One may remark what a fine sight
it is to see a man or woman surrounded by their children. Surely one could not
witness a procession arrayed in honor of the gods so beautiful nor a choral
dance performed in order at a religious celebration so well worth seeing as a
chorus of children forming a guard of honor for their father or mother in the
city of their birth, leading their parents by the hand or dutifully caring for
them in some other way.
What is more beautiful than this
sight? What is more enviable than these parents, especially if they are good
people? For whom would one more gladly join in praying for blessings from the
gods, or whom would one be more willing to assist in need?
It might seem odd to describe parenthood as such a joyful
and glorious thing. Surely it is more of a burden, full of exhaustion, and
pain, and disappointments? You offer up so much, and so rarely a word of
thanks.
All generations have their own quirks, but I
noticed how mine, as we grew older, was quite fond of complaining about how
busy we felt, how the work never seemed to end, and how stressed we were by all
the hectic running about.
For those who had children, their complaints could
take on a whole new level of resentment. It almost seemed like we were proud of
being miserable through our families, and we would compete over who could come
across as the most frazzled.
Maybe my parents felt the same about the troubles
of raising me, but they would never have spoken of it openly.
And so most of my crowd can’t help but think of
family life as a chaotic and soul-sucking mess. Observe, for example, the usual
depictions we see in film, which are simply exaggerated forms of what we muddle
our way through every day.
Assuming everyone isn’t being sullen, there will be
lots of yelling, insults, and the rolling of eyes. People are rushing from one appointment
to another, stuffing their faces with food as they go. They barely take notice
of one another. Children act out, and parents are completely ineffective at
providing any order or purpose, since they long ago abandoned common sense for shallow
platitudes from Oprah and Dr. Phil.
Occasionally, in the midst of the clutter of dirty
dishes and laundry, someone will sigh, and wonder out loud why we can’t all
live a much simpler sort of life.
I will foolishly let myself get dragged along like
the next fellow, but then I may have a moment of clarity. Indeed, why can’t there
be simplicity and purity? I’m the only one keeping myself from it. The hardship
comes not from the circumstances, but from my priorities.
Of course, raising a family will bring with it many
obstacles, and great sacrifices will have to be made, though what I might lose
will seem quite bearable if I value the right things. If understanding and love
come first, and are the source of all my joys, then I can easily shrug my
shoulders at whatever else Fortune throws my way. Those hardships will be quite
insignificant in comparison to the rewards.
When my wife and I had our son, he needed constant
attention, what some people might call a “fussy” child. There were times when
we thought we could no longer bear it.
In a desperate attempt to return to some semblance
of our old life, we tried, perhaps too hastily, to bring him along while we went
out for a quiet meal. Who knows, we said, maybe he’ll finally take a nap?
He didn’t of course, and we spent much of the time
taking turns with one of us eating in peace while the other walked him up and
down outside. I don’t think I ever came closer to throwing in the towel.
As we were about to leave, a man approached us,
politely apologized for interrupting, and told us that he had noticed how good
we were at taking care of our boy. “You clearly love him very much, and you all
look so happy.”
In my precarious state, I wanted to slug him, to
ask him what he could possibly know about it. Then I glanced toward the table
he had come from, where his wife was quite efficiently managing three young
children, and I could only smile and offer my thanks. His kind words then are often
still a comfort to me now.
The sight of parents with children, at least with
those parents who bother to care, is indeed a beautiful thing, if only I can
remember what life is actually supposed to be about. Family is an inconvenience
to the man who wants to get ahead, but a blessing to the man who recognizes what he
is able to give.
Written in 6/2006
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