Tagged: parenting
She Can Hurt You
Who are these men? Where do they come from? What forces form them? Is it nature? Is it nurture?
Is there a specific set of childhood variables that must exist in certain quantities in order to produce these men?
We must admit that one attribute that these men have in common is ignorance. As children, during the formative years, they must have been ignorant and unaware of situations where women hurt men. Oh sure, we’ve all heard of poor John Bobbitt’s pain, but, seriously, what man considers amputation a likely outcome that need be guarded against? In fact, there’s probably a man somewhere who has created some statistic which proves that the chance of a woman cutting a man is less than getting struck by lightning.
And men are proud creatures, the lot of them. And rightfully so. Is that it then? Can we point the finger at an adult man’s pride? (A father’s pride?) Is pride the causal factor? Is pride the reason that he wouldn’t share with young men that a woman had hurt him? Or maybe he, the adult man, had never owned up to himself that she had hurt him? Is this whole mess created by a simple lie? Is it created by simple denial? A virtual, “She didn’t hurt me. I wanted to break up. I hadn’t liked her for a while anyhow. I can do better”?
Whatever the causes, I haven’t been able to figure out what words would get through to these men–or as Heat puts it, “All you are is a child growin’ older!”–these men who rush into relationships with women. And no ‘mounta nothin’ cn talk ’em outta it–don’ matta who doin’ da sayin’. I know, because I was one of them. And then I almost repeated the mistake. And then almost repeated it again. And if I didn’t have such a hatred for patterns, I probably would’ve rinsed and repeated for the rest of my life.
Enter “old people”.
Turns out, they can hold their own in conversation. And they’ve got, by definition, no shortage of experiences to back up the talk. And I was looking for answers, ready to try anything.
So after a lot of listening, and a lot of thinking, the answer finally appeared. I believe that I am invincible to women. Or, rather, I believed I was invincible to women. No longer. Now, I know the truth. Women are just as capable of hurting men as men are of hurting women.
So fellas (you know who you are), I have broken down the (our) problem as simply as I know how. We need to acknowledge the simple, unbearable truth. This truth is captured by four words, though I think its most effective delivery comes with repeating the words four times in a row, emphasizing a different word each time.
She can hurt you. She can hurt you. She can hurt you. She can hurt you.
What’s the rush?
PS – As a reminder, hurt doesn’t feel good.
How ‘Bout?
A strict father, though one who exercised a parent’s hypocritical initiative frequently, he never let her watch television. And his list of approved-for-her movies included only three titles: Holiday Inn, White Christmas, and The Lego Movie. She fell asleep during the first two, and, much to his chagrin, she lacked the context–not to mention the capacity for abstract thought–requisite to enjoy the third.
But every once in a while he would hear her say something that beckoned the playing of a song. Not just a song, but a music video. This evening was no different.
Instinctively these days, she knew to flip up the paper-thin seat cushion, so as to not ruin anything if she spilled, before assuming her oddly favorite eating position–one that had the left-half of her body sitting on the chair, while the right-half stood on the creaky hard-wood floor.
“You’re the greatest, daddy,” H- said, much to his delight. “You’re the greatest, not mom.”
“Hey!” he said firmly, not wasting time on a crescendo, “that’s not true H-. You’re mom’s the greatest, too. I’m the greatest dad, and she’s the greatest mom. Understand?”
“You’re the greatest dad and mom’s the greatest mom,” she recited.
“That reminds me of a song H-. Have I ever played R. Kelly’s “World’s Greatest” for you? The song he wrote about the boxer Muhammad Ali for the movie Ali?” he asked, making his way over to the laptop.
“World’s greatest?” she asked, in kind.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so. It’s a good one, just give me a sec to pull it up,” he said, trying to remember if the video contains anything a three year old shouldn’t see. “Okay. Here it is.”
“Is it the rainbow song?” she asked.
“No, it’s not the rainbow song,” he answered, chuckling as he tried to remember what past video had a rainbow in it.
Like most R. Kelley videos, there was a touch of a melodrama before the music began. Finally the music started. Memories and feeling flowed as Kelly sang, “I am a mountain. I am a tall tree, oh-oh-oh, I am a swift wind, sweeping the country.” Searching for any sign of understanding or enjoyment on her face, he couldn’t help but get caught up as the song built to the chorus. Soon he found himself singing along.
“If anybody acks you who I am, just stand up tall, look ’em in the face and say-ay-ay-ay-ay-ee: I’m that star up in the sky. I’m that mountain peak up high. Hey, I made it. Mmm. I’m the world’s greatest.”
“How ’bout-” she began.
“I know, I know, you want the rainbow song,” he interrupted, breaking from the song.
“How ’bout you not sing it, so I can hear it?” she finished.
