fatherhood

In a Family Way

/ J. Thorp / 5 Comments

Blogger’s Note: I’ve been a little swamped, but here’s a musing on fatherhood from a few years back. (You’ll note we have four children now, and none on the way , knock wood.) Got me a little choked up to read it again — they grow up so fast!

Brendan was about six months old when I took him to his first auction. It wasn’t just some farm sale with buckets of odds and ends and a hot-dog stand by the tool shed — I wouldn’t have dragged him out in the rain for that. Twice a year the area’s Amish folk held a huge consignment sale and flea market on the Yoder place: farm equipment, tools, automobiles, horses, mules, buggies, handmade quilts, goats, furniture, bicycles, scrap lumber, you name it. Plus the best Amish home-cooking money can buy.

The weather was miserable. I strapped Bren to my chest and put a plastic poncho over us so just his head stuck out. We got there late, so finding my own father was no small feat. We finally spotted him at a long table under a makeshift pavilion made of two-by-fours and blue plastic tarps, drinking coffee with three young Amish men who eyed Brendan and me curiously.

I said my hellos, and Ben Miller, the farrier, gave their curiosity a voice: “Just you and the boy today?”

“Yeah, just us,” I said.

Ben glanced at the others, who looked incredulous. “Not scared to change diapers or anything?”

Before I could answer, Dad spoke up: “I don’t think Jim’s afraid of much of anything anymore.”

Amish men don’t do much in the way of caring for babies. Admittedly, they’ve got a bit more on their plates than me — the whole sun-up-to-sun-down schedule, and no time-saving crutches like e-mail or mass transit. It’s too bad, though — they’re missing out.

I’ve been fortunate enough to hold Jodi’s hand through three births, to choke up at the sight of three misshapen purple heads, cut three cords, and hold Jode’s hand again, three times, as her body shook from the residual adrenaline. I’ve made three long drives to the hospital, camped on three hospital cots, and twice introduced older brothers to their new siblings. I’ve played good-pop-bad-pop while interrogating mischief-makers, enforced time-outs with infinite patience, and thrown up my hands in frustration and defeat. I’ve been clueless. I’ve been helpless. I’ve been idolized. I’ve been blessed.

I don’t know how dads ever sat in the waiting room. Number four is on his or her way, and I can’t imagine not being there. Don’t get me wrong — it ain’t pretty. On miracle scale, it’s much more a plague of frogs than water to wine. (Well, maybe water to whine…) But what guy wouldn’t stick around to see a plague of frogs? Thousands of frogs hopping all over the place, and all the girls freaking out? It’d be like junior-high biology class, which was pretty sweet, I thought …

Sweeter still are the miracles that follow childbirth. The big ones — like the first laugh, the first steps, the first words, and the first morning you wake to the realization that the baby hasn’t yet. And the small ones, like Brendan connecting with the first pitch and lining it toward third, Emma singing the Barney theme song, only with a frown in her deepest, growliest monster voice, and Gabe discovering that you can point with your “picking finger,” too.

My father was wrong on one count — I am still afraid. Afraid I’ll mess this up somehow. I went with Brendan to school the other day, and as he navigated his classroom, it became apparent that I was now in his world, a little place I rarely see and have virtually no control over.

I keep telling myself that Jodi and I are giving our three (soon to be four) children what they need. The truth is, we’re doing our best, and praying it’s enough.

So far, so good.

The Way Forward

/ J. Thorp / 3 Comments

Last year’s lengthy Thorp holiday letter opened with a Chinese verse from Ching An:

The laugh’s on me:
this year’s man
is last year’s man

A year ago, I read this as a variation on the old dog/new trick theme, but this year it resonates more deeply. This New Year’s Day, I read it as a humorous expression of self-awareness: “Y’know what? This is what I’m given to work with—no more and no less. Might as well make the best of it.”

I’ve struggled with this idea for years now. When Jodi and I got married, my Yale classmates were politely supportive and quietly incredulous—like, Why the hell would he tie himself down? And why would she commit to a guy without a job, a house, or a bank account?

When we left South Dakota for Michigan, some of my friends back home talked about their expectations for me as an Ivy League alumnus. When we left Michigan for Minnesota, I was so frustrated with the state of the world, I very publicly said I was headed back to class a degree in public policy and shot at changing some small part of the world. We managed the latter: instead of grad school, we welcomed another baby into our home.

In my mind, however, grad school was still the next step, so when I left corporate marketing for University Relations, I made a point of telling my colleague I was hitting the books. And I have: in my current job, I read more than I have in years … just not for credit.

This past year has been a revelation. First off, I’m not sure I ever intended to go to grad school—I mean, it’s been 11 years now. Second, nobody who matters to me cares whether I do or not, as long as I keep reading, writing, and learning.

