, everything from the inside. And everything and everyone is standing still, nothing but brush strokes...and I walk through the canvas, seeing things for what they are. It's fucking eerie.
Over the last two weeks I've noticed that my wife has begun to "shimmer" within the painting, as if she is being released within the confines of the brush strokes.
The freedom of therapy is terrifying. We shimmer with life before we are able to walk amongst the dead.
And anniversaries...the "anniversary" of our daughter's birth.
Any anniversary is important: a death, a birth, a new job, a broken relationship.
Some of the things that we celebrated as an anniversary over the past couple of weeks: the birth of our daughter, another summer survived in Texas, a 1 year calling to the truth, 1 year after the job failed to be safe, 1 year after the failing of many friends and family to be what we needed them to be.
And so we go on, moving forward even as we deal with the past.
The Thousand Yard Stare has lifted at last.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Ripped Out
I want to address a phenomenon that I believe happens to men as they become fathers. I know a similar, if not exact, phenomenon happens with women as they become mothers, but this blog is about men and fathers. Anyway.
I've noticed over the past year that I've had this unbearable desire to shred any aspect of who I was before our daughters birth. I think I had it better than many other men who became fathers: I didn't need to kick a drug habit, I already had a job, I "had it together" (as much as anyone can while in their 20s). I was also lazy and lacked drive.
When my daughter was born, I was relieved when I realized I was finally shedding some of this left-over adolescence. I couldn't get out of that skin fast enough.
Yet I was strangely mournful to see it go. It really was like a death. A part of me was dying. A part of me that I wanted to let go of for so long, yet was not allowing myself to do so.
The last year was a struggle with my new role as father. It was also a struggle with my old role as an independent person.
And I believe I've won the war. I still have desires for a certain independence, but I've been able to manage it within the context of being 'a family man.'
A did a painting not long ago that I called "The Warrior." I didn't know why I called it that until recently. It was a self-portrait.
The Warrior. I went to battle with myself. I had to fight with my selfishness.
I needed to win this battle. My daughter needed me to win this battle.
And I'm a better man for it. Even if I have a few scars.
I've noticed over the past year that I've had this unbearable desire to shred any aspect of who I was before our daughters birth. I think I had it better than many other men who became fathers: I didn't need to kick a drug habit, I already had a job, I "had it together" (as much as anyone can while in their 20s). I was also lazy and lacked drive.
When my daughter was born, I was relieved when I realized I was finally shedding some of this left-over adolescence. I couldn't get out of that skin fast enough.
Yet I was strangely mournful to see it go. It really was like a death. A part of me was dying. A part of me that I wanted to let go of for so long, yet was not allowing myself to do so.
The last year was a struggle with my new role as father. It was also a struggle with my old role as an independent person.
And I believe I've won the war. I still have desires for a certain independence, but I've been able to manage it within the context of being 'a family man.'
A did a painting not long ago that I called "The Warrior." I didn't know why I called it that until recently. It was a self-portrait.
The Warrior. I went to battle with myself. I had to fight with my selfishness.
I needed to win this battle. My daughter needed me to win this battle.
And I'm a better man for it. Even if I have a few scars.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Auditorium
The ball thuds on the court, the sound booming throughout the empty gym. I dribble again and again and again as I jog a lap around the perimeter, keeping the ball in front of me and coming up to the basket I stop ten feet short jump and shoot. Clank.
I brick more balls than I swish.
But the point is not to make baskets as much as it's to take my mind off the humdrum of my job.
I come to the court during my breaks. I come to the court to meditate.
For almost three weeks now the court calls me. I don't really know why. I do love basketball, but I haven't played the game...hell, I haven't picked up a ball, in years.
Yet I keep coming here, dribbling, shooting, running, and staring at the giant mural painted on the far wall: an angry hornet, feet curled into sharp stingers with a whip-like tail jutting out from below and curling in front of his body ending with a dagger for a tip. Paint peels off these walls, these white walls and the angry hornet mascot and the rim of the basket.
