Saying Goodbye to My Dad

Exactly one month before he passed away, I wrote this post about how I badly wanted my father to be present in my son's life for the long term.

And now, Dad's gone.

I've written elsewhere a little bit about what Dad meant to me, although if I dedicated the rest of my life to writing nothing else, I would never be able to truly and completely articulate it. And as for how I feel about his passing, I simply don't have the words.

So, I'm going to share with you the poem I read at Dad's funeral last Sunday. I first read this piece when I was a teenager, and I remember it giving me chills. Now, it perfectly and beautifully sums up the sense of unfairness and anger I feel at having to say goodbye far too soon:

Dirge Without Music
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.

The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

The Many Meanings of No

"Not no way, not no how!"

LO has a new favorite word.

That word is "no."

I doubt that this is a particularly rare occurrence for a toddler in the grip of his second year, but I am still surprised by my son's use of this word, partially because he is able to imbue a short word with a wide range of meanings. Like the word Smurf or the F word, apparently "no" can mean any number of things (all of them negative) depending upon usage and intonation.

Here is a short list of LO's use of the word and its meaning in English:

1. "NOOOOOOOO!"  This one is generally used while also running away from whatever Mama is attempting to do to/with/for the child to which he objects, such as baths, diaper changes, and putting on clothing. English meaning: "Not in this or any other life, you crazy lady!"
2. "No!" This short and emphatic negatory is often used before J or I or any other speaker can actually get an entire question out. English meaning: "Let me stop you right there. It ain't gonna happen. And I should know--I'm a two-year-old."
3. "Nno-ooo." This is my favorite of his nos. This is the response we often get to statements about getting the child ready for bed or otherwise providing him with some sort of structure. He really stretches out the word, and often accompanies it with a head shake. English meaning: "It makes me sad how wrong you are."

I'm thinking that last "no" ought to be adopted by debate teams and political pundits. It could stop a heated debate in its tracks.

My Son, the Bad Influence

I seem to be raising the kid who is destined to get his friends in trouble.

It started last summer. Our across-the-street neighbors who have a little boy just about LO's age were gardening in their front yard. LO and I, who were relaxing on the front porch sans footwear, headed across the street to say hello. LO and their little boy played a little while on the front yard when LO decided to do some exploring down the sidewalk. Our neighbor's son, who was also barefoot, followed him.

This was apparently against the rules. Neighbor pointed out to her son that he was not to leave the front yard without shoes.

Without missing a beat, the little boy pointed at my hobbit-like child (who was wending his shoe-free way down the sidewalk as if he'd never heard the word "Tetanus") and exclaimed, "LO did it!"

Apparently 2 years old is a tough time for explaining the fact that different homes have different rules. (I suspect that's just as true for 4 years old, 10 years old, 16 years old, and beyond. I'm not sure I'll have to find out, however, since I appear to be the most permissive mom on the block.)

After that point, LO went from working to get his neighborhood friends in trouble to getting his school friends in trouble.

For instance, LO absolutely loves playing with the keyless remote for my Honda Accord. His favorite thing to do is press the unlock button over and over again in order to watch the tail lights blink and hear the ka-thunk of the doors unlocking. So, one of the bargaining chips in getting the child to leave school at the end of the day is to hand him my keys after he has his coat on. Otherwise, leaving would either be an all-afternoon affair or the source of a daily nuclear meltdown.

I personally have no problem with bribing my child. I also pair things I like (like listening to a cheesy romance novel on my iPod) with things I don't necessarily want to do (like run or work out) in order to motivate myself, so why not do the same for my child?

Well, all of LO's friends have noticed that he gets to be the keeper of the keys when his Mommy comes to pick him up, and they've been demanding their own keys from their own Mommies.

This has led to some awkward situations. For instance, LO's friend C was allowed to take control of the keys, but he was unwilling to relinquish them when his Mommy needed them for minor conveniences, such as driving, and heated words were exchanged between C and his Mommy on multiple occasions. Eventually, C lost his key privileges altogether, which apparently led to a particularly tense discussion over who was the adult and who was not quite two years old one recent morning.

C's Mommy, who is a lovely lady who was able to laugh about the ways in which my bad influence of a son had led her son off the straight-and-narrow, did not seem to hold the incident against LO. This time.

I do wonder about what will happen in the future, as LO continues to lead other children astray.

Considering that my philosophy of parenting is to let out the leash unless and until LO shows me he can't handle it, I'm thinking this sort of thing will keep happening.

Perhaps I should just give in and slick back the kid's hair and buy him a leather jacket now. Then, at least, he'll look the part.

My Issue with Play Dates

I hate the term play date.

Hate it.

HAAAAAATE it.

With the fire and passion of a thousand suns.

