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I have a confession to make: As
much as I love my wife and children, I’m not always Mr. Sunshine & Light when I
get home in the evening. It’s not that my mood is poor, nor that I’m grumpy.
I’m just tired.
All I usually want
is a little quality time with my big green recliner and the daily newspapers,
but my wife likes to talk about the day and the kids need help with homework.
Having picked up their mother’s sociability, both heirs prefer to spend any
spare moments before bed with games or chat – tranquility genes and tendencies
are apparently recessive. So I do the Dad thing, stowing the fatigue and
camouflaging my hesitation as best I can. And, truth be told, both generally
fade on their own as I proceed with the evening ritual of rejoining the family.
Though it can be my strongest
urge when I walk through the door, I doubt that I’ll one day wish I had spent
more time vegging in that chair with “Miss Manners” and “Dilbert.” I understand
that family time is precious and fleeting. Still, when it begins to feel like
more of an obligation than it should, I am sometimes blessed with a little
wake-up call.
My daughter has been keeping a
journal the last few months, a turn of events I have encouraged. I find writing
calming, even cleansing, and have pretty much lost all self-consciousness about
it. But at 13 her thoughts are her own and she knows we will respect her
privacy unless there is a compelling reason not to. The same goes for the kids’
rooms, though in that case we also make exceptions for any unseemly odors
wafting from under the door.
So this isn’t a story of
snooping, but of an invited visit. While readers who recall my previous effort
at poetry will be relieved to learn that I’ve sworn it off, a heartfelt offering
from my daughter’s journal provides a simple, yet profound reminder. I have her
permission to share it even if others she considers too goofy are off-limits.
(And perhaps some are a little silly, but it is comforting to know that she
inherited at least one trait from me. With time I suspect she’ll get over the
pride thing too.)
Happiness is
Joy
He comes home
He makes me
smile
He makes some
jokes
And makes me
laugh
When he comes
home I cannot wait
For love
Joy and
happiness is in the air
My first thought
was that she had gotten married and not told me. That seemed improbable on
further consideration, almost as unlikely as the notion that the sentiments were
about her brother, the only other “he” in the house. That left me. Mr. Green
Recliner and his weary evening banter.
Believe me, I’m
nothing special. Most kids feel this way about their parents at some point or
another and most outgrow it. But is the outgrowing a natural effect of time?
Or is it a predictable reaction to guys like me whose first thought is the
newspaper, Monday Night Football, yard work, or a million other things that will
still be there when the kids are gone?
I generally
overcome those impulses, but some nights it’s an effort. No, scratch that: it’s
a decision. While writing this particular piece I thought I’d been interrupted
by a flute solo from my daughter and a one-on-one at the basketball hoop with my
son. In truth, by sitting at the keyboard before curfew it was I who
interrupted the short and fragile time I have as not just “Dad,” but “Daddy.”
It is our time, and I cheat us all by wasting it.
So Dilbert, my
lovely green chair, this column, and all the other distractions must continue to
wait until bedtime. They won’t miss me, or even notice. You don’t get reruns
for time missed with your spouse and children.
© 1997 – 2002 Brent Morrison
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