Such a Good Daddy

I’m washing blueberries for breakfast, while Lucas jumps up and down beside me awaiting them. It’s our first breakfast together in a week since I’ve been away at a conference and I’m telling him about the airplane I took.

After quizzing me whether the plane had a propeller or jet engine, he says excitedly, “I have an idea! Maybe one day Daddy should go away on an airplane, and it’d just be you and me forever!”

At that moment, of course, Daddy walks into the kitchen. One look at him and I know Lucas’ words have driven a stake through his heart. After selflessly caring for Lucas solo for the past week, he is rejected immediately once I return. He turns and heads back into the living room, feigning the need to grab the newspaper from outside.

I bend down and whisper to Lucas. “It’s not nice to say that Daddy should go away, sweetie.”

“Why?” he says in the annoyingly inquisitive way he asks why to everything.

“Because Daddy’s such a good Daddy and,” I raise my voice, “the loveliest husband in the whole world.” I plop the blueberries to the table, hoping he’ll rejoin us.

--

The phone rings and it’s my aunt.

“Did you know there are other fathers out there like your husband?” she says incredulously.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Men who change diapers and drop off kids at daycare and make dinner.”

I sigh, unsure if she is judging me or truly shocked. “Yes, things changed when women went back to work.”

“Well, I didn’t realize things had changed for the better. I thought it was just that he was such a good father.”

“Well, he is that too.” I sigh again.

The thing is, he is all that. He is one of those rare men who doesn’t have an enormous ego and actually revels in taking care of those he loves. He is the opposite of the stereotypical dumb, incompetent Dad that the media likes to portray. Other mothers look at me wide-eyed when I shrug and tell them my husband gives Lucas baths, takes him to the dentist, and can look after him for a week without me.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. The thing is that sometimes it’s hard to live in his shadow. Like a child desperately seeking her parent’s approval, I long to hear the words, “you are such a good mother”. But no amount of good mothering holds a candle to the uncharacteristic good Daddy that he is.

And yet, he could care less about what others think. He doesn’t act the good Daddy part for attention or recognition. All the reward he needs comes from his son’s smiles and hugs.

But after my week’s absence, it’s me Lucas clings to like an eager puppy, constantly checking on my every move. Anytime I’m out of sight, he calls, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…” until I reappear. When we get him ready for daycare, he begs to come to work with me. Only I can put him to bed, brush his teeth, and bathe him. And of course, I am happy to be there for him. I have missed him desperately, but I see it is killing his Daddy.

One night, after I finally get Lucas to bed, I find Daddy sitting at his piano keyboard, composing a sad melody. I come up behind him, squeeze his shoulders, and he confesses, “just once, I want to be the one he calls for instead of you.”

After about two weeks, things finally settle down. I’m glad because Lucas has had a myriad of incidents (including potty accidents and his first nightmare), all of which I blame on my absence. And I’m feeling a little drained by Lucas’ need of me and Daddy’s hurt feelings resulting from it.

One morning, in the middle of brushing Lucas’ teeth, he says to me, with foamy mouth, “I’m sad.”

I pull out the toothbrush. “Why are you sad, sweetheart?”

“I miss Daddy.”

I laugh and pull him to a hug, aware that I’ll likely have a wet pasty face imprinted on my shirt. “Daddy’s just sleeping, honey! You can go wake him up if you want.” I’m pretty sure he’s not just talking about missing Daddy this moment, but for the past two weeks that he’s been ignoring him.

He runs out of the bathroom, squealing for Daddy, and I’m sure my husband will wake with a smile on his face.

I sigh. I guess my days of being the chosen one are over now.

I Write Because I Have to

Our Write Club's writing prompt this week was Why I Write in response to Meredith's Heller poem of the same name (available on her website: http://www.meredithheller.com/poetry.php about halfway down the page). Here's mine:

I write because I have to
There is no choice about it
Just a pull from within me
Urging me, calling me, pestering me

A thought that won't let go
An echo of an experience
A scene that must be shared
Dying to jump out of me and onto the page

Ignore it and I get sick,
grumpy, distracted or blah
I walk into walls, spill me tea,
lose my patience for no reason

A colleage says to me,
"That's a nice hobby to have"
A well-meaning friend says,
"You're lucky it's so easy for you."

They don't understand that it eats at me
if I don't comply
It consumes me until I can
no longer ignore it

And then I take pen to paper
or keyboard to screen
and it all comes pouring from me
Words slobbering out uncontrollably
A scene connecting to a thought
An idea transitioning to a memory

Then the logical side of my brain
Pipes up with its squeaky voice
"That's not a full sentence,"
and "Do you really want to put that in writing?"
And I must writer faster and faster
just to shut that voice up.

