Defying Gravity

The family pattern today for married couples seems to be "two-income, two children." "Two-income, one child" is common also. There are a couple of comic strips I follow where the cast of characters is Mom, Dad, and one child. In both comic strips Mom and Dad each have full-time jobs out of the home. In both comic strips there have been references to how difficult it is to survive financially and there are dreams that have to be sacrificed. I can't quote the sources or numbers, but I have run across magazine articles and heard reports on how much it costs to raise a child today. When I look at the numbers and then look at my eight kids I realize that I must be very rich indeed to see them so healthy and happy because I am reportedly spending a fortune. What concerns me more is that I am doing this with only one income. My wife does not work outside the home and I earn what I would think is a very middle-class income.

I am a little confused at the disparity at what I see in our culture and what I am experiencing. My children have a secure home. They are healthy. They are comfortably dressed. Two are attending higher education. They are all happy, hopeful, and active. Perhaps I am missing something here, but is there something more I should be wanting for my children?


Perhaps I need to look at this differently. There are plenty of things that my children do not have. Maybe I should make a list:

1. They do not have their own bedrooms (except one who somehow scored one, but that is a new development). But when I walk by their rooms at night and hear them telling each other stories or listening to Books on Tape I am actually pleased at this inconvenience.
2. They do not have a Playstation 3 or even a Wii. Seeing them build creations with Legos, drawing pictures, riding bikes, or reading books takes the sting out of this.
3. They mostly do not wear new clothes. Except for the odd infusion of new underwear and socks hand-me-downs have been the name of the game for 24 years. And yet my children have always gone to church and out on the town with confidence. Good looking second hand clothes seem easy to come by. As the kids reach the teenage years and desire something new they have done very well in earning enough money to buy clothes of their choosing. Perhaps I am hard-hearted, but teaching them the value of a dollar and responsibility does not make me feel bad.
4. Most of them have never been to Disneyland yet. On the other hand they have been to so many beautiful and fascinating places around the Western States that Disneyland would just be another place and nothing so extraordinary. I find that Disneyland is more a place I want to take them too than a place they are dreaming of going.
5. They have to plan on paying their own way through college. No one in my immediate or extended family has ever had a parent pay their way through college. As much as I would like to help (and I would) I don't feel guilty about teaching them to work for scholarships and expect to get jobs and work their way through college.

The list of what I have not given my children could go on much longer than you would care to read, but it would make no difference. I am a firm believer that it is a very short list of necessities that makes all the difference in a child's life or, in my experience, eight children's lives and that this list requires far less money than the little that supports our home.

1. There needs to be secure shelter, enough to eat, and clothing to wear. Far less needs to be spent on these things than most think to make children feel secure and happy.
2. There needs to be a foundation of love and support in the home to build a healthy self-image in children. This takes lots of time from both parents and is something that many don't “spend” enough on. Money is not required.
3. They need to learn to love learning. This is the parents' job and no other. Schools, public or private, are just support structures. Money is not required.
4. They need to learn how to work hard for worthy goals. Money is not required.

According to what is written about American life today I am in very sad shape. There is only one income in our home. The one income there is does not bring in enough money. I have too many children. My home is too small. My cars are too old. And yet, just as the bumble bee defies gravity and flies, my family defies the “cultural norms” and is happy, hopeful, and productive. Yes, I have my worries. There are dreams I have given up. But I know there are two-income homes out there with far greater worries than mine. And the lost dreams? I am seeing dreams that I never knew I dreamed coming true that make the dreams of my youth seem trivial.

Of Life and Lessons

Traditionally it is mothers who are responsible for teaching children. If someone has good manners, is gentle, has good personal hygiene, knows how to give gifts, is courageous, and knows how to love another it is because they had a good mother. So what is left for us fathers? Traditionally our major responsibility is to provide financially or physically for the family. Put this way being a father sounds far more like a support role than anything else. The mother's role has far more effect on the real quality of a child's life than anything the father does.

So how does the fact that there are more women in the work place than men today affect the future or our children? It seems like something has to give somewhere. Either women have to work extra hard to fulfill their role as nurturers, or fathers have to step in much more on the “nurturing” role, or children are just going to have to do without the nurturing. I fear that the third option is winning. This does not bode well for the world.

