On Child Rearing

I'd like to wax eloquent (or at least moderately intelligible) for a moment about being the parent of a 4 year old. So here, in the most eloquent, verbose manner I know is how I feel about my parenting ability:

I suck.

Let me state at the forefront that I desperately love my son, Elijah. I honest-to-God, hand-to-heart can't imagine my life without him in it, nor can I remember what my life was like before him, although I do recall not cleaning up urine off my bathroom floor, wall, and rug nearly as often as I do now. He is treasure buried for a thousand years, in the deepest fathoms of the ocean, newly discovered and brought into the surface light. He is a daily Everest adventure that even Sir Edmund Hillary and that Nepalese guy that climbed with him wouldn't have the Charlie Browns to undertake. He has enormous, dark, black holes for eyes that suck you in and crush you in their gravity and depth. There is an entire uncharted universe behind them, another dimension populated by himself and God alone. He's a gorgeous child, not in a this-is-my-beautiful-kid-and-I-say-this-because-I'm-his-parent sort of way, but empirically, objectively, a fact mentioned by random strangers, day care workers and Walmart greeters. Elijah's comedic timing and wit make Eddie Murphy look like a moronic, dimwitted hack, which he just might be (see Daddy Day Care for evidence).

I miss him when he isn't around, but at the same time I'm relieved sometimes when he is gone. He is trying and difficult; bullheaded like his father, yet sweet and kind and generous like his mother; joyful and overflowing with cups and cups of life. He pushes my nuclear buttons until I'm ready to sell him on eBay; he crawls into my lap to watch Spongebob Squarepants and I would not want him (or myself) to be anywhere else in those moments. I hate myself for saying the things I've said to him, for the times when I've spanked him simply to make myself feel better and release my anger. My heart dies a little when I know that I've punished him more than was necessary, or, worse, unnecessarily. Sometimes I've punished him simply for acting like a, well, like a 4 year old.

Yet.

Yet, I don't know of any kid who is more forgiving than he is, automatically and without thought.

"I'm sorry, buddy, for yelling at you like I did. Daddy, didn't mean it."

"That's okay, Daddy."

"You know Daddy loves you very much."

"I know. I love you, too."

Grace. It's just grace. Plain. Untarnished. Unspoiled and unspoilable.

I'm learning how to be a dad, by tiny, tiny increments. One of these days I might actually learn how to control my temper, to not be so demanding of him. Perhaps I'll allow him to be a kid, to be patient with his kid-ness and all of the little things that drive me batty and make me want to consume large amounts of alcohol in an effort to forget I'm a father. Perhaps I'll never get it right, but only get it not-too-wrong more often than not. Maybe "getting it right" is relative and there is no measuring stick to know if you have "it" right. I only hope that in my fumbling attempts to get it not-too-wrong that I don't jack him up too bad in the process. Even if I do I can count on the fact that, for now at least, there is a 4 year old who understands what grace and forgiveness are all about.

Maybe I'll even learn a little something about it myself.

shalom, matt