Just this morning, my three-year-old son threw a shoe at my head. We were out all together at a restaurant when it happened. I was not prepared for the footwear assault, but I probably should have been. What surprised me most was not that my dear son chose to beam me with one of his gross, mud-encrusted shoes, but rather that he passed up many more enticing and accessible objects to maim me with. Directly within his toddler reach was a crumb-speckled butter knife, a plastic cup filled with primary-colored crayons, a full glass of water, and a very aerodynamically designed salt shaker — yes, the kind that looks like a rocket just dying to be launched into the heavens (or a dad’s face).
None of these shiny, pedestrian dining objects were good enough for my boy. Instead, he committed to the extraordinary effort of slyly removing one of his beloved PJ Mask themed shoes beneath the table and, once freed from his chubby foot, threw it with all his might directly at my face. I had been distracted helping his older sister with her own coloring dilemmas and was not paying attention to him at that moment. Even so, my papa sense must have been on point. Just before that size 8 reached my cheek, my free hand plucked it from the air. Parenthood has bestowed upon me reflexes like a jungle cat.
I have no idea why my son decided that this violent act was a good idea. From recent past experience he would have reasonably expected a swift and angry response from his dad for such an indignity. I also don’t know what slight on my part had inspired such a bold move. It could have been when I told him an hour beforehand that he couldn’t run wildly into the street or, even earlier, when I proclaimed that he must eat breakfast before he ate a treat. It could have been both of these things or neither of them. It might have been a “Don’t do that, please” that had occurred 5 minutes beforehand, a forgettable incident which happened the month before last, or even his perceived anticipation of something I was just about to do to him which inspired his aggression towards me. It could have been the way the cold breeze was blowing that early morning or perhaps the slightly perceived angle of the earth as it orbits around our sun which inspired his violence. Nobody except the boy will ever know and he ain’t talking.
As his father, I usually possess very little understanding of where this impulsive behavior arises from and even less of a clue of what to do about it when it does rear its angry little shoe in my face. If parenting were to be considered a sport it would most certainly be classified as a full-contact one. Fully physical. Fully emotional. Fully psychological. Fully frustrating. Fully tiresome. Fully joyful. Fully fully fully full contact and we all have suffered some amount of family PTSD even though we wear helmets (on our scooters).
And, if parenting is indeed a sport and my family of four humans the members that comprise a team, I am often left wondering which role is mine and which are the roles of the other team members. At one smug point in this journey of raising children I was more than confident that my wife and I were co-owners of this crazy kid team, and the kids our athlete subordinates. After all, we started this organization from nothing. We brought both these babies up from the G league all the way up to the pros. We were in charge. We called all the shots. Hell, we bank rolled this posse with money, sweat, tears, and thousands of compostable diapers. It was ours. As the kids came fully online though, they became more aware of the world and aware of us too. It became clear that we parents were certainly not in charge, at least not all of the time, and definitely not as we (I) had planned to be. Half the time, our children run the show. We bend to their needs and stipulations. We answer to their strident orders and desultory demands.
So, if we aren’t team owners, perhaps we are coaches. My wife and I possess a combined 84 years experience playing this game of life. We’ve seen a lot — what works, what doesn’t, what hasn’t even been tried. We’ve read the game rule book forwards and backwards. Clearly, we have many lessons to teach our pediatric players about how this game is played. This role feels right…almost. There are many moments when my ability and patience to impart know-how matches up well with my children’s comprehension and willingness to take in. More often than not though, my didactic pleas are lost to the ether in an otherwise cold and dark universe. There is too much crying, fighting, whining, huffing, and puffing for any of us to have a meaningful exchange. These kids don’t play the game the way I have taught them to. They storm the field naked and without padding. They run backwards around the bases. They play the way they want to, the way that feels right to them. It feels like I am just here to patch the boo boos, wipe the boogers, brush off the butts, and clean off the semi-permanent ink.
What is even more striking is that it often seems that our children have become our coaches. Just by being themselves, they reveal truths we ask for and many which we do not. They each teach us lessons which we would otherwise never have learned or even have been inquisitive about. My daughter’s insatiable curiosity forces me to answer questions for which I really have no satisfactory explanations — to imagine improbable worlds which exist only in her fabulous mind. She routinely points out little gems of life which I would never have noticed — a tiny snail resting on a green leaf, a single vibrant pink flower high in the bows of an otherwise naked tree. My son’s constant smile and reliable good nature remind me not to take every setback in life so seriously — to relax when I can. He runs, head down and arms at his side, towards all life’s possibilities without worrying about what awaits him around the corner. Sometimes he falls, but he always gets right back up and continues on. I have learned from both of these wise children that, as their dad, there will be sucky times and there will be amazing times, and I may often be puzzled to tell the difference between the two.
So, if we aren’t owners and nothing in our contracts stipulates our roles as coaches, then I guess we parents are merely players on the same dysfunctional team as our children play for, albeit grizzled veterans with something to teach. This feels true. This feels right. We all sit in the same dugout calling the plays together, yelling at the ref when the game does not go our way, and celebrating each other when it does. There is indeed a pecking order (How could there not be?) but it is a generous and modular one. As soon as one team member realizes that he or she is on top, the order changes, and we all have to adjust and move on. Family is a sport that prepares children for the game of life that is to come for them. Where else can they strike out, break a bat on their knee, kick dust in the ump’s face, get ejected from the game, and still be invited back for more fun and fracture in the next game in just a few hours. A family game is almost always a double header.
This grizzled veteran player is still learning more about the sport of parenting every game he plays. When my son threw his shoe at my face, I did not react as he probably thought or hoped I would. After all, that’s what he wants right, a reaction? To get under my skin, to show me who’s boss, to remind me that he exists and that no matter what shit he pulls, I won’t leave him in the dust. But, I didn’t get angry this time. Instead, I showed him a new play that I had been working on for quite a while and had only pulled off a few times in secret. As I held that smelly shoe with a hole in it aloft in my hand, I stared right back into his beautiful blue eyes — a shade we both view the world through — and asked him without much hope for a reply: “Why did you throw your shoe at papa? I love you, boo. Don’t hurt me, please.”
My son flashed me a naughty smile back, but said nothing. Even so, it felt like an understanding between us, which did not exist before, now somehow did. It was a big moment for me, one in which I could feel my heart and my brain expanding in new directions, but I did not have much time to savor it. Once again, my papa sense tingled up and down my spine alerting me to impending trouble. I ducked quickly to the side as my son’s other shoe hurled past my nose like a baseball line drive that no shortstop would ever possibly catch. This was going to be a very, very, very long game of parenting today.
For more essays on parenting visit www.nursepapathebook.com and sign up for the newsletter. Nurse Papa is a prescriptive and heartwarming book written from the perspective of a pediatric oncology nurse who is also a father. The stories within are directed at parents and all those who are looking to ask and answer some of life’s big questions. You will laugh, you will cry, and you will learn about yourself.
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This post was previously published on A Parent Is Born and is republished here with permission from the author.
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Photo credit: David Metzger