Dad Material

When I first saw Kevin, with his long straight hair, his ripped jeans and his tan poncho, I did not think there goes “dad material.”  Nor did I when I first heard him speak in class, brilliant and confident with a memory so keen, he never had to take notes and a tongue so sharp it cut holes in even the strongest of arguments. 

I just wanted to get me some of that. 

I can remember sitting with another student, telling her, I was pretty sure he liked me.  That I would make him mine.  She looked at me like I was nuts.  (Of course, she thought he liked her.  She thought everyone liked her.)

But what she didn’t know was that we had already started a relationship on the sly, talking on the phone each night, until I could no longer hold my eyes open.  Sometimes I even fell asleep, with the phone still in my hand.  And though he told me that he couldn’t picture himself ever getting married.

I knew better. 

It was Kevin who wanted me to move closer to him, not with him, but closer to where he lived and we both went to school.  So I did.  A few years later, he warmed to the idea of us moving in together.  We rented the second floor of a sky-blue Victorian with windows like portholes and a glorious back porch perched in the trees.  We called it the boathouse in the sky.  Four years in, I pressed my grandmother’s ring into his palm and told him he could give it to me any time he felt ready.

Subtle, I know.   But by that time, he had changed his thinking.  We could picture it, spending our lives together.  Oh, there were details to work through—where we would live (his state or mine), when we would have kids (before or at 40)—stuff like that.  But we agreed about the fundamental things, and there was still no one I would rather talk to for hours and hours.  He was my closest, dearest friend. 

I had small reservations.  When he refused to share my love of reading children’s books or singing camp songs at the top of our lungs, I was mildly concerned that he didn’t feel the way I did about children.  I was afraid he lived too much in his mind.   That, perhaps, childish things were too childish for him. 

We got married on a hilltop, surrounded by circles of people we loved.  An impending storm threatened the ceremony.   No rain, but lightening and thunder.  Someone joked that the Gods had stood up and taken notice.  I cried through my vows.  In pictures, I look like I am in pain.  We sealed the ceremony with a kiss under umbrellas and then rushed down the hill to the refuge of a billowy white tent. 

Flash forward three years later when, to my great joy, I am with child.  Kevin was interested and attentive throughout my pregnancy, but stopped short of reading to my belly, or pressing his lips to my swollen body whispering sweet somethings to the infant within.  Things I wanted did not resonate for him.  I wondered what kind of a father he would be. 

Now I know.  Kevin is the kind of father who allows his daughter to dress him like a baby and feed him with a bottle, plays endless hours of Wesley to her Princess Buttercup, and can patiently retell her the entire Star Wars Trilogy on a 16 hour trip out to Illinois.  He is the kind of father who has read every single children’s book on her shelf to her, too many times to count.  He is the kind of father who gently talks about with her about how she is feeling, and soothes her hurts and celebrates her accomplishments. 

I love watching Kevin with Sophia.  I am moved by their pure enjoyment of each other.  How she rushes into his arms, exclaiming, “DADDY!” when he comes home, her face lit up with love.  How they wrestle like puppies on the kitchen floor right in front of the refrigerator while I’m trying to make dinner, giggling like maniacs.  How she strokes his beard and sucks her thumb when she’s tired or sad and they both wear they same dreamy, far-away look. 

There was so much to love in Kevin, before Sophia.  But since she has come along, I have seen a side of him I didn’t know was there.  There is certainly a degree of stress that accompanies bringing a child into a marriage.  I’ve watched it strain and erode relationships.  We are not immune to the demands of parenting and it’s impact on our couplehood.  But the struggles do not outweigh the immeasurable delights.  Seeing Kevin as a father has only served to deepen my love for him. 

Happy Father’s Day, Kevin. 

