By Claude Mills, Staff Reporter
Sending little Cammy to her room as punishment doesn't always work.
- Contributed
LET ME talk to you a minute about fear.
For a long time, I was afraid of becoming a father. I wondered if I would be a good one, or whether I would repeat the foibles that fathers sometimes make. Now that I am a father, I understand that fatherhood is the stuff of fear.
Men fear that fatherhood will wreck their marriages, ruin their sex lives, strip them of the freedom to be spontaneous or, worse, self-centred. And the fear of not being good enough truly torments men who had a poor relationship with their fathers. My fear surrounds all the bad things that can happen, the rest just goes with the job description.
When I hug my daughter and feel her frail body under her dark, fragile skin, I think of all the bad things that can happen -- skidding cars, caskets, angry young men who substitute guns for understanding, falling bricks, killer acronyms like SARS and AIDS, etcetera. I know it is irrational, but a sliver of fear slips into my heart because I know that one false step, one inadvertent mistake, one moment can irrevocably change my life forever. It is the sword that hangs over my head.
CONTROL
Still, despite these thoughts, I find myself using the instrument of fear to exert control over my child when she insists that she will not go to school today, or when I catch her devouring handfuls of lotion. (Yes, she is a rather strange child, but considering who her father is, she turned out alright).
Being a father means walking the tightrope between being a fair and just "administrator", and that of an all-powerful, fear-inspiring despot. When I tower over her, I want her to sense my size, my musculature (hah - that's a laugh) and my strength, and to know that I am Dad. It is a silly power trip, but mine own.
There are no manuals with all the right answers for fathers (or mothers, for that matter). You have to discern for yourself which repeated offences, and what degree of defiance will warrant a slap or a booming "Go to your room!" where she is banished for a 10 - minute eternity to her room of stuffed animals.
The "Go to your room" command, I have discovered, is my favourite perk of the fatherhood bit. When I deliver it -- with Brando-like panache, of course -- a sly cat's smile of satisfaction curls my lips as she skulks off.
I am in control. I want her to be afraid of my disapproval and, at times, I want her to be afraid of me, but not to the point where she will feel that I have withdrawn my love from her.
'GO TO YOUR ROOM'
Just the other night, she penned a horrific circle in red ink on the living room wall. I confronted her, and she shrugged me off, so I gave her the booming "go to your room..." and grabbed the marker from her.
As she dragged herself off, so begins her 'Opera of Screams', her bawling rising to a crescendo with every step.
Seconds later, she is 'informing' on me to her mother.
"Daddy beat me!"
"Daddy shame the baby?" Tameka, my wife commiserated in a one only mothers can deliver.
"Yes," Cammy agreed. "Shame me."
"Claude, why yu shame the baby?"
I ignore the question, and grit my teeth. They're already plotting against me, so I return my gaze to ESPN where Syracuse and Kansas are battling for the national title.
"Mommy wants to sleep, go back to Daddy," I hear her mother suggest.
I hissed my teeth loudly. I get no respect.
Seconds later, I hear the pad of baby steps, and a quavering voice in the hallway. "Daddy, don't shame Camelia, O.K?" Cammy asked.
My heart broke a little. I have been a naughty daddy -- again.
The war was over without even a single shot being fired. I am hers. Completely.
"O.K, I won't shame you. Alright baby?" I said.
SURRENDER
And then she walked uncertainly into the living room. I could sense her trying to sense my mood, searching my face, trying to read the emotions there. But after she becomes certain of my total surrender, she ran into my arms, and I hugged her and told her that I loved her.
Like Bill the Butcher said in 'Gangs of New York'. I keep control through fear, 'the spectacle of fearsome acts...cut off heads, tongues, hands...that preserves the order of things...'. Bill had the right idea, but then again, Bill wasn't raising a defiant two-and-a-half year old daughter who insists on watching her Barney tapes for the zillionth time when you want to watch an NBA game.
By the way, Barney tapes are like valium spray for little kids.
ESCAPE
Still, sometimes it is fun to be afraid. I read my daughter scary bed-time stories like that of the cannibalistic witch from Hansel and Gretel, and the grandma-eating Little Red Riding Hood. Fairy tales are cool because they are the sole refuge of adults who should know better but still want an escape where no stroke of destiny is so terrible that it cannot be resolved by a happy ending.
You can e-mail me at claude.mills@gleanerjm.com
Sending little Cammy to he room as punishment doesn't always work.
