And They Love Their Daddy
Walking into the house for the first time with our new baby Annie was an experience that defies description. Both of us were over the moon. We were parents! We weren’t parents yesterday, but we were today. Now there were three of us in the home. We were a family, not just a couple.
I felt that same rush of exhilaration with the birth of each of our five children. One by one they joined our family until the house was full of the competing sounds coming from all five of them. That was a truly joyful noise. (Pardon the misapplied quote.)
As a brand new dad I didn’t have one practical clue about what it meant to be a father to my child. Don’t confuse the last statement to mean I was without role models, Scriptural direction, or the myriads of available books and articles at my fingertips. No. What I mean is I had no experience what-so-ever at being in the trenches. None!
It didn’t take too long for me to begin to see a pattern that each of our children went through starting from their births. When Annie did it I wasn’t sure what to do. When Aaron came along and presented the same behavior it wasn’t new to me, but still confusing. By the time Abbey arrived and modeled the behavior I knew what I was dealing with. Amber and Amy both did the same as their older siblings, but by then it was old news and expected.
Initially I wasn’t prepared for each of my children to ignore me. Well, that’s what it looked like and felt like in the beginning of things. I understood how the baby was going to be bonding with Marm since she had carried her/him around all those months. I understood in-my-head. Since we were products of the “Natural Childbirth” revolution all our babies were breastfed. This obviously added to that strong bond between mom and baby. This part was easy and explainable. What was hard to accept was even after 18 months or more I was still not a favored choice. I was the proverbial “chopped liver”. Dad is fine, but mom is the world. It was easy to feel left out. They all had ignored me, one after the other.
What was I doing wrong? Was I supposed to be doing something differently? Why doesn’t my child want me? Am I a bad father? Maybe I’m messing this whole thing up?
All very reasonable lines of thinking back then, but completely off the mark. Nothing could have been further from the truth. It all became crystal clear to me one evening when Abbey was about 18-20 months old.
It was routine to find a massive ball of intertwined arms, legs, bodies, and clothing all tangled up together in the middle of our living room each night before dinner. Annie, Aaron, and I would wrestle together once I got home from work. There was hollering, and shouting. Laughing and squeals of delight pierced our ears continually as they jumped all over me. It was so much fun, and dangerous too. We weren’t known for our gentleness when it came to attacking each other. Truth be told it always seemed to end with someone getting hurt and tears would flow.
I remember the first time Abbey wanted to join in the fray.
“Abbey’s watching you,” Marm said from the doorway. “I think she wants to play.”
“She’s too little and will get hurt if she wrestles with us,” was my lame-husband-not-wanting-to-tone-it-down response.
“Play with her,” Marm insisted. “She wants to play too, just don’t be so rough.”
I pulled Annie and Aaron over to the side and told them, “Abbey is going to wrestle with us. We need to be extra careful around her so we don’t squish her, or pounce on her, or hit her accidentally.”
They both understood completely, and the game of four began. It was so sweet watching the two older kids helping Abbs pounce on me. They made sure when all three of them jumped on me to give her extra room to fall flat on my back so she wouldn’t roll off. Abbey loved it and was grinning from ear-to-ear. I was so proud of Annie and Aaron for being such a great sister and brother to Abbs. It was a wonderful time, and I saw the kids learning how to have fun, and include baby sis too. That wasn’t the only thing I saw however. I had an epiphany.
My kids didn’t ignore me, they just hadn’t grown up enough to start bonding with me more intentionally. I wasn’t “chopped liver” after all. I hadn’t messed up somehow, or messed them up either.
With all the 24/7 nursing, the nap time in laps, the sleeping in bed next to mom, and the being packed around the house, of course they would be more attached to Marm. I just had to be patient. That night when Abbey was ready to join in with us, she was the one who changed. After that, she was part of the gang and was continually finding time for me ever after. Later I watched for it in Amber and Amy, and looked back over Annie and Aaron. All of my kids had done the same thing.
Dads! You. Are. Not. Crazy. You do see this. It’s not your imagination. It’s as natural as can be. Relax! You have done nothing wrong. On the contrary, all is well and is as it should be. Brace yourselves because very soon they will be toddling your way wanting a deeper relationship with you, Why? It’s simple. You’re their Daddy, and they love their Daddy.
