Tonight, after Sophia went to sleep, I sat down with Kevin and enumerated the many reasons I'm feeling totally stressed out at the moment (looming deadline for work, the untimely demise of my father's beloved budgies, gotta write the blog, anxiety about Sophie's inability to nap at Montessori, etc., etc.). When I was fiinally finished, he paused and offered, "Do you want me to guest blog for you this week? Would that help?"
"Really? You would do that for me?" I was more than mildly surprised. Sure, he edits my work every week (and always offers something that elevates the piece), but this was above and beyond.
He lifted his eyebrows in an expression I know by now conveys utter sincerity. And so, this week, with gratitude and pleasure, I'd like to present a guest blog by Sophie's dad, Kevin:
Sophie said it so very well.
I brought Melissa and Sophie down South to attend a family reunion. I had been looking forward to visiting my Georgia cousins who I rarely see. The occasion allowed Sophie to play with one of her only two first cousins. One year apart, they merrily chased each other. Tickles, giggles, and hugs abounded in a several hour spate.
Sophie was uncharacteristically quiet and serious when returning to our car. Sucking her thumb and looking forward in a distant stare, she seemed to be thinking very hard. She popped her thumb from her mouth and in a high-pitched, dreamy-tone shared, “We give our hearts away to other people and get new ones. That’s love.”
My own heart melted. I was awe-struck. With a tear in my eye, I made eye contact with Sophia who smiled slightly as she reinserted her thumb. I looked over to Melissa and we exchanged looks of parental wonderment and pride.
Sophie plays often and well with other children, so I wasn’t surprised when she had fun with her cousin. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen her cousin in a full year, which for a 3-year-old is almost the same as never having played together. What surprised me was she seemed to have a special emotional attachment to playing with this child, because he was her cousin. Moreover, she articulated this special emotional attachment in that pure, clear-vision of a child feeling something for the first time.
I have some warm memories of playing with my Georgia cousins when I was a child. Most of my life was lived elsewhere and I struggle with the odd experience of both loving and not really knowing my cousins. Love is generally talked about in the context of romantic love or familial love for one’s parents, siblings, and children. The kind of love I feel for my cousins is a connective love: a shared bloodline, cultural background, and longitudinal view of someone across their life span. Similar to a leap of faith, this kind of love requires me to find a way for my feelings to jump over the unknown. Staying in touch with them involves the risk that I may endure apathy and lack of reciprocation.
Luckily for me, the reunion was well-attend and I had dozens of happy conversations, including sharing memories of my deceased mother, learning about my family member’s lives now, and reminiscing about our playful childhoods. I enjoyed several heart-to-heart conversations with a beloved aunt. After the weekend, I feel rejuvenated in that unique way that visiting family can best remind you who you are and where you come from.
My precocious daughter distilled all of these complex and subtle feelings into a clarion two-liner. First, we give our hearts away by risking staying connected. Then, having risked, we receive the love of others and renew our self-love by acting in accordance to our values. These things are love.
Sophie said it so very well.
Thank you, Kevin.
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Ode to Dad
I could not do what my husband does.
Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.
She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.
Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.
And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.
But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.
And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.
Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.
After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”
She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”
“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)
“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.
“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.
She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.
It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.
He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.
“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.
“How was your day, Daddy?”
“Hard. How was yours?”
“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”
“Are you all healed?”
“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”
They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.
He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.
“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.
When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.
“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.
After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.
“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”
Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.
We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”
I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.
Most of his nights are restless. He gets up, showers, dresses and comes upstairs for a dose of Sophia before he leaves for work.
She is elated to see him. She asks him to read to her. To play with puzzles. She hands him pretend lollipops. She shares her stuffed animals. “This is YOU, daddy,” she tells him, handing him a large panda. “This is me,” she says, snuggling a smaller one.
Whether he has slept 8 hours or 8 minutes, he turns it on for her. He reads her a book, between bites of his breakfast. He combs her hair, while I wash my face. He puts on a tiger puppet show, while I change her diaper.
And then it’s time he should be leaving. She begs, she bribes; she wheels and deals.
But he has to go to work, so she lets him go.
Yes, he has to go to work, so he lets her go.
And Sophie and I are left to our devices (vices) for the day.
Her father is never far from her thoughts. If I point out a mother and baby in a book, she corrects me, “Actually, that’s the DADDY penguin.” I am not offended. I am touched. I am pleased.
After her nap, her expectation begins to rise. If he has walked to work that morning, and his car is still in the driveway, she’ll exclaim upon seeing the car, “Daddy’s HOME!” And I’ll have to correct her, “Actually, he walked to work this morning. His car is here, but he is not.”
She is disappointed. She consoles herself with thoughts of what she will do when daddy comes home. “When he comes home, he will play doctor with me.”
“Yes,” I say, “he will play doctor with you. You will lie on the couch and pretend to be the patient. He will examine your leg and find that it is broken.” (I’m not being morbid. She loves this.)
“Because I was doing this,” Sophie fills in, spinning around the room, dizzying herself. “And I fell down.” She mock-slumps to the floor.
“Yes,” I continue, “you fell down.” I scoop her up and lay her on the couch. “And so you need a needle shot.” I aim the medicine syringe at her knee and pretend to give her the shot. (Not medically accurate, perhaps, but it makes her happy.) “And he’ll wrap up your leg,” I add, winding an ace bandage around her.
She leaps up from the couch, satisfied with the promise of future medical attention by Doctor Daddy, and we get absorbed in some other meanwhile activity. Something that fills the time before Kevin comes home.
It is six thirty. He comes in through the back door while I am cooking dinner and Sophie is stealing slices of pepper off of the cutting board. “Pepper thief!” I exclaim.
