Category: Being a Father

Make a Wish

As I half-patiently waited at my front door for my youngest to gather up her school stuffs my oldest started to make his way up the street.  
He seemed so resolute as he walked past the threshold of our property and towards the foggy foothills to the north. My first instinct as always was to tell him to wait but his stride told me that he was okay to go and so I watched him. My youngest took longer then usual but finally she darted out and as started to catch up to my boy up ahead I saw him kneel at a neightbour’s yard and pick up a dandelion or two. He was making wishes. 
Hopes that I didn’t feel i needed to inquire about or perhaps I was making my own wish and that’s that he would stay young like this just a little more longer.

When I was a kid

When I was a kid I wanted to be zapped by a lazer and get super powers. When I was a thirteen I wanted to use my own Transformer to fight bad guys. When I was a young adult I wanted to write the great American novel. When I turned 18 I wanted to drive somewhere far far away! 
As I take stock now I’d like to think that I DID become a bit of hero to at least a couple of young minds, that I take effort to do right for myself and others, that my little bursts of writing inspire some and that road trips with my family are the best stress-reliever in the world. ?#
Perspective…that’s a super power que no?



To Tell the Truth

I called him over and put my hands at his shoulders. We locked eyes and I saw a well of emotion creeping up as his eyes started to tear up. 
“Tell the truth….please tell me what happened.” After a brief paused he told me and a tear ran down his cheek. Was I angry? Yes…but that was transitory as it was an opportunity to teach my son about taking ownership of his own actions and trust that he could talk to me about what was going on his life. 
We hugged and he’s now raking the entire back yard…he’s surprisingly okay with the punishment he was dealt.

Out Dated

While waiting to meet their new pediatrician my kiddos found an old typewriter to play with. With an office full of familiar toys and coloring books featuring their favorite characters, my children opted to explore the odd machine.

I watched from a fair distance. Seeing their fingers gravitate towards the metal keys and listening to the familiar clack. Like a piano they struck the keys quickly and they felt into a trance like state when the metal cracked against the black rolling pin.

Then my son discovered a piece of paper that bore letters. I think I saw the flash of the bulb go off in his head. “You use this to write words or even sentences” I’m sure he realized.

With their usual melodramatic energy they started the process of figuring out how to insert the paper into the machine and it was at this point in intervened. Without a word I fed the crisp white sheet into the slot and used the crank wheel to move it into place.

As they struggled searching for the letters that made up their names my son exclaimed loudly to his sister. “How did they ever survive with this technology.”

I couldn’t help but laugh out loud to the point where they both glanced back in confused amusement.

I don’t know kids. I just don’t know.

Artifact from a Land Before Time

Hands

On a quiet Saturday afternoon at the age of eight I happened to find myself sitting next to my father who was reading the day’s newspaper in peace.

My chores were finished, dinner was minutes away from being served, my sisters were away enjoying the Berenstein Bears and for a moment the house sat still.

I can’t recall studying him so intently ever before but at this one opportunity  I took time to make a mental photograph of my father as a man.

For a few uninterrupted minutes I looked him over.

His mustache was thick and plentifull and each manicured bristle bore a brown sheen that in years later would fade and turn uniformly gray. His gaze was focused and his brown eyes darted back and forth with purpose as he scanned the headlines. Occasionally he sighed and I found it odd how similar his chest heaved in response to no-matter what was on the page.

His profile was stern. Like the clean lines of a hood ornament on a classic car who cut through the incoming wind with grace.  His upper body strong after years of hard work in a variety of jobs and thorough physical conditioning during his time in the Mexican police force.

Some impulse cause me to dart out my hand and take his. I needed to see it in contrast to mine, take note of its weight and feel the roughness of his work-man fingers.

For less than a minute I had my father’s hand in mine and then he gruffly pulled it back to turn the page.

—

My son sits at my side some times.

He enjoys placing my hands on his and brags that one day he’ll be taller than I.

I afford him the time he needs.

It is time I cherish too.