Other People's Kids

Other People’s Kids

You’re on the playground and another child throws sand in your kid’s eyes. His/her mother is across the playground changing her second child’s diaper. Do you:

a. Reprimand the child, “No throwing sand!” and/or instruct the child, “You need to keep your shovel low….”
b. Talk to your own child about the other child’s behavior, “That was naughty. He shouldn’t have thrown sand in your eyes. We never throw sand.”
c. Find the parent, “Your son just threw sand in my child’s eyes…”
d. Tend to your own child and say nothing. Maybe praise your own kid for not throwing sand.
e. Do something else: ____________________________________________________

Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. Maybe it’s personality-driven, but I often find myself in a position where I am tempted to modify the behavior of someone else’s child—not because I think I know better or I believe the parents of these children are lacking in skill. In fact, I typically get the urge when I witness a child doing something parents generally wouldn’t want their child doing i.e., posing a danger to himself or other, but the parent is out of sight/earshot. I feel a strong duty to communally parent. I do think it takes more than Kevin and me to raise Sophia. I want other parents looking out for and helping my child become a kind and considerate human being. Therefore, I feel the imperative to do the same.

But…and here’s a big but…I realize that not everyone feels the same way that I do about this. And even if I did the exact same thing that they would in that situation…it makes them uncomfortable that I’m the one doing it. So what to do, what to do? Every child is different. Every situation is different. I try to evaluate the kid and the situation as quickly as possible, which requires making some informed assumptions about his/her motivation for the behavior, and make my move. I have shot withering looks, but not said anything. I have gently suggested an alternative behavior. I have quietly scolded. I have redirected. I have modeled a new and improved way to act. I have done nothing, but felt remiss.

But you never know when another parent is going to take you to the mat on this. Or simply express discomfort.

Even with friends. Good friends. People you have known a long time, extending your parenting to their children can be complicated. I can think of at least one occasion on which a parent was annoyed with me—not for reprimanding the child in question, but for trying to help him down from a height so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. The parent felt that he should experience the consequence of his actions. I didn’t agree. Not in this case. I kind of believe that if you can prevent pain and suffering…you should do it.

I understand others may think I’m being over-protective. And they may be right.

My friend Nan and I have a deal. We have each explicitly given the other permission to discipline our kid(s). Meaning if I, hypothetically, catch one of her boys throwing rocks in the other’s general direction (be it intentional or not) I am allowed to redirect, reprimand, and/or remove said rocks. And, by the same token, if my daughter rips something from her daughter’s grasp, Nancy is allowed to rip it right back out of her hot little hands (and redirect, reprimand, etc.) It is such a relief to have this agreement. I don’t have to worry about stepping on her toes or holding my tongue. Granted, Nancy and I have VERY similar parenting styles and generally “correct” our children for the same offenses in the same way. I imagine if Nancy took out the wooden spoon each time Sophia had a property rights issue I might feel differently. But how we parent has always been part of our conversation. And because we struggle together with these questions, we have a deep understanding of the frame of expectations we have for our kids.

But it’s not a conversation I’ve had with every parent of every child I know. Sometimes, it’s less explicit—more intuitive.

The other night, when over at a neighbor’s house and I caught myself saying, “no,” to her son, I checked in with his mom.

“I realize that we’ve never had this discussion, but is it okay if I say no to your kids?” I asked, albeit a little late, but fairly certain of her response. I have watched, with gratitude (and only mild embarrassment that I wasn’t doing it myself), when she has encouraged Sophia to couch her demands with a “please” and “thank you.” My neighbor’s children are, hands down, the most polite kids I have ever encountered, and it’s all due to her consistent encouragement that they mind their manners. Something I could work on.

“Of course!” she called from the other room.

“I thought so. But I wanted to be sure….” And it felt good to be sure.

But one mother told me about a similar conversation she had with a friend didn’t go quite as well. “You know, you can discipline my kids if you see them misbehaving,” she offered to her friend.

The friend was appalled, “Oh no. I just couldn’t!” She insisted.

“And she wouldn’t—even though I gave her permission,” the mother was surprised by her friend’s reaction.

“You know what that probably means,” I said, “she doesn’t want you disciplining her kids.”

“Oh!” The mother acknowledged that this was very likely the case. And though she could respect that, she didn’t think she’d be getting together with her much in the future.

At least she knows where she stands.

