A letter to my daughter, on the occasion of her third birthday.

Hello Roo, its Daddy again.

You’re another year older and I’m packing another year’s worth of close calls, narrow escapes and lucky breaks. Well, that and an expanding number of white hairs that your grandfather is oh so happy to point out when he comes to visit.

It was a difficult year but thankfully I think we did a pretty good job shielding you from the worst of it.

I usually cringe when I see people writing self-deprecating posts on Facebook (hey, is that still a thing whenever you’re reading this?) about how terrible 2012 was and how glad they are that it’s over. That kind of public display of negativity always feels suspiciously like someone trolling for comments. No, I prefer to do all that on a blog instead, much classier that way. But truth be told, when the ball dropped on New Year’s Eve your Mom and I said ‘Thank God that’s over’ and never looked back.

We lost your great-granddad and your sister this year. Losing them once was hard, but it was like losing them all over again when you started to forget. When you stopped rubbing your mom’s belly and saying ‘baby in here’ it was hard. And when you started looking at pictures of you with your great-grandad and saying ‘who’s that?’ it churned up lots of emotions.

I want to take a minute to tell you how proud I was of you in how you handled your great-grandad being in the hospital. You were two, which is way too young to understand what was happening. But I know it was hard for me to see my grandfather wasting away in a hospital bed, getting thinner and weaker with every visit and being hooked up to an expanding array of medical equipment. It was a very visceral image. But it never even slowed you down. You chattered away, offered pretend medicine to make him feel better always had lots of hugs and kisses. I’m sure it made him feel better and I know it helped me out a lot.

Your g-grandfather was one of the greatest men I ever had the pleasure of knowing. He had to deal with a lot of his own tragedy and hardship throughout his life but he was always kind and generous to a fault. He was a gentle giant and the man responsible for at least three generation’s worth of ‘Van Loon head’s.’ Whenever I find myself angry or inclined to take the low road I try to remember him and live by his example. I don’t succeed as often as I like, but it helps nonetheless.

What else? Ah. Let us discuss your growing and worrisome addiction to grilled cheese. You would eat grilled cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner if I let you. And really, that’s on me. I have my own weakness for grilled cheese so I made conscious effort to try and slip it into your diet. Well, I succeeded but now the student has surpassed the teacher and now I spend every night driving you home from day care trying to knock you off the grilled cheese track and get you excited about other foods. To no avail.

You don’t have a ‘thing’ yet. And I keep looking for one or trying to expose you to one. Numbers you’re all on top of. Letters. Not so much. You’re down with the letters ‘c’, because that’s what your name starts with, and the letter ‘o’, because, well, it’s the letter ‘o’ and it’s easy to spot. Driving has become a challenge because every time you see the letter ‘c’ on a billboard or a car you’ll screech at the top of your lungs until someone in the car also finds that same damn letter. (ONLY SOME OF US ARE DRIVING AND CAN’T CRANE OUR NECKS LOOKING FOR ONE LETTER AND CAUSING US TO CRASH TO OUR DOOOOoooOOM). Anyway, sports are also not your thing, unless you count cheering for me on the sidelines when I play Ultimate - ‘Go Daddy Go!’. You’re learning to throw a Frisbee yourself, but right now all you’ve managed is the two hand smash into Daddy’s shins. Daddy loves you very much.

You are swimming up a storm though so maybe that’s your thing. You’re a couple weeks away from getting your first swim badge. And at the cottage this summer you were utterly fearless in the lake. At the beginning of the week you didn’t even want to get in the water, by Friday you were in there trying to paddle around with a life jacket. Every morning before breakfast you’d try to wheedle and beg or demand that we all go down to the beach so you could play in the water.

Musically I’ve been playing you a lot of Caspar Babypants. ‘Run Baby Run’ is your favourite. Babypants is actually the lead singer of a band that Daddy likes, so this way I get to pretend that The Presidents of the United States of America are still making music and you get age appropriate tunage. Its win-win. And frankly, I’ve had it up to hear with kids songs actually sung by kids. I get a weird creep VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED vibe every time I hear that stuff. You don’t seem to have a burning desire to listen to music, so it’s always a bit of a surprise whenever you sing along with the tune (I didn’t even know you were listening!). 

You’ve definitely got the Faulkner TV gene. If it was up to you it would be all CAILLOU all the time. With maybe a little DORA and JAKE AND THE NEVERLAND PIRATES to break up the monotony. So I implemented a little token scheme (two a day) that’s slowed down your TV watching considerably. And hats off to you, when your tokens are gone you stop asking to watch TV. I know if it was me at your age I’d be keeping up an endless stream of ‘please can I watch more TV, please can I watch more’.

Oh, BARBIE is bull by the way. No more BARBIE on Daddy’s watch. Just watching one of those BARBIE movies was enough to send me over the bend. I’ve never seen a kids film that glorifies women in traditional roles more than that movie. And I’m pretty sure all of them end with some kind of wedding. Disney movies are kind of hit and miss on that front as well. There are lots of great Disney movies and then a handful where the only thing the female protagonist wants is to get married to the handsome prince. The newer the movie the more balanced the message is. But some of the older films are downright throwbacks.

