A Seven-Year-Old's Inquiry

The summer has churned by quickly and the time that we could count upon with the leisure of the long, warm days has not accumulated as I would like.  Days have ended with G too tired to do much more than eat his dinner and begin the rituals of bedtime. There are still the books, the tooth brushing and the requests hugs to fold ourselves into the end of the day.

Friday night though, he asked:

"Why did you take your ring off?"

It has been nearly eight months of separation, but the ring came off 3 years ago.  Part rite of passage, part cry for attention, it came off to do the dishes and I a particular pique, I decided not to put it back on.  The in-laws had asked about it and now my son. Few others noted it, but never his mother.

I stalled and redirected for a moment with a comment, but he held me accountable.  Ultimately I was relieved that he asked.  There are things that need to talk about and waiting until I perceive he is ready for certain talks may let too much time pass.  When others have asked me how he is doing with everything, I cite the greater calm that has prevailed since I moved out. Fewer tantrums, with me at least, are a positive sign.  There were times when he would be violently inconsolable, my perception being that he was picking up on the tension between his parents but without ever seeing a fight, he only had the differences in parenting styles to cue him that something was vaguely awry. Whatever he had evidence of never lined up with the tensions that he picked up on.

I proceeded cautiously, holding myself to the conviction that I was only ever going to hold myself to account, rather than blame his mother.

"Mum and I never communicating very well. I'm not very good at asking for things.  I've always hoped that I could model the way I want to be treated and demonstrate the things that are important to me but that didn't work."

He did not interrogate further. In the past he is said that he thought everything was okay and that we were happy. There was normalcy, at least for him but in that familiarity he remains attached to there were those tantrums.  They have ceased, at least with me, over the last eight months.  There have been a few occasions when he has sought the restoration of that past, with the orchestration of a group hug or a round robin of kisses.

For the most part, he has managed with the parting. I'm a few floors away, living in the same building and our ergot has adopted "upstairs" and "downstairs" to refer to our respective homes, if either or both of them ever equate to the place that he recalls me being in during those earlier chapters of his life.

Never sure if I've said enough, too much or too little, the night routine commenced and he fell asleep after a reading of Dr. Seuss' "Tad and Todd."

In the morning, I let him know that I was proud of him for asking the tough question and that it would always be welcome and encouraged. Beyond that it was a skill that would put him ahead of me and serve him in good stead in the years to come.

From the Mouthes of Babes

As the day wound down, I picked up my son at after school care. The routine is familiar. I trudge in after running the 10K from the office and track my son down, whether he is outside, in the gym, playing or doing crafts somewhere. Even if he misses me or is eager to get home, there is a long-standing desire to hang out a little longer. He could be waiting for the end of a movie, waiting for his turn at something or just too caught up in what's going on to bring it to an abrupt halt. I log him out of attendance and for the time after that, I start to wonder if I am on staff and then after a little longer I wonder if I should call it a day, log him back in and head home for his mother to attempt to pick him up.

Yesterday afternoon, though, I walked in to hear him riffing on one of my paternal rants. It was laughably cringe-worthy to hear my 7-year-old telling one of the younger kids that he should not be touching another person's stuff. He does listen to me. It is the kind of thing that I tell him when we and are walking to the train station and he gets curious about whatever he sees and wants to pick it up as his own, or if he balances himself on a car mirror so he can kick the icicles off the undercarriage or the scuds that accumulated in the wheel-wells. (I know, I know; a scud is something else entirely but it's the aptly sludgy word for that unnameable clog of snow.) Ever-conscious of a scenario where someone storms out to tell my son to get off the lawn or stop touching the car, I warn him about other people's property. My warning has expanded in length over the years as I try to give my son the full rationale rather than the harsh admonishment and I had that mix of amusement and nausea as he nailed me verbatim under different circumstances. The younger kid was touching one of my son's toys.

