Dear Claire,
Reading the title of this entry you may well assume that we’re talking about Your Mother’s (YM) birth cannel. Or perhaps your personal perception of what life growing up is going to be considering who your parents are. But now, surprise, surprise, I’m talking about myself here - this is yet again, an entry on how YOUR birth and life since has affected me (you’ll have to write your own series of letters to me to get your side of the story into this. In fact I can see the title of that first letter: “Dear Dad, your financial and emotional cheque bounced, please resend”).
Okay, before I bemoan you, let’s take a quick look at three great bits that you give to the world at this point in your existence, the about-15-month mark (BTW, you’ve given more than three, I’m just highlighting these ones for now):
1.Your Giggles - you don’t give them easily. No, like YM you make me have to work at them really really thoroughly. Cheap laughs and thrills don’t get me much other than a furrowed brow and general sense of annoyance. In this way you are YM’s daughter. BUT when the mood does suit you and one of my desperate attempts to make you laugh works, well, your giggles give me a joy I never knew. When our cats were kittens their playfulness and glee was also infectious, but that only lasted a year until they grew into the tired, lazy, sometimes annoying adults cats that we have lying around the house all day now. You’ve been clocking cute and infectious laughter for well over a year now and you’re only getting better and better at it. When you laugh, our entire family laughs. And you’re also funny, a jokester, that much is already obvious, and your own jokes make you laugh, which you got from me, much to the chagrin of YM. Aside from your allowance, this will be the one thing that bides us together forever, the laughter, and nothing delights me more than making you giggle your guts out.
2.Your First Word - not sure if these qualify as “words”, but they are your first words and you know exactly what they mean and you use them perfectly: “uh-oh”. A quick examination of what uh-oh means from the trusty dictionary and you come up with “exclamation, used to express alarm, dismay, or realization of a difficulty : ‘Uh-oh! Take cover!’” Maybe you’re more observant that one can know, because examining the explanation, taking into account who your parents are and your Dad’s penchant for never given up on the dreams of youth as I press into my late thirties, “uh-oh” could well be my epitaph. Well done my girl. It began as you walked your sippy cup out over the edge of your high chair and let it fall into the great beyond below, uttering “uh-oh” as you let go. That act immediately graduated to using forks, spoons, and then bowls and plates, and handfuls of the meals you were growing tired of (and word to the wise, marmalade is as good as concrete once given a chance to air dry onto a pliable clean surface). You now drop anything around the house with a “uh-oh” and are given to pointing to us when we drop something (or fart) and utter the “uh-oh”. Lately you’ve just been saying it in what seems out of the blue, with nothing in hand to drop, just looking at me, “uh-oh”. Who knows what you mean in those instances, but suffice to say, you’re pretty cute when you do.
3.Your Energy Thing - not sure if we should call it an energy “gift” or an energy “concern” or an energy “problem”. Basically, the best way to explain this is that you got my unbounded energy for life. When I was growing up teachers referred to it as a problem, many teaching professionals wanted me on drugs (which my mother refused), and one grade six teacher went so far as to tell my Mom that I was going to wind up in the correctional department, and not as an employee. How do we know that you got this from me, isn’t YM also a joyful and wonderfully peppy person? Yes she is. Yet, the other day you were over at YM’s parents house, Grandma and Grampa Zadie’s place, and you were jumping on top of the automon that you climbed up on and could fall and break your head open off of, and you were laughing and dancing atop there uncontrollably as YM had your pants down in the struggle of trying to change your diaper as ka-ka overflowed and fell all over the autmon you were atop of. There was no controlling you on this one. Your Grandma at this time said to YM, “Just so you know, you and Jesse were never like this. EVER. She gets this from Shane.” And to all I say, “you’re welcome.” But recently we’ve noticed something else: not only do you have my energy thing, you also have YM’s personality thing. See, I think of it at times when I’m not getting my way that YM has an attitude adjustment problem, she’s stubborn or difficult. You have this - maybe it’s from the curly hair that you both share, or as YM jokes, you’re mutual jew-fro. However you’ve come to it, the point is this: you’re a perfect storm. Not only do you want to bounce off the walls, you, well, you wont let anyone else tell you any different without a total freak out and melt-down in extremely exhausting battle with you. When in similar battles between me and YM it usually ends with me giving a shrug and walking away with a “whatever”. With you I raise my game, I laugh, turn away, and call out for YM to give you hand as I have some more pressing business ... like checking a sports score on my iPhone.
Anyway, there’s a load of amazing things about you, no question, and we’ll fill them in with praise over the years. For now though, I wanted to move on to my, ah, “point”.