And I’m bummed to see that I am becoming The Man. Not in the good ‘slip me some skin’ kinda of way either. No, I’m the totalitarian, ‘eatyourveggiesbecausesoonitwillbebathtimeandgetbackinyourchairyoungladyunlessyoudon’twantdessertandI’msorryyoudon’tlikethesoupbecausethat’sallthatwe’reofferingandohmygodI’vebecomemyparents’ kind of Man.

The Man wants you follow the rules. The Man gets you to do things that are good for you, not just fun for you. The Man sets limits and restrictions and is deaf to your pleas to that the cat likes it when you football tackle him. The Man is everything you swore you wouldn’t become.

99.9 per cent of the angry things that I shouted at my parents about when I was a teenager have sadly not come to pass. I have decided not to let you stay up all night eating ice cream and watching TV. (And trust me, I WANT to let you do that.) Instead you will play outside dagnabbit or do something educational and you will like it.

Your grandparents get to be the kind of parents I always wanted them to be when I was a boy, providing a seemingly endless supply of toys and candy and games without any rules or restrictions.

I’ve had to learn how to you say no to you without that word ever passing my lips. Because the second you hear me say no we’re in for a fight. And over three years you’ve developed quite the arsenal of tools when it comes to getting what you want.

When you yell and scream I want to yell and scream right back. When it comes to conflict resolution I’m all fight, no flight. But I can’t bring that mindset to arguments with you because I am The Man. And sometimes The Man’s job is to calmly sit there and take toddler sized buckets of anger until you wear yourself out. Because emotions can be tricky buggers at any age and boy do I get that.

And then, through your sniffles, you’ll hug me and kiss me and tell me that you love me, that you’re sorry and that you miss me and inside my heart will be melting into a puddle of goo. At which point I feel like anything but The Man.

You’ve reached the stage where you can make decisions all on your own. And your decisions are entirely based on ‘what do I want in this particular moment in time’ and not ‘how much will this particular act of destruction cost Mommy and Daddy’ or, ‘The future, what’s that?’ My job is steer you away from the dangerous options, let you do the silly or harmless things and make judgment calls on a whole host of decisions that could go either way.

It’s the hoariest of clichés, I don’t let you do some things not because I’m a tyrannical dictator, but because I’m trying to balance your personal freedom against your personal wellbeing.

I think 2013 is going to be an interesting year for all of us.

Love,

Daddy.

A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her birth.

Hello Helen,

I was wondering how it would feel to write to you. Would it be morbid? Or creepy? Or vain? I don’t really have an answer. I’m just rattling off words here. You were supposed to be born this week. And up until yesterday I thought I was holding it together reasonably well. Then your aunt Jennifer called to tell us she was pregnant, which is great news…but her timing could probably have been a little better.

To tell you the truth, I think most people have forgotten about what happened. Or that’s how it feels anyway. I guess it’s just one of those things that I think people can see as plain as day, because I carry it around with me all the time.

Do you know I can’t eat flavoured pretzels anymore? They were a part of a condolence basket that some people in your mother’s office sent to the house. I was eating some and all of a sudden I knew that if I ever had flavoured pretzels again I would only think of losing you.

I hate that story. But it sticks to me and I can’t forget it.

You have a song. (I have a song for everyone. It’s not something I do intentionally; it’s just a thing that seems to happen.)

Your mother’s song is So Sober by The Trews. Yours is Words & Fire by Sam Roberts. I’m keeping it Canadian I guess. I heard it when I started jogging after you passed away. I started crying in the middle of some unpaved road in the middle of Haliburton and I knew then that it would be your song. It pops up on my iPod from time to time and I’ll stare morosely at the wall for a bit, or if I’m alone I might tear up some.

For some reason I take a small modicum of comfort from the fact that a song reminds me of you, but absolutely none when I have the same recollection to a piece of food.

I’ll be happy to see the backside of 2012.

To first lose your great-grandfather and then you, it’s been more than I can take at times. I tend to react to bad news by barricading myself in a room and just being alone. (Its glorious) Unfortunately I don’t get to that anymore so I’ve had to find other outlets for my grief. I’ve been trying to pick up writing again. I was laying down a page or so every couple of days before we got the news and I’m trying to get back in the swing of things again. I’ve been exercising more. Being physically exhausted means I don’t have to feel so goddamn much.

And for a while there I thought I’d throw myself into work. I applied for my boss’ job and for a couple months I thought the position was mine for the taking. Getting the job was a really handy escape; I had lots of idea of what we could do differently. Unfortunately the position was filled by someone else and once again I felt like I had the rug pulled out from under me.

I put a lot of myself into trying to land that job, and without it I feel devoid of purpose. I badly need something to work towards, a reason for going through all this. Something just for me. Will it be writing? I sure hope so.

Because I think having a purpose would go a long way to filling up the emptiness that’s inside me. (I rewrote the previous sentences half a dozen times trying to come up with a way of expressing that sentiment without sounding so goddamn emo.) I just want something to strive towards, something to work for. And to be honest I don’t know what that is. I know the answer won’t just appear to me out of thin air, but I don’t even know the first step towards figuring it all out.

