The first ten years of fatherhood taught me a few central truths. First, never go head-to-head with mothers in a contest of parenthood. They’ve got eerie powers. Second, find an angle, and spin it. Third, set the bar so low you’re guaranteed to exceed it.
Best I can tell, being a mom is all about kindness and loving. Being a dad, on the other hand, is all about expectations and spin. Allow me to use a baseball analogy. Moms are the starting pitchers. The expectation is that moms will pitch a solid game all the way into the sixth or seventh inning. Maybe a few authority figures outside the home can come in for middle relief if things get a little messy around the seventh inning stretch.
Dads, well, we’re the relievers. The closers. We’re the big arm that comes in to lock down a tight contest. We’re all showy fastballs, dazzling lights, and big league chew. Not all dads are the same, by any means. The point is, at our best we’ve got one good pitch (ie. unhittable fastball), and we’re not afraid to use it.
My fastball is “magic.”
Early in my fathering days, I learned that “magic” can be applied to anything banal in order to win the day. Sometimes it’s as simple as a little misdirection: “The power didn’t go out. I turned it off so we can have a spelunking adventure in the basement!” More often than not, “magic” involves a touch of “creative bull plop,” which just so happens to be my super power.
I’m an okay short order cook. The wife is a five-star chef who can somehow make delicious meals minus any sort of real ingredients. I mean, gluten-free, vegan pancakes should totally suck, right? Anyway, on the rare occasion that the wife is MIA during an evening meal, I learned a long time ago to rely on “magic” rather than my cooking prowess.
With a little magic, boiled hotdogs are morphed into “squiddy-dogs” (flay one end of the hot dog into at least six strips so they curl into tentacles when boiled). Or perhaps I’ll stick to the hotdog food group, but bring in the magical powers of bacon and cheese in order to unleash the colon-packing power of the “death dog” (a hotdog sliced open, stuffed with cheese, and then wrapped in two bacon strips to be finished out in the oven). Or in a pinch, I might offer up some “wizz-weanies” (hotdogs cored out with a straw and then plugged up with spray cheese and then topped off with, you guessed it, more spray cheese).
You’re likely picking up on a few themes by this point. When it comes to my fatherly fastball, nomenclature and showmanship are important. All these aspects weave together to create my “magic.” And when I’m at the top of my game, I’m unhittable. My “Miyagi hands” have cured growing pains and muscle cramps where science and modern medicine have failed. The combination of “Slappy Hand and Mr. Wavey Finger” (my evil right hand and my heroic left index finger) has soothed anxieties and calmed raging emotions where all other logic and counseling have failed.
On one night in particular, when my youngest son’s needs for comfort extended beyond what the frazzled wife could muster, a slapdash lullaby mixed with a bit of my signature “magic” became a nightly tradition I hope my son and I never forget. It started out with me sitting on the edge of his bed and poorly singing, “It’s time to go to sleep. You must close your eyes. And if you try to peep, I’ll make you pay the price…” at this point, my inconsolable son had the covers pulled up over his head, so I quickly yanked them down to tousle his hair and deliver the punchline of the song, “by putting your head in the ceiling fan and it’ll go thub-thub-thub-thub.”
We laughed. I tucked him in again. And he went to sleep. It was magic.
All of that to say, in parenting and all of life, find your fastball and don’t be afraid to use it.
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At the Desk This Week
Yup, I’m still mostly pounding out a couple of freelance gigs from the desk this week. This latest one is shaping out to be a solid exercise in creativity and thus great fun. I just don’t multi-task well when it comes to my creative juices. I tend to work best when I can focus all-in on one project at a time. For the time being, my juices are focused on projects that won’t flow directly into my fiction. But they are working my creative writing muscles so that I’m not getting flabby in the process. I’ll see how it goes this next week. Perhaps I can dedicate one day a week from here on out to getting back into Season Three of the Green Ones.
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