It Runs in the Family (7 page)

Growing up, we always asked our dad what he wanted for Father’s Day. We’d get a raised eyebrow and a look that read something like: “What I want more than anything for Father’s Day are children who know better than to ask me what I want for Father’s Day.” What do you buy a man so ascetic that he reuses dental floss? One year, we got Phil Berrigan—priest, peace activist, hardcore nonviolent resister—a tie.

Patrick is not quite as ascetic as my dad, but he definitely doesn’t want a new tie. Patrick is that one person who can take the baby when he is red in the face with tears streaming down his cheeks, catching his breath for a new round of screaming. Patrick walks out of the house and down the block, returning ten, twenty, even forty minutes later with a sleeping angel on his shoulder.

He was once a social worker who helped dads resolve disputes with their children’s mothers; he aided these dads in developing life skills, becoming responsible parents, and navigating the court and social services bureaucracies. Now he is a home visitor, working with expectant and new dads, teaching them how to nurture. He teaches “Dr. Dad” and “Daddy Bootcamp” classes at a local hospital for expectant fathers; he coaches them on basics like how to hold a newborn, how to change a diaper, how to soothe a crying child, how to take a baby’s temperature, and how to support mom through the early weeks. Patrick loves these classes. He helps turn apprehension and jitters into excitement and confidence.

He brings all this knowledge, excitement, and confidence home too. He is lightning-fast at changing Seamus’s diaper, even though the little bruiser thrashes and screams and grabs at your hands the whole time. Sometimes it takes me fifteen minutes to change the boy’s diaper. But with Patrick, Seamus starts out belligerent and then he gets distracted by his dad’s elastic face and amazing noises. Pretty soon they are both giggling and Seamus is clean and dry. Patrick plays and soothes and cooks and instructs and tidies and sweeps and tickles.

At eighteen years old, Patrick refused to register for Selective Service, foregoing federal grants and loans for college. Luckily, Earlham, a Quaker College in Indiana, offered special grant and loan programs to conscientious non-registrants, so he was able to get a bachelor’s degree and travel to Northern Ireland to work in conflict resolution. I think it was there, on the old sod, that Patrick developed his gift for gab. The man can literally talk to anyone about anything without compromising his values or letting anyone slide. I have seen him call people out—even his closest friends—for being racist, sexist, homophobic, or just jerks. And he somehow manages to do it without malice or contempt. The people around him respond by becoming more compassionate, considerate, and open-minded.

Whether it is describing radio waves or the life cycle of the cicada, recounting the story of where honey comes from or how clouds are formed, or explaining why some dogs aren’t nice or how princesses benefit from slavery and exploitation, Patrick is constantly in dialogue with our kids about how the world works, how it should work, and how it will soon work better when they apply their energy, enthusiasm, and good ideas to it.

Patrick is a great father and a great partner. Together, we are always learning from one another, always giving the other the benefit of the doubt, always asking questions, always listening, always encouraging and allowing for growth. We are constantly changing as a couple, and our kids are constantly growing.

Before I was a mom, I was a stepmom. Not a role I ever imagined for myself, but one I have embraced with zeal, taking (pacifist) aim at every wicked stepmother story on the library shelf. I met Rosena at a War Resisters League meeting when she was just two months old. Patrick had come to show off his dark-haired, blue-eyed wonder child. She cozied up in my arms and promptly fell asleep. When Patrick took her away, joking that I was bogarting his baby, I laughed as I handed her over. But I felt a strange sense of loss that I did not understand until all of a sudden I was living with her in an apartment in New London four years later.

She accepted me right away, making room for me in her already busy, bustling family. Rosena’s “big loving family” includes her mom, Patrick’s parents “Nana and Papa,” and Patrick’s sister and brother-in-law, Annie and Chris. And now my mom and the rest of my family swells its ranks even further. At school, to her friends and teachers, she refers to me as “My Frida.” I was not really surprised to be so lovingly embraced by this four-year-old child when Patrick and I fell in love. In a way, it seemed like cosmic payback for embracing all sorts of random grown-ups and their roles in my life when I was a kid. But I was surprised by how comfortable I was with the family arrangement of three days with Rosena, four without, then four days with and three days without. I always looked forward to her coming to our house and I also appreciated the slower, quieter pace that emerged when she was with her mom.