In many ways it was a bookend. I recall my first time teaching nearly 30 years ago where I seemed to be teaching with a voice and demeanour that left me waiting for one of my students to tell me, "You're just like your father." Despite that consciousness, I was perceived to be my own self rather than an amalgam of my parents' and ancestors' influence.

As we turned in for the night and the zone-out music was cued up to lull my son, I let him know that I heard him and he cringed at the revelation just as badly as I did. It was a treasured embarrassment and there will be variations as more of my chestnuts crystallize.  I know the day will come when he will dust off my other chestnut about the difference between knowing and doing. On this night, I actually took the time to double-down on that line and tell him, for the first time, that knowing but not doing is "not knowing."

A Random Snapshot

He was tired. We had miscommunicated. It was a long day: music homework... music class. Every good boy, etc., etc. A stop at the library. A large Star Wars book among his booty and an intriguing Mexican novel about immigration my sole demand of the library. Cell phone shots of him playing in the library. Commuting through the city as the colour and grit of the city prompted inquiries about the homeless we'd crossed paths with. On our way to the last train home, he was resisting comfort and not even a cherry sundae failed to re-energize him enough to bear comfort or conversation.

I'd strode ahead a bit, glancing back with obsessive compulsive frequency to ensure he was nearby and still moving. On the last glance, he was racing to catch up, ready to dissolve into tears. He bumped his head and bit his tongue. I could picture the pout pulling his chin down and his glance to the floor. He banged his head on an angled pillar. The fatigue and frustration that encased him in a stubborn solitude was, for the briefest moment, dented.

I knelt before him and engulfed him as he quietly sobbed for a few moments. He explained his bumps and I held on for a few moments. Again we are paused for this public moment of privacy that I would rather keep to myself. He spent the day observing the pain of strangers, the tumult of domestic F-bombs on the train platforms and the moments of childhood with the friends he has in music class are but the briefest moment of childhood calm.

A woman turned as she walked past and called out, "Good Dad." I wanted to ask her, "Do you know what I've done?" My focus was on him, rather than rebuttals, however. I just whispered to him, to ease his mind and assure him that I understood how much he hurt. I wanted to cry too, but I've been more prone to mist up when I'm wistful, even joyful rather than in pain. That, I engulf and snuff as I look for beauty in my day again.

I wonder what I could have done differently through the day to have prevented that, or through my month or year or life, but only for the briefest moment. Instead, I treasure him straddling my knee and ponder the generous heart that he has and before the night ends I tell him that the socks we bought today I would have overlooked if it were not for him and his school's campaign for one of the city's homeless shelters. I am awed by how this generation of kids is going to bring the best out of its parents.

I still grimace at the praise for that single moment's embrace but I heed that there were other things that I did well. The conversations that came from out of nowhere, but found a meandering path for a while rather than crashing into a version of mute detachment. I am prone to the efforts to impress that most men fall into, but I have strived to accomplish rather than acquire and in my version of the trap I strive to accomplish something as a father by talking it through, likely ad nauseum, rather than gritting my teeth and revising the moment.

Perhaps in that tangent of time, in my recognition that I had to comfort him there and then, that I earned that praise. Was it that he knew he could come to me rather than having to bury it? Was it the day of conversations and the experiences we absorbed and shared through the day and the year to this point?

Okay.

Unforgettable

I was still cobbling together a routine of sorts with my son. There was a prevailing tentativeness but a parcel of energy to throw into everything, no matter how unfamiliar it was. I tried to introduce my son to penny hockey and managed to hold his attention for while with that. When he expressed an interest in drawing of all things -- I have long joked at my own expense about being the only father who would pressure his son to go to art school and he further entrenched the joke by demonstrating his preference for the sciences and math -- I went along with it and supplied him with the sharpie, paper and how-to videos from YouTube (which may have been the main draw). He did express his frustration with his ability compared to that demonstrated in the video, and i assured him that practice and taking it slow would bring him along with time.

