Storytelling

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To Be Colorblind, Racially Speaking

June 2, 2013 at 12:02 am , by 

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

As you commentate in the backseat in regards to the people you see on the sidewalk or driving the cars next to us, I’ve officially learned the language of “2 and a half year-old.”

I’ll hear you say, “Look at that brown man. Where’s he going?”

Or, “What about that yellow woman? She drives a truck?”

Though I was pretty confused the first several times because I was looking for the wrong physical traits, I eventually realized that when you refer to a person’s color, you’re simply talking about what color their shirt is.

At age 2 and a half, you evidently don’t see skin color like the way I’ve been conditioned to as a 32 year-old man who grew up in Alabama.

Knowing about all the segregation that took place just a couple of decades before I was born, I was constantly aware how horrible judging a person on their skin color was.

The good news is, I don’t think you’ll have to deal with this problem as much as I have throughout my life. When you were born, the American President was of both English and Kenyan descent; or as he’s often referred to, “America’s first black President.”

You were born into the least racist point in America’s recent history. (Right?) I don’t think you’ll ever be forced to see the difference in skin color the way I have throughout my life.

It’s tricky for me. I never want to make it seem like I’m truly “colorblind,” because then it takes away from the value of a person’s ethnic heritage and culture.

I suppose at some point, you’ll notice the different shades of brown that all of us human beings have; just like the way you notice what color shirts we wear.

Until then, I envy your innocence.

 

Love,

Daddy

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Do You Speak “2 And A Half Year-Old?”

June 1, 2013 at 11:06 pm , by 

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

Yesterday for our Friday afternoon routine where I take you to the park during my lunch break, I decided to make it extra special and go monster-truckin’ with you.

By that, I mean that we pretended our Craig’s List-purchased jogging stroller was a monster truck as we ransacked our way through the park.

By “ransacked,” I mean that we made screeching tires noises as I popped wheelies, rushed you down hills, and pretended like I was about to crash you into trees.

We stopped in the middle of a bridge over troubled water to look for fish. Being that it had just rained, I knew our chances weren’t that good.

But then you yelled out in excitement, “It’s Dimo! I see Dimo, Daddy!”

I had no idea what you were talking about. All I saw was an orange leaf stuck on a log in the middle of the creek.

When I took you back to school, your teacher Ms. Lauren asked you what you did with Daddy at the park.

You shyly looked down and smiled: “I saw Dimo.”

Ms. Lauren responded the same way I did, thinking you were talking about Barney the Dinosaur, as you typically refer to him as “Dino.”

You corrected us, as well as Mommy, once we got home: “No, Dimo!”

During bath time, you talked to Mommy more about seeing Dimo with me at the park.

“I thought it was a fish, but it was just an orange leaf,” you explained.

It wasn’t until this afternoon when Mommy and I took you to Kohl’s to help pick out your cousin Calla’s birthday gifts that we understood.

There was a plush Nemo doll next to some Spiderman action figures.

“Dimo! I found him!”

And that’s when the light bulb went off. “Dimo” is Nemo. You found Nemo.

More importantly, you thought you saw him with me yesterday.

That’s why you were so excited with me at the park- you thought you saw Nemo in the water.

I’m learning to speak your language… the language of “2 and a half-year old.”

 

Love,

Daddy

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The Cliche About Loving Being An Exhausted Parent

May 29, 2013 at 11:18 pm , by 

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

Last Friday night as I scrolled through friends’ Facebook status updates in an effort to find anything controversial and/or weird, or therefore interesting, amidst pictures of Instagrammed feet propped up to convince everyone that person is truly relaxing and enjoying life Kenny Chesney style, I came across this status update by a fellow dad:

“You know you’re old when you spend Friday night with your family looking at floor tiles at Lowe’s… and you love it!”

Dozens of “likes” were won.

Somehow it sort of reminds me of Chris Rock’s line at the end of the movie What To Expect When You’re Expecting:

“We love being dads! When I was young, I used to think I was happy – but now I know I’m happy. Exhausted, but happy.”

It’s basically this idea that the rewards of parenting make up for the lack of sanity, peacefulness, and sleep I traded in.

This may be blasphemy to say in a parenting blog post, but, it’s not worth it…

What I mean is, I don’t think it’s fair or legitimate to say that the “rewards” of parenting “make up” for all the sacrifices involved.

Yes, I absolutely love being your dad, but it’s not something I would do for any amount of money; because no amount of money would be “worth it” to me. My price tag would be so expensive I wouldn’t receive anywhere near my asking price.