A Doll's House

My aversion to dolls is not a product of my adult, feminist mind. Nor can I confidently link it to the creepiest Twilight Zone episode ever in which Telly Savalas repeatedly tries to dismember his step-daughter’s doll, Talky Tina, only to have the doll survive and eventually murder him…. "Hi! I’m Talky Tina, and I’m going to KILL you.” No, my distaste for their molded plastic bodies, their vacant eyes, their unmanageable synthetic hair dates back to the day my mother brought my sister home from the hospital.

Mom got a new baby. A living, breathing, screaming thing that redirected her attention away from me. And I got a doll. A stiff, inanimate, indifferent thing meant to turn me into a nurturer. Mommy’s little helper. I was all of 19 months, and not yet keen to take up a parenting role. By my mother’s own report, when she returned from the hospital, I tossed off a bitchy, “Who dat?” in her direction and then didn’t speak a word to her for a week. She finally bribed me out of my silence with coffee ice cream.

The doll suffered from neglect from day one, and later, abuse. I took away her clothes. I chopped off her hair so one tuft protruded from the top of her head. I banished her from my bed, where my treasured stuffed animals comfortably slumbered, and hid her away from view. I don’t think I even gave her a name.

My sister, who was very much like a living doll herself, skinny with a big head covered in curls, adored dolls. In later years, Barbie was her favorite. I would delight in grabbing her Barbies away, flicking off their heads with my thumb while saying, “Mama had a baby and her head popped off.” This never failed to trigger her protective maternal instinct, and like a lioness, she would charge me, roaring and scratching.

Eventually I kept to verbal abuse. It proved to be my forte. I delighted in generating withering insults attacking their character, their physical appearance, their intellect (or lack thereof). And like the vacuous creatures they were, they still invited me to their birthday parties.

When I was pregnant, I might have been uncertain as to whether I would have a boy or a girl, but I was sure I would have a doll-free house. I fantasized about having a house where I could pass freely from room to room without fearing their steady, reproachful gaze. But give birth to a girl, and they come marching in. A little plastic army, ready to do battle and win the affections of my daughter. The first seemed harmless enough; she was made of cloth and rattled when you shook her. Sophie named her “Baby.” In the morning, I knew Sophia was a wake when I heard her slamming Baby around in her crib. Baby went everywhere with Sophie, and fearing that it had become her transitional object, I ran out and purchased an identical replacement. We did, briefly loose Baby, and so I produced Baby II, to whom Sophie (who recognized it as a replacement) gave the name Baby MmmMmm. Sophie easily transferred her affections to this doll. And when Baby resurfaced, we took to calling her Original Baby, as Sophie fickly went back and forth between the two.

When we finally did receive Sophie’s first official Stepford doll, I quickly and silently regifted it. (Yes, I’m sorry gifter and recipient, I did!) But then, on Sophia’s first Hanukkah, my sister (finally exacting her revenge) gave my daughter her first “real” doll. She had blond hair and blue eyes. Kevin and I jokingly referred to her as, “The Arian.” And Sophie, mishearing us, called her “Karen.”

During her first year in residence, Karen was relatively in obtrusive. She joined the masses that flanked the side of Sophie’s crib…the nameless entourage that swallowed her up each evening.

But, overnight, Karen rose from relative obscurity into the number two position, second only to Snakey-Pie (now the official transitional object). Sophie took her down to breakfast. “Karen wants breakfast too.”

Was Karen grinning at me?

Begrudgingly I gave Karen a plastic pink bowl and spoon. “No! She needs cereal.”

“It’s in there. Pretend cereal. That’s what Karen eats.”

“Oh,” replied Sophie, buying it, and spooning pretend cereal up to Karen’s frozen pout.

Then Karen spoke. Her voice was creepier than I could have imagined, a high pitched, scratchy sound, “I like cereal, ma-ma!” Not sweet and angelic. More like the voice of an old crone.

“Sophia, a little less for Karen, a little more for you, please.” I redirected her back to her breakfast.

It was only the beginning. Snakey-pie might still be at the top of the heap while she slept, but during the day, Sophie belonged to Karen. There was no place the doll was unwelcome. Karen was soon accompanying us to the grocery store, the babysitters, the bath. Sophie would insist on holding her over the toilet and wiping Karen’s butt before going to the bathroom herself.