Our camp-out life on the floor was proving to be decent for the first few hours. He got a little fussy about attending his Saturday afternoon music class and after the time to get to class had come and gone, we decided to head out for a while. It was a snowy afternoon, but we still went to the playground. He played on the swings for a while but before long we decided to venture inside in quest for a hot chocolate. He found the one we purchased not to his liking despite my efforts to take the edge off the bitterness with water and milk. We deposited his hot chocolate in the garbage and headed out.

"Can we go in there?"

Don't do it, don't, you know better, you're gonna pay for it, no, don't, watch it. You've been to this movie.

He doesn't have anything to play with.

"Okay."

So we headed into a toy store for a browse. We went through the story and we were fascinated with the items that were in there. There were the futile turns down the aisles such as when he was perusing the toys for 12 month-olds and my own wistfulness at a Lawren Harris jigsaw puzzle. We scanned carefully, exhaustively actually and my son proposed that he come up with three options for me to choose from. I pointed out a STEM themed toy for him to put together various items and sensors that he could use to trigger alarms and such.  Agreed. Settled. Finito. Our conversation overheard, the manager of the store gave a knowing look and a slight nod. A prickle of stigma and empathy touched my back and I tried to shrug it away.

At the cashier's counter, there was a resplendence of other toys, smaller items to mess around with and get familiar with. Most were novelty items. Coinbanks that absorbed their coins in certain ways, little machine and suctioned toys that danced and popped and sprung with surprise. And a cube. The cube held the cashier in its thrall as he played with it to idle away his own time moreso than give it the sell.

STEM kit bagged, my son fell for this item and had to have it. The slide to despairing desire was quick, precipitous and I had to carry him out of the store to keep the reaction from spilling into embarrassment with a captive audience. I managed to get him to stay with me for half a block until we had to stop. I sat down on the ledge of a low window and tried to look him in the eye. He was sobbing with rage at the possibility that he would never see the cube again though it was etched deeply in me already that it meant a great deal to him. I was conscious of giving in, of trying to extract a promise of future behaviour when I knew how those deals had rarely, if ever, worked out.

No matter what I tried to say to assure him that Santa was on it, that he was looking down and noting this, my son hung on to the same question, "What if he forgets?" The questions was pressed with variety as it would apply to every person I could come up with who would remember. His mother, my best friend, Santa (again), friends who knew of my prodigious capacity for recall, there was the risk that this gift or his desire for it or, essentially, he would be forgotten. A word alone would not ease this, least of all mine on this occasion. We were stuck in this loop for about 45 minutes, perhaps a full hour as I surveyed the sympathetic looks of passers-by who had their own backstory for what I hoped was playing out more privately than it was.

I ran out of strategies to ease his mind about being forgotten and tried to bring him back to the calm that had been absent since he saw the toy and fixated on it. I did not want to assuage him with this toy. I did not want to set the precedent, but on this day, perhaps it was the only option I had. I hated the thought of giving in or bribing or inching toward the habits of the weekend dad. During a moment of calm, actually to negotiate a moment of calm I told him that he had to promise me to remember something.

He he took a deep breath and I tried to make it clear to him that time together and connecting were more important. I did not try to cite the fun we had in the morning drawing and playing penny hockey but tried to give him the sense that this was an opportunity for him to have something to remember how important he was to me and that he carry it with him as a token of my remembrance and my attention no matter where he is. Has a precedent been set? Quite possibly, and the questions will remain for a while about the strength of memory, the value of presence and wounds that a parent can inflict with any decision or action.

Night Groceries

I am greeted by the familiar environs of the produce aisle. The typical run is on a Sunday to load up on ingredients for salads and I quick survey of the tri-colour peppers, roma tomatoes, spinach, English cuke, and zuke is enough before I venture to the canned fish aisle to get some protein to complete the meal. On a Friday night, the familiar setting causes me to bristle at timing, shelf life and routine. I am ultimately trying to prime myself for the survey of these surroundings, which overwhelm and disorient on this night.

