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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.
August 2008 - Posts
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I absolutely love the Olympics. There's nothing like watching the world's greatest athletes pushing themselves to perform better than anyone ever has, and possibly ever will.
I could chalk it up to being an intense sports fanatic and competitive soul, but it's more than that. The Olympics transcend sport and geography and time. These events make children of even the fiercest competitors, men and women who have been at it for most of their lives yet crumble and weep in their finest moments — usually taking us with them.
It's a little embarrassing to admit this, but of all the amazing Olympic feats, wins, and records I've witnessed, there's one that will always be special to me.
Well, there's two, though the amazing grit shown by the diminutive yet determined Kerry Strug obviously stands out to anyone swayed by the undeniable will of humanity.
Now, you must consider I had become the father of a baby girl only a year before the 2002 Winter games and my already bleeding heart turned to absolute mush anytime something sweet and adorable and remotely girly would occur. After Maddie came into my life, I began to relate everything to her, how I felt about her, what I wanted for her, how I wanted to raise her. And I'm sure my acutely emotional response to this stunning performance was in great part a soul-wrenching desire to help Maddie have that kind of moment for herself.
And, the games were less than six months after the attacks that left most of us seeking anything remotely beautiful in our fellow man.
I watched the women's figure skating competition — yes, I try to catch nearly everything Olympic — when 16-year-old Sarah Hughes took the ice in fourth place, clearly figuring to be out of the picture against veteran Michelle Kwan and Russian star Irina Slutskaya.
And that made all the difference.
I, too, didn't expect much from Hughes; the announcers had made her medal-less finish seem fait accompli. But it wasn't long into her routine that I knew I was witnessing something spectacular.
Sarah Hughes skated that night with a stunning beauty possible only in the rarest of moments by those who love their art, live for their moment, and perform with a youthful naiveté unencumbered by pressure and expectation.
"I skated for pure enjoyment," Hughes said later. "That's how I wanted my Olympic moment to be."
As she spun and leapt and danced her lithe frame across the ice, her serenity and grace belied her age — she could have been no more of a woman.
Tears dropped from my cheeks as I became overwhelmed by her singular performance. And as Hughes finished and the Salt Lake City crowd roared in approval for the perfection we all knew we had just seen, I wept like a little girl.
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I have always been very big on taking pictures of and with Maddie, but I've cooled of late. It's not that I don't want them — I love having lots of photos from anything we do together. But I feel that every time I put the camera up, I'm taking myself out of the moment.
As much as I'd like all the snapshots, I've come to value the doing of things with her much more. And for those, I'll forever have to rely on my memory.
There were a lot of pictures from the State Fair that I didn't get. Here are a few that I did.
If you missed it, you can read all about our day here...
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It's August in the Midwest, and that means heat, humidity, and the State Fair.
I promised Maddie several weeks ago I'd take her to the fair this year, and on Saturday we, including my lady friend Ashley, made a very full day of it.
I checked out the fair schedule in advance, determined to fit as many events into our day as possible. We got a late start, though, and interstate construction set us back further. We were already hungry when we walked into the fairgrounds at noon thirty, and, after much deliberation, we made quick work out of a delicious barbeque sandwich from the "Pork Tent."
This may seem a non sequitur, but one of many great things to come from my mountain climbing in Colorado is my CamelBak. It was great to have at the fair, with plenty of room for all our necessities, Maddie's baubles, and, most importantly, a liter of water. No wasted time waiting in line to shell out four bucks for dehydrating soda.
After we stopped by to check out the watermelon seed spitting contest, arriving too late to enter Maddie, we went to watch the Bengal tigers. I have great misgivings about caged animals, especially performing tricks, their wild nature clearly muzzled through training. I realize, though, the only way most kids get to learn about and begin to care about non-indigenous, endangered species is by seeing them firsthand. It's sad to see these beautiful beasts tamed for our amusement, but I believe it ultimately serves a greater purpose.
We stopped by the Indiana Young Farmers pavilion afterward and entered Maddie into the tractor pull competition before hitting the "International Circus." I have to admit, an elephant balancing on a little ball is pretty amazing. And for Maddie, there is apparently nothing in the world funnier than a dressed-up monkey slapping a grown man in the face.
I missed that, however, as I had to shuttle back and forth to see if Maddie's age group was up yet for the tractor pull. Maddie, 7, was one of a few girls in a group dominated by 8 year old boys. It was a lot of fun to see her get out there and compete, and she really tried her hardest. She did get her first-ever ribbon for participating, in and of itself an exciting moment for me. I wish I had taken a photo of her with it.
The grounds are sprawling and it seemed that the next show we wanted to take in was invariably at the other side. Thankfully I bought new Brooks runners a couple weeks ago, because we walked miles and miles.
Maddie was great. She wore a very loose-fitting dress, which surely helped keep her cool. And, despite wearing flip flops, she didn't once complain about walking, though I fully expected her to and would not have blamed her if she had. Though she did ask about the rides more than she should, for which she was eventually chastised, she was interested and enthusiastic about nearly everything we did and saw.
