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.

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*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.