Often now people will ask “How’s Claire?” or “How’s life with Claire going?” More often than not I just tell ‘em “oh, it’s great, never been happier.” Which is true, for sure. Whole truth, nothing but the truth? Well, parenting is kind of tough to be honest. It’s easy to love you and want to hug you to death and just be totally into whatever it is you want or need. I’m nuts about you, and YM is prone to crying just looking at you she loves you so much. You are in our thoughts in a constant loop each and every day and throughout our sleeps as well. Often times you are more than just an extension of our being, you have in fact instantly become the REASON for our being. All is now you ... with a little bit for ourselves, but that too seems to have you-stakes written into those decisions as well. Essentially, you’ve usurped me, and this is, ah, the “problem”.
I used to be able to view each day as my own. From the time I was born and every moment since I haven’t been the greatest one to empathize, I didn’t really find a way to see the world through other people’s eyes. I’ve been more prone to be a emphasizer: I have given special importance to my life and given prominence to Me-things in speaking and writing enhancing the view of the world through my own self-indulgent eyes. Can you see where this worldview presents a parenting conflict? (True YM would site this last paragraph in our relationship counseling as a reason for needing relief, if we were to ever go to one and which all of my friends have asked how she survives being with me 24/7 without said counseling, at least they, after some time with me can retreat and regroup in the comforts of their own homes). I guess you could summarize this as saying my greatest attribute is that I have a lot of child-like enthusiasm for life ... but is this really a great attribute when you’re slipping towards forty? Maybe reliable or sophisticated may be more becoming of someone in their mid-life?
Everyday prior to you dear Claire, was another wonderful celebration of a “Me-day”, stemming from Me-weeks, Me-months, and Me-years/decades. Now I’m fraught with the challenge of ending the me-everything. Before I could wake up and take the day as I needed to, settling into whatever it is I wanted and do it for as long as I wanted, eat whenever I wanted, sleep whenever I wanted, and plan any trip or project whenever I wanted without a care in the world, and yes from time to time work some mild details out with YM (back then remember she was my girl, Amanda and I was her boyfriend and sometimes adult companion, or husband). But really, she had her thing, I had my thing, we lived and loved together in-between, and all was as it was meant to be. And now you ...
The change from Me-days to You-days has been abrupt and I’d like to take you through a day-in-the-life of a You-day. We go to bed, YM and I, exhausted but feeling pressed for time because we didn’t get enough time to do what we needed to with you around all day. I start here to emphasize that we start each day at a sleep-loss. Whenever you wake up, we wake. If that is 5 AM or 7:15 (ideal), that is when we begin. We don’t begin with a stretch, a look out the window, a kiss with the partner, a thought about an idea that I was working out in my dreams. None of that. That’s yesteryear, the Me-years. Now I wake up with a slight panic every morning: Where’s Claire? Is she okay? Then YM and I get outta bed and start the routine. True it starts with picking you outta your crib (cell?) and holding you, sometimes you’re laughing and ready to roll and have a great time, pointing at things in your room saying “doh” ... or maybe you mean “dough” and you’re planning to have your first garage sale ASAP to get ride of half the things you’ve never used (if the latter is true your Grandpa Zadie is smiling). Anyway, my point is, I wake up without the Me-filter to start the day, it begins with the You-filter and I need YM to get up with me so we can get the you-show on the road.
Next up is breakfast. In the Me-years breakfast could happen by my lonesome anywhere from 8 to 11 AM. Make it as I need it, maybe spend a few hours in my PJ’s doing some emails and whatever. Now one of us is in the kitchen while the other is getting “ready” in some fashion - like throwing on some clothes and getting out of the house with that awe-inspired “good enough” look. It’s the new fashion no one is talking about. And breakfast for you also involves making your lunch for daycare. In so doing the stack of dirty dishes and dirty kitchen floor is on a serious rise throughout. And before we can finish your lunch and pack it up, you’re done your breakfast and you DEMAND to be let out of your high chair. So, we pick you up, wash your face and hands after you’ve had a chance to wipe them on our “good enough” clothes that now look like the average person’s day-olds or week-olds, like we’ve come back from a one-outfit camping weekend because we thought it was going to be warm and these are the only long sleeved shirts we brought with us ... Anyway, you wind up on the floor running around and complaining that we aren’t playing with you as we try to pack your lunch up.
Once the lunch is packed we try to wrestle you to the ground to get a clean diaper on you. You are very annoyed by this. You cry, but more in that having a fit “I hate you Dad” kind of fake cry. You want to be left alone to play already. The further insult comes when I have to put a jacket and hat on you before we head outside, which is akin to you as hog-tying you in a rodeo - it’s a great insult that only you seem to see at this point, I’m just trying to get a coat on you.
