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My Daughter's Father is a unique perspective on the challenges of parenting from a seldom-told vantage point: The single dad. Sam, a 33-year-old journalist, will write about the joy and heartache of loving and raising — and sharing — the most precious part of his life, Maddie. This candid essay about the anxiety of knowing that every decision helps mold his child into the woman she will become comes from a father who has grudgingly acknowledged that, no matter how hard we try, we parents will never have it all figured out.
July 2008 - Posts
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This is the third of a four-part series.
Maddie once questioned why her new baby cousin was born. "Was it hot in there?"
Few things garner as much attention — or beg more questions — from small children exploring their new world than life and death, though the latter certainly draws more. For kids, a baby comes from Mommy's belly; sometimes the questions stop right there.
But with death, it is always, understandably, far more difficult. The child knew and loved Grandpa, and now he's gone. She misses him. Where did he go? Why? And, eventually, will that happen to me?
The story I read that led to this series touched on fibs geared toward "sparing" children the "anxiety and trauma" of life's inevitability. One example was a parent who told her son the family dog had died and gone to heaven, only to wish she had used the classic farm in the country where the beloved pet goes to frolick for eternity.
Maddie was not quite 5 when her Papu died.
I wasn't ready to explain death and all that entails with her. I'm not sure, though, I ever consciously debated the tack I would take with Maddie; anything but the truth never occurred to me. But I was definitely influenced by the sage advice of an elder at a church I used to attend.
He, having a prodigious line of offspring, told me to keep it simple and let Maddie's questions guide the conversation. He explained that when parents try to unwrap abstract topics for their children, we often give far more detail than necessary and wind up making things more complex and less understandable.
And so I explained to her the night of the viewing that Papu had died, that his heart had stopped and he was gone. Of course she was upset, but I felt strongly that this was an opportunity to be tackled head on, a watershed moment in her life, and I could not fail by simply telling her the truth.
When we went in to visit with family and friends, Maddie could sense the heartache and loss everyone felt and she began to cry. As some time passed and people gathered to talk, she calmed.
This was not a night for questions as much as curiosity. I carried Maddie to the coffin with me and she pointed and talked about Papu looking like he was sleeping … maybe something about a boo-boo. I don't think I said much then.
The questions came in the days and weeks to come. She first asked about going to see Mamu and Papu, and I had to remind her he was gone. She became upset and asked why he had to go, and I told her he had smoked a lot of cigarettes and sometimes didn't eat the right foods and it hurt his body.
Maddie didn't have to understand death in all its forms and ramifications right away, but she did need to talk about it, she did need to bounce her questions and ideas off me. And it was fascinating to listen to her mind work and seek the solutions on her own.
That experience taught me it's often the best to teach Maddie by allowing her to digest information at her own pace and let her ask for more.
Nuance and omission are often a part of parenting, and they're a far better alternative to lying. Grieving is a part of being human, and children are resilient. And, they're watching and learning from us … always.
Watch for part four, The Trust of Your Child, on Monday.
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This post ran a little long, so this is now the second of a four-part series.
I was 5 or 6 when Santa Claus came to visit my little brother and me on Christmas Eve. I was more curious than excited about the rotund, bespectacled fellow sitting in our living room; his arrival and presence was underwhelming, not the magic I expected. My brother, 14 months my junior, was simply terrified.
I don't recall what made me wander to the front door and out into the crisp winter air as my parents cajoled my brother to sit with jolly St. Nick, though it may have been the hope of eight reindeer fulfilling my holiday visions.
In the place of a sleigh brimming with toys, I found a Volkswagen Beetle at the top of our drive.
I remember, instead of deep disappointment, I felt that my suspicions were confirmed. And I never thought my parents had lied to me.
When it comes to childhood fantasy characters, I'm a little torn … and a little biased. I've begun to harbor some resentment toward Mr. Claus the last few years, as it has been decided, sans my input, that he does not visit my home but only Maddie's Mom's. Thus, until she no longer believes, I will not get to spend Christmas Eve with her.
And then there's the Tooth Fairy, who's breaking the bank. Maddie should be able to afford her own braces with today's exorbitant rates.
A child's imagination and wonderment about life — something almost all of us, through experience and knowledge, eventually lose — are priceless and irreplaceable aspects of human growth. The unbridled imagination Maddie possesses fosters creativity that amazes me both in the amusing and impressive things she comes up with and the insight into real life she learns from it.
To prevent Maddie from buying into these fantastical, gift-bearing figments of our minds would be to steal from her some of the building blocks of creativity with which all children begin life.
Ultimately, I don't see purveying these characters as lying. We all believe in something that may or may not exist, and story telling is a natural part of the human condition. Besides, I don't think Maddie really believes there is a singing mound of snow or flying reindeer, and I've yet to know a child in the world who expressed curiosity about the nature and look of the Tooth Fairy.
