The sun has fallen below the horizon and the moon is just starting to peek its face above the treeline. The lake is so still I can see the reflection of trees cast from the far shore. There are no clouds above, and not even a cricket is chirping. I scowl at the world.
My mind is whirling, my heart racing. He’s in bed now, hopefully sleeping. We spent the day going round and round, to the detriment of all. He just knows how to push my buttons sometimes. I’d like to think that he’s doing this to me deliberately, just so I can feel better about my poor responses, but I know he isn’t. I know he is trying to explore the big world, and sometimes, his emotions just get the better of him.
I hate the way that I let him get under my skin. I hate that I don’t have eternal patience. I hate that I spend time expanding the gap between us, rather than bridging it. But I hate most of all that I’m not strong enough to be the dad that he deserves. He wanted a PB&J. Then he changed his mind and wanted turkey and cheese with mustard. Then he got upset and wouldn’t eat the turkey and cheese. Then he wouldn’t eat his apples. Then, he didn’t get dessert, and started a stomping, huffing-and-puffing tantrum. I sent him to timeout. He wouldn’t stay put. I sent him to his room, and he went, crying. I heard him kicking the wall, so I went in. I yelled. He yelled back. I left him in his room, to sit there and stew.
Stupid moon, I think. Stupid lake. How on earth do I get through to him? I want to tell him that all I do is worry about him and try to help him and love him unconditionally. Instead, all I managed to do was yell about a sandwich.
I had such lofty goals for myself when this all started—I was going to be the kind of dad who never yelled, and I was going to inspire him to obey because he loved me so much. I would never have dreamed that I’d leave him in his room as a means of discipline.
After the sandwich incident, things went from bad to worse. It was time to go play on the beach, and all he wanted to do was play board games. No amount of cajoling would convince him otherwise. So, I told him he could stay inside by himself while the rest of us played on the sand. He asked if I would play inside with him. I told him no. I told him he could either participate with the family or play by himself. Pouting, he stayed indoors. Angrily, I joined everyone else at the beach. But my mood carried over and I was short with everyone, and we all had a bad time. I so desperately wanted this to be entirely his fault.
But sitting here, reflecting on the day, I know it was just me. Yes, he struggled today. But I’m the adult in the room, and he is the child. It’s incumbent upon me to manage my response to his outbursts. It’s a task I fail at, far too often. When he is having a bad day and I can’t gather the energy to parent him well, it’s just me. When he suffers indecision and I don’t take the time to help him, it’s just me.
There’s no redeeming today—he’s in bed so it’s too late now. Or is it?
The moon floats above me as I sit in a heap of self-recriminations and commiserate with myself. I’m the only one here; it’s just me, and maybe, that’s the problem.
I sneak into his room, pick him up, and carry him on my shoulder. We climb the stairs and sit on the deck; him drowsing on my shoulder, me looking at the moon. A few shooting stars fly past, and I shake him gently. He stirs, and I point at the sky.
“Aren’t they pretty, bud?” I ask him.
He nods sleepily. Then he recognizes what he is seeing, and his eyes get huge.
“What is that, daddy?” he asks.
“Shooting stars, pal,” I say. “Little rocks hitting the atmosphere and burning up.”
“Cool!!!” he whispers.
I pull him close, and my lip brushes his ear. He giggles a little.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I’m not sure if he’s heard me or not, and for a moment, the world holds its breath. Then, he turns, looks at me with moonlight shining in his eyes.
“I love you, daddy,” he says.
I squeeze him a little. He squeezes me back. The silence returns, but this time it is pregnant with possibilities, rather than being accusatory.
After a while, he starts snoring on my shoulder, so I take him back to bed. In his sleep, I can see he is smiling, just a little. I return to the deck, to the waiting moon and lake. I sit and stare, and let my mind wander. It seems that he has moved on, ready to start again. Maybe I should do the same. I make a small promise to myself that tomorrow will be better, that I will do better. I will be the dad I always said I would be. Tomorrow, I will be the me that he deserves.
Then maybe, just me will be enough.
As the proud father of three children, as well as an MFA graduate and published author, John spends most of his time trying to balance the demands of being a writer and a parent all at once. Most of the time, it’s an uphill battle. As the parent of a child with special needs, John tries to use his talent for writing to bring inspiration and hope to his readers.
For more information about John Will you can visit his website at the Writing Dad, Here and Facebook page Here.
Cover Photo: 9jedit