Anyway, we get the lunched packed, we get you in a coat, we get in a stroller (in which you have every right to have a daily fit about since you are really hog tied into that thing) and then we get you out the door, walking you a whack of blocks and drop you off at daycare. And you would think, for a Me-guy, that dropping you off would be some kind of release, some kind of grand exhale, “ah” I could say to myself, “so, back to me now.” And should I not find Me-encouragement when 9 out of 10 times I bring you into daycare and take your jacket off and you run into the toddler crowd and you never turn back to see me because you’re so excited to get into the action with your classmates? And that one time that you do turn back to smile and wave to me, but then jump into the arms of one of your daycare workers seemingly more excited to see them - should this not be a perfect time to switch the “ah, me-time”? And it never is. Because, and this is the goddamn rub about having kids of your own, every time I drop you off, every time I leave the house without, every moment that you are not around me it breaks my heart. It’s like a monkey wrench is dropped in my engine and it rattles around inside and everything seems a tad off until you’re around to fix it. It’s really REALLY annoying. So, I gotta stand there, and watch you from afar, you are separate from me in this exact instant, you are on your own only the length of a room away, and you’re doing your own thing, with your own friends, in your own school, and I know that when I turn to go you’ll continue to do these things on your own, without me, it’ll be your day, your choices, your memories, your discovers, WITHOUT me. Goddamn is it hard to turn and walk away and go “enjoy” my day as a Me-day from here on in.
So, I run back home after dropping you off with one thought: “I gotta get home, hurry up, and get what I need done so I can get back there and pick my girl up as soon as possible.” So now the Me-day, or Me-workday as it were, has become burdened. Recall, pre-You-days, things unfolded at ease, as I liked. Now I got a clock. I want to be there to pick you up no later than 3:30 and it is now almost 9 AM and I’m running out of time. Home, do all the dishes and clean the mess you made on the floor. Make myself some oatmeal, maybe a tea, and all at a feverish pace. Then drop some laundry in - there is always so much goddamn laundry, but you need clean stuff and I can’t abide by messes as the best of times, let alone with a kid around. And yes, some mornings I’ll do some kind of obsessive cleaning chore like cleaning the floors on my hands and knees. Not only can I not abide by thinking of you playing in a dirty house I also can’t work in a mess, I need things to be totally organized and unfettered in order for me to “create”, so after the mess you left I got a lot of work to do before I can even get to my real work. And then you throw in the shower and “book reading club for one” that I do every morning and I’m pushing 11AM before I’m actually ready to get to work on something and the entire time I’ve been rushing around worried about the clock ticking away.
Finally, it’s me, the typewriter, and a blank page ... TIME TO WRITE! ... I need inspiration ... I surf the web for an hour ... DAMN look at the time, I gotta pick Claire up in 3 HOURS! ... I gotta write ... The email goes bing. I spend the next hour dealing with that email garbage ... DAMN I only got 2 hours to write until I have to pick you up ... time to eat something ... time to clean up all the dishes ... time to change the laundry ... DAMN I only got ONE HOUR until I have to pick you up! ... time to start thinking about what you’re going to have for supper ... I pre-cut some things, get things ready for your arrival ... pack up my writing, hit save, and head out the door to pick you up ... pick you up, bring you home, play around, have a laugh, make some dinner, have YM come through the door from her long day at work paying our mortgage, and then we take turns eating, feeding you a new meal since the one we made you for your “first dinner” was an insult to your pallet, clean the dishes, get you to run around some, get you to take a bath, change the laundry, tidy the house post-crazed-playtime, and make you a bottle and put you to bed by 7-8PM. Then, by the LOVE of GOD you fall asleep, you’re put to bed, the NIGHT IS OURS ... and all Amanda and I do for the next 30 to 60 minutes is talk about how cute you are and every amazing thing that you did that day or how what you did reminded you of me or her. It’s now 9 PM. We’re exhausted. And I still have a WHACK of work to do. So I do it. I write as long as I can until my eyes cross. YM does some work from her work on her laptop in bed until she crashes. Later, totally wired from writing, I head to bed but can’t sleep for an hour so I read a book. This is about 12-1AM and we get up and do it all over again by 5-7 AM.
This is how exhausting you’ve become. You are physically exhausting. You are mentally exhausting because trying to think and get something done when you are around is impossible because you demand our attention and to be honest we want to spend every single frigging moment with you. And you are spiritually exhausting because all you do is make me think that I gotta keep working, gotta keeping learning, gotta keep trying to better myself to be a better parent for you because everything you do is magic and there’s a lot of petty in me still to sort out so you not only like and love me as your father, but you think in some way that you’re lucky to have me as your father. Isn’t that what we want our kids to think, end of the day, that no matter what, if they could do it all over again in any way they wanted, they would still choose us as their parents? Dog-gone-it, YM and I really want you to like us, even like 1 zillionoth of how much we are knocked out by you. This is the REMOTEST place from “Me-world”. This is all about You-world. You pretty much got me on my knees hoping and praying that everything is going good and is going to work out in the end and that you are happy and well. This is, in short order, the death of Me and the beginning of You ... and it’s troubling, that’s all I’m saying.
Oh, and one last thing, before we go to sleep, each of us on our own, YM and I, goes into your room where you are sleeping and looks in on you to make sure that you’re okay and we whisper that we love you and the world is right because you are here.
Sincerely yours,
Shane Belcourt
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