Sunday was hectic as usual, with church
and grocery shopping and getting more chores done. But mid-afternoon, I decided that I
wanted to do something as a family, so we all dropped what we were doing, lugged the bikes
up from the basement, hooked up the trailer, and went for a ride. Eric wasn’t happy
about wearing a helmet (typical preemie hypersensitivity to touch); however, we all seemed
to enjoy getting outside and spending time together as a family.
So what is the point of all this rambling? I suppose you could interpret it in a number
of ways. If you are of a political bent, you could take it as an indictment of the
disintegration of the nuclear family and a call for more quality time spent between
parents and children. But that isn’t really what I’m saying (especially given my
typically left-leaning political views). To be sure, I think that a lot of kids would be
better off if one parent could stay home with them, be it male or female. We have friends
where the father stays home with the kids, and they seem somewhat more in control of their
situation than we are (of course, he’s studying for his Ph.D. in English, and I think
his kids are going to grow up to be Marxists). As preemie parents, I suspect many of us
were forced into this arrangement, simply due to our fragile children’s medical
conditions. It doesn’t make us better parents; it just speaks to our realization of
our kids’ special needs.
If you are a cynic, you’ll probably assume that I’m trying to assuage a
guilty conscience for not spending more time with my kids in the past. And maybe
you’re at least partially right. I know that I can be selfish and place my needs
before others. And weekends like this will go a long way to breaking that type of
behavior.
If you are philosophically inclined, you might assume that I am trying to find a
solution for the perceived decline of civilization across the world. Maybe we as parents
need to spend more time with our kids, trying to understand their needs and desires,
instead of engaging in absentee parenting and expecting others to raise our children for
us. But I don’t think that is my point either.
I think what I’m trying to say is much simpler than all that. What I finally
realized this weekend is that there are plenty of ways we can spend our time, but very few
of them pay real dividends. I won’t dispute the fact that almost all of us need to
make a living; however, I will take exception to how much energy we put into things that
in the long run really don’t matter much. I’m typing this in a darkened nursery:
my son Eric is quietly snoring in the crib next to me as I try to hunt and peck in the
dark. And although my house may not be as clean as I would like it to be at the end of the
weekend, and the filing may be piling up in the basement, I have something much more
important to show for my time: memories. I can’t remember the last time I mowed the
lawn or mopped the floor. That’s not to say it’s been overly long since I did
these things; just that they aren’t terribly noteworthy in the grand scheme of
things. But I’ll long remember tossing Eric in the air while hundreds of kites flew
around the Washington Monument. I’ll long remember Eric pointing out the ducks on the
water of the Tidal Basin. And what that tells me is that my heart has always understood
what’s really important, even if my head is a little slow to learn.
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