After trudging around the fairgrounds for about five hours, we headed out to the Jeep and I fired up my little traveling grill while the girls kicked off their shoes and relaxed. Besides saving about $20 by cooking up our own brats and sauerkraut, it was a great opportunity to break up the day and cool off for an hour. Since we wound up staying until 10:30, the opportunity to rest and re-energizing proved vital.
Over the course of the day we saw deadly spiders, ugly fish, Foster Brown playing the ukulele, gigantic draft horses, really cute piglets, chicks peeking out of their eggs, the World's Largest Boar (tipping the scales at 1,121 pounds), bleating sheep (which is hilarious when they stick their tongues out), a lumberjack competition, and Second Fiddle, a local Irish folk band. Maddie made her own tin art, tried walking on stilts, tooted on her new flute and even milked a cow.
And at the end of the day, there's but one thing left to do: Ride some rides.
I'm no fair aficionado, but five bucks for four tickets seems a bit salty, especially when some rides call for four tickets. Lucky for us, all the rides Maddie was interested in required only two. After the big slide, she wanted to try out the "Flying Kite," on which she laid on her stomach while the "kites" spun in circles and go up and down.
She was absolutely thrilled. Maddie knows no strangers and quickly befriended the little girl next to her. After the kite touched down, she raced over to us, a great smile across her face, and asked if she could ride again with her new friend. The little girl had gone by the time we hopped back in line, but Maddie was very excited anyway and rode again, this time making buddies with a little boy.
When Maddie stepped in line for the "Indiana Jones" adventure, a women leaned over and asked her where her Mom was. My first thought was, "Hey, random lady. I'm her dad, I'm right here. She isn't alone." It wasn't until she spoke again that Maddie noticed and recognized her former babysitter.
It was actually a really nice way to finish the day. I didn't know Kathy very well — she babysat for Maddie's Mom and I'd met her only a couple times. Kathy has a very big heart and it was great to listen to her talk about Maddie with such enthusiasm. They hadn't seen each other in some time and there were a few moments when I thought Kathy might cry. One of her daughters, with whom Maddie had become like sisters, was with her and Maddie now had her good friend with whom to go ride … the kite … again.
Kathy talked in glowing terms about Maddie, asked questions of Ashley and insisted I "marry her already," and told me how happy she was that I had moved back from Colorado to be close to Maddie.
When the girls' ride ended, we said our goodbyes and headed for the parking lot. It was nearing 11 when we made our way out of the fairgrounds and well past midnight by the time we pulled into the driveway — a full 13 hours since we had left.
It was a really great day.
**Update: Pictures**
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This is the last of a four-part series.
When I was 11 or 12, I was riding with my little brother and my father in his pickup when a cat ran into the road. I exploded when I felt the bump — I was a very sensitive boy — and my father, in his effort to quell my angst, told me he had run over a branch.
Now, I was no idiot. But, while my senses told me otherwise, I believed him … because he was my father.
Leaving his house the next morning, we drove along the same stretch of road where, sure enough, there lay the dead feline. It was an amazingly visual indictment of his dishonesty, one I can still see today.
I never said anything about it. I never forgot it, either. It was the first time I knew my father lied to me.
From that moment forward, I regarded his words with skepticism. Subsequent mistruths would only harden my disbelief and eventually build resentment.
The erosion of trust is the greatest fallout of a lie.
There is virtually nothing as precious or important between parent and child than trust. I put trust even ahead of love — if Maddie cannot trust me, how can she know I love her, or to what degree?
Without the trust of your child, all else is lost as a parent. Why would Maddie listen to me about drugs or sex or any of the choices that will define her life if she doesn't believe in me? How can I demand honesty from her if she questions my truthfulness?
Yes, at times the truth can be a little overwhelming and distressing to a child whose lack of life experience makes processing abstractions such as the soul or heaven difficult. But aren't the moments when we get to teach our kids right in our wheelhouse? Lying will not spare anxiety and trauma, it will only delay growth. In fact, lying is far more likely to create anxiety when a child loses faith in a parent.
If my father had been willing to talk with me about the deep emotional reaction I had that night instead of seeking an easy way to quiet me, our story line might be different. If he had taken the time to help me find the cat's owner or bury it, maybe it could have been a moment that brought us closer instead of building a divide. If he had given an effort, even if he stumbled through it, I could now, at least, respect him for it.
It can be easy to think that the lies you would tell your child are of little consequence, like those convenient and harmless "white" lies I wrote of to start this series. But how great would your regret be if your child loses faith in you because of something you deemed inconsequential?
As parents, we are blessed with many gifts when our children are born. Their implicit trust in us is one — regardless whether we've deserved it from anyone else. Those blessings, however, come with tremendous responsibility.
Of course we are fallible. Of course we make mistakes, do things wrong, occasionally provide poor examples. But the trust Maddie has in me, I had from the moment she was born.
It's mine to lose.
Lying to your child is a choice. And it is always — always — the wrong one.
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