C.S. Lewis Makes Me a Good Father . . .

My son, Andrew (age 7) has been reading way too much Pokemon and Diary of a Wimpy Kid.  The result has been an infusion of ideas and habits that aren’t necessarily all that helpful from a behavioral perspective.

Suddenly, I realized that maybe I, the scholar-father, should make sure he reads something GOOD.  Brilliant, I know.

So, last night I introduced him to The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe.  I had him read the first chapter on his own.  He liked it and accurately reported back what happened.  I laid in bed with him and read the next couple of chapters.  I could tell he liked it because he occasionally finished a sentence ahead of me in a voice of wonderment.

Around 8 pm, I left him in bed with his lamp on and a bookmark in the book (he doesn’t tolerate folded corners like his old man).

When I checked on him before retiring myself around 11 pm, I could tell he wasn’t really asleep.  He knew that I knew and looked at me.

“Andrew, have you been up reading all this time?”

“I finished it.”

I asked him what character he liked the best.  “Aslan,” he said, but pronounced it OS-LAHN.

Daddy couldn’t resist rubbing the secret late night reader on the head and feeling rather triumphant as he walked out the door.

Little Things in Everyday Life

When I first became a father, I was traumatized by the experience. There was part of me that rebelled in being tied down with such an awesome responsibility. I am thankful to God that he changed my heart and helped me accept the gift of fatherhood.

What I have discovered is that my greatest joys in life, bar none, relate to my children. Getting the right job, having an article published, making a book deal; none of those things compare to the exhilarating happiness I experience as a result of things my children do or say.

For example, I like to give my kids nicknames. My son Andrew can’t stand it. He is very strong on the rules. That means I can only call him Andrew. Not Bigstuff. Not Anderson. Not Handsome. Just Andrew. But little Grace, at age four, takes things a little more easily. We used to call her Baby Grace, then Baby G. Lately, I’ve taken to calling her Gracie-tot or Tabitha the Tot or little Tiger.

Yesterday, I picked her up in my arms and said, “I like to call you nicknames. Is that okay?”

She replied in the happiest little voice you ever heard, “Okay, Daddy. You can call me Pipsqueak. How about that?!!”

My heart melted in a pool of happiness at her goodwill, desire to please, and awesome overall cuteness.

Andrew, by the way, went to a new pediatrician with his mother yesterday. When the doctor asked Ruth whether Andrew was on a multi-vitamin, he precociously beat his mother to the punch by announcing, ” I have vitamins, but I never get to take them because Mom says I’m too late for school and I have to hurry.” He’s big on honesty.

For those of you who CHOOSE to be childless, think twice about it.  It’s true you won’t enjoy restaurants as much and your time won’t be your own.  But the emotional return on watching this little person, who really is part of you, grow up is impossible to duplicate with ski weekends or trips to Mexico.

Lunch with Andrew and Grace

After church, I drove Andrew (6) and Grace (3) to lunch at our traditional spot, a place called Double Dave’s.  On the way, Grace sang a song she made up:

God loves us.

God loves us.

God loves us.

Even when we’re bad.

She continued the song for quite a while until Andrew burst out, “Stop singing that song.  It’s not even real.  It’s just made up.”

In defense of Grace, I countered, “But Andrew, all the songs we sing were made up by somebody at some point or the other.”  I was sure he’d stop with that.

He returned fire immediately.  “I don’t care.  That could never be a real song.  I bet it would never even be recorded!”

That busted me up and finished the argument.  Grace and I laughed while Andrew kept up his serious face.  Happily, she was unoffended by his criticism.

Then, we ate lunch at the pizza buffet.  Grace stayed at the table and mowed through dessert pizza while Andrew pretended to play video games for which he had no money.  She dropped a piece of sticky, cherry pizza on the seat of our booth.  She started to pick it up.  I told her not to because now it was dirty.  She kept moving the piece toward her mouth.

I exclaimed, “No, Grace.  It’s dirty!”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because that seat is where people put their bottoms,” I said gravely.

She had no words.  The piece of cherry pizza stopped moving toward her mouth.  She now looked at me with an expression of pure horror.

End of discussion.