Friday, November 5, 2010

Fear, pride and Eusociality: an examination induced by fear, pride and insomnia

Ian wants to be a mechanic like his mom's friend. It burns a bit when he says he wants to be like the other men in his life, instead of like his dad. But, then the initial sting wears off and I remind myself that it takes a village to raise a kid, and divorce is just a contemporary reaffirmation of that fact. Like homosexuality and socialism.*

I guess, I need to get used to Ian wanting to be like everyone but dad. It seems inevitable, even without divorced parents. I know I had other role-models growing up. Everyone does. And it doesn't mean that I didn't want to be like my father.

I would be lucky if I was half the person my father is. I model my life after him and my grandfathers, and I hope that I do them justice when its all said and done. But I seek my father's guidance in everything I do, even if I don't actually ask him for help. I strive to conduct my life the way I think he would. WWDD?

I just need to put it into perspective. I'm lucky Ian has other people in his life. It can be a bit disconcerting at times, but that is just the natural fear and doubt that comes with being a parent: Who are the people in my kid's life, are they virtuous and good, or will they do him harm?

That is a risk every parent takes, not just single-fathers.

_____

*Some believe homosexuality is a natural aspect of human evolution. Because homosexuals cannot naturally have kids they may be better suited to help society progress. For instance, not having offspring creates the freedom to help care for nephews, nieces and neighbor's children, have more time to hunt and gather, and/or fight wars, etc. It is in this way that we may achieve eusociality and subsequently continue to evolve.

I contend that divorce is actually a form of social evolution for this reason as well, and not merely a product of progressive liberation from tradition.

Some argue that socialism, in its truest form, is the only form of government that can advance human evolution, but I'm not arguing that case or exploring that concept.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Father's Day, Sans Kid

Today has been a father’s day without Ian. It’s been a good day, but uneventful for the most part.
Ian and his mom left to visit her family in Spokane, Washington on Saturday. They will be gone for a week. He called me today and wished me a happy father’s day.

I usually get Ian Sunday through Wednesday every week. I won’t see him at all this week.

I don’t care about the Hallmark Holiday’s like father’s day, mother’s day and Valentine’s Day. I try to honor my mother and father every day and if I am in a relationship I make sure my significant other knows how I feel about them, regardless if Wal-Mart is telling me to or not.

So I didn’t think anything about not having my son around today. It’s just another day. I spent it with the rest of my family. However, I miss my boy and would even if it wasn’t father’s day. I can’t stop thinking about his smile that never stops, and the constellation of newly formed freckles smattered across his cheeks and nose. They are a golden-brown and match his blonde hair and fair skin that is getting surprisingly tan for a product of a mostly Irish-German dad and a mostly Polish mom. I even miss his incessant talking.

His mother and her friends recently gave him a mohawk. It looks pretty rad.

Whatever the kid is doing 2,000 miles away I wish he was here instead. I recently bought my first house and there is a storage area that I designated Ian’s clubhouse before I had even made on offer on it. Today it still sits covered in dust with boxes of crap littering the floor. As I drove Ian and his mom to the airport, I promised him that I would set up his club while they were gone. I should have done it about six months ago. I’m too lazy to be a dad.

Today is a day designated to show our fathers that they are loved and appreciated. Instead I’m thinking of ways I suck as a dad.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Burning the Ecliptic

It has been more than a year since I updated this blog. I also have a new home for it, the original website is now defunct.

A lot has happened in the past year.
Who remembers when they were five years old? I do. I remember a lot of things. I actually think I have total recall. Although, when I talk about some of my memories to my family they usually think I’m making them up.

Five is a good age. It seems to be the year that we come into complete and total awareness. I realize that humans become “aware” before then, any parent knows this to be true. However, I believe that five is the age when actual life lessons begin to really stick and then metastasis in our brains. We learn something and then start building on it. Five is also the period of true freedom. The period when we are able to communicate effectively, think for ourselves and we have plenty of free-time to do so. Because, depending on your birthday, it is right before we start school.

This is where Ian is now. Five: the stage of self-awareness and true freedom.
He just finished pre K, where I am convinced he did not learn anything, and he will start Kindergarten in the fall. I’m not worried that he didn’t learn anything because he is brilliant and by far the most advanced five year old around (I'm certain he is the only one that uses the word facetious in casual conversation).