Finally, I like the Jim I am right now. A lot. And I like the direction I’m headed since I quit thinking about classes. I’ve got a screenplay and a book to work on. I’m doing kung fu with the kids and hunting with new friends. I’m getting more involved in our church, and talking to our priests has restored my confidence that my head’s on straight—as a result, I’m not scared to show my Catholicism to non-Catholic friends, or talk Buddhism and evolutionary theory and hip-hop with the church-goers.

It feels good to feel good in your own skin.

So here’s what I aspire to this year—the way forward, I hope:

1. Daily tai chi with the young masters. We warms up with crunches, push-ups, etc., and cool off on the stationary bikes, and in the middle, we sink our chi, raise our pulse rates, break a sweat, and learn a little something. Plus weekly classes with Shih-fu Figueroa—what more do you need? They love it, I need it, and we could all use the time together.

2. Daily public writing. Gotta be done. Blogging twice a week, plus fiction and non-fiction. Journals and notebooks are great, but they don’t count toward the public stuff.

3. Biodiesel or waste veggie oil in the Deezledub. We’re recycling more, converting to fluorescents, and putting in a bigger garden this year—but a grease car in this fast-food car culture? That’s almost poetic!

4. Continue investing in the Old Ways: hunting, fishing and camping. Kids need that, not to mention dads …

5. Focus on the people in front of me. You know: quit typing and come out from behind my desk. Answer that, “How was your weekend?” briefly, then ask, “How ’bout yours?” And listen.

I’ve also got a long-running goal of telling people I care about that I love them. Some folks aren’t comfortable with that, but every year I try to expand the list a bit more. So if you’re on the receiving end, and it doesn’t feel right, don’t worry. I get all I need from saying it; you don’t owe me a thing in return.

And if this doesn’t get us where we’re going, hey—there’s always next year. No doubt I’ll be the same guy.

With Child

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments

People everywhere are having babies, and it’s about time somebody said something. First, a question: do people say “with child” anymore? I kind of like it – it lends a certain gravitas to the proceedings. Moreso than, say, “preggers.” Try it: She’s with child. Now try: She’s preggers.

Totally different.

Second, a poem of sorts – something I wrote several years ago, when we got together with some friends, and the ladies started comparing bellies.

* * * * *

small wonder

a friend who is pregnant dreams a
golden sunshine painted on her belly.
is that so strange? i watch her husband
circle – he is drawn to her, not close but
never far. she is one of three with child
radiant and exhausted, and
we men talk as though we never
wish to feel the kick of tiny feet
a somersault or hiccups; like we
do not wonder at our wives resilience.
they sip their drinks and hold their sides,
their backs; their bellies impossibly round
as if inside they bore the world
like Atlas, on their hips – small wonder
we can’t pull away from such a cosmic thing.

j. thorp
20 feb 02

* * * * *

Congrats to new moms, old moms, experienced moms, professional moms, surprise moms, renewed moms, moms-to-be, and moms-thrice-over. You’re amazing.

 

On Fatherhood and Fear

/ J. Thorp / 4 Comments


Here’s the first complete draft of the poem I was percolating from our trip to the mountains. I used to have a helluva imagination as a kid, and I passed it on to my oldest. I learned, on this trip, that my old fears have been replaced by new ones …

I don’t usually try so hard for consistent rhythm or rhyme, but the minutes that night were marked by his rhythmic breathing, punctuated by odd pauses, sighs, and snorts that kept me on edge every second. You parents of infants know the sensation of checking to see that your baby’s still breathing? This was sort of like that, but with a big kid.

reassurance
he’s softly snoring now, his vapor breath
between a rumble and a purr – i lie
awake to hear the elk, who, scenting death,
chirp warnings from the frosty meadows high
above his dreams
he seems
oblivious to all that crawls or flies.

he stirs; his snoring falters, stops, resumes –
the sound recalling predatory fears
he shared in fevered whispers in the gloom
as evening’s silent minutes turned to years
he sees the bear
its glare
more baleful black than night through frightened tears.

imagination is a fearsome glass
that magnifies the thought to more than real –
the never and unlikely come to pass
as blood flows less to thought and more to feel
and every noise
to boys
becomes as Death, their living breath to steal.

i reassure him – tell him his old man
is bigger and as hairy as the bear.
he laughs to think of me, my knife in hand,
against his nightmare, in my underwear
his breathing slows
he goes
to sleep with me awake, and none to share

save wary elk and creaking mountain pines,
his steady breathing, my quicksilver thoughts –
it’s cold tonight; the wind begins to whine
the tent begins to strain against the knots
i touch his hair
and stare
to find him peaceful, and me, overwrought.

throughout the night i wake and check and fret
and ask, “are you alright?” and “are you cold?”
i knew the risks, out here, of getting wet
but not the cares of young men getting old
a thumping heart,
i start –
a father’s fears writ long-hand and unrolled.

and so it goes, ’til every worry’s spent
and to the east the starry sky turns pale
and proof of life is dripping from the tent,
each drop a slow, translucent, shimmering snail …
a bear-like yawn
at dawn
he wakes fish-hungry; says, “let’s hit the trail.”

j. thorp
29 sep 07