An easiness is about this place. Unsettling. It's not quite my memory of elementary school. It's not quite my memory of middle school. It's not quite high school. It's all of them.
Empty gyms.
I walk through the hallway back to my office. Deserted. Cockroaches splattered on the floor, moldy towels, staph infections all along the corridor. To my right is an open door. Space.
I look inside. An auditorium. Empty. Black.
I walk inside, I'm on the stage now and I barely make out the empty seats stretching away from me. Away from me.
My footsteps echo on the worn wooden stage. I see myself at the age of eight. It's the spelling bee and there are only six of us left.
I don't know what words I've already spelled. That part is gone from me. But I know what word is coming.
The lady with white puffy hair says to me, "PARKA."
Easy.
I see my father sitting toward the back of the auditorium, a block with legs.
"PARKA", I say. And I begin to spell: P-A-R-C.... I stumble over the fourth letter, accidentally begin to say C and quickly change it to a K. Too late.
The lady with white puffy hair says to me, "I'm sorry. PARKA. P-A-R-K-A." She emphasizes the K. I'm an IDIOT.
I slowly walk to my seat in the auditorium...the lady with white puffy hair has already gone to the next victim. I sit and turn around looking for my dad.
He's gone.
Where did he go? Back to work.
Why did he go?
I'll ask this question for the next 24 years.
Until now there has been no answer.
I walk to the end of the deck as a 32 year old man and I speak loudly into the darkness:
"PARKA. P-A-R-K-A." My voice squeaks on the K. But I make it through the word.
I stare defiantly into the black space. Where are you now?
I walk away, out to the hallway and back to my office.
I'll continue this ritual for the next week.
I remember the final word of the spelling bee, but not the kid who spelled the word correctly.
MEDICINE.
I spell that correctly each time I walk up to the empty podium. I could have won.
And each time I walk into this blackness I spell the word. I never falter, my voice won't squeak again. Each time I stare into the blackness.
Why did you leave?
Why, Father, why?
On the last day my answer comes: It wasn't about me. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about me.
I'll never misspell PARKA again. But I'll always search for you in the dark.
I promise my one year old daughter, I promise her...."You'll never be alone in the blackness. I'll always be your light. Always."
It's about me. And her.
Why did my father leave?
He doesn't know.
The eight year old in me cries.
The 32 year old Me comforts him.
Because my father never could.
I brick more balls than I swish.
But the point is not to make baskets as much as it's to take my mind off the humdrum of my job.
I come to the court during my breaks. I come to the court to meditate.
For almost three weeks now the court calls me. I don't really know why. I do love basketball, but I haven't played the game...hell, I haven't picked up a ball, in years.
Yet I keep coming here, dribbling, shooting, running, and staring at the giant mural painted on the far wall: an angry hornet, feet curled into sharp stingers with a whip-like tail jutting out from below and curling in front of his body ending with a dagger for a tip. Paint peels off these walls, these white walls and the angry hornet mascot and the rim of the basket.
An easiness is about this place. Unsettling. It's not quite my memory of elementary school. It's not quite my memory of middle school. It's not quite high school. It's all of them.
Empty gyms.
I walk through the hallway back to my office. Deserted. Cockroaches splattered on the floor, moldy towels, staph infections all along the corridor. To my right is an open door. Space.
I look inside. An auditorium. Empty. Black.
I walk inside, I'm on the stage now and I barely make out the empty seats stretching away from me. Away from me.
My footsteps echo on the worn wooden stage. I see myself at the age of eight. It's the spelling bee and there are only six of us left.
I don't know what words I've already spelled. That part is gone from me. But I know what word is coming.
The lady with white puffy hair says to me, "PARKA."
Easy.
I see my father sitting toward the back of the auditorium, a block with legs.
"PARKA", I say. And I begin to spell: P-A-R-C.... I stumble over the fourth letter, accidentally begin to say C and quickly change it to a K. Too late.
