January 28: A Murmur, Worries, My Children

When Robert was born a murmur was found in his heart, and although the doctor told Ives that such conditions were common enough, Ives still had suffered, his morbid fantasies getting the best of him.  Thinking not just about his own past, but about the myriad possibilities for disaster, Ives found it quite impossible to sleep and would spend half the night sitting by his son's crib, fretful when he cried or had normal digestive problems, colic and the like...

A first-time father, Ives worries.  A lot.  In fact, Ives never really gets over this phase of fatherhood.  He worries constantly.  Later in the book, when Robert tells Ives that he's thinking of becoming a priest, Ives, a pious and devoted Catholic, worries about Robert's happiness.  Ives doesn't want his son to miss out on any of the world's joys, including sex, marriage, and fatherhood.  Even in moments of great joy, Ives waits for something dark to swoop in and rain disaster.


I'm a lot like Ives.  I worry.  This morning, my son had a meltdown over taking his medicine.  He dissolved into screaming and crying and kicking.  This medicine really helps my son.  It calms him down and helps him focus during the day.  His teachers have noticed the difference.  His aunts have noticed the difference.  We've noticed the difference at home.  He's a happier kid, less prone to tantrums and hysterics.

And now, tonight, I'm worrying about tomorrow morning.  I'm worried about whether or not my son is going to repeat today's episode.  I'm worried that he's never going to take his medicine again, and we're going to return to the kindergarten year, where we were receiving phone calls from his principal and teachers every other day.  Him punching a classmate in the face.  Him kicking his music teacher.  Him bending and breaking a tree on the playground.  That's my worry this evening.

Next weekend, my daughter has her ballet recital, a performance of Sleeping Beauty.  I'm worried about that, too.  I'm worried that her pointe shoes are going to get wet or collapse.  (I can't afford to get her an extra pair.)   That parts of her costumes will go missing.  That she'll fracture her foot or sprain her ankle or strain her back.

I'm like Ives, sitting by Robert's crib in the middle of the night, imagining all kinds of calamities.  Murmurs of the heart and body and spirit.  I love my children.  Want only the best for them.  It's a difficult vigil to keep, being the sentinel of safety and hope and happiness for my daughter and son.  And it's a little exhausting.  But that's why I work from eight o'clock in the morning until ten or eleven o'clock at night.  To give my kids opportunities to be the best they can be.  That's all any parent wants, isn't it?

That's what Saint Marty wants.

Worry works for me...

October 26: My Son, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Some of you may be wondering how my son is doing on his new medication.  He started taking it on Friday morning, so it's been three days.

I don't know if it's my imagination or wishful thinking or incredible guilt, but I really think I notice an improvement in his behavior.  This weekend, he didn't have a single violent outburst.  In fact, he handled every little disappointment or trouble with a maturity I've never seen before in him.  Tonight, when I told him it was time to leave grandma's house and go home, he didn't even complain.  He got his shoes on and walked out to the car.  Usually, Sundays nights are a battle, from bath time to bed time.  I think my mouth literally dropped to my chest.

Again, I'm not sure if it's the medication.  It could just be that he had a really good weekend.  I think the real test is going to come in the next couple of weeks on the school playground.  That's the place where he's been running into difficulties.  And when I say "running into difficulties," I mean his fist has been running into people's faces.  If he remains detention-free until mid-November, I may start to believe we made the right decision regarding this medicine.

Until then, I will continue to second guess myself.  I may even throw in a trip to the confessional and a few bad dreams.  Why not make use of the Catholic guilt?

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, when Honey Boo Boo was a rising star and Ebola was a plot device not a news story.

October 26, 2012:  To His Father's Side, Loved the Child, School Visit

He sat very close to his father's side upon his little stool.  Bob held his withered little hand in his, as if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.

Bob Cratchit loves Tiny Tim.  One of the most moving moments in A Christmas Carol is the deathbed scene of Tim.  We see Bob sitting by his son's bed, mourning.  When Dickens performed this scene at his public readings, the audience would weep.  There is something about Tiny Tim and Bob that touches a deep chord in the readers' minds and hearts.

I love my son.  I took the day off work to spend time with my son at his school.  I sat in chairs the size of mushrooms.  I ate cheese cubes and English muffin sandwiches.  I read books to a swarm of three- and four-year-olds.  My son took me by the hand and led me around the classroom, proudly showing me everything.  At the end of the morning, as my son was climbing on the bus, he looked at me and said, "You come to school tomorrow?"  "Tomorrow" for my son could mean in the afternoon, in a day, in a week, in a month, or in a year.  "Tomorrow" is the future, and my son wanted me to go to school with him tomorrow.

It made me feel great to know my son was excited to be with me, wanted to be with me.  He didn't want to let go of my hand.

And Saint Marty didn't want to let go of his son's hand.

My Tiny Tim

Confessions of Saint Marty