A broad stroke and a swipe of soft gray across the counter of deep reds, golden browns, and black speckles swipes up the puddles and splashes left from the mess I made, ironically, while cleaning dishes. My son, across from me at the kitchen island, absorbed in an assembly line of milk and graham crackers, learns the ways of spinjitzu from Master Wu and Lloyd in the realm of Ninjago. He is content and winding down from the stimulation of school. There are soft thumps and faint warbles from upstairs as one daughter gives her body to the music, recharging her depleted batteries. No sound emanates from our fourth bedroom, where the eldest is working on AP homework (Or so I believe. Most likely she is snapping her friends point fives. How many exaggerated pictures of the tip of your nose does somebody need?)
The pup is splayed on the love seat. Having had her walk, the only thing she needs is for the family to be home, all together. She is content waiting, resting in the radiant warmth of the afternoon sun.
My love, my wife, won’t be home for another hour. I will need to get dinner going soon, but not yet.
With the kitchen in order, I am alone. Or as alone as I can be in a house of five.
I have plucked a five dollar bill of time from the dryer of this afternoon. A small gift, not life changing, but enough to get excited about. How ever shall I spend it?
I need something I can jump right into, quick, for maximum enjoyment.
My body wanders to my work space, where three guitars rest, waiting.
I reach for the Guild,-
“Dad. My show isn’t working…”
I keep swinging the instrument towards me, the other arm readying to drape the strap over my neck, a medal earned for today’s performance.
“Dad, can you help me? My show isn’t working.”
Ugh. The guitar goes back. ‘I will be right back, my sweet.’, I think to myself.
Leaning over my son’s shoulder, I inspect.
“You just need to give it a minute to load, dude. Be patient.”
“But I tried that and it isn’t going….”
Before he can finish the sentence, the loading wheel completes, the show kicks into action.
“See, you are good to go.”
“Thanks, dad!”
I act more quickly this time. My balance is being spent and it wasn’t well-funded to begin with.
Unceremoniously, the trophy is slung over my neck, fingers reach to the headstock, unclamp the capo, secure it, rapidly yet accurately, on the third fret. That’s the sweet spot, the perfect range for my voice. A quick meander through the G chord. That B string is always dropping out of tune. A quick tweak, and we are in business.
A song, unbidden, comes forth. In any given month, there are but a few I rely on.
A shimmering melody dances around C major, the rich, clear tones of the guitar shine. It feels good. Every day, the guitar projects a bit differently, my fingers move a bit different, and my mood is always ephemeral. To learn about today, to become acquainted, there are always a few moments of introduction between me, the instrument, and the music. Finding each other each day is part of the joy.
Hmm. It feels a bit flat, not in pitch, but tonally. If I move my picking up the body a bit, maybe I can fill that out. I transition to the next chord structure, and I experiment with-
“Dad. When is dinner?”
I look up, my fingers keep moving. I clutch the melody. Like the cracking of dried dirt on the plains, my attention begins to split.
“DAD. When is dinner?!”
Ugh. The reacquaintance will have to wait…
“I don’t know. Later”
“Can I have a snack then?”
I keep noodling. I hate this question. I can say ‘Something healthy’ and deal with groans followed by ‘I can’t find something healthy’ in exactly 187 seconds. Or, I can say ‘No’ and listen to continued requests and negotiation. Or, I can say ‘Sure. Whatever.’ and get back to playing…
“Dad?”
“Sure. Whatever. Please don’t ruin your dinner.”
“Thanks, dad!”
My fingers never stopped, but they didn’t learn anything. I shake my head, clearing it. Back in the game. My ears jump in, and I find my place. Meh. The tone is good enough. I am eager to hear how my voice sounds.
I anticipate the lyrics, breathe deeply, straighten my posture, and focus on projecting my vitality from the core.
It bursts forth. ‘I’m a stones throw from the mill, and I’m a good walk to the-’
“Coleeette!” A whining accusation thrown from the kitchen. In my head, ‘Errgh! Can’t go a full song!’ I really don’t want to intervene.
“Loghan! Stop it!” Ugh, I am going to have to intervene.
“I was going to do that, Colette!”
“But you weren’t even using it!”
“Children! What is the matter?”
