This post revisits a theme I’ve written about previously in, “Dad, DAD, DAD!!!” Any one of us who has ever given birth, brought a baby home from the hospital, or been in the same room with a child for over 5 minutes can probably relate.
Has anyone ever considered that the universal hearing loss of the elderly might be entirely by choice? I wonder if there’s a line that could be drawn between hearing loss and children raised. I’ve no idea what kind of capital it would require, but it’s probably worth the fund raising to get a team in Geneva to start working round the clock on the research.
“Dad, it’s my turn to choose. Mia picked last time and it’s not fair.”
“That’s not true! He picked two times in a row and now he’s trying to steal my turn away from me!”
“Nu-uh. Two Fridays ago, when it was cloudy and the man outside was yelling really loud and the phone rang and you said you’d be right back and then you were gone for a bunch of minutes and then when you came back you said that it would be my turn but then it wasn’t my turn because we had to go eat dinner and then we had stories and then we went to bed and I never got my turn and now it’s my turn and it’s not fair.”
Perhaps there are only so many decibels our ears permit before the drums finally swing the door closed. Just maybe, the more annoying the noise, the lower the tolerance.
“Dad, Max is antagonizing me.”
“I was just -”
“He came into my room after I told him that he couldn’t. Then he took my Minty pony and threw it on top of the shelf. Then he laughed. Six times. Then he kissed me two times even though I told him he was in my privacy. Now he’s taking all the books off my shelves and he keeps meowing like a kitty and won’t stop. He also said that someday I’m going to die.”
I haven’t had a day of quiet in almost 8 years. At first it was fine. I was a new dad, eager to slip into my new responsibilities. The scream of an infant is immediate, sends your heart sinking straight to your deepest depths, demanding you do whatever you can to stop it. Change, feed, or comfort your child. I must provide them with all they need, for I am one of the two threads sewing their safety to the world.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Are we almost there?”
“She started it!”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“I’m not tired.”
I LOVE listening to my children. I think they are awesomely articulate, wonderfully imaginative and endlessly engaging. One of my favorite things in the world is to discuss the best and worst parts of our days, dig deep into the depths of who they are and who they want to be, and listen to stories both real and invented as they unspool our of their mouths from the bobbin in their brain.
BUT
“Dad, dfaklejk; fdlkdsjfiel;k Dad kdfja;iefj;ajf;dfkd k Dad i;jf;leif;ejf;alseifj;lasdjf;lsaefj Dad faielalmcmiel Dad fjiejaiae;lfij Dad fjie;lajef;j Dad ajf;iealfjs;fj ;dfij;a eisjfa;lsijf;lseajf;ajef; asfj;as fj;afj Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad!!!!!”
Some days I feel as though my mind is mired inside the first twenty minutes of Saving Private Ryan. My eyes are shallow crimson pools, scanning the same paragraph for the 47th time while listening to an endless loop of banter between my offspring that’s been bouncing back and forth for one half of forever and making me question whether time has finally started to fold back upon itself. Suddenly I hear the hint of a nearly silent sizzle, like ice cold water drizzled across a flaming skillet. A single second later and the space between my ears begins to detonate. I feel my sanity take flight, my reasoning collapse upon itself, and the atoms of my body constrict then explode as they fly off and scatter in fifty different directions. I smell the sudden stench of burning flesh and look around the room to see steaming piles of myself littering the hardwood floors. I shake it off and attempt to stand but the iron weight of discomfort from the unrelenting din and discord continues to beat on my battered body like a wayward and angry bolt of lightning.
If I hear Dad one more time, it might be enough to send me sailing straight over the edge.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“You’re my best friend.”
Writer Dad
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