Skip to main content

Dad Diary

 I'm amazed by the idea of moral growth; I have worked with children before, but never with three-year-olds. Also, one's students tend to behave; there is something different when the child in question is your own child. Your own child knows you're not the teacher; you're just the parent. So anything goes.


My son is irritated, so he unhinges his jaw and grinds his teeth into my forearm. "I don't mind that move so much," says my spouse, "because it makes me think of a little puppy...."

At other times, my son wants to set the stage for his own wrongdoing. "Hi," he'll shout, in a sort of delirious way. "Hi, Papa!" And he'll lock eyes with me as he pulls a large clump of basil up from the soil, out of the garden.

We're told that the root of controlling behavior is a sense of inner chaos; if I feel a kind of roiling motion within my own interior life, I can act out by policing others' choices. And so my son is intensely interested in my daughter, and he'd like her to color within the lines. He calls her "Doe." He'll say, "Doe, SIT DOWN!" Or, at bedtime: "Doe! UP THE STAIRS!!!"

A big source of relief for me has been the series "Felix and Fiona," by Rosemary Wells. Fiona is somewhere near my own child, in the realm of moral growth. In one book, she forgets to bake cupcakes for a friend--so she lies and says that second-grade bullies stole and ate the cakes. She actually names the bullies, and a show trial occurs; this easily sends my own mind back to Kindergarten, or first grade. In another book, Fiona falsely claims to have used the bathroom, then the pressure builds, and she poops her pants in the middle of an exciting science experiment. I love, love, love this character.

I often hear from my neighbors who have teenagers: "My child stopped speaking for a year." "We're dealing with the Safe Sex Talk." "Someone has done a body-snatcher operation on my daughter, and we now have a sullen zombie in our house..."

I understand that I'll eventually see today's issues through a nice, rosy, lovely, nostalgic haze.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more