I often wonder how things like the death of a pet affect the kids. There is inevitably the sadness but once that has passed, what remains? My mother had come over for a visit and she noticed Brooklyn, our cat wandering past her feet.
Nana: "Oh look, there's the cat."
Isobel: "That's Brooklyn, Not Gimmo."
Nana: "Oh that's right, Gimmo isn't here anymore. he's in kitty heaven."
Isobel: "What?"
Nana: "He went to kitty heaven because he was very old."
Isobel: "Gimmo had a heart attack and had a very lonely death. Betty was sad and I was on the beach at the Mexico house."
Shortly before Isobel was born, I remember a guy I worked with was asking me what I wanted out of life. I replied, after some thought, that I wanted to be a good father. he didn`t like that answer. `No, what do you really want to do?' I thought about it again and gave the same answer.
I didn't want to be a parent...really. I was quite content to be the cool uncle for the rest of my days. That would mean I could maintain a kind of family ethos but still go on living the selfish bachelor life I had grown accustomed to. So when Mrs. Narrator said that she was up the duff (I'm paraphrasing) and when she last checked the world hadn't stopped turning I wasn't entirely certain that it hadn't.
It's not that I didn't like kids, I love them but they were always somebody else's. I got to breeze in, tell a few jokes, get some big laughs and breeze back out. It was win win and keep on winning for your humble narrator. I never gave much thought to whether I would make a good parent or not. I wasn't going to be one...Fate loves me.
So five (nearly six) years later and I find myself asking THAT question. Probably more often than not. 'Am I a good parent?' And the simple answer is I don't know...On the surface I guess I must be. I mean my kids are both well fed and clothed and I have assisted them in not being dead up to this point and I will continue to do so up until they seem to be able to do so on their own or until they are required to return the favour for me.
But that isn't it...that's not the real meat of the matter. All of that stuff makes me an adult, maybe even a parent but is it enough to make me a good parent, whatever that may be? Will I be remembered as somebody's father or somebody's dad?
I know that I am often too hard on the children when I don't really need to be. I am often surprised about the things that I am strict about and even more surprised with what I am completely lax about. I grew up in a house where children had no voice and we did what we were told. if we didn't we were punished, often physically and we seldom made the same mistake twice. I don't want to make it seem as though I grew up in an abusive home-I didn't. Nor did any of my friends who were all raised in similar households. It was a different time and we all had parents with old world values. If your attitude was not the status quo, it was adjusted. There were a couple of kids that I went to school with who came to school with black eyes. We all knew why. They were abused, not us...I'm wandering...My point is would I consider my parents good parents with all of that in mind. And I have to say not particularly. I don't say that to be cruel but I don't look back on my childhood with a lot of emotional fondness. Though grand-parenting seems to be the roa
d to redemption. I don't get many warm fuzzies thinking about growing up. It is what it was.
But how will my children remember their childhood, is a question that frightens me a little. They say that you tend to bring your childhood into your own parenting and in my parents case, that is certainly true...it is sometimes very difficult to not repeat the 'sins of the father'.
Kids need discipline...that's not the word I actually mean. Guidance is a better way to put that but the trick is when to lead and when to let them wander from the tour a bit...and I'm not certain I have found the best way to do this. I am certain I can't be the only one that thinks like this, not the only father anyway. The real tragedy is that there are far too many...especially fathers who don't seem to give a shit about their children one way or the other. It should be important...to be a good parent first and foremost but to be remembered as a good parent in your children's minds.
The other day, The Boy actually came to me for reassurance of a sort after being bawled out by his mother. it was the first time it happened and it was an important step for both of us. Today both children were right back to ignoring most of what I said and trying to suffocate their mother by seeing who can sit closest to her.
I know that I am at least in the running for coolest parent by letting Izzy shave one side of her head and for making her up like her favourite band and not getting too hot under the collar when she gets black make up all over the house. It is a fine line between cream-puff and caveman and the best any of us can hope for is a decent equilibrium.
The Boy had gone to his grandparents for a couple of days and it was just Izzy, Mrs. Narrator and me. Izzy was walking from the kitchen out of boredom and flopping on the couch...face first. This naturally progressed to jogging from the kitchen and jumping about a foot away from the couch to full on running out of the kitchen and launching herself in the general direction of the couch from as far away as she could.
Mrs Narrator said, "Izzy, that is got to be some kind of record for couch jumping."
Which of course, caused Izzy to treat it as such. She went to the toy room and came back out with her approximation of a stop watch. A spinning top that looked like a chicken in a neck tie.
"Mommy," she said. "When I run past, you look at this and tell me how fast I am going. Ready? Go"
And off she ran a toward the couch she leaped. This went on for a while, back and forth and she was getting more and more tired until she began sucking huge helps of air before she would run. "Mommy, you're not looking!" she said.
"Oh sorry honey. " Mrs. Narrator said. "Ok, I'm ready now." and then she appeared, Frank Booth's little girl. (for those of you playing the home edition, Frank Booth was Dennis Hopper's sadistic character in Blue Velvet)
She would start in the kitchen by snorting and gulping for air and as she began to run she would scream to her mother "Look at it!" It went on like
this for forty five minutes or more..."Snort...LOOK AT IT!" and end with a double axle and dismount onto the couch...ok more of a full faced flop on the couch.
"Snort...LOOK AT IT!" (flop) "Snort...LOOK AT IT!" (flop) "Snort...LOOK AT IT!" (flop)
If the acting career that she so obviously needs to pursue doesn't pan out, she may have a future in the furniture strength testing.
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