DaddyFactory

“As civilization advances, the sense of wonder declines. Such decline is an alarming symptom of our state of mind. Humankind will not perish for want of information; but only for want of appreciation. The beginning of our happiness lies in the understanding that life without wonder is not worth living.”

– A.J. Heschel

I’m far away from my family today, wandering through some philosophical questions among the mountains of Utah, and feeling such a sense of deep appreciation and sense of wonder for the woman that I married.

Dana is a source of great strength, an integral part of the foundation upon which our family can grow, thrive and feel safe. She approaches motherhood with a determination and an openness, a vulnerability and a forcefulness that I can only marvel at. And beyond that, she nurtures and loves me, whether I am sick or healthy, charming or misanthropic and rude.

My gratitude for her presence in my life, and for her gifts to the world, is boundless. Beyond all the minutiae and takhles (practicalities) of everyday life, the squabbles and the misunderstandings, there is something deeper between us, deeper than the ocean (where I lost my first wedding ring, and which is inscribed on the innards of my second), and worthy of constant praise.

Happy Mother’s Day. I love you.

Sam’s been working on “invented spelling” and it’s great to watch it take shape.

What is invented spelling? Reading Rockets has a good bit on it:

Invented spelling refers to young children’s attempts to use their best judgments about spelling. In one of the first major studies of children’s beginning attempts at learning to spell, linguist Charles Read (1975) examined the writing of thirty preschoolers who were able to identify and name the letters of the alphabet and to relate the letter names to the sounds of words. The students had “invented” spellings for words by arranging letters.

Read concluded that, by and large, “learning to spell is not a matter of memorizing words, but a developmental process that culminates in a much greater understanding of English spelling than simple relationships between speech sounds and their graphic representations.”

Of course the familial relationships are also enhanced by the newfound skills. As he has in the past, our budding author likes to use his powers for Truth, Justice, and the I’m-already-a-smart-ass-at-six Way.

Now, any study that draws its conclusion after observing a mere 30 people is suspect in my mind. But that’s what they’re teaching over there in that thar school in the woods. And near as I can tell, my rascals are gettin’ smarter by the second. So who am I to question?

Besides, I can’t help but get a little lump in my daddy-throat from the fact that he writes me on a daily basis. Here’s today’s “invented” love letter…

‘natch.

Check the artist

Little child, poking a head into the bathroom as I shave: “Dad? Is it fun being a dad?”

“Of course it is,” I reply. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Immediate response: “You know, like when we argue or yell at each other? That’s not fun.”

“No, it’s not. But it’s part of the package.”

Pause. “What’s a package?”

“A package is, like… ‘the whole thing.’ Our family is the package. We know we may argue or disagree sometimes. But we always know we love each other. And if we really know that deep inside, we feel safe. Even if we feel hurt or mad at the same time.”

“Oh… OK. That’s good.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think so.”

1. Dad, you’re always looking at your Blackberry! You never should have bought it.

2. You’re a big butt fart.

3. I wish they never invented business trips.

As a teenager, I used to have a recurring nightmare: that I would succumb.

Succumb to what? To the influences that surrounded me: drugs, depression, delinquency, and many other devilish traps that don’t begin with ‘d’.

I grew up, found confidence in my own skin, and found safe haven from most of those fears. But now the nightmare returns from a different perspective and I live with a new kind of fear: that my children will be the ones who succumb.

My kids are four and six, so it’s ridiculously early to worry, I suppose. But I listened to an interview today with David Sheff, whose new memoir is called Beautiful Boy: A Father’s Journey Through His Son’s Meth Addiction, and his son Nic Sheff, who published his own memoir concurrently: Tweak: Growing Up on Methamphetamines.

The experience of the father is one that I would give anything to avoid.

Sheff-the-Elder recalls a brutal moment during which he hung up on his son after the latter has called, begging for help and claiming to be at death’s door. The father offers to come to his son only if the son agrees to go with him directly to rehab. When the son demurs, the father hangs up the phone, fearing that he may never see his son again, but knowing that to do otherwise would only perpetuate the enabling of his boy’s addiction.

If David Sheff is being completely honest, he did everything I could imagine doing to save his boy. He was honest about his own drug experimentation as a youth; about friends he had who perished in addiction; about the allure of drugs, not just the “just-say-no” platitudes.

In the end, so much was beyond his control.

The question, now, is: What can I control today, before the possibility of help is no longer at home, but in a rehab clinic?

My work involves a fair amount of travel. In the past few months I’ve been to Nashville, Los Angeles, Boston, and New York (four times in the last five weeks). If I were 25 and single, this would be the coolest thing ever. Take an extra day and ski in Denver! Spend the free hours on Miami Beach, just running the sand between my toes!

Yes, I try to make the most of the trips. If I’m there, I should experience the local scene; taste the local cuisine; marvel at the uniqueness of a new place.

But my family is far away and I miss them.

We try all sorts of tricks to make the separation easier. Sam gave me a gray, plastic boulder which he asked me to carry in my briefcase at all times and to put on my hotel room night table when I go to sleep. Sylvie, following suit, pressed a calico critter into my hand and told me to keep it with me. This was a big deal because, despite the mass proliferation of calico critters in our home, Sylvie doesn’t part with them easily.

I return the favor by bringing home little gifts — sometimes unusual tchotchkes that you’d only find in the airport in Charleston, SC or Washington, DC (there’s more Abe Lincoln paraphernalia at his eponymous memorial than you could ever hope to choose from). But inevitably the NYPD t-shirts and the box-o-buckeye chocolates from Columbus get old. So I started taking photos on my Blackberry and emailing them back home in real time.

San Francisco Bay was so beautiful, and I felt like I was giving my children a little window into “what I’m doing RIGHT NOW.”

But what I’M NOT DOING is being with my kids.

That’s why, in spite of the “peace and quiet” of the hotel room we sleepless parents all crave, I don’t sleep through the night. There are no thuds and creaks and calls from above my bedroom ceiling. There’s no redhead to spoon. And a gray plastic boulder and calico critter are sweet, yet cold, comfort to the dad on the road.

But I’ve hired her to give music lessons to my children.

Dinner, Sunday night.

Sam: “Dad, what are you eating?”

“Salmon. I made it with a miso honey glaze that I got at…”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Well, not if you like salmon. Which I do.”

“I don’t think it’s right that people can hunt and kill animals.”

“Well, son, there’s a difference between hunting for sport (which some people call it) and hunting for food that you’re going to eat, because…”

“One day I’m going to be President of the United States and I’m going to make a rule that there can’t be any more hunting animals or killing animals for food.”

Pause.

Mom and I nod sheepishly at the righteous words of our self-declared vegetarian spawn.

Then, vindictively, he adds: “And Dad, I’m not going to let you in the White House, either.”

Oh, snap.

Dear children,

I love you. I’m proud of you. You bring me joy every single day.

But one day, you will become adolescents. There is no way of stopping this process, it is part of life.

Knowing this truth to be self-evident and inexorable, I want to make a promise to you here today: If you’re anything like I was as a teenager, I will kick you out of my house.

It seems rash, I know, but if you met me at sixteen you’d understand. Don’t judge, just accept.

And by the way, if banishment doesn’t get you to toe the line, I’ll de-scramble this video and the whole world will know the sordid truth: you dance like Elaine Benes.

(Look it up. George Costanza likened it to “a full-bodied dry heave set to music.”)