My issue with this terms stems partially from my Free Range sensibilities. Are our kids are so over-scheduled these days that we need to set up specific dates for them to play, in the same way I have to schedule meetings and time to workout?

I know my antipathy over this term also has a bit of crotchety old woman to it, as well. Dagnabbit, when I was a girl we played with the kids in our neighborhood, whether we liked them or not. If there wasn't anyone our age, we made do by playing with sticks! Our school friends stayed at school because Mom and Dad had better things to do than ferry our asses around to play.

However, I believe my biggest issue with play dates now that I am a mom, is my own shyness when it comes to approaching people. Just to give you an idea of that shyness, I believe that one of the world's greatest innovations, far more wondrous than nanotechnology, vaccines, or even central air conditioning, is the ability to order a pizza online without having to talk to anyone other than the delivery guy. (And if you have exact change with tip, you can even get away with only grunting at him).

Since play dates are necessarily set up between kids who like each other rather than between parents who are friends, it's all a little much for those who can find themselves intimidated by the social interaction required for ordering carryout.

So, now that LO has reached an age wherein he is making friends independent of J and I, I am in the position of wanting to schedule the dreaded play dates so that I can encourage him to build strong relationships and learn socialization, sharing, and how to pretend that the carpet is made of lava.

I've been making a hash of it.

LO has a new best friend. He met his friend about a month ago, when said friend started at LO's school. LO and Friend were friends from day one, as if they recognized in each other kindred spirits. At school, they play kamikaze follow-the-leader, wherein one will run while shouting joyously until he falls over into heap and the other will repeat the exact running path, unintelligible shout, and particular heap-shape, until it is time to get up and start running and shouting again. They meticulously build towers together which they then take great glee in destroying together. They share a deep and abiding interest in anything on wheels.

I would love to foster this adorable friendship, but I'm intimidated both by the fact that I do not know Friend's parents, and by the fact that Friend's family is bilingual. These are ridiculous reasons to be intimidated, I know, but have you met me?

J, who similarly avoids having to talk to pizza parlors when not necessary, has suggested we invite Friend and parents over to the park across the street from us when the weather gets a little warmer. That way, it won't be nearly as big a commitment as having them over to our house, but will still give the young men a great chance to enjoy themselves, free of the social awkwardness that plagues the adult set.

I'll even call it a play date when I set it up with Friend's mom.

And, I'll keep my crotchets and grunting to a minimum. We'd like to make a good impression, here.

My Dad

I'm a big believer in self-delusion. As long as the lies you tell yourself don't hurt or affect other people, then why bother dashing cold water on yourself?

I've gotten some big tests of my self-delusion over the past few years. When my aunt and cousin died in an unthinkable act of violence, I decided to simply believe what I wanted to believe about what happened. There was no way of ever knowing the "truth," so why not keep my own truth close to my heart and feel better?

Last year, when my mother came down with the pneumonia that nearly killed her, I studiously avoided learning about her diagnosis. That information could not help me in any way, but it would provide me with new points of worry, so why not focus on the fact that once Mom woke up, she would fight tooth and nail to get her life back? (Which she did).

Now, I'm faced with another opportunity for self-delusion.

My sweet dad was diagnosed with a glioma last fall. This is a type of brain tumor that is generally slow growing. When we first heard the news, I put it out of my mind. There was no need to worry about something I could do nothing about, and it sounded as though the glioma would simply bide its time for at least a decade. Not enough time, to be sure, but certainly far enough in the future to make it something I could ignore.

Then, in February, a follow-up MRI indicated that the glioma had grown, much faster than originally predicted. The prognosis: one to two years.

When I think logically and rationally about this, I get overwhelmed. So I self-delude. Gliomas are not very well understood. Statistics are meaningless to an individual. If a marathon runner in perfect condition can keel over at 45 and a bacon-eating pack-a-day smoker can make it into his 90s, my dad can beat the odds given to him by doctors who are paid to be pessimistic. This is my truth, and it's how I get up in the morning and get my work done during the day and get to sleep at night.

Back when Aunt Valerie and my cousin Chris died, I naively told someone that I knew any future tragedy would be easier than that one. I lost two people I loved in a terrible way, and anything would be less horrific than the emotions I felt at the time.

I forgot then that time dulls pain, and that different pieces of your heart hurt in different ways when they are taken away from you. Yes, I lost two people I loved back then, but now I'm facing the prospect of losing a parent. It's different. It's not easier. It hurts. I was so stupid to think that losing Chris and Valerie had somehow inured me to loss.

So, I delude myself.

I will not have to face this soon, because my dad is sweet and strong and fiercely loves his family and still has many many years of playing with and teaching his grandchildren ahead of him.

I want Dad to be the one to teach LO how to make his world-famous chili, bacon and all.