There are many cases where option 1 is in play. Working women all over the world do step it up and give as much nurturing as they can in addition to their jobs or careers. But as wonderful as a woman can be, she is still just a human being. The decrease in the amount of time she spends with her children and the increase in the fatigue she feels cannot do anything but decrease the amount or quality of nurturing she can give her children.

Is there no chance for option 2? None. Zip. Nada. Oh, fathers can have a huge effect for good in a child's life. My father was a wonderful example of hard work and service. By example he taught honesty, faith, and perseverance. But as mentioned he did all this by example. When I stole the candy bar it was my mother who took me back to the store to make things right. When I broke the windows in the empty house next door it was my mother who instilled respect of the law in me. It was my mother who taught me how to live clean. It was she who taught me how to interact with young women. It was she who encouraged me to try out for sports and for band. Why was it my mother who did all these things? Frankly, it was because she was one who was there when these things needed to happen. My father was off earning a living for the family or was just not tuned in to these needs in my life.

I love my role as a father. I love spending as much time as I can with my children. We go for walks. We go for hikes. We go on trips. Each of them comes to work with me on their own day or days during the week. I like to think I am good for my kids in one way or another. However, in those infinitely important little areas that have so much to do with the inner quality of a child's life I am blind, inept, or just misguided. For instance, recently my six year old daughter was in a position where her underwear was sticking out above the top of her pants. We were in the privacy of our own home and the opportunity was there so why wouldn't I give her a wedgie? Without a second thought I grabbed and gave what I thought was a gentle tug. Gentle or not the deed was done. The effect was completely different than I expected. She didn't yell, “Daaaad!!” She didn't run to tell her mother (thank heavens). Instead my little six-year-old looked me directly in the eyes as she reached down and made adjustments. The look in her eyes was definitely one of disapproval, but it was that edge of disappointment that struck me so forcibly. She was disappointed in her father for treating a daughter of God so ungracefully. Then she turned and walked off without a word. The look she gave me haunts me and shames me to this day. Her mother would never have done such a thing.

It wasn't long after “the wedgie” that I again showed my ineptness. I was at the shop where my thirteen-year-old daughter was helping me that day. To test the video and sound on a computer I was repairing I went to YouTube and clicked on the first video I saw. It was one of those videos where someone is speaking directly into a stationary camera and all you can see is there head. The head I saw was of a very fat girl. Her face was round and her fleshy cheeks pushed up toward her eye-sockets making her eyes look small, dark, and beady. Her nose turned up so I could see two dark holes and her mouth was large. She looked mean and animalistic. Then rock music began to play and she started singing along. The music was hard and rhythmic and her facial expressions followed along. The sight was frightening to me. Alarmed I said, “She is ugly! She is ugly!” My daughter came over to look. I was certain she would be alarmed like me and agree. Instead she said, “Dad.” She said it softly and I heard disappointment in the word. The word—how she said it—stung me. I wanted to honestly explain that I thought the girl was trying to be ugly, that the title of the video set me up, that . . . , but I stopped before I began. My daughter had looked and seen a child of God. Her father had spoken ungracefully and unkindly toward this child of God and in doing so had let his daughter down. Her mother would not have done that.

I will try to do better as a father and a human being to be a strength and a better example to my children. No matter how much better I do, though, so much still depends upon their mother.

Private Moments

In the movies that feature large families such as in “Cheaper by the Dozen” there are often key scenes that emphasize the chaos that can occur with so many children. In truth these movies aren't far off the mark although they tend to make the chaos more humorous than it actually seems to be in a real-life. These movies also often have key scenes where a parent has a meaningful moment alone with just one of the children. In a large family these private moments can have a deep meaning and be as pleasureful as a hot bath after a week of camping. What adds to the pleasure of these private moments in a large family is that these private moments can randomly happen with any one of so many children. With each child being so different each of these moments has its own flavor, smell, and texture—each a peculiar treat.

