The Oaths

I'm having one of those mornings, one of those wretched, self-loathing starts that prepare me for a bleak day. This is a classic lousy parent morn. I awoke early, too early. The girl had another miserable night (more new teeth) and woke us intermittently throughout. When she finally returned to sleep, after I got up, she was reawakened for good by the black dog, whose nervous whines over an imagined intruder got the best of the entire house. The boy awoke in a tizzy because he couldn't find his suddenly can't-live-without stuffed cat. That led to a frantic search on my part to prevent a meltdown. Finding it was pointless, as he chernobyled anyway when he decided that he and not his sister should use the high chair. Fires continued to flare up; from the discovery of the dreaded pecan in his cereal to the girl's screaming demands that the bedroom door be reopened - the bedroom door behind which my wife is trying to sleep in a little (the girl hates closed doors of late). I have had one sip from my now cold coffee and haven't as yet dressed either one, which is a daily exercise in negotiation that makes Camp David look easy. It's the kind of morning that has prompted my dentist to ask, "Do you grind your teeth?" Oh, and it isn't quite 6:30 yet. So I have done what I hate to do; what I swore would never happen but seems to in these situations. I have turned on the TV and parked their butts in front of it. I am a bad father.

Before I ever had kids, I swore I would do things a certain way; that no earthly force would move me from the standards I set for myself. "I will not fail," was the oath. My children would not be plunked in front of videos to get them out of my hair. My children would only eat healthy foods. My children would never hear me raise my voice at them (I must have been seriously medicated for that one). Dinner would be a family affair, all of us gathered at the table for the evening meal. When seeking attention, my children would never hear the words, "not right now". My children's lives would be idyllic and I would always be there for their emotional needs. I would be a pillar of patience and understanding. I would be perfect. In retrospect, I believe the medical term for that is delusional.

It isn't as if we've abandoned all our oaths. The kids eat well, very well. With very few exceptions all their food is healthy, organic and homemade. Dinner remains the family meal. Television is limited to no more than two hours daily... usually. But that pillar of patience I promised has been eroded away. "Not right now" slips too easily from my lips and my admonitions have, too often, been more reminiscent of Sam Kinison than Ghandi.

Two nights ago, after putting the kids to bed, my wife and I heard sobbing coming from the boy's room. When I went in he was sitting up in his bed with tears streaming from his face. I asked him what was wrong, but he could not get the words out through the sobs. Taking him in my arms, I held him until he calmed enough to explain. When he finally forced out the words I was horrified. His sudden explosion, that I assumed had been the result of a nightmare, was instead, my fault.

For some reason that neither my wife nor I could completely discern he had come to believe I was mad at him; that I no longer loved him. The best explanation we could reach was that he had requested that his mother read him his bedtime story and I had seen that as my escape. I had kissed him good night and left the room to clean the kitchen. Although my wife said he'd enjoyed the story and had laid down happily, apparently my failure to stay had been interpreted as a rejection of some kind. As he rested in his bed reviewing the day, or whatever it is that not-quite-three year olds do before they go to sleep, the idea must have taken hold. I had been abrupt with him for the entire day. A load of tasks and my resulting lack of patience had contributed to his idea that he had somehow done something wrong. It had all been too much, I assume, and his world caved in.

As I rocked him I could do nothing but attempt to reassure him that I was not angry; that I did and always would love him; that he had done nothing wrong. It took some time but eventually he felt relieved. You could see the fear and pain ease from his face. He slipped under the covers and sleep took him. I wish I could say the same for me.


They are so fragile. Their entire emotional lives are in our hands and to them all the tasks and problems we have are meaningless beyond how shortchanged they feel. In performing our day-to-day tasks - the cleaning, the cooking, the necessities of any functioning home - we can let the kids' most basic desires slip down the list. No parent is perfect and there will always be days - mornings - like this one, where the promises of perfection lie in ruins below the remote control. These things can lead to more navel-gazing than anyone can tolerate, but my children deserve more from me than I have offered of late; more time, more attention, more patience, more me. I won't swear an oath for this - I know how that turns out - oaths are words, and ultimately it's my deeds that will make me the father I, and my children, so desperately want me to be.