“Oh,” he said, laughing. “I suppose I can try.”
Still Timeless
Happy that she chose waffles over doughnuts, he found himself preparing the batter when she called to him from the couch.
“Daddy, come lay with me. Don’t you want a little rest before breakfast?”
“H-, you know I’m cooking. If you wanted to lay, you should’ve said something earlier.”
“You’re cooking?”
“Yep. It’s almost done though,” he responded.
“Why you keep saying almost?” she asked.
“Do you know what “almost” means, H-?” he asked, genuinely curious about her response.
“Not done yet?” she answered, her voice betraying a modest level of hope.
“Sure. It means not done yet. But so would lots of words. How close does “almost” mean?”
“Fifteen?” she guessed.
His smile grew as her answer reverberated in his head.
Proudly, then, he cooed to himself, “She’s learning.”
Mommies Are Not Alive
Her new nearly-florescent neon tennis shoes did little to distract him from feeling the sting of what she said next.
“Mommies are not alive,” she purported.
“Mommies are not alive? I don’t think that’s right H-,” he returned.
“They aren’t alive. Mommies are not alive,” she said.
“What is a mommy?” he asked, seeking context at the least.
“K- is my mommy,” she answered.
“Hmm. So you know K- is your mommy, and that she’s alive, but you still maintain that mommies are not alive?”
“Yep, they’re not,” she said.
“Well,” he took a breath, “I hate to break it to you kid, but mommies are very much alive. Your mommy is alive. My mommy is alive. They’re alive,” he lectured dryly.
“Mommies are not alive,” she continued, a perfect stubbornness showing through. “Skeletons aren’t alive either.”
“Skeletons, eh?” he said. “Oh! I get it. Not mommies, mummies! Muh-muh mummies are not alive. You’re trying to say that dead bodies wrapped in tape are not alive, right? They’re called mummies, muh-meez, not mah-meez.”
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes betraying her brain’s increase in activity. “Bodies wrapped in,” she paused, “in tape,” she finished, her nodding head and squinting eyes calling out his inaccuracy. “Mommies-”
“Muh H-,” he corrected, “muh-meez. Mummies are not alive.”
“Mah-”
“Muh-”
‘Mah-”
“Muh-meez H-,” he said, feeling his patience about to buckle. “Forget it. Can you say reanimated?”
“Re-ami-nated?” she asked.
“Re-ani-mated,” he repeated.
“Reanimated,” she said.
“Good. Now say ‘mummies are reanimated, but mommies are alive.'”
“Mommies are reanimated, but mommies are alive.”
“Perfect.”
High Class
“Do we have cauliflower?” she asked after he mentioned broccoli.
“Nope, just broccoli,” he answered.
“Why don’t we have cauliflower?” she persisted.
“Because I didn’t buy any,” he said, not giving in.
After finishing her broccoli, she watched as he slid the grilled chicken on to her plate. Together now, they began to eat.
“Oh,” he interrupted, “did you want barbecue sauce?”
“Yes,” she said, “the new sauce.”
“I know, I know. You didn’t like the hot stuff.”
“Hot stuff?”
“Nevermind. Here’s your sauce. And here’s my sauce.”
To the sound of silverware squishing into chicken, they returned to the task at hand. Suddenly, she let out a shriek.
“What?” he asked, fearful that even the new sauce was too hot.
Spitting out the chicken, she replied, “I don’t like the roasted ones. That one’s roasted.”
“Huh?”
“See daddy? Roasted,” she said, pointing at the grill marks on the chicken.
“Oh. You don’t like the burnt part. Excuse me, the roasted part. Okay, you don’t have to eat it,” he allowed. “High class H-, you’re high class,” he thought, pride swelling.
Sadness
The buzzer always startled him. This time was no different. Alone and lost in thought, he sat with his fingers resting lightly on the home row when it sounded.
“Shit that’s loud,” he cursed, hoping to keep his man card after the fright.
The words not coming, he decided to go ahead and do now what had to be done at some point or another. The hardwood floor reminded him that he had been standing all day; the carpet, that he needed to vacuum. Pulling open the dryer, he hoped no socks would fall into the below washer as he removed the ball of clothes.
Back in the living room, he pulled his work clothes out first. Once folded, he laid them on the couch. Looking into the hamper, he saw her clothes.
At first he chuckled, never ceasing to be amazed by the sight of how small they are. Then he laughed at the memory of how excited she gets when putting them on herself.
Hating that he was laughing at memories, he didn’t laugh again for a while.
Stump The Dummy
She was off in her corner, by her dollhouse and playing some such game of make believe. He figured there was a monster involved. There was always a monster.
“Ahhhh! A monster!” she said, running to where he was in the kitchen. “A monster daddy! Help! Help Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue! Help daddy!”