It wasn't too long ago that I started my own computer services company. By “company” don't think anything grand—this was pretty much a one-man band. At one point, when it looked like my business was going under, I was blessed with an opportunity to accept the contracts to install networks at a chain of tire stores around the state. This was a great opportunity and one that I had to accept for survival. The problem was that I had little experience in installing networks. A greater problem was that I had no partner to help me with these installations. Without a partner I would have had to turn down the contract. In desperation I looked around for someone affordabble who could help me. I had two sons in college who could do the job very nicely, but they couldn't take full days off from school. My focus then fell upon my thirteen-year-old daughter. She was already helping me on some days in the shop and she showed a precociousness with computers. She willingly accepted my invitation to accompany me on these installations.

I was worried at first about what the men working at these Big O Tire centers would think when their installer showed up with a thirteen-year-old girl as an assistant. It certainly wouldn't look very professional. This turned out not to be a problem. They accepted her right away and often gave her pet names such as “trouble.” I think they were charmed seeing this young woman pulling computers out of boxes, setting up workstations, assigning ip addresses and configuring network printers. They treated her with respect.

Over the course of two months my daughter accompanied me on twelve installations around the state. We would start very early in the morning in the van with a ladder strapped on the roof and the back stuffed with tool box, cable, fish tape and other needed accoutrements. Clorinda would study math, science, or literature on the way to the job. We had the opportunity to discuss algebraic expressions, vertebrates, and verb phrases on these mornings. Once at the jobs we would dive into a routine that we developed that worked very well for us. She would find an appropriate place with power and an internet connection to set up and configure the computers while I started scoping out the cable pulls and cutting cable. Sometimes I would find her surrounded by computer equipment squished between racks of tires. Other times she would be on the floor of the manager's office next to boxes of financial records. These places were always a bit dirty with rubber dust covering everything. Clory's hands would turn black and, when she peeked at me from over the top of a monitor I would see black smudges on her face.

When the time came I would call Clory to help me pull the network cables through conduit, across drop ceilings, or under floors. Often she would squeeze inside a cupboard where the cable entered or exited in order to reach it. Her legs would be intertwined with the ankles of the salesmen who were taking care of customers at the desk above her. In one BigO she negotiated the six-inch top of a wall for thirty feet with a drop ceiling below on one side of her and racks of tires on the other side in order to get a cable to the other end of the room. She was able to use steel rafters as hand holds to steady her. There were moments when we were actually able to work together putting the RJ-45 connectors on the end of the cables. This was careful work as we had to put the color-coded wires in the right order (white-green, green, white-orange, blue, etc. ), snip them to the right length and then crimp them securely. When we plugged them into the cable tester and all the lights lighted properly we would look at each other with happy pride.

At the end of the days we would finish labeling the cables, gather our tools and cable, and tiredly strap the ladder back onto the roof of the van. With a two-hour drive home ahead of us we would find a Sizzler or a Pizza Hut in which to relax and eat. After washing the blackness off our faces and hands we would meet at the table and chat aimlessly, yet delightfully, while we ate our food. As I looked into her bright face and gray-green eyes and bask in her subtly animated personality in spite of the hard day's work I figure what a lucky man to have such an experience with a child of mine.

Captain of the Ship

As the head of a large household I feel I have a responsibility to younger, less experienced fathers to give them the guidance they need to be effective leaders. One of the most important things to remember as a man in today's world is that a man in his home should be like a captain aboard his ship:

1. He should be in complete control at all times. He doesn't have to be a Captain Bligh about it, but if a ship is to be kept in top shape and off the dangerous, rocky shores the captain must demand complete obedience to his ever command. Of course if he merely suggests that everyone is in bed by 9:00 with lights out at 9:30 and yet everyone still stays up until 11:00 most nights it can't be said that he isn't in complete control.
2. He should have the utmost respect from each of his crew members. Of course there will be incidents such as when his six-year-old daughter, who had heard him scream, “Shut the door!” for the millionth time this winter when she stuck her head back into the room from the freezing outside and retorted, “If you care about the door so much, why don't you marry it!” But she did say it with respect.
3. He should be treated like a god and any trivial, personal habit ought to be ignored. I can, however, overlook the fact that all my crew looks at me whenever there is a strange smell in the room even though there is no proof that they should be looking at me.
4. He must demand that they respect his personal space to keep a proper distance between the officer and the enlisted. I will tolerate standing on my feet to dance, holding onto my fingers so that they can walk up me and flip over backward, climbing onto my lap, and jumping onto my back after family prayer only for a three or four more years before I get tough.
5. It can be assumed that he does everything perfectly. This should never be questioned. When his eight-year-old son responded to his captain's “That's not too bad,” after digging a perfect hole to plant a tree with, “Yeah, but it's not too good either,” he wasn't actually finding fault.

