Fathers and sons
When I found while working out at the gym that I was still thinking about the way my 22-year-old son had dropped his schedule and, to some degree, his concomitant responsibilities onto me, I decided it was time for action.
“When you get home at 4:30,” I texted him from the StairMaster, “I’d like to have a discussion.”
“Sounds ominous!” my fiancée offered when I related this to her. “Purposely,” I said.
My son quickly texted back a blank “Ok.”
Let me be clear: D. is a terrific guy. He’s what you want in a responsible, good-hearted, caring, good-natured, young man. He’s got a nice girlfriend that I feel he’s earned by way of being a good catch, so nice that for my birthday she wrote a very nice birthday card saying how good a person I must be to have raised such a thoughtful, good, kind, generous, smart young man… and so, yes, I said to D, “This is more of a card for YOU!” But I digress.
What I was not caring for was his recent general slippage in some areas, but what in particular had set me off was his texted assumption earlier that day that I could work around the immediate plans of his that he’d just shared with me and that would entail the next 24 hours — and not for the first time. Even if I were sporting enough to let him lad around town while I grind away at what makes all this possible, we have two dogs, and they require some maintenance: walking, feeding, letting out, tending to, appreciating in the way they demand, and so forth. If both of the humans are out, well, that won’t do. It’ll be like I’m paying the mortgage simply for the dogs. Much as I like them, it seems inequitable to me; if they were working stars and paying their keep, like Lassie or Air Bud, I would feel differently. But they’re not. And so I want humans to sleep in the costly house I’m maintaining.
When D came home and asked, “So what did you want to talk about?” as casually as he could, I said, “Finish what you’re doing, and then come sit here and we can talk about it.” Setting the tone, as it were.
I went over scheduling and explained that, like it or not, I’m extremely scheduled, and so we need to work together in advance to figure out who’s not going to be home on any given night so that someone is here, and, well, I do like to visit my lady love too. Fair’s fair.
Moving on, I then talked about me having to rummage through his dirty dishes and silverware in the sink, which makes no sense when a dishwasher is not two feet away that could be loaded with such implements.
For topic number three, I noted that clutter creates stress and anxiety, and while realizing that I’m part of the clutter problem (if it were possible to go reverse-engineer paper, I could repopulate a forest with all the scripts and papers and books and magazines and comic books and notes and writing pads and journals I’ve generated or accumulated), I will do my part in doing better, and need him to join me in that, and please witness this newly bare table and counter we’re viewing right now.
Finally, a short demand: Don’t leave your washed and dried clothes lingering for a day or two or more in the dryer.
My wrap-up included the phrase, “As my tenant, you can see where I’m coming from.”
He agreed to it all, and has been remarkably solicitous and helpful in the two days since — just as he has always been, but for the recent slippage. I even found this note he wrote to himself, which I think shows him for the person he is.
The next night, I was over at my fiancée K’s house and remarking upon how well this had all gone. She volunteered that I’m a good dad, which I appreciated. Then the George Harrison song “My Sweet Lord” came on over Pandora.
“Oh, I’ve always loved this song,” I said. I get the desire behind it, and I love both George’s guitar work and his voice. In fact, I like most of his music.
Listening to that, and prompted by the discussion we’d just had, got me to thinking of George Harrison and of an interview his son Dhani gave a bit after George died.
“When George Harrison died, an interviewer asked his son what he was like,” I offered. “You know what he said?”
“What?” K asked.
“’Cranky.’”