“You know I’m cooking H-. Can I help later?” he asked her.
“Okay,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “Can I look? Can I see what you’re cooking?”
“Sure- watch it, watch it! You’ll knock the utensil off the counter if you’re not careful,” he warned.
“Me tensil?” she asked.
“No, utensil,” he replied.
“Me tensil?” she pressed harder.
“Yoo-tensil,” he answered in kind.
“Me tensil?” she said with uncommon determination.
“No. Yoo-ten,” he stopped.
“Yoo-,” he stopped again.
“Yoo-,” he was embarrased.
“The spoon.”
Victory at last.
You-Berry
“All right H-, tonight’s going to be a bit different. I’m going to cook you some broccoli, which you’ll eat here, then we’ll go to the restaurant.”
“Old Mcdonald’s?”
“No, I feel like a burrito, so no McDonald’s today.”
“What’s this daddy?”
“What’s what?”
“This?”
“Oh, yes, that came in the mail yesterday.”
“Can you open it, please?”
“Sure, just give me a second to start your broccoli. Okay, it’s open. Careful, careful! You don’t know if it’s breakable.”
“Can you open this card?”
“Sure. Here’s what it says, ‘What’s sweeter than a blueberry?…a you-berry! Happy Valentine’s day. Love, Grandma and Pops.'”
“It’s my Valentine’s Day?”
“Huh? Oh. No. Well…yes. I mean, that’s adorable.”
The Perfect Saturday Morning
“All aboard!” he yelled in his best train conductor voice. She loved riding on the front of the shopping cart as they made their way through the grocery store.
“All aboard!” she mimicked, smiling and grabbing hold. “Faster daddy!”
It was Wednesday night. They were buying enough supplies to last them for the coming week. Racing through the produce section, skipping past the deli on the right, and taking a hard left with a little too much speed, they made it to the back of the store in record time, narrowly avoiding a collision with the lobster tank.
“Let’s see. What do we need H-? I think we need lunch meat for my lunches, bread-”
“Milk, daddy? We need milk, right daddy?”
“That’s right, but that’s all the way on the other side. What else do we need before then?”
“Cereal? ”
“Yep, cereal,” he answered.
Passing the Pepsi shrine, he turned down the breakfast aisle. They were alone. With one big shove he jumped onto the back of the cart as they cruised towards the off-brand bags.
Beaming with joy, she could only ask, “What are you doing, daddy? What are you doing?”
“Oh, just having fun. Errrrrrt!” he sounded, halting prematurely at the sight of pancake mix. “I think we need pancake mix too.”
“Pancake mix?”
“Yep. What’s this? Look here H-. It says we can make 130 pancakes out of just this one bag. That’s a lot of pancakes, huh?”
“A lot of pancakes?”
“Yes, a lot of pancakes. Can you eat 130 pancakes?”
“No, that’s silly,” she said, laughing.
“Yeah, me neither. Do you believe this bag has enough mix to make 130 pancakes?”
“Pancakes?”
“What do you say we put Krusteaz to the test this weekend?”
“Test?”
“Your friends like pancakes right?”
“My friends?”
“Yeah, your friends. What do you say we invite all of them over for breakfast on Saturday, and see if we can really make 130 pancakes?”
A Family Man
“My God, she’s almost four,” he realized suddenly. “My sister is only three years older than me, and sometimes that seems like too much of an age difference.”
“Even if there was a bun in the oven today,” he resumed, “her sibling would be four and a half years younger. And there is no baking going on.”
In an instant his mind was burdened with memories from childhood. His sister was always there. Concerning his brother, if he had any memories from before Sam was born, he chalked them up to false-memories anyhow. He does remember his brother being born, though. He remembers it because, of all reasons, McDonald’s. Jerry–watching him for the day–took him to McDonald’s and the happy meal came with a Detroit Lion’s player’s trading card. It was awesome. (Sam turned out to be cool as well.)
All the pride and certainty that he felt about his parenting skill vanished upon full recognition of the result of his selfishness.
“It’s cut and dry. She’s going to miss out because of me. It’s as simple as that. Am I too picky? Too jaded? Too rational?” he asked himself, alone.
Then it hit him. He was out of his element. With the right woman, he may have been able to fake it ’til he made it regarding a traditional family. But now? Now a traditional family was as ethereal as the end of a rainbow. He knew he must acknowledge that.
“Done,” he acknowledged.
“Step two,” he recited, “Gather all the information.”
“Non-traditional family. How is that going to look? What can I learn from others as I try to start mine? And another thing,” he thought anxiously, “Why do I feel like I should keep this create-a-new-family desire away from public scrutiny? That’s gotta change.”
Captain’s Log 