When presented with these nebulous ideas of strange creatures that show up once a year under cover of darkness, children are often on to what we're trying to sell. That they see them only in cartoons or at the local mall surely tells them they are as real as Scooby Doo. And they usually translate that knowledge so that, by the time the existence of Santa is proven false, they are not surprised or disillusioned.
Watch for Lying: Death and your little one tomorrow.
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This is the first in a three-part series.
I read an article a couple weeks ago about lying to children, when it's appropriate and when the truth is the better route.
I'm still trying to wrap my head around this, the idea that lying to my daughter would ever be the proper course. As I read, I quickly realized one immutable truth: Parents lie to spare themselves, not their kids.
One story was of a parent whose son asked for a toy he wasn't about to get. To avoid explaining why he couldn't have the toy, and also the tantrum that apparently would follow, the parent said the toy was for bigger kids and the clerk wouldn't let him have it.
Suggesting that taking an honest and authoritative position would have brought about an unwanted scene exposes the fact this parent allowed the wrong person to control the situation. Besides, it is not always necessary to give your child reasons for your choices; at times it is in the interest of cementing the parent-child hierarchy with the age old, "Because I said so."
Now, when I say control, I don't mean kept under one's thumb. I give Maddie as much room to be her own person as I can, and I'm always delighted by what she makes of herself.
But children don't raise themselves. They look to us for guidance, they take their social cues from how we behave and how we tell them to behave. Given the inherent selfish nature of children, they will almost always opt for the lowest of expectations we set.
Unfortunately, that hierarchy hadn't been established in this particular relationship, and I imagine this situation is fairly prevalent. This parent has already determined the path of least resistance: It is easier to lie to the child than to parent him if he throws a fit.
If you lie to your child, what has she learned?
So what if she cries? It’s momentary, it doesn’t hurt. So what if she thinks it's unfair? That's part of it, part of growing and understanding the world and your place in it. It's part of coming to the realization that, while your parents love you and shower you with attention and revolve their own worlds around you, you cannot — EVER — always have your way.
If parents aren't willing to put forth the effort to raise their child with this understanding from the womb, the child will likely grow into an adolescent who doesn’t understand it. And then …
The earlier a child learns that you are in charge, that you will stand by your word and not be swayed by their meltdowns, the sooner they will cast aside this behavior.
This lie was represented as a "white" lie.
What is a "white" lie, anyway? Are we afforded a get-out-of-morality-free card by prefacing a term indicative of something wrong with the color symbolizing virtue and purity? Seriously?
The oxymoronic nature of "white lie" is bold and laughable. But it's also symbolic. It seems there is little more important today than instant gratification via the easy route. And since that cannot always be attained through honest means, the "white" lie is always buffeted by expedient rationalization.
The truth, however, is simple: A lie is a lie. Because the teller has determined for himself the lie is of little importance doesn't make it so. The liar doesn't get to decide the impact of his transgression. The consequences of a “white” lie are often more far-reaching, and potentially devastating, than the truth ever could be. Watch for Lying: Death and Santa Claus tomorrow.
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She hooked me the first time I saw her.
It was spring and I had just begun my first semester at Ball State after taking some time to grow up in the press room in one of my hometown's several factories. I had been in the dorm less than a week when she passed by my open door, wrapped in a flannel and her long, curly, dirty blonde locks.
Maddie's Mom was the girl every guy wanted to be with. She was lean and athletic, a natural beauty, smart, funny, and quick with a smile. She could throw back a few while playing cards with the boys, though they would never get too out of hand; she was also a lady, and she commanded that respect.
And, boy, was she sexy.
There was an instant and obvious attraction, at least on my end, though I couldn't make a play for her — she had a boyfriend. They were, in my eyes, a mismatch, though I suppose I might have exuded bias. I thought too much of her, though, to disrespect their relationship and maintained my distance … for awhile.
It wasn't until the following fall that things changed, that I cast aside my reservations and wantonly pursued her. It began with friendly conversation through email, welcoming each other back from summer break and catching up. After some time, though, I just felt I could no longer contain myself. I rationalized that if I had harbored feelings for her for that long, that if I just couldn't shake it, I had to tell her.
Her response, for the most part, was what I expected. She was surprised, flattered, speechless. She thanked me for telling her, but acknowledged her relationship. She also cracked the door a bit. There was no reason we couldn't be friends, she said, no reason we couldn't spend time with each other, get to know each other better.
Looking back, I know it was fait accompli with that first letter, that admission of how strongly to her I was drawn. While we both maintained the visage for sake of the others, and ourselves for awhile, the furtive glances, the gentle, almost imperceptible, always "accidental" touching, the sheer amount of time we spent in each other's company were only to one end: We were falling in love.