Because I'm here not
In the place I'm meant to be
In the zone of creativity
Of freedom, of joy, of bliss
Oh allowing the me that is me, a voice
And letting that voice rise, fall, sing and swear


And then suddenly it's gone
My pen stops or my fingers stop clicking
I find myself wondering what I'll make for dinner
Or feeling compelled to login into facebook


And then I breath, sit back and read
And I find that mostly it's crap

But I laugh instead of cry
Because at least it's honest crap

And intertwined with the mess
Some nuggest do shine through
And those I hold onto and think
That's why I'm a writer.

Artless

I've dragged our pictures out of their boxes and am attempting to match them to the walls of our new house. But our vaulted ceilings and perfectly painted walls don't seem to invite the small framed photos and cheap prints that used to adorn our apartment walls. This house calls for real "art". And given the amount of time it takes Hubby and I to agree on each piece of furniture, and the fact that real art costs real money, I'm not anticipating our house being a gallery any time soon.

And it bums me out. Other people, it seems, have this decorating gene that I was not born with. They take dried flowers and recyled metals and make funky seasonal ornaments; they walk into a fancy store and pick out accessories that don't match but somehow work together in this colour palette that is both appealing and modern; and they know how to buy art. Hubby and I, we like brown and blue and thus most of our furniture, blankets, and walls fall in that colour scheme. And we are far too functional to go beyond. But now that we have this nice house, I desperately want to finish it with some styling decor and nice artwork.

But the other day, I was sitting in my giant brown (of course) chair-and-a-half (that may not be fashionable but that I love), and I had a revelation. I had been typing madly in my laptop, working on my new (secret) book, the words flowing through me from some unseen force onto the page. When I had exhausted my stream of consciousness, Hubby and Lucas joined me in the living room. Hubby started playing kids songs on his keyboard with Lucas on his kid-sized guitar strumming along with no actual relation to the music. Hubby soon switched to playing  his latest composition that had me near tears. And as he played, I felt the music fill the room all the way up to our vaulted ceilings.

Suddenly, I was catapulted back to a moment last summer. I was in my in-laws kitchen doing dishes after some dinner we'd invited ourselves to, and Hubby was playing on his piano in the basement. We were there after another weekend of unsuccessful house-hunting and getting more and more frustrated by our lack of success. But as I listened to Hubby fooling around on the piano keys, I felt the music fill up the house, and I knew suddenly that one day we would find a house, and we would have music in it.

So, now when I find myself staring at our blank walls wondering what whether we will ever do justice to them, I remember that we are already filling our home with art. I've written more pieces in this house than ever in my life, Lucas brings his creative energy to everything he does, and Hubby's music spreads throughout the house, making it our home. 

What's Wrong with Having a MooMoo?

"Lucas, it's time to get in your PJ's," I yell from upstairs.
"MooMoo says five more minutes," he yells back.
"Tell MooMoo it's time now!"

How to describe MooMoo? In actuality, he's a stuffed animal, a cow received at my baby shower that I introduced to my infant son because it was black and white (the colours that babies can see). It was love at first sight and the two have rarely been parted. Three years later, MooMoo is greying and falling to pieces, but he has evolved into more than a physical comfort toy. He has become Lucas' alter-ego.

"Guess what, Lucas?" I say, excitedly. "You're going to the water park today!"
"MooMoo doesn't like the water park," he says matter-of-factly, and we both know MooMoo is not going to the water park, but there's no use arguing.
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't want to get wet."
"Well, I bet MooMoo could just run around the water park instead of getting wet if he wanted," I suggest.
"Yeah, that's a good idea!" he says, willing to head off on his field trip now.

We have to stop ourselves from rolling our eyes or cracking up at MooMoo's opinions on everything. When sharing this with another mom, she asked me seriously, "What are you going to do about this?" My answer, "uh, nothing?" I mean, what's wrong with having a MooMoo? It never even occured to us to nip it in the bud, nor do I even believe it would be possible. MooMoo is as real to Lucas as we are.

I get it because I always had imaginary friends. There was Sam when I was five, Marty when I was nine, and Brian when I was twelve. Sam and I drove my older brother crazy because we spoke our own language, which mimicked our neighbour's Eastern European tongue, but my parents never fussed about him. And yes, thirty years later, I still think of him as a separate entity. Looking back, each of those friends came at times of transition: starting Kindergarten, moving to a new city and school in Grade 5, and then living with my aunt while my parents worked abroad in Grade 7. My imaginary friends were my stability in an otherwise uncertain time, when I was alone and everything was beyond my control.