Enjoy!
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When Our Way Isn’t The Better Way
Aside Posted on
Expectations. Pressures. Fears. Paradigms. Histories. Traditions. Issues.
When I step back for a minute and take a good soul-searching look at myself I realize all the above labels have made a very comfortable home within my heart. As ominous as that may sound, it’s not all for the bad. I just think that we parents may flatter ourselves into thinking, I know what’s best. I am the dad here and I know a thing or two. Really? Do I really, or am I just the product of these labels and don’t know the difference?
This type of thinking and unfettered evaluation is so important when it comes to raising our kids. Is it fun? No! Often times it’s the exact opposite. Maybe that’s why we avoid doing it. Being real and honest takes courage. It takes guts. I lack both more often than not.
Have you ever found your parents raising your children through you? Without meaning to, you are doing exactly what your parents did and you don’t even know why. That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a paradigm at work.
At times we are afraid of other’s opinions and then alter how we parent our kids because of it. That is fear taking the lead. We actually change how we treat our children because of someone else’s opinion/judgement, or the fear of it. Don’t believe me? Just think back to the time your toddler threw a royal hissy-fit in a store aisle. There was screaming, yelling, the throwing of himself or herself on the ground. The “works” was being flagrantly displayed. Everyone was watching and could hear it all, or so it seemed.
For so many of us the first thing we thought about was: What are all the other people thinking about my child and their behavior, and my parenting abilities? Maybe we became embarrassed and felt like a terrible parent because our child has completely freaked out in public. We became concerned about whether people thought we spoiled our child, or weren’t strict enough with them.
Your next decision with your child in that moment reflected either some of the labels above, or your very own heartfelt parenting style. It is no sin to admit it was the labels that caused me to hush my child up and threaten them into being quiet. Do I like admitting that? No! What I dislike more is that if I don’t admit it I will become a repeat offender who insists I am right in what I am doing.
How do I know this is a problem? Simple. Never once in that entire scenario did I think of my child and what they were going through. The whole thing had its focus on me, and how it was messing up my plans. How it was making me look badly in front other people. How it was making my already hectic day worse. I wasn’t there for my child. I was acting like they were in the way, like they should shape up or else. What was really happening here was me not listening to my child. They needed something and I was too occupied with my plan to see it. There was no room in my agenda for my toddler. Dang!
This hurts, but somebody has to say it. We all do it, or have done it. We excuse our own errant behaviour by hiding behind the fact that we are the parent. It’s like a magic fix-all phrase, “I’m the parent.” In reality it only deceives us, and never makes things right for the kids.
I have failed at this far too many times. My issues, paradigms, fears and the like raised their ugly heads and beat out what my heart told me was the right course. It’s disheartening to me.
Let me share a situation with you that I never tell to anyone outside the family or a few close friends. Why haven’t I told it before? Simple. I was afraid of what other people would think because what I did was not the norm. The fear and judgement label.
See, every night when my daughter Amber was in her preschool and early elementary school years I would lie on the floor next to her bed. She would drape her arm down to me and I would hold her index finger within my hand until she fell asleep. She had to be fully asleep in order for me to gently slip her finger out from my hand. If she wasn’t completely asleep and I tried to remove it, she would groan and the process would start over.
This was what my daughter needed. It made her feel loved and secure. I won’t pretend that it didn’t take up gobs of time each night because it did. It took a lot of time, but I was so overly concerned that other people would think I was spoiling her rotten I never mentioned it at all. I never mentioned how much I enjoyed it. What else was so important that giving the time wasn’t the right thing to do? It was the right thing whether anyone else thought so or not, and in the end I am so glad I spent that time with her. I will have that memory forever.
It could have ended so differently if I had given into the fear of what others may have thought or said. So what? She is my daughter and she had told me what she needed. What could be more important than that? Fear? Paradigm? Issues? Traditions? No. None of the above.
The biggest lesson I have learned wais that my children told me what they needed. I just had to put them first and listen. Everything else fell into place after that.