She and I were, in many ways, cut for one another. We shared far more qualities and interests than I tend to remember or acknowledge, and despite how things turned out, I know my life would not have been complete had she not been a part of it.
These days, I often regard our relationship as the vehicle for the blessing of my life, Maddie. But I know in my heart that she was — and still is — much more to me than my daughter's mother.
Ours was a fiery, passionate love affair, a meteor flaming through the night sky. It shown brilliantly for a time, was terrifically exciting, and drew the breath right out of us. But it was out of control, tempestuous, and because we could never find our balance, it eventually faded.
For all the ways in which we continually and ultimately failed each other, Maddie is our gift, the embodiment of a love too hot for us to hold on to ... our one perfection.
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Ok, perhaps I'm overstating the degree to which Maddie worries about affliction. If so, definitely not by much.
My daughter has become acutely aware of her desire to abstain from anything that could result in the slightest discomfort, her concern so grave she occasionally turns down candy.
A few years ago, Maddie had an awful tummy ache due to eating more confections than even her father, who has a prodigious and renowned sweet tooth of his own. She eventually vomited. It was explained to her that she just had too much sugar in her stomach. Since that day, she will ask, regardless the dish or drink, whether it has sugar in it. It's really amazing that a small child will ration her own sugar intake, though I suppose the necessity to ward off sickness will have that effect.
About two years ago, we went to visit my maternal grandmother, a caring and generous woman who smoked for the greater part of her life and now breathes with the assistance of an oxygen bottle. On our way home, Maddie asked about the plastic tube that delivered the oxygen to Grandma's nose. I explained that she has trouble breathing on her own and the contraption gives her the oxygen we all need to live.
Maddie is a very thoughtful little girl, much more so than I at that age and far more than I would have expected. When given information, she will ruminate until either she has more questions or has determined her feelings on the matter.
Several days later we were driving down the road — for whatever reason, her epiphanies tend to arrive in the back seat of the Jeep — when I noticed her countenance had turned. I asked what was wrong and she burst into tears. "I don't want to get old and die!"
You can imagine the shock waves from such a pronouncement, the resultant angst of realizing you're about to have a watershed conversation with your 5-year-old. After I talked her down a bit and she was able to articulate herself, I realized the oxygen issue had been weighing on her and she believed breathing trouble was a result of aging. She was now terrified of growing old, which to her seemed inevitably painful and unnatural.
It took some time to console her, but I've found approaching any subject truthfully and straightforward, regardless how touchy, is the quickest path to her understanding and acceptance. I told her Grandma had been somewhat hard on her body with smoking and conveyed to her the idea that, if she takes care of herself and doesn't smoke, she can avoid the same fate. She eventually calmed and hasn't spoken of it since.
Of course, I realize any number of health issues can bring about similar circumstances. But in raising Maddie, I've come to accept I cannot conquer the challenges of youthful understanding in one fell swoop. I must meet each topic as singular, for now; the reconciliation of different and sometimes contradictory scenarios can be had over time.
Maddie's then new-found fear of mortality stemmed from the passing of my step-Dad in January 2006. Maddie was extremely fond of Papu, as she calls him, and his was the first death she experienced. That is a story to be told at a later time. It's safe to say that, while Maddie handled the grief fairly well for someone her tender age, the event had a profound impact on her and was a signature moment from which many new feelings and questions sprang.
Coming back to sickness …
I do find it somewhat strange that Maddie hasn't sworn off spaghetti. One weekend she spent with me about two years ago, when I had returned to college to finish my degree, we had eaten spaghetti for dinner. Our plan was to go over to campus for "Late Nite," a weekly themed event put on mostly for freshmen that invariably includes free bowling.
We had barely hit the road on our way to the lanes when Maddie announced she wasn't feeling well. I hadn't the time to pull over before she filled the floorboard beneath her. I whipped the Jeep around and parked at the apartment just in time for her to get out and evacuate in the grass.
I carried her inside the apartment and up the stairs, where I deposited her in front of the toilet to finish her work. Her last heave exposed the culprit.
I hadn't noticed during dinner that, instead of chewing, Maddie had sucked the noodles down whole. When I looked into the bottom of bowl, there was a nearly perfect mound of spaghetti, as if it had just been taken from the pot and served on a plate.
I was very proud of Maddie that night, though she gives me cause to feel that way almost every moment I'm blessed to spend with her. Not once did she whine or cry; she was a trooper. She had seen the full strands of food and I explained that she must always chew all her food, that her stomach was too small to digest it whole and chewing is part of the process. She has been resolute in that endeavor since.
Maddie and I spent this weekend together.
She told me Friday night about finding a frog skeleton in the schoolyard earlier that day, how she and her day camp friends had poked and prodded and shown it off to one another. I asked if she had touched the remains; she said she had not. I told her to never handle dead animals, that they are breeding grounds for disease and that she could get sick from them. This explanation begat more questions, the answers only inciting more: What's a disease? Bacteria? Etcetera, etcetera.