My imaginary friends didn't talk back to my parents the way MooMoo sometimes does. But at age three, Lucas grapples with much more than I had to at that age. Just facing daycare each day, he has to respond to various authority figures, negotiate social situations and develop independence much earlier than many children. With busy parents, he doesn't always know who's going to be caring for him at which time, where dinner's going to be, or what he's allowed to do. I think we do a good job of creating a stable home for him, following his routine despite our busy lives, and making him the centre of our family when we are together. But for a kid who does not love transition or change, an imaginary cow-friend goes along way.

I picture MooMoo as this middle-age bachelor who is adventurous, independent, and irreverant, due to the images Lucas gives us of MooMoo's life: "MooMoo is driving a red pickup truck. Today he went to the store and buy'd some Budweiser and put it in the trunk with his spare tire." Or: "MooMoo lives in a house with two dogs and some cats and no Mommy or Daddy."

Lucas entertains his classmates, teachers and the family with the latest on MooMoo. From their point of view, it's harmless and funny. But from what I know as a writer, it's more than that. Whenever I write a character, there's a part of that character that is me. So, as Lucas creates MooMoo, I think he puts pieces of himself into this character. I think MooMoo's adventurous spirit is something that Lucas wants to have, but may be afraid of. MooMoo's comedic irreverence is everything my son wants to say but knows he'll get in trouble for. And the fact that MooMoo asserts the independence constantly is a little boy's way of staying true to himself.

So, every night as I put Lucas to bed in our lenthy drawn our routine that he has crafted and trained me in, I never forget to kiss and hug MooMoo goodnight. As I do, I whisper him a thank you for being there for Lucas in a way no one else can. 

Nightmares

12:48 a.m. I bolt up in bed, shaking, my heart racing. I exhale, relieved to be awake, and flop down onto my pillow. I was having this nightmare where a group of men were taking things from me, and  after deciding to retaliate, I was now fearing for my life. I get out of bed, trying to physically shake myself from the feelings of terror, and drink a cup of water. When my heart has finally slowed, I manage to sleep again.

2:04 a.m. I bolt up in bed. My ears have picked up a cry and before I am conscious, my body has gotten itself out of bed. I race to my son's bedroom door and hear his call.
"I need to go pee!" he yells.
But when I go to him, he is thrashing in his bed, drenched in sweat and shaking.
"Lucas, do you need to go pee or are you scared?" I say, petting his wet head.
"I'm scared!" he says, with a fear in his voice I've never heard.
"Lucas, you're okay, you're in your bed, open your eyes."
He opens them and reaches for me, and I see relief pour over him. I wrap my arms around him.
"Were you having a bad dream?" I ask.
"Yes," he says, breathing hard. "I... wanted... you, I... wanted... you," he says between sharp inhales.
"I'm right here," I say, enveloping his soaking body in mine.

I don't know if he's talking about his want of me during his nightmare or when waking from it, but it unsettles me. Two weeks ago, I was away for a week at a conference, and since then something has subtly shifted between us. Besides his expected clinginess when I returned, he now begs to come to work with me every day, and constantly questions when he will see me. Hubby gets the shaft, told constantly that he can go now, despite the fact he cared so graciously for Lucas while I was away.


As I'm lying in Lucas' bed, his head on my shoulder, and taking deep breaths with him, a familiar thought occurs to me. Maybe I should be working less. The thought haunted me when I first went back to work after maternity leave two years ago to a demanding job. But since grappling with the guilt, I'd made peace with the fact that Lucas is not unlike a majority of children in our society that attend daycare full time while their parents work, and is well cared for at all times.

But this is where my mind goes when things don't feel right, to the idea that I could fix things if I was just home. Maybe it comes from the fact my mother stayed home with me or maybe its drawn from the guilt that I know I'm a better parent when I balance work and home. Maybe it's instinctual, this mama bear impulse to protect your child and not let anything hurt him. But it pulls at me, though I logically don't believe I would be any better at doing this if I was home more.

But Lucas has never had nightmares before. And what's crazy is that I rarely do either, except that ever since I've been back, I've had a three of four. Something is off, and I think it might have to do with us.

He is calmer now, still nestled in my arms, and we are making a list. We're coming up with lots of nice things that he could dream about. "Ice cream, spare tires, trucks," I start. He adds, "cows, pigs, a rooster." Eventually he turns away and starts to settle back into sleep. I lie beside him, eyes wide open, and find I'm still shaking.