Marm has always said that training up a child in the way they should go is much less about making them conform to a prescribed pattern, and more about knowing who they are and what they need. Once we know those things then we can train them in the way God made for them. We can lead them toward Him in the way they can best follow.
It would have been easy to tell my daughter to,”Get over it. Don’t be a baby. This takes too much time every night” and the like. That wasn’t what she needed. She needed me and I decided that this wasn’t spoiling her, or catering to her, or just giving her everything she wanted. We all know too well how hard sorting those differences out can be. It’s one of the things that makes parenting hard work and challenging at times.
No. This was about applying my heartfelt parenting style regardless of my own issues. Those issues would have stopped me if I had let them. That would have been when our way isn’t the better way.
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Distraction Was The Best Medicine
“Help!! What do I do now?”
Toddlers were so intimidating at times. It wasn’t everyone else’s toddlers that intimidated me, it was mine. Why was that so true?
They aren’t extraordinarily large as people go per se. They are rather small creatures to be honest. Yet, they can command and demand like no others. They can stand there in their defiant postures with their “Superman hands on their hips” pose radiating their fire-breathing dragon look that would instantly fry me to a crisp if it were possible.
I remember staring at them at times while being so upset and impatient with them. How did they get the best of me and cause me to give my temper away so easily, and more often than I want to admit here?
I love my children dearly and would do anything for them, but when they were in that toddler mode it seemed like it was “them or me”. Sometimes it was hard to know who was the adult in the room. I remember being reduced down to their level more than once. It was humiliating and I felt badly once all the fuss was over and I came back to my senses. How can they be so powerful in these moments. And what’s worse, was that I told myself I would never allow myself to get into that type of power struggle with them again, but I did, and more than once or twice. At times I felt like I was losing my mind.
You would think that by the time our fifth child had entered into her toddler years I would have had the wisdom-of-the-ages coupled with the experience of a battle hardened veteran making me impervious to attack. Don’t kid yourself. I still got pulled into it at times. Grrr.
However, there were those other times when I didn’t get sucked into their emotional vortex of death and actually did it right. All the raging seemed to have bounced off me like I was bulletproof and, I was in my right mind. Those were the moments of brilliance that I clung to. I wish I knew how I did it so I could have replicated it on command, but alas, I have no idea how I pulled it off.
Bedtime should be easy because it was so normal. It was routine. It was usual, and not unexpected. But this particular night was different. It was none of those things. Amy was in a mood. Not a pleasant mood, but a simmering dark mood. She was angry at the world and wasn’t about to keep it to herself. She was on a mission of chaos which did not include going to bed.
I don’t remember any of the pre-bedtime particulars. All I remember was that the three of us, Amber, Amy, and myself were all lying in amy’s bottom bunk together. It was time for a story and Amy wasn’t having any part of it. She was screaming and crying and wouldn’t stop for anything. Well, as it turns out, there was one thing.
I was on my back between them trying to get Amy to stop her fit. She had a masterpiece going at the moment. I listed all the usual storylines for potential ideas, and was met with defiant resistance. I looked over at Amber and she didn’t know what to do either. Suddenly inspiration hit and it changed everything.
“Amy,” I said calmly. “I would like to introduce you to my new friend. His name is Dumb Thumb,” and I held up my right thumb for her to see. “He has a friend with him. His name is Stinky Pinky,” and I poked my left pinky straight up in the air. Immediately the crying subsided and a broad grin with a chuckle spread across her face. I knew I was on to something now. I continued to make these two ridiculous characters act stupidly and now she was belly laughing. For the next ten minutes or so the story rolled absurdly along. Both girls were having a great time and it seemed the tantrum was a thing of the past.
Once the story was over and I had prayed for them all was well. I gave them each a good-night kiss and that was it. Disaster averted. I have no idea why that crazy story worked. Maybe it was because it was so crazy and unexpected. Whatever the reason, it worked. It actually worked several more times afterwards.
This goes down as one of those learning moments for Daddy. I could have pulled out the heavy guns of intimidation and threats, but this weapon was better. This was a diversion. I flanked the little fit-thrower and she didn’t see it coming at all. Admittedly, neither did Amber or I.
It was really never about who had the most power. It wasn’t about who was the most stubborn or determined. In this case I simply had a different prescription and found that diversion was the best medicine.