Being a dad is something I live for. I am wired to want to make all necessary sacrifices for you. And yes, it’s true: Nothing else I’ve ever experienced has brought me a better sense of meaning in my life.

But can you really put a value on life itself? I say you can’t. And when I think of “life itself,” I think of you.

I think of random little things you surprise me with every day; things that probably wouldn’t be that interesting if I told them to anyone else.

Like how you recently turned the CD sleeve to the newest Dave Matthews Band album into a new children’s storybook, which you read in a falsetto voice:

“Hey! Wake up everybody! Time to eat your oatmeal… The man wakes up in the box. Hey, where’s my bed? The bird wakes up on the lawn? He looks for food? He eats the Cheerios. The milk is yucky.”

To me, that’s brilliant. It’s moments like that you give me which are so subtle and hilarious and awesome… and priceless.

But not rewarding. Because I don’t see being a parent as a rewarding thing; I see it as life itself.

 

 

Love,

Daddy

 

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Does Being A Good Parent Make You More Judgmental?

May 28, 2013 at 9:44 pm , by 

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

For the past two weeks, while riding in the car with me to and from school, you had been asking for a black van.

I have no idea why. It’s not like you saw a cool black van or something.

So with Nonna and Papa (my parents) coming up for Memorial Day weekend, I figured I should let them know in case they could find one of my old childhood toys to suffice.

The plan worked, basically.

Papa found an old Tonka van of mine from circa-1985, but it was silver and red.

So he used a can of black spray paint and made it the right color.

Your “new” black van has snazzy red interior and has these cool “window walls.”

Yes, you were quite impressed.

As for me, however, I jokingly referred to your new toy as a “creeper van.”

It’s just that when I was young, I was taught to never go near big black vans with no windows in the very back… for safety reasons.

Similarly, though I have a nostalgic fascination of ice cream trucks, in reality, I have a distrust for the people who drive them… or big black vans with no windows in the very back.

I don’t want to be prejudiced towards anyone about anything, but if I said that I’m not leery of certain seemingly peculiar people in certain seemingly peculiar situations, then I would be lying.

Just a few days ago I told the story abouthow I myself creep out other parents when I do pull-ups at the playground on my lunch break; without you there with me.

However, I don’t feel judged by those parents. Actually, I totally get it. I just think it’s funny.

Does being a good parent make someone more judgmental, prejudice, and untrusting of others?

I can only speak for myself; and if I do, then that probably technically makes me prideful because I am assuming I am a good parent.

Somewhat interestingly, I admit I might come across as judgmental, prejudiced, and untrusting of others because of the fact that I see big black vans as “red flags.”

I call it being wisely protective. Others may see it as judgmental… but does that make them judgmental? I don’t know.

Clearly, I don’t have any answers. I’m just asking questions today.

 

Love,

Daddy

 

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I Am My Son’s Main Masculinity Model

May 22, 2013 at 10:36 pm , by 

2 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

This morning before I dropped you off at school, I told you I wanted to take a picture of you wearing your cool sunglasses for Nonna and Papa.

Without hesitation, this is how you posed:

You instantly crossed your arms like a classic tough guy!

How did you know to do that? It’s not something I’ve ever specifically taught you.

Yet somehow, you knew that because you were getting your picture taken with your black skull-and-crossbones sunglasses (which you identify as “robots”) you instinctively knew that meant to look as masculine as possible.

So you did.

After laughing about this picture all day, a deep thought finally crossed my mind:

I am your main model of masculinity. You get free testosterone lessons from me everyday.

That’s weird/interesting/humbling/cool.

Sure, I know the importance of you getting regular exposure to a positive male role model.

But this goes beyond that. In fact, it’s more subtle than that. The way I walk, talk, play, react… you’re catching clues from my daily performance.

You are learning to be a boy (and ultimately, a man) according to my free lessons.

I take it as a compliment that you are a strong-willed yet polite little boy. That’s pretty much what I’m aiming for.

It’s important to me that you are a true Southern gentleman when it’s all said and done.

I want to know you’ll always stand up for yourself and protect others, yet not be an instigator.

It’s no secret: I am raising and training you to be a leader among others.

Sure, I may err on the side of bravado here, but I love to see that at just 2 and a half, you already sort of remind me of the toddler version of Bruce Willis.

I can easily imagine you driving a motorcycle away from a fiery explosion; like in every cliche action movie trailer I’ve ever seen.

You’re the man.

 

Love,

Daddy