Anger, allegations, tears. Their emotions infect mine. Stress simmers.
I breathe. I calm. It takes effort.
Gently, “Guys, guys, guys. It’s okay. Colette, get your snack. Go back to your room. Loghan, you can finish your show or go outside. Can we all just try to help each other?”
This is not going to work. Guitar strapped around my neck, I take the stairs to my room.
I pick the tune back up and skip a verse. The second verse is beautiful, and, like the sparkle of a cool mountain stream on a warm day, it flows amongst the alternating C and F enchantingly. This is what I really want to practice. ‘Well the wind can you live you shiverin, as it waltzes over the-’
“Okay. So, Dad. My grade dropped 7% but it is only because of this missing assignment, but I swear I turned it in! My teachersaysshedoesn’thaveit, but you know my friend Veronica? Well sheswearsshesawmeturnit, buttheteacherstilldoesn’thaveit, can you believe that? Whatever, I askedmyteacherifIcouldturnitin,andshesaidyes, soassoonasshegradesitmygradewillbebackat100%.”
…’grrrrrrrrrrr’.
My eldest, Madison, appeared suddenly, as if teleported. Glancing over her shoulder, I see why. I forgot to close the door.
“Great! Thanks for figuring that out. Anything you need from me?”
“No. Just wanted to let you know before you yelled at me.”
“Thanks!”
Fingers start moving once again, I try to pick it back up. Ugh. I will just start over. I wonder if they ever get tired of hearing me over and over again. I do sometimes…
‘I’m a stones throw from the mill, and I’m a good walk to the riv-’
“Oh! Dad. Let me tell you about what happened at lunch though. Just really quick. SoSarahandMichellewenttoMcDonaldsduringsecondandtheywereskippingclass, which I would never do, butevensotheydidn’teveninvitemeandeventhoughIwouldn’tskipclassyoucouldstillinviteme,right?Anyway,Icouldn’tbelieveit”
I am interested, I want to know about my kids’ days, but my jaw is clenching. Blood is in my eyes. My hands are shaking.
After the story ends, guitar still slung around my neck, I seek refuge. I close the door to the master bath, then proceed to the toilet room, placing one additional door between me and the needs.
I leave the light off. Perhaps they won’t know I am here, tucked in a cave of tile, porcelain, and painted drywall. The sacredness of this grotto will protect me.
I start a new song. This one, a bit of a modern waltz, progresses through a unique procession of chords, F, C, G, Am, all standard, but the B major in the bridge cuddles the melody as it builds towards an attestation of love and friendship in the chorus. This one is always a challenge for my voice, but when it is on, it really works. Maybe today is one of those good days!
I strum, I sing, I get los-
Tap tap tap.
In my head ‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?’
Out loud, “Who is it?”, a staccato of syllables, tension straining the words.
“It’s Loghan. Can I have something to eat?” I don’t think a six year old is always aware of tension.
“Sure. Whatever. Dinner is going to be soon. Can I have five minutes?” I amplify the stress in the words, wondering if, hoping he will, notice and defer additional inquiries.
“Okay. Thanks, dad!” His tone is bright as ever. He will be back…
RRAAAGGGAHHHH! I just want to finish a song!
I need more space. I tramp to the garage, navigating all three children downstairs. I get poked, spinjitsued, and worst of all…spoken to. I clear the gauntlet, the door to the garage slams behind me.
At least the reverb will be nice here. Chords tumble forth. A darker song. One about murder. ‘The raven is a wicked bird, its wings are black as siiiinn….’
The door whips open, a small hand smashes the opener, lifting the garage door, it squeaks and clunks, and Colette runs to her hoverboard. “POWER ON” the oblivious robot voice announces. That toy would cost half as much if the manufacturer had decided to not put speakers meant for a football stadium in it.
Blood rises. Pupils dilate. Unwillingly, my hand strangles the neck. (Of the guitar. Geez. I am not going to kill my children…?)
I stomp towards the door leading to the backyard, and the shed, and slam it behind me. Surely, in this bunker, I will find reprieve. Just three minutes. Just. One. Song. Please. I am begging…
It is dark, creaky, and smells of dust, treated lumber, and cobwebs. Weak, pale light trickles in the small window, casting a pallor. Metal vices, hack saws, and other dark shapes hang from the ceiling, their long, eerie shadows swaying on the walls.