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Its Current Value is Obvious
Traditions are highly over-rated!
That was my take. It had always been my take, and I thought it would always be my take on the subject. I have never been a blind keeper of traditions. It has never mattered what the traditions were, but rather their current value.
Growing up I kept my opinions to myself. I come from very outspoken and opinionated family stock. This included my entire extended family as well. I learned early on that discussing politics, religion, or sport teams was guaranteed a ringside seat for a heated discussion. However, as a child, who wanted to talk about that boring stuff anyway. I had much more relevant things to do.
What I did learn from all that “stuff” was the value of asking,”Why?” Why was this opinion, or that political position important to the person? Were the people holding on to them blindly for some unknown reason? What was actually behind what they stood for, or opined about so loudly to all within earshot? I was never going to ask those questions, but it was here that I began to form my position on tradition for tradition’s sake. Survey said…”No thank you!”
Enter the big blue tent.
My dad has a goodly amount of fine qualities. One of my favorites is his intense sense of being thorough about things. He never buys anything on impulse or a whim. He researches everything. He always takes his time, and will sleep at least one night on any purchase. It’s who he is as a person. It’s what he does, and I love him for it. I am sure the big blue tent was no exception.
This was a significant investment for a family in the 1960’s. It is 20 ft long and 9 ft wide. It can be divided into 3 separate rooms and is tall enough in the center for even the tallest of people to stand easily. Made of sturdy bright blue canvas this tent was made to last for a long time.
Allow me a moment to vent here, please. You see, when our family took its annual vacation it was for two full weeks of camping at a time. The six of us rolled out of the driveway hitting the road at 3:00 am and we drove straight to the campground some 4-8 hours away. The trip home was the exact reverse except we started for home later in the morning or afternoon.
Here is where the venting starts. Once we arrived at home we unpacked and pitched the tent on our front lawn. After two full weeks of exhausted fun we now had the privilege of pitching the tent, then sweeping the tent out, and finally vacuuming the floor, walls and ceiling inside and out. Are you kidding me! Who does that? This tradition will die with my father and will not be advanced in my generation. That was a solemn promise I made to myself.
As is normal with families, we all grew up and the folks gave us their camping gear. Marm and I inherited the big blue tent among other things. It was great to have the tent since our family was growing and wouldn’t stop until there were seven of us. This tent was awesome! I had to admit, as much as I hated to, Dad was right in how he had taken care of it. It was in immaculate condition.
True to form though, I never repeated his cleaning process once we were home. We swept it out as well as we could before we broke it down at the campsite. Once we arrived home it went straight on the shelf with the rest of the camping gear. It never saw the light of day until it was pitched at the next campsite on the next family adventure.
This was how it was the entire time our kids were growing up. We did treat the tent well, after all, it was getting up in years and was a great tent for our family. We couldn’t replace it with one of equal quality, and didn’t need to. It was a great heirloom. But, as is with all families, our kids grew up too, and we gave them most of our camping gear. Marm and I had, years before, discovered a thing called a yurt. Needless to say tents for us were now passe’. We are seasoned yurt people now, and love it.
Annie and Tristan now claim the rights of ownership in regard to the big blue tent. I don’t know if my parents ever in their wildest dreams imagined that this tent would be a binding factor over three generations of our family. None-the-less, it is just that.
The last time we and all of our kids and their families were camping together the big blue tent was there in all its un-camouflaged glory. Bright blue is bright blue. Its presence is strikingly obvious no matter where it’s pitched. While we were camping we were discussing what we could get my dad for his birthday. Someone came up with the idea to have a picture taken with all of us standing in front of the big blue tent. We all thought it was a great idea and did so.
At his birthday party we presented the picture to my dad as I told the story about traditions and their value. We wanted him to know that despite my intense dislike at his thorough care of the tent in the early years, this Big Blue Tent was now a treasured possession of our entire family. Every time we see it pitched we are reminded of the man we all love. We are reminded of his quality of care and his thoroughness. We are reminded of him, and that’s a really good thing.
This is not a tradition for tradition’s sake. Nope. This is a tradition worth keeping since its current value is obvious.
Curls & Capes 