No, any man who doesn't lay down the law with an iron hand in his own home does not deserve the sweet hugs, and kisses, and the love of his crew.

Ballast and the Balloon

Having eight children wasn't a well-thought-out plan that my wife and I devised. On the other hand, before we met each other, we had both been charmed by the book Cheaper by the Dozen. Neither one of us had to talk the other into the idea of having more than two children. Just about two years after we were married we had our first child—a boy we named after me, Tory. Two years later we had our second child—another boy. We named him Cory. Just like clockwork we had our third boy, Rory, two years after that. Having three, healthy boys in six years was a wondrous thing to me. Life became fuller and richer with each child. Having them spaced two years apart gave Barb and I time to adjust to each child and yet kept them close enough in age to each other that they could entertain each other naturally.

We stopped having babies after our third son. There was no plan involved. We didn't take measures to ensure we would have no more children. It is just that Barbara no longer got pregnant. Although we both had notions about having lots of children Barb and I shrugged it off and found a lot of joy and happiness in raising Tory, Cory and Rory. Imagine my surprise when, six years later, Barbara floored me with the words, “Tory, we are going to have another baby.” I was stunned, not because having another baby overwhelmed me, but because after six years my life was in a nice little routine that I was comfortable with. It had been three years since Barb and I had changed our last diaper and we found a diaperless world a very fine world indeed. With my youngest boy now six-years-old we definitely had a “team” thing going on. What would we do with a “baby” coming onto the scene? We didn't know then how bad it would be. This new baby wouldn't be just any baby; this new baby would be a girl baby.

Clorinda, code named Clory, changed our world. Suddenly there was femininity on the team. Yes, my wife is very feminine, but she is “Mom,” and one of the managers and that makes it different. With Clory came pretty little dresses, ribbons and hair pretties, and a sense of delicacy. Had we known what else would come with Clory we would have grounded her for life the day she was born—four more children followed her. At least they came nice and orderly again with two years between each. The final count was five boys and three girls.

It would take years before I would understand what I had on my hands. I don't have just one family of eight children. I have two families—my older family of three and my younger family of five. My “three” boys are all grown and out of the home now. When they come home we have adult discussions on language, world philosophy, and music. What makes these “intelligent, adult” conversations more complex is the four-year-old grabbing my thumbs and walking up me until he can flip over backwards, or the six-year-old crawling into my lap and wiggling in her non-stop way. My oldest sons will say goodnight and go back to their now independent worlds while I shut the door and give attention to my nine-year-old who is just beginning a night of vomiting and tears.

It has occurred to me that Barb and I would be “free” now had we not allowed our second family to join us. We could be enjoying only the adult relationships we are developing with our older sons instead of everything from four-year-old tantrums to thirteen-year-old, teenage angst—again. But when I imagine the house as it would be without my younger family—the colorlessness, the listlessness, the silence—it makes me shiver. I know that the day will come when the silence will be more welcome; when Barbara and I can sit together in peaceable silence while anticipating the visit of grandchildren. But I am just too young for that yet. I still need a child to hold my hand, to crawl up on my lap, to call my name when I come in the door at night. I still need the thrill of a thoughtful thirteen-year-old giving me a kiss on the cheek or the excitement of an eleven-year-old telling me about her upcoming sleepover. Oh, I feel a little tired sometimes and the weight of responsibility for a young family can weigh heavy, but these things are only the ballast while my second family is still the hot air in my life's balloon. I'm not ready to land yet.

Worlds of Honesty

As a father of eight I have to constantly watch and listen to try to gather insights into the worlds that each of my children live in. There are a couple of reasons why I want to do this. First is that exploring their worlds is like exploring a magnificent cave with tunnels and grand chambers and stalactites and crystals and deep pools and . . . well it goes on and on. The treasures and secrets I might find are infinite. The other reason goes along with the responsibility part of being “Dad.” I need to keep an eye out for any trouble signs in their world where I might be needed to step in and help. With eight kids this watching and listening is constant, and still I know I miss much.

