fatherhood

In retrospect it seemed more like something of a dream. All the women I'd ever really cared to impress -- my mother, my wife, my daughters -- watching and cheering and clapping. Had it actually been a dream it may have included a few others: the girlfriend from college who spent the day at the beach with me courtesy of a bright blue Ford Festiva, smiling just enough to make a good photo; my high school typing teacher, watching to make sure I kept my fingers on the home row; my creative writing teacher from college, standing there, arms folded, stoic and judging; and Dick Clark, because he shows up in these kinds of dreams ever since I was a five-year-old and he co-starred in a dream along with a brontosaurus. But this was real, so it was my family, and in a lot of ways that was much stranger as I stood ready, yet fully clothed, to conquer the slip 'n' slide.

It started simply enough, with mom giving the girls the orange sheet of vinyl to entertain themselves during the hot summer afternoons of their stay. Soon I became not just an observer and afternoon beer drinker, but a judge of olympic distinction, offering scores and advice to the sliders. The problem, though, was that most of these attempts were more slip than slide, feeble approaches and half-hearted skids on their knees. In sharp contrast were the pictures on the box showing kids splayed out on their frontsides, spraying water in all directions and sliding gracefully through the full 16-foot length of the vinyl sheet. Soon, I wasn't just giving 3's and 4's on the 10-point scale, but offering constructive feedback like "pathetic!" and "pitiful!" So I really felt the need to demonstrate both the spirit and technique of a full body slide.

And that's how I found myself, fully clothed, mother-wife-daughters watching, diving headlong onto the puddled sheet, splayed out and sliding the full 16 feet and spraying water in all directions. At this point in the story I'd be wondering to myself if this really happened just so, if the spray and splay of the dive were really what I remember and retell. But there was the clapping and cheering of all these women, like I said, as though it had been some strange dream. Then I pulled myself out of the last puddle and emerged, soaked to the bone.

Since the event, I've been wondering why. Why did I need to drench myself, not to mention risk humiliation and injury? There are lots of explanations, most of them tracing back to my middle-aged person trying to redeem his inadequacies of present and past. But I think there's more to it than this. Fatherhood is something I accepted long ago, unknowing of what it really entails. I've since figured out that it sometimes means teaching something or demonstrating something, but most of the time it's an effort to bring joy into the eyes of these other people -- those who ravage your home, eat your food, and consume all your resources -- and simultaneously see that joy through those very eyes. Without thinking about it, the risk my physical self* and personal pride were thrown aside, and in the end (I know because we have it on video) there are two girls jumping, clapping, and laughing as I went to find myself a place to dry off.

_____

*The risk was real, as for several days after my ribs and muscles ached. There's another lesson in there that I'm choosing to ignore for now.

adaptability

Consider the two adapter plugs shown below. One is that which protrudes from the taillight system of a State owned 1995 Ford Explorer; the other is a State employee's suggested "fix," an adapter whose other end plugs into a trailer that brings fun science activities to children across town.

Right. They don't match. But, as a State employee would later suggest to me, they're both round and the adapter "is brand new and it's made for a Ford," implying that there's no reason the solution could possibly fail. I politely volunteered that the two plugs were different, that I didn't think this would work. I got no response, the helpful equivalent of a lifeguard watching from her perch while the non-swimmer gurgles below the surface.

Back from a great vacation and a greatly needed break, I hadn't imagined that I'd be lying underneath the tail end of our substitute towing vehicle for the week, contemplating wiring arrangements and what-the-fuck? and haven't they used this for towing before? and if they did they would have run into this problem before? Being back from vacation, I hadn't imagined that I'd be in the doctor's office trying to understand why stomach pains keep coming back and that it's probably anxiety though we should drop a camera down there and see if there are other things to treat. But we adapt. And when the adapters don't fit, we find ourselves lying underneath the tail end of the State owned vehicle and we pull out a pocket knife, wire strippers, and electrical tape. A few years ago, I may have pounded my fist in the bumper in frustration, but today I serenely and decidedly and irreversibly cut, strip, and reconnected. (I'd never before contemplated the idea that seniority gets you more than just freedom academically, but also mechanically.)