A turn down the next aisle is not unfamiliar but the terrain and shelves are limiting. My next goal is to find a chem-free children's soap, the shelves offer a false hope in a clear bottle but the text, even without my glasses features words that run too long to promise simplicity. It feels as if these shelves are intent to define me, ascribe to me a deficiency in sensitivity. There is the anxiety for a moment that these body wash will be caustic and prompt the stinging rashes that I had to balm and salve when he was three. I need something, however, so I settle and with a shrug take the bottle with the surfing kids. The boy is in a two piece body suit that reminds me of him looking up at me, three years old, his eyes plaintive with a vulnerability that a pouting underwear model would envy. I toss it in the cart, but wonder if this place has a mere smidgen more selection that a gas station convenience store. This will tide us over. It's a "for now." It'll actually last for 4 months or sit ignored in the shower indefinitely until he is 14.

As I peck away here, I realize that I'd forgotten toilet paper. I assumed it would be near the paper towel but turned up nothing during my sortie through that section of the store. I found the toothpaste that my son normally uses at home but was unable to match a Star Wars toothbrush to it for a complete set. Instead, a pair of Minion-themed brushes that make do but assert that these will not be right, will not be the same as they'd be if they were replacing the Stormtrooper brush he currently has when it is deemed well-used, expired. These are the "other" brushes that will never be the same because they will be part of unwelcome change and difference. I plant both brushes on their suction-cupped ends, so the lad can have a choice in at least that. "Do you want the one-eyed Minion, or the two-eyed." This lack of pop-culture precision will echo hollow as we adjust and proceed.

Beyond that there is the wilderness of school lunches. I pick up a package of pepperoni, promise myself to get cheese and then short circuit. There will be containers to get too and for a moment I am disoriented and awed by my wife's ability to navigate these aisles and those of the Costco with purpose and targets in mind. She is the one that seeks out the cleaner soaps in the natural food stores and ensure that the supply never runs out. I start with those and add a few yogourt drinks to interest him and treat him for lunches. I wonder if all of these will be points of resistance in the renegotiate of terms.

I was the one who comforted him as we cried four nights ago. I told him he was amazing; that I was proud of the fact that he was one of the kids that parent directed their children to hang out with, because he was a good way to stay out of trouble. He told me I was amazing too. I demurred on that one, familiar as I am with my flaws.

The luncheon meats stumped me and left me wondering if he would eat these and finish the lunches I would find myself preparing or if I would bear a black mark of some arbitrary falling short. I feel for the buy one, get one free bait and discerned the chicken and turkey breast as better options when compared to the various hams.

The cart fills. Indulgences get put back. Frozen waffles get into the cart, though there is no toaster yet. The broom and dust pan are acknowledged for a future visit and the items are lugged to self-checkout and I fill five bags. The pans and cleansers go into the backpack and the other four fill with the food. I leave the cart at the door and lug the food the kilometre and change it is back to my new apartment.

The Inevitable F-Bomb

Like hopscotch, tag, rhyming taunts and other fodder of the recess break, the F-bomb gets passed down from one generation to the next. Now that I think of it, I suspect the F-bomb has the most certain path from fourth grader to kindergartener for the generations to come.

In my own case, familiar with the stories of the rite of passage that is the first uttered F-bomb, I braced myself for it. I knew that once he knew the word the genie would be out of the bottle and it would be futile to wag my finger with the insistence that he never say the word again. As I envisioned it, I would hear about it secondhand from a teacher or other adult or catch him mid-utterance and petrify him with a tap on the shoulder and a, "Pardon me?"

Instead, my son caught me completely off guard over the Sunday morning French toast. The morning chatter was going where it was and he looked up at me and asked, "Are you going to say 'f--king'?" I've never uttered it in front of him. I've managed to channel my rage to "goofing" when he has me at my wit's end and this morning, I was nowhere in the vicinity of that near-apoplexy.

And damnit, (excuse me), didn't he actually find a way to use it in a manner that managed to retain some of his innocence rather than smear it with a comment like, "Yes I know what it means!! I said it because he was f--king pi--ing me off!!"

OOOOkay.