He has had a hard day. I see it in the curve of his shoulders. The circles under his eyes. He’s tired. He’s sweaty from the walk home. He’s in a t-shirt, his work shirt wrapped around his waist. His face breaks into a smile. “Who’s a pepper thief?” he asks, grabbing her.
“I am!” she shrieks gleefully. She follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, and I can hear their sweet conversation from the kitchen.
“How was your day, Daddy?”
“Hard. How was yours?”
“Good. Mommy played doctor with me. She said YOU would play doctor with me when you get home.”
“Are you all healed?”
“No. I fell down. I need a needle shot.”
They go to the living room with an energy that has long left me, he plays with her. They pretend, they chat, they read until dinner is ready. I call them to the table.
He wrestles her into her high chair. He brings her a glass of milk. He sets the table and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Can I have some vino?” Sophie asks. “No,” we both answer in unison. “Its an adult beverage,” he adds.
“Oh! That’s sounds good.” Sophie replies.
When we try to talk, sharing bits from our day…news heard, the “That Baby” report (as in, “you wouldn’t believe what that baby said today…”), our own experiences, Sophie interrupts, “Mommy, Daddy talk to ME, please.” (What we have trained her to do, rather than have her whine for attention.) He finishes his thought, turns to her, and incorporates her in the conversation.
“We are a whole family,” Sophie observes, happy to be included.
After dinner, I march us upstairs. “Let’s go, maggot,” I bark at Sophie, “Hup two three four, hup two three four.” And she marches up the stairs, her daddy at her heels.
“Read me a STORY, Daddy,” Sophie begs. The day has come full circle. We are all in my bed. I am changing Sophie out of a soggy diaper, her legs flailing in the air, as Kevin reads to her, holding the book over her head so she can see the pictures. I go to get the toothbrush and I hear Kevin tickling Sophie who alternately cries, “NO STOP TICKLING ME!” And, “MORE TICKLELS PLEASE!”
Part of me could be exasperated. It’s bedtime and he’s working her into a frenzy. But it’s THEIR time. And they are so happy together. I used to interrupt these moments. Now, I try not to (except when its really really late, or we have to wake up early the next day; then I play the heavy), because I have all day. But he has this.
We talk about work-life balance as if it is a female issue. As if we women have cornered the market on a divided self. Men are squeezed out of the debate by our resentment. It is assumed that they are fortunate to have the defined role of provider. It is assumed that they will accept their lot, working a second shift, playing second fiddle to mom, parenting around the edges of the day. As if they didn’t care every bit as much as we do about being present for and being a part of our children’s lives. As if they don’t feel that ache every time they walk away. As if they don’t wish they could “have it all.”
I appreciate your struggle.
I love who you are as a father.
I admire all that you do.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Gotta Get Down
Among Sophia’s first words are: mama, dada (in that order), maw (as in “give me more”), bo (as in “read to me”), gain (as in “read it again”), moon (as in “Goodnight Moon”), mi (as in “yes, milk sounds like a fine idea”) and DOWWWNNNN (as in, “I want to go downstairs; I want to get down from my highchair; I want to get down from my car seat; I want to get down on the floor; etc.”)
This list deviates somewhat from that of the “Top 10 First Words” put out by the MacArthur Foundation. In the spirit of New Years, lets's count them down:
10. Dog (no dogs in my house)
9. YumYum (no sugar allowed…at least not for babies)
8. Bottle (nix on the bottle too)
7. Grr (bears fear me—and how does this count as a first word? When was the last time you heard grr come up in a conversation?)
6. Uhoh (granted, this is part of her repertoire—totally my fault; I love it when babies say it)
5. Hi (yes, but only when prompted)
4. Bye (if you put your coat on, or if she’s listening to “Birdie Bye Bye" on her fridge radio)
3. BaaBaa (along with, a cow says “moo,” a sheep says “baa,” three singing pigs say “lalala.”)
2. Mama (number one)
1. Dada (number two)
So if first words are all about relevancy, not frequency (which research says they are), then Kevin and I aren’t simply asking Sophie if she wants “to get down” over and over again (if anything, we’re avoiding the word at all costs)—emblematic of her personality, Sophie simply wants to get down. She’s a girl with places to go…few of which are places I want her to be.
Does this irk me?
Not in the least. From the moment she could roll over, like a teen with her first set of wheels, she was off. Whether she’s got a destination or she’s just cruising because she can, Sophia is on the move. And really, who am I to stop her?
This list deviates somewhat from that of the “Top 10 First Words” put out by the MacArthur Foundation. In the spirit of New Years, lets's count them down:
10. Dog (no dogs in my house)
9. YumYum (no sugar allowed…at least not for babies)
8. Bottle (nix on the bottle too)
7. Grr (bears fear me—and how does this count as a first word? When was the last time you heard grr come up in a conversation?)
6. Uhoh (granted, this is part of her repertoire—totally my fault; I love it when babies say it)
5. Hi (yes, but only when prompted)
4. Bye (if you put your coat on, or if she’s listening to “Birdie Bye Bye" on her fridge radio)
3. BaaBaa (along with, a cow says “moo,” a sheep says “baa,” three singing pigs say “lalala.”)
2. Mama (number one)
1. Dada (number two)
So if first words are all about relevancy, not frequency (which research says they are), then Kevin and I aren’t simply asking Sophie if she wants “to get down” over and over again (if anything, we’re avoiding the word at all costs)—emblematic of her personality, Sophie simply wants to get down. She’s a girl with places to go…few of which are places I want her to be.
Does this irk me?
Not in the least. From the moment she could roll over, like a teen with her first set of wheels, she was off. Whether she’s got a destination or she’s just cruising because she can, Sophia is on the move. And really, who am I to stop her?
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