December 12: Pay a Call, Being a Bad Father, Bad Father Fairy Tale

Fern disappeared after a while, walking down the road toward Zuckermans'.  Her mother dusted the sitting room.  As she worked she kept thinking about Fern.  It didn't seem natural for a little girl to be so interested in animals.  Finally Mrs. Arable made up her mind she would pay a call on old Doctor Dorian and ask his advice.  She got in the car and drove to his office in the village.

Mrs. Arable is pretty typical of most parents.  She worries.  A lot.  Fern has just regaled her with a story about Charlotte and Wilbur and the other animals, and Mrs. Arable is understandably concerned.  Her eight-year-old daughter is hearing animals speak.  Of course, Fern may be imagining these barnyard conversations, but there's something about her daughter's conviction that causes Mrs. Arable to get a little uncomfortable.

All parents worry.  Granted, not all parents have children who converse with livestock.  But, all parents worry, whether their child is two years old or twenty or sixty.  It goes with the territory.  Much of this blog is comprised of posts devoted to my parental worries.  I worry about my daughter's teeth.  My son's spellings tests.  My daughter's ballet shoes.  You get the idea.

Tonight, I have a confession:  I was a horrible father this morning.  My six-year-old son has recently begun taking medication to help him with his impulse control.  It's an drug used to treat ADHD.  It's been a godsend.  My wife and I have noticed the difference.  My son's teachers and school principal have noticed the difference.  His psychiatrist was astounded at the difference.  He's been a calmer, happier little boy.

For the past few mornings, he's been refusing to take his medicine.  We mix it into chocolate milk or eggnog.  For the past month-and-a-half, he's been drinking it down with no problem.  This week, he's been spitting it out.  This morning was the worst.  I spent almost a half hour convincing, threatening, begging, and yelling.  By the time it was over, my son still hadn't taken his medicine, and I was ready to pin him down and pour it down his throat like an Inquisitor during the Spanish Inquisition.  I was red-faced, and he was sobbing.  It was horrible.

Of course, I've felt guilty all day long.  This morning, all I was thinking about was how much each one of his pills cost.  It's expensive.  Really expensive.  But it's worth it, if he actually takes it.  I want what's best for him.  I know this medicine helps him.  It's what best for him at this moment in time.  And that's why I was hollering at him.

Like I said, I was a horrible father.  I bet Joseph never screamed at Jesus to drink all of his goat's milk.  I wasn't Joseph this morning.  I was Al Bundy.

Once upon a time, there was a father named Brady whose son got turned into a frog by a cranky neighbor who happened to be a wicked witch.  Brady knew the only way he could rescue his son from a lifetime of lily pads and swamps was by making him eat dried eel tongue every day.

Brady's frog son refused to eat the eel's tongue.  He wouldn't eat it mixed with chocolate.  He wouldn't eat it mixed with vanilla pudding.  He wouldn't eat it mixed with spaghetti.  Brady's son just sat on the ground, looking up at Brady, saying, "Knee-deep."

One day, in utter frustration, Brady picked up his frog and son and screamed, "If you don't want to eat your eel's tongue, then you might as well be fish bait."  And Brady threw his son into the middle of a lake, where a large sturgeon swam up and ate him.

Moral of the story:  eel's tongue tastes like shit.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Knee-deep

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