I want Dad to be the one to tell LO the story of Persephone the first time he eats a pomegranate.

I want Dad to be the one to introduce LO to the Marx Brothers and The Day the Earth Stood Still and The Magnificent Seven and Diner and Brazil and Baron Munchhausen and Forbidden Planet and Star Trek.

I want Dad to teach LO to say "De gustibus, pencilneck!" when someone insults LO's taste in things.

I want Dad to be a loving, funny, and sure presence in LO's life.

I want all of this for Dad and LO.


I really don't think it's too much to ask.

The Douglas Adams Connection

 

I find myself the reluctant collector of late-talkers.

Knowing that LO is still showing himself disinclined to speak (much), people have been alerting me to any number of late-talkers who have gone on to have brilliant careers, often in the sciences. Some late-talkers you may or may not know:

• Einstein (which, to be honest, didn't make me feel much better)

• Benito Mussolini (ditto, for different reasons)

• Richard Feynman (who apparently also maintained an experimental laboratory in his home as a child)

• Nobel-Prizewinning economist Gary Becker

• G. Gordon Liddy (shudder)

• pianist Arthur Rubinstein

While learning about each and every one of these late talkers provided me with a moment's sense that perhaps late-talking is proof of future greatness/incredible awfulness, none of them really helped me to feel more comfortable with my long wait for a conversation with my son.

On Sunday, however, I bought myself a single volume copy of Douglas Adams' famous five book trilogy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I have had a yen to re-read these books, and not just because the words Don't Panic are printed on the cover in large friendly letters. (A message I most definitely need to hear these days.) I've been thinking about Hitchhiker's Guide quite a bit because as I get older and older, I appreciate the wit and intelligence of these books even more than I loved their incredible silliness as a teenager.

My new copy of the entire Guide, had a short introduction by another of my favorite modern wits, Neil Gaiman. In this introduction, Gaiman let slip the fact that Douglas Adams was a self-described "strange child" who did not learn to speak until he was four.

And with that sentence, suddenly everything fell into place.

My son has something in common with the man who wrote the quotation J and I put on our wedding invitation: "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."

In just two years, LO already shares an experience with the man who created the most wondrous defense of procrastination ever written: "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."

G-d willing, LO will be something like the writer who recognized that "Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so."

And of course, perhaps LO will be the one to finally come up with the ultimate question whose answer is forty-two.

We can but hope.

My Stupid Irrational Fear

Just over a year ago, LO was still sleeping in his crib when he wasn't co-sleeping with us. (Basically, this means he spent a grand total of 17 minutes per night sleeping in his crib, but it was progress).

The child woke up in the middle of the night one fateful evening and cried quietly for a moment. This was enough to wake me up, so I was fully awake to hear him clearly call out "Mommy?" when I didn't immediately come get him.

Of course, this melted my heart. It was the first time he used the definitive word Mommy in my hearing. Even though I have always referred to myself as Mama to him, I loved hearing him say Mommy and knowing that it was his special name for me.

Of course, none of that heart-melting was enough to make me want to get up. 

I made J go.

He got the child and brought him back to our bed so I could nurse LO back to sleep. Mommies have to rest, after all.

Since that particular night, I have heard Mommy only a handful of other times. It's as if the word has disappeared from LO's vocabulary, and he relies on a basic M sound to refer to me.

This is not really a big deal. The child is speech delayed, as much as it has been difficult for me to accept that fact. We know he can say Mommy (and kitty cat and juice and applesauce and other words that have since disappeared) and we know that he understands language very well and we know that he's working on talking, at least when it suits him.

And yet, I think back to that one wee hour call of Mommy all the time. I keep wondering, what if I had gone to get him and reinforced his calling for Mommy with the appearance of the woman herself?

Maybe he wouldn't have lost the word.

Maybe he would have had the reinforcement he needed to hold onto his vocabulary rather than letting it melt away like the snows of yesteryear.

Maybe getting my lazy ass out of bed that night instead of making J do the dirty work would have been the difference between the child talking now and the child having weekly speech therapy lessons wherein he learns new words that we never hear again.

Of course, I know this is stupid and irrational, not to mention mother-blaming. In the modern world, we're all very quick to blame mothers for any and every problem a child has, which means that 21st century motherhood has become an impossible task because there is nothing in between doing it perfectly and fucking it up beyond all recognition.

And yet, I still come back to that night in my mind. I loved that he called for me. I loved hearing my name from him, even though it wasn't even the name I had chosen for myself. I'll happily be Mommy rather than Mama if that's what he wants to call me. I felt so close to him that moment, and yet I had Daddy get up to go to him instead of dragging myself down the hall.

Maybe LO didn't know how much it meant to me to hear him.

 Well, I did say it was my stupid irrational fear.