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you right now.

Love,

Dad

Portishead - Roads

Amanda Palmer - The Killing Type

Words and Fire

Getting out bed for the past three weeks has been a challenge. I wake up and in those first brief moments, when my brain is flopping around trying to find its bearings, everything is okay. But of course reality slides in pretty quickly and the ache in my chest always reappears.


Miserable doesn’t begin to cover it.

I spent two days in the hospital with my wife delivering a child we knew was going to be dead at its birth. It was the worst experience I have ever gone through. It was like some kind of awful mirror universe parody of the birth of our first child. There was none of the giddiness or excitement, none of the anticipation and joy. It was just a hideous mockery of that first event. Every aspect of those two days was steeped in dread and misery, every milestone clouded by the awful truth of what awaited us.

I’d seen pictures of babies born as early as ours was and I thought that I was as emotionally prepared as I could be for something like this. But when you hold something that small and tiny in your hands I don’t think it’s really possible to be prepared for the emotions and thoughts that flood through you.

Worst of all, the hits just kept on coming. Every time I thought I’d gotten control of my emotions, locked down what I was feeling, something else would happen and I’d be reduced to a mess all over again. The body grew cold, we took pictures, they took her away. Every step was just more salt poured in the wounds.

It was a girl. We named her, Helen Christina. A name from each of our own. A way of giving her a piece of ourselves.

I cried like a baby. Uncontrollably. Which was incredibly uncomfortable experience, almost shameful, for me because I don’t like outward displays of emotion. Reserved and controlled is pretty much my bailiwick.

I’d never come from an overly macho household. My parents were fairly open and accepting of any emotional response. But I’ve never seen my father cry. Not once. Despite the knocks and bumps that all of us take in life I’ve seen my father keep it together each and every time.

Maybe behind closed doors he lets it all out, just like the rest of us, but if anyone else was present he was always tough and in control. I envy his strength.

When we got home we were done. Emotionally, physically, mentally. By any measurement of the human condition you care to examine, we were just gone.

In a sense our two year old has been a blessing and a curse. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, she can tell something is different, but she still wants to go to the park, or play in her wading pool. And, she still needs to eat, have her teeth brushed and take a bath every night. Which means we still need to behave like fully functioning adults and provide all those things for her. Her very presence forces us to keep on keeping on.

But it also means there’s no time, to grieve, to cope, to process.

We’re putting everything we have into our daughter and nothing into ourselves. We just carry our hurt around with us like luggage and every so often something will poke at it, a reference on a TV show or a song, and pop, the clasp springs open and all our emotions come rushing out.

Sam Roberts-Words & Fire

Coping.

A Letter.

A week ago today the bottom fell out of my world. We were called into our doctor’s office to talk about the results of some of the blood work your mother had done a couple weeks previous. We were told that there was an abnormal reading, that the test showed a positive result for spina bifidia and that we would have to go and get an emergency ultrasound in order to determine if everything was all right.

Everything was not all right.

Doctor Dave assured us that everything was going to be fine. “False positives happen all the time,” he said, “with a reading this high it has to be a mistake.” We had an hour or so to kill before our ultrasound appointment so we went and got some lunch. It was a pretty somber affair. Going to lunch just gave us something to stop our minds from constructing nightmare scenarios. Your mother and I talked to each other, tried to buoy each other’s spirits, tried to take the edge off the black cloud that had crept over us both.

I hate the place where we went to get the ultrasound. I’ve sat in on a couple ultrasounds now and this place always makes me wait outside like a naughty child while they do the imaging. They call me in after the whole thing is over and run me through the highlights. Of course, that’s great if everything is routine but it gnaws away at your chest when you’re waiting the outcome of what could be terrible news. I much prefer the other ultrasound place on College Street that lets me see what’s happening every step of the way.

They kept your mother in the examination room for an hour and a half, about three times longer than they expected to. At the end they didn’t bother to ask me to come in, they just sent your mother out and said to call our doctor in an hour or so for the results.

I knew then that the news was going to be bad.

I went back to the office to try and distract myself with work but I wasn’t very successful. I met up with your mother again shortly after to check on the results and all I could do was listen to her half of the conversation over the telephone and slowly watch her fall apart. It was our very worst fear come to life.

No one should have to listen to the anguish of a parent getting such terrible news. No one should have to listen to well-meaning doctors try and put the best possible spin on the situation. No one should be a prisoner of their own mind as it turns over endless scenarios in your skull, relentlessly prosecutes you for a million unrelated sins and refuses to let yourself just shut down and ignore the whole thing altogether.

I am sad that I will never get to know you the way I know your big sister. All the milestones and achievements and happiness that she has brought into our life will be denied to you and me and that breaks my heart. And as bad as things are now I know that there are still darker times ahead. I have to keep reminding myself that as unhappy as I am at this moment it’s important that I be there for your mother. She is the one who is bearing the brunt of all this. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain she is feeling.

I don’t want you to think that just because there is so much sadness attached to what is happening now that I love you any less. There is a place for you in my heart and even though I’ll only know you for a very short time I promise to treasure every second of it.

You will never be forgotten. You will always be loved.

Dad.