Me, I’m still in school. I could have graduated by now, but I keep adding more classes. I went from a lone major, to a major and a minor and then said screw it and changed to a double major. I am currently considering a double major and a minor, but I doubt I do that. It is time for me to move on. Though, I still have two semesters to go after this summer.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Old Habits and Heartaches

Originally posted 4/23/09


I just tied Ian to his bed, locked him in his room and turned my stereo up as loud as it can go. It’s a crappy 10-year-old Aiwa Best Buy stereo blasting out the Riverboat Gamblers at 100 decibels. I’m downstairs with the music and Ian is upstairs. Pictures are rattling off the shelves, my neighbors are beating on my walls, I’m pretty sure one of my speakers just busted…and I can still hear Ian talking to me. He has been trying to give me a hug and a kiss every two minutes for the past two months, all while rambling on and on about nothing and everything. Normally I relish in the affection, but tonight I’m a little too stressed out from all of the schoolwork I have to do. Final projects are coming due and finals week is drifting in like an Oklahoma thunderstorm, building up ominous and dark in the distance.
I also have the regular assignments to do as well. The easy “busy work” the professors give that most of my classmates finished long ago. All the homework I put off until the last possible second.
It’s all starting to heckle me like a bunch of toothless meth addicted carnies at the Apache rattlesnake festival.
I can practically smell it in the air: another semester is officially coming to an end.

Okay, so I didn’t really tie Ian up or lock him in his room. And I just now turned my stereo on (at a low volume) but I admit it is a scenario I have played out in my head countless times.

Actually, I think the semester has gone fairly well. I dropped some classes and cut back on the amount of hours I work so it’s not as hectic as the last three years have been. I still have a horrible problem with procrastination. Obviously it’s a common habit among college students, but having ADHD and a 4-year-old makes being successfully lazy harder than it should be. I’m too old to go through college fighting the same habits I had in junior high. I should set a good example for Ian and stop putting things off.
But I should do a lot of things.

Sometimes it seems like I procrastinate at being a good father because tonight I didn’t play with Ian at all. I let him watch Ben 10 and made him play with his toys so I could get some homework done. I keep telling myself that its okay, tomorrow I will play with him all night. It has to be worth it, I’m going to school so I can get a better job and give Ian a better life. I have to sacrifice but, sadly, it's like Ian does too. When it is all said and done it will be worth it. The bad thing is that I wasn’t able to spend much time with him last week either. If I added it all up, I have probably had to skip playtime a lot more often than I would like to admit, and its only because I procrastinate. If I was better organized and utilized my time adequately I wouldn’t be kicking myself in a blog in the middle of the night.
I realized a long time ago that when I stress out it is usually a direct result of my tendency to avoid my academic obligations. You could say old habits die hard, but I’m starting to think they don’t die at all.

But at least I don’t tie Ian up and lock him in his room. Right?

Mr. Science

Originally posted 4/01/09


This was my conversation with Ian on the way to school today:

“Daddy, why do some people have I’s in their names?”
“Well, uh, why not?”
“And hearts too?”
“Hearts in their names?”
“Yes, and it says ‘I love you.’”

I suck at answering Ian’s questions. Sometimes I go with the scientific explanation and he looks at me like I’m an idiot. Other times I make something up that’s as far from the truth as possible, or I counter his constant “Why’s” with an equally perplexing “Why not?” and try to get him to tell me his opinion. The conversation usually ends with him looking at me sideways like I’m an idiot, unsure if he should ignore me or actually tell me that I’m an idiot.

My scientific explanation consists of a mischievous little bald guy with a tie and glasses named Mr. Science. He lives under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, and he gets bored so he sneaks around like a leprechaun messing things up for everyone. Mr. Science is the reason it snows and rains, he is the reason my car is so much dirtier than everyone else’s and he is also the reason the mirror fogs up after a shower.
I’m a fan of Mr. Science. I have fun with him but I’m pretty sure Ian has never believed that he exists.
However, I’m starting to believe.

What's in a Name?

Originally posted 3/30/09


A couple of weeks ago Ian and I had a fairly long conversation about his full name. He was having trouble grasping the concept of a first, middle and last name.
For the longest time he thought I-A-N spelled all three of his names together. I was so impressed that he could spell Ian that I didn’t want to confuse him, so I didn’t try to correct him until a couple of weeks ago.
I walked away from that conversation convinced that he didn’t understand at all.

He has also been watching this cartoon called Ben 10. He is completely obsessed with it. It’s the only thing he wants to talk about and all he wants to do is watch it. Sometimes I get worried that he doesn’t use his imagination as much as he should so I try to get him to make up his own cartoon, but he would just rather watch Ben 10. There is a theater camp that we are taking him to with his cousins this summer. They put on plays and stuff, I’m not completely sure what it entails, but I think he will be using his imagination, so it sounds cool to me.
He will also be playing T-ball. I’m extremely excited about the summer. Probably more so than Ian.