And then Karen began to make demands. “Karen wants a high chair for my birthday,” Sophie told me. “And a crib.” Though I resented the fact that Karen was going to be the ultimate recipient of the birthday present, it was what Sophie wanted, so I acquiesced. On November 15th, Karen came downstairs to find a swing, a stroller, a high chair and a cradle with matching pink-checked upholstery waiting for her in front of the fire place. Sophia was charmed and immediately set to feeding and caring for her baby.

That night, putting Karen to sleep in the cradle alongside her own her own bed Sophia told me, “I do all the mommy things, and she does all the baby things.”

Then, suddenly I got it; the evidence was everywhere:

Like on the morning, weary from combat, I was sprawled out on my bed, waiting for Sophia to calm down so I could go in for round two in the Fight to Get Her Dressed. Sophia emerged, contrite and half-naked, holding out her shirt. “Can you help me put this on?” she asked in a tiny voice.

“Sure,” I said, pulling it down over her head.” Sophie disappeared into her room, and returned with a naked Karen in tow.

“Sometimes Karen has a fuss and doesn’t want to get dressed.” She told me.

“What do you do when Karen doesn’t want to get dressed?” I asked.

“I put her clothes on, because she needs to listen when I tell her to do something.” Sophia replied, matter-of-factly.

“That’s true.” I said, “You are her mommy.” Sophia nodded.

“And I know that you don’t want Karen to be cold and you want her to be ready to go out and enjoy the day.”

“Yeah,” said Sophie. “I’m a good mommy.”

I glanced down at the undressed Karen. Was she winking at me?

Parentified Child

Is a two-year-old capable of making a Freudian slip? I hope not. Because, if she is, I better start plunking some change into the therapy jar.

We are, once again, in the car, headed to my mother’s house. Before we get on the road, Sophie asks for a book with which to occupy herself.

“I got books about numbers. I got books about letters. I got books about babies. Whatdya want kid?’ I hawk to Sophie.

She makes a special request: “I want a book about 'Babies Who Take Care of Their Mothers'.” I look in the rearview mirror, searching her face for a smirk…some hint of irony. Her eyebrows are raised in earnest.

“You’ll have to catch that one on Oprah. How about a book about ‘Mothers Who Take Care of Their Babies?’”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Sophie replies in a rehearsed voice that indicates she’s quoting me to me. I pass back a well-loved copy of Babies Everywhere. She thumbs to her favorite page and points out mother giving a baby a bottle of milk (NB: A mother taking care of her baby). I drive…eyes on the road…my mind a million miles away.

Or, rather, a million years away, back to when I responded to the opening for a parentified child:

Must behave and speak in a manner generally associated with adult
psychotherapists, be willing to empathically listen to each parent impartially,
provide sage advice and a shoulder to cry on. Required to mediate discussions,
broker peace and occasionally break up fights. Should have excellent
communication skills, as the role will entail acting as a go-between, relaying
messages, frequently with negative content. Ability to self-manage (make own
dinner, do own laundry, set own bedtime) preferred.

I performed the job well. And because the rewards (attention, feeling needed) outweighed the hazards (resentment, abbreviated childhood, depression), I stayed in the position for almost a decade—until I got to college and was left to figure who I was without my parents. (There cannot be a parentified child without a childified parent. One, perhaps, who was never properly parented his/herself.)

It took years to extricate myself. To gradually recognize my meddling behavior when I see it, reject the role, and throw the mantle of responsibility back where it belongs. Even now, on the precipice of 40, I’m not always successful. I still get sucked into listening to things I shouldn’t hear, saying things I shouldn’t say, doing things I shouldn’t do.

It still makes me feel so strong (and yet so weak).

Much to their credit, as I found a new way to be with my parents, they found a new way to be with me. I demanded daughterhood, and they demanded less.

I have come to the conclusion that parenting is made up of two things: Parenting the way you were parented and parenting in opposition to the way you were parented. What can I do now, as a parent, but move forward and try to do some things differently?

My goal is to allow Sophia to be a child. My worries are not hers to bear. My depression is not hers to fix. My arguments are not hers to resolve. Her responsibilities are few and essential: to wonder, to play and to discover.

We have an unspoken deal: I expect her to follow my lead, and she expects me to lead.