And what do you know? It works. Vandalizing the State-owned vehicle and the State-owned adapter and connecting green to green, white to white, yellow to yellow, and black to black was surprisingly and satisfyingly straightforward, and the results are 100% what you'd want them to be: left turn, right turn, and brake lights all function completely. Sometimes things take more than a quick adaptation. Sometimes we just need to strip some wires and remove the very adapters that are supposed to be helping, because they're just getting in the way.

leaving

The stress
of leaving
everything behind
is replaced
by the emancipation
of leaving
everything behind.

have mercy

I recently read a poetic hypothesis by Anne Porter , suggesting what she might say to our Maker on a day of judgement. It's in contrast with the image painted for me during my upbringing. And that's in sharp contrast to John's belief that St. Peter will greet him at the pearly gates with a balance sheet accounting for all those beers bought for him versus all the beers he bought for others. If the balance is in the black, he's allowed in; if he's in the red, well, then he's in the red.

Being more and more plagued by a lack of confidence in what to believe, I imagine that there are too many possibilities for how I could be judged. Even here on Earth the possibilities are numerous and changing every five minutes or so. Porter's plea gave me another possibility:

A Plea For Mercy

When I am brought before the Lord
What can I say to him
How plead for mercy?

I'll say I loved
My husband and the five
Children we had together
Though I was most unworthy

I'll say I loved
The summer mornings
I loved the way the sun comes up
And sets the dew on fire
I loved the way
The cobwebs shine
On the tall grass
When they are strung with dew

I'll say I loved
The way that little bird
The titmouse flies
I'll say I loved
Its lightness
Lilt
And beauty.

Given this suggestion, I wonder: What would I say? My answer is the result of the tug of war between two sides of the spectrum. I suspect, pulling from the right, would be my tendency to blather on and make things up as I go along. I'd sputter out some kind of panicked reply, the fires of hell licking my feet from below. On the other hand, I could call upon my educator instincts and have prepared for the inevitable and most appropriate means of assessment: a rubric. The trouble is that there seems to be some disagreement regarding what exactly this rubric looks like. I suspect it's a simple pass/fail evaluation, although there may be a score reserved for purgatory. At any rate, it's still hard to image (or maybe I'm not committed and faithful enough) exactly what the criteria are for a passing grade. Being kind? Being pious? Being devoted? Being prophetic? I don't know exactly, and that's why I imagine that it would go something like this:

First, I'll start apologizing: I'll say I'm sorry that I yelled at the dog. And that I lost my temper with the kids. I'll have to admit that I kicked the dog, but never the kids. I'm sorry that I would even feel the urge to throw something, usually a piece of technology through a window. I'll say it was wrong for me to use that bookstore gift certificate that I found, knowing it wasn't really mine, to spend on myself. I should have been more patient; I could have done more to help others; I should have listened better the first time.

And then, because I'm me, because I'm human, I suspect I'll make excuses. Maybe because of my training in academe, I'll try to find explanations (just like the "Maybe because of my training in academe" preface to this very sentence) for all of my inadequacies, as though it would help me at this point: The dog wouldn't listen and was about to get mud all over the house; the kids' room was such a mess. And I didn't actually throw anything through a window, so perhaps that counts for something? Patience, helping, and listening -- I believe I was getting better at these, slowly. And the gift certificate I spent on two books of poetry, which I suspect You can appreciate.

But if I really had my wits about me -- and who's to know that I would -- I might cut myself off and just cut to the important parts. It seems likely that a trap door would fall out from beneath me well before I get to this point, but if I had the chance: I loved the poetry, and I shared it with a friend. I loved how the land I stood on fell out from under the face of Earth that towers above me to the east. I marveled and I laughed and I cried and I was more privileged than I deserved to have the family and friends that I do. And, more than once, I saw a child's face light up in a smile, and I think it was because of something I did. And maybe that's the rubric: How many smiles were there trailing behind you? In essence, it's not any different than John's hypothesis of the tabulation of beer debt. Either way, I hope I pass, not so much because I understand what I'll enter into, but because of what I'd leave behind.