And, I was surprised by how readily Rosena’s mom made room for me. I never felt like I had to compete with her for Rosena’s affection, respect, or attention. I never felt judged for my slipups and failings, which I tried to candidly share in long, detailed reports about Rosena’s time with us. From the beginning, Rosena’s mom welcomed me onto Team Raise Rosena. Am I ever proud to wear that jersey!

Her mom celebrates holidays and birthdays with us and Rosena appreciates seeing us all interact with compassion, respect, and warmth. We do not always agree, and there have been some tough episodes, but all Rosena sees is her family working together to figure it all out. I love this girl with a boundless and joyful heart. I see so much of my husband in her. I never questioned who I was to her and I never worried that she did not love me. I was, from the beginning, Rosena’s “My Frida,” and that moniker means the world to me. It was totally new and foreign, and yet it felt like home. I can be impatient, she can be heedless. I can be sharp, she can be stubborn. But we are always both learning how to be together.

When I gave birth to Seamus, I took on a new role with Rosena, as the mother of her little brother. Now I am the mother of her little sister too. I have three children half of every week and two children all the time.

And it is a challenge. I struggle with how to be present to the needs of three very different ages and personalities. When Rosena is at our house, Seamus wants to be wherever she is and be doing whatever she is doing. She relishes his attention and adoration, but tires quickly of his grabby-ness and wrecking-ball energy. I welcome the breathing room that comes when he transfers his affection from me to her, and I try to get as much done as I can while he is shadowing her every move. Although Rosena is a conscientious big sister, she is only seven and I need to remind myself sometimes that she is not capable of taking care of Seamus for long stretches of time. She can play with him while I wash dishes or get dinner started, and she loves it, but I can’t put her in charge of him.

Rosena and I have been practicing “ask for what you need.” She has gotten good at telling me and her dad when she needs some time away from Seamus. We respect and honor that, and we know that this skill will help our whole family for years to come.

Sometimes I worry that I parent Seamus and Rosena differently. Am I more indulgent of Seamus? Am I too strict with Rosena? And then I remind myself that Seamus is a toddler; his needs are very different than those of a second grader. I cannot reason with Seamus, I cannot lecture him, I cannot even discipline him. This is the time for teaching, not punishing. Rosena is working to understand that you can’t put a toddler in time-out. I tell Rosena that Seamus learns as much (or more) from her as he learns from me, even though I am with him more than she is. He watches her so closely, loves and admires her so keenly. That is a gift, I tell her, but also a responsibility. It means she shouldn’t tease him or use her bigness against him. I could probably do a better job of setting this example for my kids, of not using my own bigness against them. For the most part I think I do a good job as a parent. But sometimes I fail. Sometimes I really blow it. Sometimes, the only thing I can say is, “I am so sorry. You did not deserve that, and grown-ups are not supposed to do that.”

One day when he was about fourteen months old, Seamus was following me around on the second floor of our house. I was focused on completing some household chore, but he kept crying and whining for my undivided attention. He wanted me to sit cross-legged with him in my lap and read
My Family Loves Me
eight or nine times in a row. I had already explained to him in my calm, rational mommy voice that I would read to him as soon as I finished folding the clothes. He did not understand. He
never
understands. I took a sip of water. He whined for the water. I offered it to him. He pushed it away. I poured it on his head.

For a second, I felt awesome and in charge. His eyes got big, he sputtered, and then he started to cry. To cry for real. Not a “Mommy, read to me” kind of cry, but a “Why am I all wet and soggy and cold?” kind of cry. I felt so stupid and weak. Not only was he really mad now, but the floor was soaked, he needed a whole new set of clothes, and I was the bad mommy who reacted to being provoked by pouring water all over her one-year-old’s head. I got Seamus into dry clothes, wiped up the mess, apologized to my little son, and spent the next hour reading to him surrounded by half-folded clothes and other incomplete household projects. He had my chastened, loving, and undivided attention. I made sure that I told Patrick and Rosena that story. But when I told her, I made it sort of funny, trying to embed a lesson in it about how big people should not do mean things to little people just because they can.