I just need to feel the strings. I just need to hear my voice.
A minor chord starts walking, in-hand with a lilting melody of betrayal, deceit, and rage.
-Blinding light bursts. The double wide doors are swung open.
“Oh! There you are! Hi, honey! The kids said I might find you out here. I got off early and was excited to see you. How are you?”
“GGGARAAAAAGHHGHGHHH” A animalistic snarl erupts from my bowels.
Again, my fingers clamp on the neck of the guitar. But…something is off…I glance down. Oily, black fur bursts from my knuckles. Veins on the back of my hand burst, muscles in my forearm engorge. Hands raise to my face, shocked, seeking to understand this change. OW! I pull my hand back, a nail must have snagged me…only no, not a fingernail… those vestiges of humanity have been shed. Blood drips from the tips of razor-sharp claws, curved and as long as Death’s scythe. The sound of tearing as the mutation rips through my clothing…
A flicker of fear ignites in me. I raise my eyes to meet the innocent, loving woman’s in front of me. Abject terror curdles in her pupils, her body spins, she runs.
Any fear that might have tamed me is smothered by rage.
Guitar held overhead, a battle axe for war, I launch myself beyond the fence to face the savagery of the undeveloped open space behind the house. I careen through dry, prickly grasses, dead tree branches lacerate my skin. Feral, I plunge into the wilderness and seek aloneness.
…
This is the hardest part of being a parent.
Forget about finances, behavior, arguments, planning meals, or choosing schools.
Lack of, and constantly interrupted, alone-time wears parents down. It is well studied in couples and families (4).
When we don’t have time to be with ourselves, stress and anxiety increase and continue to increase until that need can be satisfied(1). Stress wreaks havoc on emotional response (2). Is your partner always irritable? It is probably because they need some time alone. It isn’t anything personal, it is just that nearly all humans are wired that way.
Being alone helps us explore ideas and be creative(5). We gain confidence and self-understanding. It makes us yearn for time with people. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?
Even our children need alone time (3). They are discovering who they are, and alone time gives them space to sit with their emotions, process them, and analyze them. We don’t want to force our kids away, but we do want to make sure they have invitations to alone time.
It isn’t always possible, but having their own rooms (or having time in the day where one room is theirs alone) is important. This is also why parents, in the absence of some urgent potential threat to well-being, must respect the privacy of their children’s rooms. And make clear boundaries for their own personal space.
Outdoor space is also a fantastic nudge towards alone time. There is generally more room outdoors, and with enough boredom, exploration kicks in. I find that just by opening the garage doors and laying some toys haphazardly out or even just positioning bikes, facing out, at the edge of the garage, I can trick my kids into stepping outside and easily sliding into an outdoor activity, independently.
I am sixteen years into parenting, and while there are other challenges, the difficulty in getting alone time (and not feeling guilty while having it) is by far the most difficult quandary.
When society talks about the sacrifice of parenting, the issue, satirically highlighted in the story above, of simply not getting enough alone time to finish singing one song, day after day after day, is insufficiently represented.
For future parents, you have been informed.
To prepare for parenting, perhaps you and your partner can have days where one of you persistently demands attention from the other every 10 or 15 minutes.
Alternate days of this for a full year.
If you are still together and have at least a few drops of love remaining, then you may be ready for kids.
…
Please don’t mistake my fictional transformation into a wild beast as anything more than a fun interpretation of the difficulties of parenting.
My wife and kids are supportive and generous in giving me time alone, especially when I clearly communicate my needs. They would do anything for me, and I would do anything for them.
I am deeply loved, and I try hard every day to make sure they all feel the same.
…
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1
https://psychcentral.com/health/how-to-find-joy-in-being-alone-guide-for-extroverts-introverts-and-ambiverts#recap
2
https://www.redcross.ca/blog/2020/10/the-impact-of-stress-on-your-mental-health#:~:text=Stress%20has%20a%20psychological%20impact,as%20depression%2C%20anxiety%20or%20burnout.
3
https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2022/11/kids-need-alone-time-benefits/672209/
4
https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/living-single/202103/not-getting-enough-time-alone-can-be-problem
5
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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