Life is a Metaphor for Metaphor

Lileks is, of course, the best writer currently working in the Twin Cities.

James is a few years older than me, but a tad newer to the Dad thing; Gnat is 4.5 years old, while mine are 13 and 12.

Sometimes it really shows. And I hope it stays that way.

Being a single parent sort of twists and perverts a lot of the emotions of parenthood. Your memories of the kids' toddler years are warped by the stress of the marriage falling apart. The divorce itself is a perversion of life; years of pseudo-legal tactical maneuvering, followed by months of ambient terror as the meatgrinder of the family court process gets underway, interspersed with moments of abject terror. Particularly for men, there's an impression that your children are weapons that can be turned against you at best, and great loves of your life that can be arbitrarily ripped out of your life at the whims of people you either hate or whose jurisdiction you have no choice but to observe at worst.

And when that's over, there's the endless grind; cooking, cleaning, discipline, strange friends, arguing about rooms and messes and homework and grades. You know you love 'em, but you get to the point where you treasure the days off, you feel, as much as the Kodak moments.

At the last Jasperwood party, my date (herself a single mother with three kids) and I were enjoying a rare night off from our broods. We talked briefly with Lileks about our kids; you can tell that the investment in Gnat that you read in the column is very genuine.

And as my date and I left, I thought "Man. What must that be like?" It's like seeing a couple that 's been married for forty years and still seems like newlyweds, all atwitter for each other. How do they do that?

I'm probably a lot like most parents; I love my kids dearly, and they are a never-ending marvel. They also suck the energy out of me; when they were little toddler wind-ups that would buzz constantly from 6AM until 10PM, I used to dream of their lethargic, disconnected teenage years, someday, a mirage that seemed just out of reach (although I was living it; I have a stepson, my ex's son from her first marriage, who was a teenager at the time; the second time through is no easier, I'm here to testify). It never happens, of course. The diapers and wall drawings are replaced by sibling squabbling and school trouble and a thousand little tugs and nags.

And yet...

James' column last Friday was a little nugget of distilled wisdom, loaded into a slingshot and bounced off of my thick skull.

Best to think yourself as a playing card on a kid’s bike frame; don’t think about the speed at which the wheel is turning, just be grateful each time a spoke picks you up.

Of course, the spokes have beaten the card down to a bare half. But he's right. It really doesn't get any better.

Posted by Mitch at March 21, 2005 07:19 AM | TrackBack