This leads me to my second confession. One Saturday morning, the whole household was getting ready for soccer practice. Rosena was dressed in her soccer outfit, and so I told her to spend the next few minutes putting her clean clothes away. I typically do all the laundry and deliver a basket of folded, sorted clothes to her room. One of her chores is to put all her clothes away. Not too much to ask, but she often needs many reminders.

Patrick was getting ready, and I was busy putting warm clothes on Seamus.

“Hey Frida,” she said from the doorway. “Want to see something cool?” I did not even look up. “Are your clothes all put away?” I asked with an edge.

“No, I haven’t started yet.” I saw red. Too much red for the situation.

“Get going with it, Rosena,” I said as I finished getting Seamus ready. Then I went into her room, where she was going through the motions of her chore without any enthusiasm. I thought about how much of my work goes into the little work she has to do: bringing the laundry down two flights to the basement, hauling it in and out of the washer and dryer, and then carrying it back up two flights of stairs—folded and sorted—to her room. All the while, keeping Seamus relatively happy and alive. I thought of all this and I got mad.

“I should not have to remind you to do this over and over, Rosena. I should not have to beg you to put your clothes away. I do so much work and you only have to do this one thing. You know what? Next time I am not going to fold it. You will have to fold it all yourself. How would you like that?” My voice was too loud. I was angrier than the situation warranted. I was feeling unappreciated.

That could have been it. All parents raise their voices and get a little shrill on occasion, right? But no, I went one step farther. I pulled half a dozen articles of clothing out of her laundry basket, shook them free of their folds, and threw them on the ground. “In fact, you fold it now. You do it.” And I walked out of the room as Rosena started to cry. I wasn’t halfway down the hall before I knew I was wrong. I knew I needed to go back into her room and apologize. But I also knew I needed a few more minutes of distance and the calm perspective of my husband. I knew that if I went back immediately, I might get even madder at her for crying.

“I got mad, Patrick,” I told my husband. “I got mad and I crossed the line.” He did not tell me I was a terrible mother, which was really nice of him. He said he thought that Rosena wasn’t really trying to get out of doing the chore; she was just distracted by her excitement at showing me the cool thing. He asked how I felt as I was throwing the clothes. I told him I felt like I had all of her attention, which felt good, but that I didn’t know how to uncross the line I had crossed.

My husband isn’t just a good father and an amazing partner, he is also a younger brother, and that gives him a certain perspective that I—as the eldest of three—do not have. “Did throwing the clothes feel like a big sister power play?” he asked.

Oh man. I was busted. “Yes, I have been right there before. I have done things like that to my brother and sister. Oh jeez. I am such an idiot.”

“You are not an idiot,” he said. “You are great. You are trying. Go and tell her you are sorry.”

It was a long way back upstairs. Rosena had put all the clothes away and was sitting in her room—glum and small. I asked her why she had cried.

“Because I felt like you were being mean,” she replied.

“You are right. I was mean and I am really sorry. I was mad and I should not have been mad. I felt like you didn’t appreciate my work and that is not fair. You were excited about the Lincoln log thing and I want you to share your excitement with me all the time—even when it is chore time. I am really sorry. I should have acted more like a grown-up and less like a mean, big kid.” I kept talking. I told her that I acted like an evil big sister drunk on power instead of acting like a parent who takes advantage of every opportunity to model good behavior and impart valuable moral lessons. Then I launched into a long soliloquy about how being an adult means that you should be able to pay attention to more than one set of emotions at a time, yours and other people’s. You must keep all of that in perspective, and understand where your own anger and frustration come from in order to take responsibility for them. I talked for a long time. I couldn’t help it. “Do you understand all that?” I asked.