I was left laughing at the question and the way it was posed. I still managed to make the key points that I needed to make about the word. I pointed out that neither his mother nor I use it in front of him and went through a long roster of adults in his circle who don't use it. Having confirmed that he was not sure what the word meant -- one talk at a time, please -- I advised him on the risks of using words that he didn't know the meaning of and let me know that on the playground those risks could include an unwelcome punch or worse. Still, I struggled both not to laugh and not to go too over the top in my reaction. There's every chance I did both and found an odd balance in that. I made it clear, though, that I didn't want to hear it and that it was a word that could hurt. I reminded him of his sadness a few days earlier when a friend told him he hated him and added that this word could hurt just as much.

The occasion will be filed in my memories of French toast from now on and we will see what will come of his new familiarity with this mysterious, powerful word.

Will the floodgates open and will we find the F-bomb flying regularly? I'll admit I was tempted to tell him to "Use a f--king towel," (but didn't) when he was flinging his hands dry after washing them, but I managed to restrain myself despite the inadequacy of "goofing" as an adjective.

And, no, I won't be taking him to Deadpool now.

Once More? (please...)

He's a substantial size for his age. At six, he probably weighs as much as I did when I was 10 or 11 and for months now I note that the Big Wheels that were all the rage during my suburban youth had a weight limit of 65 pounds, which my son is just three pounds shy of. If he asked me for one, I'd have to decline and rather than try to explain the math I'd have to tell him he's too big. In a wiser moment, I might have the clues to tell him, "We'll see," rather than issue anything definitive.

Tonight, though, he's disconsolate and its an hour past his bedtime. He got his first fidget spinner and after a little over an hour, he set it down of a crowded playground to spare himself the risk of it falling out of his pocket to never be found again. As trendy toys are wont to do, it disappeared. He scoured the playground again and again, his fatigue and emotions conspiring to drag him into an abyss that nothing could console. He retraced his steps and reviewed the possible locations where he may have left it, his calm holding together but giving away to the loss of the toy and perhaps even the disappointing realization that, in this world, fidget spinners disappear when they are given the chance.

I was quietly miffed at the obsession delaying the bedtime we had already compromised on, but I participated in the search and kept my cool. When the search was finally abandoned we start back for the car.  Gabriel a few steps ahead of me, but his feet were leaden with the loss.

"C'mere."

He stopped and turned. I extended my arms to give him a hug.

"I'm proud of how you're keeping calm right now, but I know how sad you are. It's okay to cry."

He did.

"Want a ride?"

He nodded and turned his back to me and after one failed attempt at the hoist, (which was less comedic than I would have liked) I got him onto my shoulders. There was a time when I could not get his legs far enough down my chest to feel he had his weight where it ought to be. He was once too top-heavy and I had to pull on his legs to keep him from falling backward of his perch. This time, the weight pressed on my back and neck.

I moved slowly as a few of his tears drizzled onto my forehead. The weight told me, "This isn't going to happen too many more times."

"Really?", I thought.

"Really, really."

I put him in charge of navigation as we crossed streets. He kept his eyes on traffic and gave me the required warnings about the oncoming traffic to keep us out of harm's way. We talked along the way while he lost himself in the sensation of the 5-days' growth of hair on my bald head against his palms and fingertips. I told him about "easy come, easy go." I didn't give him the acidic take on it, but reminded him of the things that he has worked hard for and hung onto. I let him know that everybody else wanted that fidget spinner just as badly as he did, even though few to none of them had to wait as long as he did for his one treasured hour of owning one.

I didn't make any promises, but I'm sure the next fidget spinner will not require as long a wait as today's.

His next fidget spinner will, for me, mark the walk with him on my shoulders tonight. An occasion which will be one of the very last few where I not only carry him, but perhaps ease the brunt of loss as well. I will have to walk next to him while his feet are weigh the the gravity of sadness and loss of will. I'm not sure if I can ease future pains as easily as I could tonight, but if that is the case, I anticipate that the pain will double on those occasions.