Willful Child

For some reason, I've taken a perverse amount of pride in the fact that I stopped napping when I around two years old. There’s more than a small bit of irony there – these days I’d kill for a good nap.

“A willful child,” my parents called me – when I was around to hear them. I’m sure at other times they used other words.

But when my dad would describe me sitting in my crib shaking the rungs and screaming at him – I’d find myself cheering for the former me. Yeah! Give him what for!

I supposed this was in no small measure because that little guy in the crib could carry the day in a way I never managed when I was older.

I don’t recall a lot of knockdown, drag-out arguments with dad. There was simply an understanding that once he’d weighed in on something – that was pretty much how it was going to go.

I vaguely remember dad carrying me down the hall by my belt loop when I was in first grade. I’ve always associated that memory with a spanking (itself a singular event), but thinking about it now I honestly can’t be sure the two events happened together. But I have no other memories of physical discipline from childhood.

In our house, discipline was mental.

Mom practiced a kind of parental judo that resulted in her kids unknowingly doing what she wanted all along.

Dad would usually take the direct approach – and while I should have more than a few memories of getting a full dressing down by my father – they’ve all seemed to blur together into a general sense that crossing dad was a very bad idea.

What’s interesting to me are the milestones I do remember – wearing the ratty jeans my father expressly forbid me to wear and remaining home when the family went to the beach, despite my father’s angry insistence that I go.

Two wins for my side.

Memorable for lots of reasons, but largely because of the basic fact that two is a number that can be remembered.

I couldn’t possibly remember a number for the loss column. The times I was browbeaten, shamed, or intimidated into doing what dad ordered me to do.  Uncountable moments – most of them trivial, surely – but innumerable moments of substance where my stubbornness gave way to my father’s.

Just do what he wants.

Which is not to say dad was a cruel man.  He wasn’t. But it took a long time to realize that he wasn’t just this inhuman thing meeting out justice and punishment.

One of the reasons I am sure my dad spanked me was a time mom told me dad cried after spanking me. The idea that dad would cry at all was unthinkable. That he would question his treatment of his kids doubly so.

One of the things dad always did that annoyed me was this pretend fighting he’d do. He’d get into a mock boxing stance and tag me once or twice in the shoulder, baiting me. “C’mon,” he’d say – clearly inviting me to try to land a few practice blows on him.

I never did.

Try, that is. By the time this game started, the idea of swinging at my dad was completely alien to me. You don’t cross dad. Despite this being a game – I remember wondering what would happen if I did join in. Would he hit me for real? Would he expect me to hit him for real? It made no sense to me.

My refusal to join in was always met with a disappointed look on dad’s face. I always took this to mean that dad wished I was more athletic. That I let him down, again.

For awhile dad would invite me to help him work on the cars or in his woodshop – but his insistence on correcting everything I did made it impossible to feel like I was anything other than in his way. I have vivid memories of tightening a bolt on the car as hard as I could – and then my dad re-tightening it afterwards. Dad did everything – the only thing I was allowed to do was hold the lamp while he worked.

As I got older, I tried to stay out of his way more.

Surely some of that was just being a teen ager. I wanted to do what I wanted to do, and dad and I shared very few interests. He was always out fixing something, or mowing, or building, or any number of constructive things that I regarded as nothing but a pain in the ass.

I’m sure some of my enduring hatred of yard work comes from the numerous arguments that resulted in me weeding or raking – or any of the other pointless things he’d ordered me to do.

The obvious irony is that what little handyman work I’ve done around my house is because dad dragged me along on his projects and taught me what he knew. That time we put in the bathroom in my old house taught me a ton about wiring and plumbing  - stuff that I’ve drawn on as I’ve struggled with my new house.

Mostly what I’ve drawn on was the realization that my own obstinance could be a resource to get things done. And I realized that was a good part of dad’s method as well. Once he started something, quitting became almost impossible. It’s not that he knew all the things he needed going into a job – it’s that he knew whatever came up could be dealt with. As long as you put in the work.

I remember a thawing in the cold formality dad and I had manufactured between us. Roles had changed somewhat and old patterns gained new context.

When the boy was born, I got to see a whole new side of my father. How he delighted in playing with my boy. My dad – playing. Dad wanted the boy to have everything.  Had us send him photos of these little chairs we liked so he could make them.

I’m sure it’s not chronologically accurate, but the last memory I have of seeing my dad is outside my last job. Dad was dropping me off at work for some reason and was about to head for the interstate. He made a point – a very obvious point – of telling me how proud he was of me. It was such an odd thing for him to say at the time, but I stammered out a “thanks,” and waved at him.

And then he was gone.

I’ve thought a lot about that day in the past few years. Not so much that dad said he was proud of me, but of how urgent it was to him that he say so. Almost like he’d been chastised. He seemed sincere, but almost apologetic. “I’m sorry I hadn’t said this…”

Thinking of him in his last few years, there were other moments like that I’d missed at the time – but they were lesser copies of that last moment.  Wanted you to know this, son…

This was dad in quite a new light. A dad trying to relate. Struggling, even.

This was not a word I would normally apply to him in any context. If there was a problem interacting with dad, it had to be mine.

But here he was, talking up my writing to other family members – conspicuously being supportive to an adult son too clueless to even realize what was going on.

But now I know. And I think – at long last – I get it.

I hear my dad come out of my mouth so often these days – I can practically see him in the mirror. There was a time I would say that with pride – but the parts I see and hear are the very things that made me avoid him as a kid.

Yelling at my son for ridiculous things – things he should know better – but things that certainly don’t require a screaming lecture.

Pick your battles, I’ve always heard, but win them. Well I’ve picked, fought and won. Then stood in the ashes of my victory wondering what it was all for.

Everybody talks about the time you hear yourself sound like your parent – but nobody prepared me for watching myself appear in the guise of my son.

My son is a willful child. And he is the son of a willful child.

One who was taught that you keep going until you win.

And I have won. Time and time again. I have prevailed in contests so foolish you would question my sanity. You will do this. Even if you fight it. Because battles joined - must be won.

And I’ve see my boy cringe under a pillow because he can’t face me. I’ve yelled at him for something he has no answer for – so he’ll hide. Or glower silently up at me like I did thousands of times. I will stand here and defy you. I will refuse to answer. Because otherwise you win.

And I think back on years of inadequacy. Feeling certain – absolutely certain – that I would always be less than dad wanted – and I want to swoop down on my boy and save him from his total jerk of a father.

My boy is wonderful. And I’ve managed to force him into the same nervous shell I had as a child.

Yes, he does need to sit up straight, use his napkin, and all that. But first he needs to know that he’s wonderful.

We send our kids into the wider world with the tools we give them – and I cannot rob my son of his self respect and expect him to thrive.

I have to learn to forget about winning battles. Keeping score is just a different way of losing.

Waiting until he's grown and married... that's not fair to anyone.