Father love, part 1: Gratitude

Saturday afternoon, my fears about parenting kids were on the brain, but this week I'm going to work through a list of what I love most about my children, so far. (That way those of you who haven't had the chance to fall in love with them yet will have some good reasons to start.)

First of all, I love the way they're learning to be thankful. Yesterday Melía was playing "birthday" with us, bringing gift bags stuffed with random stuff carefully hand-picked from the back of the house. When her twin, Ashlyn, received the gift, she drew in her breath with delight, and exclaimed, "Oh, a [whatever it was]! And a BEAUTIFUL [whatever else was in the bag]! And a [fill in with some other broken, used toy]! It's my favorite! Thank you, Melía!"

Today we did a belated Christmas gift exchange with my parents and brothers and their wives. Everyone was generous and thoughtful with their gifts, but it takes no genius to discern that kids are more excited about some presents than others. But it didn't matter--whether it was the little wedding dresses complete with garter, gloves and veil (8.9 on the excitement scale) or the pajamas (over which Mommy and Daddy were possibly more stoked than the girls), they called out, "Thank you! Thank you! THANK YOU!" in crescendos till they could be heard over the Christmassy chaos, following up with tight hugs to the giver.

Like I said, any fool could see that the pajama thank-you's began differently than the bridal gown ones, a little more Superego than Id. But by the time the little girls were shouting their thanks and jumping into the the arms of the giver, the distinction blurred. By then all that mattered was this dance: giver gives joyfully, recipient expresses thanks, giver is more joyful than ever, recipient senses this joy and realizes her thanks has been a gift too. In the best case, both parties are more present to the magic between them than to the gift itself.

I'm hoping to pick up some of my children's gratitude in the new year, seeking to practice what I've been preaching so hard to them. I want to be just as faithful about thanking God, my wife, my coworkers, my children, total strangers, for whatever gifts they share. I want to put my heart into expressing gratitude for the wedding gown kind of gifts and the pajamas, even for the broken, used toys. Because it isn't about the gift, but about the dance, the magic that can happen when generosity meets gratitude.

The band Sixpence None the Richer takes its name from Mere Christianity, where C.S. Lewis tells a story about a boy asking his dad for a sixpence to go and buy him a gift. Of course, after receiving the gift, the father--by some measures--is no richer than before the child gave. (See lead singer Leigh Nash explain this to David Letterman on YouTube.) I'm thinking this father was grateful anyway, if not for the gift, for the magic that swelled between generous Father and eager-to-please son. Something tells me our True Father is grateful too, for whatever broken gifts we return to Him. Maybe He really does feel richer.

That's the kind of daddy I want to be.

Beginning of the end

My wife and I saved our best (read "gnarliest") showdown of the year for its last day. The topic: money. (What else?)

And the children had a front-row seat.

For over an hour we had wrestled our way through the cash flow spreadsheet, yanking it like undersized covers, back and forth, category by category. In the same room, Brielle (4), Melía and Ashlyn (both 3) kept up their play, some syncretism of biblical role-playing involving Disney princesses. My male dullness told me we were making progress, that Rachelle and I had patched together a ceasefire of sorts.

That's when she left the dining room table, sat on the couch, and started to cry. All three daughters gathered around her before I could make it across the room. Brielle began, "Mommy, what's wrong?" Ashlyn, the verbal frontrunner of the twins, followed, "Mommy, why are you crying?" Melía parroted, "Mommy, wha' wong? Why you pying?"

Rachelle's weeping broke into sobs that shook with laughter at the empathetic looks on their faces, as she opened her arms to the worried firstborn. I laughed for a beat before launching my ever-so-rational explanation. "Mommy and Daddy want to have enough money to buy the things we need to take good care of our sweet girls. So we want to work enough to make that much money. But we don't want to work too much because it makes us be away from you. And sometimes we want to buy more things but we don't want to work more and be away from you. And it makes us sad."

I waited, eyes on my daughters, but ears tuned to the wife tucked stiffly under my right arm, wondering if she would agree or refute me with her mommy version of the speech. ("Daddy hates Christmas because he is cheap and wants me to dress you in rags and feed you dog food," I feared it might begin.) Rachelle did neither, just crying and hugging Brielle, who had come up onto her lap.

Brielle took it in, eyes wide and mouth drawn. she looked at the floor, and back into my wife's flooded eyes. "We keep finding money all around the house, and I'm saving it in my purse. Maybe we could share."

In a good story, that line would have put an end to the discussion, as the family melted in tears and laughter. But this is my life, which all in all is a good story but not that kind of good story. Which means we did laugh, and Mommy did shed more tears, squeezing Brielle more tightly as we both showered thanks upon her for her generosity. But, no, the discussion and subsequent make-up would go on for enough hours that our kids would miss their New Year's Eve choir performance (by five minutes).

Brielle's simple offer was gloriously insufficient to close the gap in our budget. But the pure grace of it was the happy beginning of the end of the gap between Mommy and Daddy today, an innocent seed sprouting roots down into our rock-hardness, audacious enough to think it might make us crack.

So, on the eve of 2008, here's to the happy beginnings-of-the-end that our children are audacious enough to be to us. May they take root where we most need to be cracked.

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Questons I'm asking myself:

- What other things am I making more complex than necessary, where at least the spirit of simplicity might begin to work its way toward a solution?

- What other unhelpful things in me can my children's simplicity begin to put an end to?

- How wrong was it for the girls to hear this whole conversation? How much insulation do they need from this sort of discussion?