Stories With Teeth

The older daughter (12, going on 16) came home from the dentist in tears, yesterday morning. We'd been wondering about a couple of suspicious gaps in her upper bridge. Turns out there were two baby teeth that hadn't yet left the scene. After yanking them out, the dentist informed my daughter she could come back in a month to get fitted for a retainer.

Adding insult to injury, my daughter was slated to attend a Twilight themed sleep-over birthday party, in which participants could dress up like their favorite vampire. With her already weenie incisors now completely removed from the picture, this adolescent would-be vampire looked just a little ... odd.

But it was the looming threat of the retainer that really had her number. I took a deep breath and listened to the sob-story. I attempted placation. I took another deep breath and listened some more. I phoned her mother at work, and summed up the scene. Mom and daughter talked. The tears slowed to a halt.

By lunch time the older daughter was regaling the younger with slapstick stories about the dentist's clumsiness and confusion. Hoots of laughter ensued, and I was thinking, Is this what stories are for? To keep us from getting too serious about our annoyances and grief?

Forty-four years old, and I'm just getting a clue.

This piece which details the relationship and temperament of Laura Ingalls Wilder and her writer-daughter Rose comes to mind, for reasons I probably shouldn't dwell upon.

Parenting, And The Cycles of Affection

This was a pleasant Monday (Victoria Day, for you non-Canuckleheads) for most of us. My wife played two boardgames chosen by the daughters, then helped the younger finish her papier-mâché medieval castle. The weather was still nice, so my wife asked the girls if they'd care to help her plant a few flowers. “Sure!”

The girls' enthusiasm for this task was short-lived, however. Finally the older said, “I miss talking to Dad.” The younger did, too, so my wife stifled some impatience and reasonably said, “Well why don't you go up to his bed and talk to him, then? I'm sure he'd love the company.”

I had been walloped with food poisoning (damn that chicken salad). And so it was that I found myself bookended by my daughters, the older silently reading her Batman comics while the younger read to me from her latest Magic Kitten adventure.

Older parents will be very familiar with this little scenario, particularly with the fickle favoritism that young kids display without any self-consciousness whatsoever. But I post this little episode for younger fathers, especially fathers of daughters. For the first six or seven years of my daughters' lives, there was clearly ever only one favorite parent: mom. I could play, I could talk, I could listen — it didn't matter. “I wish Mommy was here instead.”

There are very valid biological and circumstantial reasons for this, of course. I'd remind myself of them every time I heard those words: she gave birth to them, she is a prescient nurturer, and, frankly, she is a lot of fun. And as soon as my wife returned home from work, her attention was devoted solely to the girls.

Hey, wait a sec: what about me? (pout, pout)

Since I now sit on the other side of this, shall we say, drought of affection, let me offer this word of exhortation to you young dads. I know — and you know — you love your kids, even when they're frustrating little bundles of unrestrained egoistical greed. But since it could be awhile before they demonstrate a deep and abiding affection for you (and you have finally caught enough sleep to take proper notice) make sure you keep paying attention to them. And be especially sure you pay attention to their mother.

Even when it's easy, parenting is work. You've got to draw deeply, and be incredibly patient. But good things do come to those who wait.

Training Wheels: A Misnomer If Ever There Was One

In a comment to the post below, DarkoV recalls the glory days of "riding at a 45 degree angle, on training wheels." Training wheels were never an element in my past, but when it came to my daughters I indulged them. I even attempted actual "training" with said wheels, by elevating their angle. After a few minutes of watching my daughter honing her 45 degree technique, I figured I'd better avoid the chiropracter's bill and get those wheels back on the ground.

Fortunately, there's a better way to get kids used to the balance of a bicycle. Lower the seat so their feet can rest securely on the ground, then remove the pedals. The kid pushes the bicycle, like she would a scooter, and very quickly gets a sense of its balance. My girls are cautious by nature, so it took a couple of afternoons of this before they got the hang of it. But I've seen other kids master it within an hour.

Vocation

In my penultimate year of high school, our class was required to fill out one of those computer-generated “tests” that helped determine your propensity for certain vocations. It was a lengthy and arcane bit of business, and when the results were in the two most highly recommended vocations for yours truly were: #1) Floral Artistry, and #2) The Military.

Both options presented some serious drawbacks for this all-too-hetero all-too-Mennonite ploughboy. Fortunately(?), the test required an appointment with our school guidance counsellor, so I shuffled to his office with these results in hand, very much intent on getting genuine guidance.

He was a genial, relaxed man with a handlebar mustache. As we talked, he propped his feet on his desk and smiled at me. The first thing he said about my test results was, “These things aren't definitive in any way. At their best, they might provide some unusual possibilities you might not have considered before.” He looked at me, his smile very much fixed in place and growing creepier with each passing second.

“I dunno, man,” I said. “I mean, florist or soldier – either one seems like a stretch.”

That creepy smile. The feet on the desk, hands folded across his belly – and silence. “Your father's a pastor,” he finally said. “Have you given any consideration to the ministry?”

I stammered and said, No, not really.

“Well,” he said, his smile sinking deeper, taking on a knowing quality, “maybe you just haven't received The Call yet.”

This was a Mennonite high school I attended, and my father was a known entity. Even so, I was gobsmacked. A quarter-century later, I'm still non-plussed by his assertion. Of course, it could simply be a matter of my not receiving The Call ... yet.

Here's where I currently work:



Also here:



At Cafe Rhythm & Books I cook and serve the weekend breakfast menu (chiefly baked french toast, and an assortment of crepes). I do some organizing of the book selection. I'm hoping to launch my own book here, next month.

I'll leave it at that, for now. Lately I've been thinking a lot about vocation, so I'll try to hash out some of what I've considered, particularly as it relates to genealogy and social expectations (subjects with which I have more than a passing familiarity). And today, the fifth-year anniversary of when so many of our citizens were killed at their place of work, seems like an appropriate time to start.