Ian’s mom and I have given him stuffed animals since he was born. Every time I give him a new one I tell him to name it and he either wants to name it “Baby” or whatever it is, like “Puppy” or “Bear." I always discourage it and try to encourage him to think of something creative. For a week or two he wanted to name things “Batman” or “Robin," but i think being so creative began to wear him out, so he resorted back to the obvious names.

Last week I stopped by his Mom’s place to drop of some paperwork and Ian was sprawled on the floor watching Ben 10 with some of their friends. He got really excited that I was there, he started showing me things and hugging me over and over, telling me he loved me.
I felt really cool.
After I had been there for a little bit he grabbed my hand and pulled me to his room, telling me he wanted to show me something. He jumped on his bed and pulled a blue stuffed animal out from under his Cars blankets. It was a fuzzy baby blue hippopotamus that I got when I was born. There is a picture of me in the hospital with it. I had forgotten that it existed. As Ian was showing me, he told me the hippo’s name was Skeleton.
I asked him if he meant Skeletor – just to mess with him – then he told me that Skeletor was his last name, Skeleton was his middle name and Sket was his first name.

The next day Ian’s mom sent me a text telling me that Ian wanted to know what I used to call Skeleton when I was a kid.
After I read the message I realized that I never named him, I just called him “Hippo.”

I guess Ian can name his stuffed animals whatever he wants.

Hooray for the Shapes We're In

Originally posted 3/06/09


A week or so ago, Ian’s mom told me he got in trouble at school because he pushed a kid down and the kid got scratched and a little bloodied in the process. Apparently, the kid was picking on one of Ian’s friends.
My kid is a sweet, compliant and well-behaved little boy who would never intentionally hurt anyone. Somewhere along the way his mother and I have managed to instill a sense of judicious logic in him that prevents him from accepting the spiteful mistreatment of those he cares about.

On Tuesday Ian heard me talking about the Westboro Baptist “church” and their claim that “God hates the U.S.” and “fags.”
This is basically a cult that is made up of approximately 70, mostly related, people that espouse and vehemently advocate a doctrine of hatred and intolerance that is based upon a venomous interpretation of the bible. They picket military funerals claiming that the soldiers died because god hates homosexuals and he is punishing the U.S. because we tolerate and openly promote the “fag agenda.”
My four-year-old heard me talking about these people.

I didn’t realize he could hear me, but his ability to see, hear and absorb things is on par with most superheroes.
It doesn’t surprise me anymore when it happens, but it never ceases to amaze me.

He walked over to me with a very thoughtful and quizzical look on his face and asked me,
“Daddy, why does god hate people?”
I picked him up and set him on my lap and told him that god doesn’t hate people; he only loves people. Then I explained that sometimes sick and mean people think god hates, but they are wrong.

I’m not religious but I grew up attending a Baptist church (maybe the former explains the latter) and I am grateful that my parents forced me to go. As early as I can remember I attended Sunday school until the age where I learned how to ditch it without getting caught. At church I learned invaluable lessons of morality and the core elements of loyalty and integrity. However, Sunday school was also where I got my first lessons in hypocrisy and intolerance, but it was never from the bible or basic tenants of Christianity. It was from the actions of those that were teaching and preaching it. Regardless, I’m grateful for EVERTYTHING I learned there.

Much to the chagrin of his grandmothers Ian does not attend church or a Sunday school, and I have no idea what kind of concept he has of god. As much love as Ian has inside of him, and as much love as his family gives him, I have no idea what kind of concept of hate he has.

So I assured myself that he doesn’t really understand what he heard me say about the Westboro cult and their views on god.

The next night, on Wednesday, I tested him by asking him about god.
He told me,
“God loves people, but sometimes mean people think he doesn’t”

I was relieved to hear him say this.
But after he explained his thoughts on god, I realized that he seems to know that the opposite of love is hate. This made me pause, but thankfully he hasn’t been exposed to the harsh reality of real unabridged hatred yet.

When he is confronted with it I am confident that he will defend himself and those around him against it, the way he did with the bully at daycare.

After talking to him about god and love I read “The Shape of Me and Other Stuff” by Dr. Seuss, put him to bed and then called his mom. We talked about everything Ian. We are preparing to enroll him in pre-k, and now we are talking about taking him to Sunday school somewhere. We have a lot of work to do. It becomes more and more obvious everyday that he got the best qualities of our DNA, and he is inherently a good person that makes his parents’ jobs easier than it should be sometimes. As much as I like to think my son is special, I know that most kids are good. It’s the adults they learn from that ruin it.

Ian gives me hope in the face of the misguided ignorance that the Westboro Baptist Church preaches, and regardless of the shape he turns out to be, he will be loved.