The lady with white puffy hair says to me, "I'm sorry. PARKA. P-A-R-K-A." She emphasizes the K. I'm an IDIOT.
I slowly walk to my seat in the auditorium...the lady with white puffy hair has already gone to the next victim. I sit and turn around looking for my dad.
He's gone.
Where did he go? Back to work.
Why did he go?
I'll ask this question for the next 24 years.
Until now there has been no answer.
I walk to the end of the deck as a 32 year old man and I speak loudly into the darkness:
"PARKA. P-A-R-K-A." My voice squeaks on the K. But I make it through the word.
I stare defiantly into the black space. Where are you now?
I walk away, out to the hallway and back to my office.
I'll continue this ritual for the next week.
I remember the final word of the spelling bee, but not the kid who spelled the word correctly.
MEDICINE.
I spell that correctly each time I walk up to the empty podium. I could have won.
And each time I walk into this blackness I spell the word. I never falter, my voice won't squeak again. Each time I stare into the blackness.
Why did you leave?
Why, Father, why?
On the last day my answer comes: It wasn't about me. It wasn't about me. It wasn't about me.
I'll never misspell PARKA again. But I'll always search for you in the dark.
I promise my one year old daughter, I promise her...."You'll never be alone in the blackness. I'll always be your light. Always."
It's about me. And her.
Why did my father leave?
He doesn't know.
The eight year old in me cries.
The 32 year old Me comforts him.
Because my father never could.
A Long Vacation
Today marks my first day of "summer vacation." I'm off until the fall semester starts in late August. It's going to be difficult without the income but we'll manage.
My wife is beginning the steps of opening up her own preschool (we hope), and we are both excited and nervous.
With all of this time off I have, I plan on spending more time during the morning with my daughter. Today we spent about 2 hours together: I changed her, played with her, fed her, and then we went to the park with our dog. My wife was able to enjoy 2 hours of uninterrupted sleep! It's nice to spend morning time together.
I have several projects I'm diving into over the next month: a new painting, more writing, more time spent with my daughter. I'm excited. If I don't get to every project, then that's fine as long as I feel like I've spent my time well.
I finally got the book in the mail: E. Ethelbert Miller's "Fathering Words".
So far the book is very good, and I'll write a review of it shortly.
I'm going to spend some of this time getting in touch with my "roots", so to speak. Listening to some music I loved as a kid, a writing project I've got going on, visiting my grandparents...many things.
We all want to be the children of our fondness memories.
My wife is beginning the steps of opening up her own preschool (we hope), and we are both excited and nervous.
With all of this time off I have, I plan on spending more time during the morning with my daughter. Today we spent about 2 hours together: I changed her, played with her, fed her, and then we went to the park with our dog. My wife was able to enjoy 2 hours of uninterrupted sleep! It's nice to spend morning time together.
I have several projects I'm diving into over the next month: a new painting, more writing, more time spent with my daughter. I'm excited. If I don't get to every project, then that's fine as long as I feel like I've spent my time well.
I finally got the book in the mail: E. Ethelbert Miller's "Fathering Words".
So far the book is very good, and I'll write a review of it shortly.
I'm going to spend some of this time getting in touch with my "roots", so to speak. Listening to some music I loved as a kid, a writing project I've got going on, visiting my grandparents...many things.
We all want to be the children of our fondness memories.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Capitalist Parenting
I read a fascinating article today on msnbc.com about "mommy bloggers." Seems capitalism is ruining the basic idea of a "blogger." This isn't a new concept to me: corporate America ruining a product. What is new(s) to me is the "mommy bloggers" (mothers who blog about all things 'mommy') have basically become advertisers for corporate America.
Moms that blog have lost touch with who they are.
I understand accepting financial compensation for the time and effort put into a blog, especially if a blogger has a large following. It must be nice to be paid for your thoughts.
But if you accept money for your product, i.e. blog, then you have an obligation to your readers to report who you are receiving money from.
