A Belated Tribute to Fathers
We were without internet service all weekend, and that's why I couldn't wish you men a Happy Father's Day yesterday. Thanks to my family's dinner conversation Saturday evening, I'd been thinking, yet again, of how good is it that my boys have a father.
Jonathan had been working in the yard all day, building a trellis for me. The kids helped him, and then went off with some neighborhood friends--some older boys from down the street--to play in the woods nearby.
I produced a rather nice supper of homemade sourdough bread, sliced and topped with feta cheese, bacon, tomatoes, and purple onions, then melted under the broiler. We also had a salad of lettuce from our garden. It was a pretty meal and I was proud of it, and the family was suitably appreciative. So we ate, and the sun was shining slantwise across the table, and everyone was tired and happy and agreeing that it had been a good day.
"Did you have fun in the woods?" I asked.
The kids all nodded. They had ridden bikes over the bumpy path, chased each other, and briefly gotten separated into two groups.
The eight-year-old nodded toward his brother. "That's when he started shouting, 'Aragorn! Aragorn!' I heard him shouting it in the woods."
"I was trying to find the rest of you," his brother explained. "It was more fun calling Aragorn than calling regular names."
They went back to eating. Then, as an afterthought, the youngest remarked, "The bigger boys found some magazines with pictures of naked girls, but they made sure we stayed a long way away, and they buried them. They would have burned them, but we didn't have any matches."
I looked at Jonathan. "Yeah, it would have been good to burn them," he said.
"But anyway we didn't want to set the woods on fire," the eight-year-old said.
"Yes, there is that," I agreed. "Well, it was good that they wanted to destroy them."
I wanted to say more--I wanted to give a speech about the objectification of women, about the addictive and destructive nature of pornography, about its dehumanizing effects on both men and women, about self-respect--hey, I even have a videotape of Ted Bundy talking about how his thrill-seeking began with porn, went on to violent porn, and then to killing. But Jonathan was taking this calmly, so I too held my tongue. And after all, the older boys had done the right thing. I kept quiet and ate my salad.
Then the nine-year-old made his contribution to the conversation: "I licked a bug," he said.
"You did what?"
He smiled at me. "I licked a bug."
"With your tongue?"
"Yeah. That's what you lick with."
"That's disgusting! What sort of bug was it? I hope it wasn't a cockroach."
"Cockroaches don't carry any more diseases than people do."
"Tell me you didn't lick a cockroach."
"We don't have cockroaches up here--at least I've never seen one. They live in warmer places."
"So you didn't lick one?"
"No, I licked a grub."
"That's disgusting! I'm tempted to pour alcohol over your tongue."
He looked surprised. "Are you really?"
"No. That would poison you. Rubbing alcohol is poisonous if you drink it. But I could wash your mouth out with soap."
"It's too late for that," he said, taking another bite of my lovely meal. "Besides, they eat grubs in Papua New Guinea."
"We aren't in Papua New Guinea!" The boys were both laughing, and their sister was calmly eating her dinner. I looked to their father for help.
"Jonathan!"
He looked up. "Yes?"
"Tell him not to lick bugs! It's disgusting!"
He turned gravely toward his eldest son. "Son," he said, "Your mother's job as your mother is to be disgusted and tell you not to lick bugs. My job as your father is to tell you that I'm proud of you. You did something gross. You were brave and you proved you could do it, and now you can move on. You don't have to do it again."
"That means don't lick bugs," I said.
Jonathan had been working in the yard all day, building a trellis for me. The kids helped him, and then went off with some neighborhood friends--some older boys from down the street--to play in the woods nearby.
I produced a rather nice supper of homemade sourdough bread, sliced and topped with feta cheese, bacon, tomatoes, and purple onions, then melted under the broiler. We also had a salad of lettuce from our garden. It was a pretty meal and I was proud of it, and the family was suitably appreciative. So we ate, and the sun was shining slantwise across the table, and everyone was tired and happy and agreeing that it had been a good day.
"Did you have fun in the woods?" I asked.
The kids all nodded. They had ridden bikes over the bumpy path, chased each other, and briefly gotten separated into two groups.
The eight-year-old nodded toward his brother. "That's when he started shouting, 'Aragorn! Aragorn!' I heard him shouting it in the woods."
"I was trying to find the rest of you," his brother explained. "It was more fun calling Aragorn than calling regular names."
They went back to eating. Then, as an afterthought, the youngest remarked, "The bigger boys found some magazines with pictures of naked girls, but they made sure we stayed a long way away, and they buried them. They would have burned them, but we didn't have any matches."
I looked at Jonathan. "Yeah, it would have been good to burn them," he said.
"But anyway we didn't want to set the woods on fire," the eight-year-old said.
"Yes, there is that," I agreed. "Well, it was good that they wanted to destroy them."
I wanted to say more--I wanted to give a speech about the objectification of women, about the addictive and destructive nature of pornography, about its dehumanizing effects on both men and women, about self-respect--hey, I even have a videotape of Ted Bundy talking about how his thrill-seeking began with porn, went on to violent porn, and then to killing. But Jonathan was taking this calmly, so I too held my tongue. And after all, the older boys had done the right thing. I kept quiet and ate my salad.
Then the nine-year-old made his contribution to the conversation: "I licked a bug," he said.
"You did what?"
He smiled at me. "I licked a bug."
"With your tongue?"
"Yeah. That's what you lick with."
"That's disgusting! What sort of bug was it? I hope it wasn't a cockroach."
"Cockroaches don't carry any more diseases than people do."
"Tell me you didn't lick a cockroach."
"We don't have cockroaches up here--at least I've never seen one. They live in warmer places."
"So you didn't lick one?"
"No, I licked a grub."
"That's disgusting! I'm tempted to pour alcohol over your tongue."
He looked surprised. "Are you really?"
"No. That would poison you. Rubbing alcohol is poisonous if you drink it. But I could wash your mouth out with soap."
"It's too late for that," he said, taking another bite of my lovely meal. "Besides, they eat grubs in Papua New Guinea."
"We aren't in Papua New Guinea!" The boys were both laughing, and their sister was calmly eating her dinner. I looked to their father for help.
"Jonathan!"
He looked up. "Yes?"
"Tell him not to lick bugs! It's disgusting!"
He turned gravely toward his eldest son. "Son," he said, "Your mother's job as your mother is to be disgusted and tell you not to lick bugs. My job as your father is to tell you that I'm proud of you. You did something gross. You were brave and you proved you could do it, and now you can move on. You don't have to do it again."
"That means don't lick bugs," I said.
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