That's the kind of Sunday I had.
Sharon Olds writes about the kind of mother she is . . .
The Fear of Oneself
by: Sharon Olds
As we get near the house, taking off our gloves,
the air forming a fine casing of
ice around each hand,
you say you believe I would hold up under torture
for the sake of our children. You say you think I have
courage. I lean against the door and weep,
the tears freezing on my cheeks with brittle
clicking sounds.
I think of the women standing naked
on the frozen river, the guards pouring
buckets of water over their bodies till they
glisten like trees in an ice storm.
I have never thought I could take it, not even
for the children. It is all I have wanted to do,
to stand between them and pain. But I come from a
long line
of women
who put themselves
first. I lean against the huge carved
cold door, my face glittering with
glare ice like a dangerous road,
and think about hot pokers, and goads,
and the skin of my children, the delicate, tight,
thin, top layer of it
covering their whole bodies, softly
glimmering.
When I first learned I was going to be a father, I was terrified. What if I don't connect with my child? What if I don't love my child? What if my kid hates me? What if I fuck my kid up for life? So many "what ifs" ran through my head, I started keeping a notebook of them.
It all stems from my own relationship with my father, which was complicated. I mean, I know he loved me, and I loved him. But we didn't understand each other a whole lot. He wanted me to go deer hunting and kill things, and I wanted to take piano lessons and write poems.
That's what Olds is dealing with, too, in the poem above. This fear that she can't protect her own kids because she "comes from a / long line / of women / who put themselves / first . . ." Olds is afraid of being her mother.
As I said earlier, today was a tough parenting day. I'm not going to get into details, but let's just say that my son isn't happy with a decision my wife and I made, and "isn't happy" is a kind way of describing his behavior. Listening to him in his room, I thought he was going to go full Menendez brothers on us.
Things have calmed down, and we have reached détente. Not sure how tomorrow is going to go. He hasn't really said a word to me since about 4:30 p.m., and it's pushing 9:30 p.m. He didn't even come downstairs to watch Kendrick Lamar's Super Bowl halftime show, and he loves Kendrick.
I will say that the reason my wife and I said "no" to him wasn't arbitrary or capricious. We are trying to keep him safe, even if he doesn't see it that way.
So, to sum up today: I'm the worst father in the world.
Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about fatherhood, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Compose a poem of address that begins with one word (the person, place, or thing being addressed), and then progresses by adding one word to the length of each line (for example: line 1 is one word long, line 2 is two words long, line 3 is three words long, etc.). Aim for a poem of at least ten lines.
Lesson
by: Martin Achatz
Son,
your anger
at me tonight
fills the house with
air taut and sharp as
barbed wire. I wish you'd see
I only want to keep you safe
as that morning I first held you in
my arms, promised I would never let anything harm
you while I still had oxygen in my lungs, your
hatred of me now proof that I'm doing my job right.