If I ever receive financial compensation from an ad on this blog, let's say it's for a car ad targeting fathers, then I have an obligation to my readers to let them know that I've received income from this ad, especially if I in anyway review or write about the product being advertised.
No doubt these "mommy bloggers" are allowing their opinions to be influenced by the corporations that are paying them to review their products.
Capitalism and corporate America have ruined just about every good idea this country has ever come up with. The moment an idea becomes "trendy", that idea becomes wrapped with a little pink bow.
Too bad.
The force of "mommy bloggers", rather the force that they should have been, has already lost its way.
The article can be read here
Moms that blog have lost touch with who they are.
I understand accepting financial compensation for the time and effort put into a blog, especially if a blogger has a large following. It must be nice to be paid for your thoughts.
But if you accept money for your product, i.e. blog, then you have an obligation to your readers to report who you are receiving money from.
If I ever receive financial compensation from an ad on this blog, let's say it's for a car ad targeting fathers, then I have an obligation to my readers to let them know that I've received income from this ad, especially if I in anyway review or write about the product being advertised.
No doubt these "mommy bloggers" are allowing their opinions to be influenced by the corporations that are paying them to review their products.
Capitalism and corporate America have ruined just about every good idea this country has ever come up with. The moment an idea becomes "trendy", that idea becomes wrapped with a little pink bow.
Too bad.
The force of "mommy bloggers", rather the force that they should have been, has already lost its way.
The article can be read here
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It's a Mother's World...
Yesterday my wife and I visited a daycare center close to our home. My wife got a job so we are going to need at least part time day care starting in about a month.
This place we visited last night seemed like they were a good "match", except for one nagging problem: The director, who claims she is a psychotherapist, ignored me. I would ask a question or attempt to involve myself in the conversation about our daughter and her facilities and she would talk directly to my wife. Sometimes it was as if I hadn't spoken, yet she was attentive to my wife.
My wife (I'm tired of typing "my wife"...so I'll call her Freckles from now on...yes I'm ripping off LOST), when I asked her it, said she thinks it's part of the "Men have everything, Women get to at least have Children" symptom. Let me explain:
When we had our daughter, the entire hospital staff (from the delivery room to the maternity ward) acted as if I didn't exist. They were truly there only for the Mother and Child. Hell, they came out and told me that!
It wasn't about me at all. I get that: here, for one of the few times in a woman's life, is a moment where it's just about her. The woman's needs must be met in order for the child to survive.
And the hospital was more than accommodating for her (and our newborn) but didn't pay much attention for me.
I felt the same was true yesterday at the day care center.
Yet it's not the same.
I'm part of the core family. I have just as much say so and my child is just as dependent on me as she is her mother. Day Cares cannot dismiss the father as being secondary.
Maybe this is partly the blame of fathers: maybe if more of us were more actively involved we wouldn't be treated as second class citizens.
Maybe it's payback.
I'm curious to see if this is a problem in other facilities as well.
This place we visited last night seemed like they were a good "match", except for one nagging problem: The director, who claims she is a psychotherapist, ignored me. I would ask a question or attempt to involve myself in the conversation about our daughter and her facilities and she would talk directly to my wife. Sometimes it was as if I hadn't spoken, yet she was attentive to my wife.
My wife (I'm tired of typing "my wife"...so I'll call her Freckles from now on...yes I'm ripping off LOST), when I asked her it, said she thinks it's part of the "Men have everything, Women get to at least have Children" symptom. Let me explain:
When we had our daughter, the entire hospital staff (from the delivery room to the maternity ward) acted as if I didn't exist. They were truly there only for the Mother and Child. Hell, they came out and told me that!
It wasn't about me at all. I get that: here, for one of the few times in a woman's life, is a moment where it's just about her. The woman's needs must be met in order for the child to survive.
And the hospital was more than accommodating for her (and our newborn) but didn't pay much attention for me.
I felt the same was true yesterday at the day care center.
Yet it's not the same.