Saturday night, we were watching Water Horse when the title creature became agitated and growled and snapped at the main character, a young boy. Maddie pointed to the screen and exclaimed, "I think Crusoe has disease!" It wasn't until later, when I was recounting the story to Maddie's Mom and step-Dad, that she told me it had reminded her of Old Yeller. She had remembered watching the classic with me two weeks ago, had recalled the dog turning aggressive and that Travis had to put Yeller down because he was sick. Smart, smart girl.
Earlier Saturday evening, we were once again driving down the road — I was serious earlier — when Maddie asked, "How sick can you get from disease?" I told her it depended on what kind of disease, that some are worse than others. "Well, how sick can you get from frog turned into skeleton disease?"
Maybe, just maybe, she touched it after all.
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I intended, with this, my second post, to continue the story I had begun with the first, to explain further that which makes 'single' a part of my fatherhood story.
There's been a clamor, however, for photographs — tout de suite, if you please — though being strong-armed by those who have provided this platform might be a more appropriate description. Just kidding, of course … but seriously, post some pictures already.
I was going to just throw in a couple with the aforementioned post, but as I sought some specific photographs I really wanted to share, pictures I hadn't looked through in years, I chose to devote a little time to presentation and make this one about the photos.
I must admit, I was struck by how young I looked. I'm always accused of being much younger than I am, often by seven or eight years, but in one of the photos I did not include, I look like a child. Perhaps that is befitting; I'm certain I often acted as such back then.
I'm stunned how quickly time passes. Though she is only seven (and a half, a very important distinction these days), it seems a distant memory when Maddie was this small. There is wondrous joy in watching her grow — I delight in everything about her — but I still pine for wisps of those moments that are gone, especially when she was new, when I didn't fully appreciate how precious and fleeting those moments are.
It has been said to me so many times over the years that, however old Maddie happened to be at the time, "that's a fun age." I've found that to be true … every day of her life. As eagerly as I look forward to the next, it pains me to let go of the last.
The black and white shots were taken by a photographer at The Star Press, where I worked part time while in college. Unfortunately, I cannot remember the photographer's name.
There will be many more pictures to come. As they say, they're worth a thousand, and all the words I could write would never do Maddie justice. These are but an introduction to the one who has claimed my heart.
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When presented the opportunity to blog for epregnancy.com about the one thing that matters most in my life, something I had wanted to do of my own accord for too long but had not, I was admittedly overwhelmed.
I would get to write about being my daughter's father.
I spent the next several days poring over memories of the last eight years — Maddie's Mom and I found out we were pregnant almost exactly that long ago — trying to pluck a few details from mountains of moments until I finally reminded myself this is a blog and it's neither necessary nor in the interest of job security to tell our whole story in my first post.
A friend's sage advice was to introduce myself, build fatherhood "street cred," as she put it. Bring readers into my world and bear myself to them.
Of course, when cracking open the most intimate and cherished aspect of one's life, that isn't an easy undertaking. To understand why Madelyn Ryen is more important to me than anything — the very center of my existence, honestly — I would have to begin from the beginning, with my own childhood, broken as it was, something I seldom discuss and certainly have never exposed for the world.
That sensitivity is exacerbated when considering these writings are my living history to my daughter, part of the record from which she'll learn and understand her father, the choices he made — and resultant failures and successes — in his desperate attempt to be the best for her he could be.
In the agonizing (okay, perhaps too strong a word) over where to start, I've arrived at what should have been obvious from the beginning: When Maddie came into my life.
I've wanted children as long as I can remember. Okay, since I was about 12, but really, when you start wanting to have your own child at such an early age, isn't it essentially a lifetime? I had been especially drawn to babies, in a nurturing, loving way that I couldn't explain nor understand then, though I now recognize as vicariism, a catharsis for that which I lacked as a child.
But when Maddie's Mom called, crying, to tell me I was going to be a father, it wasn't the joyous occasion of which I had dreamt.
Mom (I'd prefer not to name her, so Mom will have to suffice) and I had, at that time, been dating for about three years, which was probably about two years too long. We met in college and had a lot of fun times together, but trust and honesty issues plagued our relationship and dug a hole from which we could never recover.
I was interning in New Orleans when the news came; Mom was back in Indiana. Our relationship was in disrepair when I left for the South, and had we not gotten pregnant, I'm certain we would have broken up that summer.
In the posts to come — should your interest warrant more — I will attempt to provide a nearly unfettered glimpse into my experiences as a single father trying to love and help raise his daughter from afar. I hope my words might answer questions, raise more, evoke emotion, and create a discussion about one of today's extremely prevalent, yet difficult and most undesirable parenting situations. If I am so fortunate, you and I will learn and grow through this dialogue, and our children will be the better for it.
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