I'm part of the core family. I have just as much say so and my child is just as dependent on me as she is her mother. Day Cares cannot dismiss the father as being secondary.
Maybe this is partly the blame of fathers: maybe if more of us were more actively involved we wouldn't be treated as second class citizens.
Maybe it's payback.
I'm curious to see if this is a problem in other facilities as well.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thoughts on the Role of Father from other writers
Recently Steve McNair, a former NFL quarterback, was murdered by his mistress. It's been one of the major news stories lately and much of the news has focused on McNair's "courage" on the football field, his devotion to charity, what a great guy he was, how he just made a bad decision...
well, finally, someone in the sporting community took a stand on the real issue here: fatherhood.
And the person to take a stand was Jason Whitlock, a Kansas City Star newspaper and FoxSports.com columnist. You can read his McNair column here .
I couldn't agree with Whitlock more: our society emphasizes the breadwinner role for fathers rather than the "just be there for them" role for fathers. It's sad. McNair left 4 children behind, yet we're glorifying him for all his material worth and his "courage on the field."
The real victims here are his children.
I've written in this blog before about the frustration I feel at being a low-income father...I am frustrated that my wife needs to go back to work to bring more income into our household.
But my daughter and I have a great relationship, and she's not even a year old. I'm not going to risk that relationship, the time I get to spend with her, just so I can make more money. I'm not doing it.
Fortunately for us, our daughter is ready for daycare. She is more social than I am. She needs the stimulation of being with other toddlers. She's been home with her mom for almost a year now, and for that entire time I've been able to come home in the daytime and spend quality time with her. Quite a bit of quality time.
We're fortunate that we've had family assistance that's made this last year possible. I won't forget that and I'm grateful for it.
My wife and I newly befriended a married couple with a 15 month old child. Judging by their home, the type of work the husband does, and a few other observations...it's obvious they live in the "upper middle class." To me, they're rich. But to me, anyone that makes over 150,000 is rich. That's a part of my upbringing. I don't know what 40,000 looks like.
So our friends are rich, maybe others would say they're "upper middle class".
Regardless, this father who makes all of this money and can provide these great things for his child...the giant house in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Austin, nice cars, a wife that does not need to work...this father worked 85 hours last week. You read that correctly: 85.
On second thought, our friends aren't rich at all.
well, finally, someone in the sporting community took a stand on the real issue here: fatherhood.
And the person to take a stand was Jason Whitlock, a Kansas City Star newspaper and FoxSports.com columnist. You can read his McNair column here .
I couldn't agree with Whitlock more: our society emphasizes the breadwinner role for fathers rather than the "just be there for them" role for fathers. It's sad. McNair left 4 children behind, yet we're glorifying him for all his material worth and his "courage on the field."
The real victims here are his children.
I've written in this blog before about the frustration I feel at being a low-income father...I am frustrated that my wife needs to go back to work to bring more income into our household.
But my daughter and I have a great relationship, and she's not even a year old. I'm not going to risk that relationship, the time I get to spend with her, just so I can make more money. I'm not doing it.
Fortunately for us, our daughter is ready for daycare. She is more social than I am. She needs the stimulation of being with other toddlers. She's been home with her mom for almost a year now, and for that entire time I've been able to come home in the daytime and spend quality time with her. Quite a bit of quality time.
We're fortunate that we've had family assistance that's made this last year possible. I won't forget that and I'm grateful for it.
My wife and I newly befriended a married couple with a 15 month old child. Judging by their home, the type of work the husband does, and a few other observations...it's obvious they live in the "upper middle class." To me, they're rich. But to me, anyone that makes over 150,000 is rich. That's a part of my upbringing. I don't know what 40,000 looks like.
So our friends are rich, maybe others would say they're "upper middle class".
Regardless, this father who makes all of this money and can provide these great things for his child...the giant house in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Austin, nice cars, a wife that does not need to work...this father worked 85 hours last week. You read that correctly: 85.
On second thought, our friends aren't rich at all.
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