The other day I picked up on something with my eight-year-old son. Jory is imaginative, carefree, and playful. Although he can be the greatest helpmate and persist until the job is done he also sometimes plays a game to see what he can get away with. When his mother catches him leaving an unfinished job he will grin, groan, and say, “How do you always catch me.” One day his mother reported that he had told her that he had done a particular job when he hadn't done it. She told me this soon after I had arrived home from work and there were many other things calling my attention so I just filed it. A couple of weeks later some of my kids were with me at their grandparent's house. Grandpa came in and asked Jory what he had done with the cardboard from a game they had opened outside.

“Oh,” he said, “I threw it away.”

“You did not,” Grandpa said. “It's still on the lawn.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jory said, with a “you got me” grin.

This incident, combined with the previous one his mother had told me about got my attention. Was Jory becoming a liar? Jory is a good kid with a good heart. But I personally know other kids who have spent time in jail who were the best kids when they were young. I wanted to nip this in the bud. What I didn't want to do was embarrass Jory in front of his family and put the first brick in a wall between us so I decided to wait for a better time to talk with him.

It was several days later, when Jory had come to the computer shop with me, that I had an opportunity to approach the subject. We were the only ones in the shop. He had just finished his school where I had been helping him and was sitting near me.

“Jory,” I said. “Have you been lying lately?” I said this calmly, but surprised myself with my directness. I was even more surprised by his response. His whole demeanor dropped which told me he took my question very seriously. Then he slowly nodded his head. If my son was becoming a liar he was being honest about it.

I brought up the instances of dishonesty I knew about and then started talking to him about honesty in terms I thought he could understand. As I talked big tears pooled in his eyes. Eventually they spilled over his eyelashes and dropped onto his red sweatshirt where they soaked in forming dark wet spots. My voice wavered for a moment as I witnessed his remorse and shame. I felt bad but I wasn't speaking to him harshly or chiding him. His reaction was purely his own sense of right and wrong working on him now that it had been called out. At the end of our talk Jory, who had been sitting with his knees up to his chest under his sweatshirt, had almost pulled his entire face into his sweatshirt. I reached over and pulled him to me in a hug. He didn't hug me back, That may have been because his arms were inside his sweatshirt too, but he laid his head against my chest as he cried quietly.

I have had moments like this with each of my eight children—each one under the differing skies of each of their worlds. It takes a lot of watching and listening to keep up with eight children, but the riches I discover in each of their worlds makes it all worthwhile. Has Jory learned his lesson? I can only hope so. In the meantime I will continue to watch and listen.

Holding Hands

I have eight children. You would thing that with so many that things would start to become routine. Every parent or parent-to-be hears about the phases children go through. Two of the most talked about phases are the “terrible twos” and then those “teenage” years. I had enough children spread far enough apart to experience the terrible twos and the teenage years at the same time. Actually, I think I've done this three times. I'd love to be able to tell some great party stories about what that was like, but nothing really stands out in my memory. Oh, there was the time my two-year-old nearly burned down the house by turning on the gas stove on the same day my fifteen-year-old totaled the car he couldn't drive legally yet. Or there was they way my thirteen-year-old could throw a tantrum very similar to my two-year-old. The truth is, none of this ever happened. What can I say—my children are boring. Now there is a blessing! Actually, I find nothing boring about any of my children, but none of the typical “stage” stereotypes fit very well.

On the other hand my children have gone through the “angel infant” stage, to the crawling stage, to the walking stage and so forth. One of my favorite stages was “holding hands” stage. One of the most pleasing feelings in the world to me is the feel of one of my children taking my hand. That act communicates such love and trust that it gives me shivers just thinking about it. My six-year-old likes to go for walks with me. She has a lot of energy and will not stay by my side the entire walk. She will skip ahead, dance a little, check out a rock by the side of the road, but then she will come back and take my hand for half a block. I love that part of the walk. This process will repeat itself four or five times during the course of the walk.

One of the saddest occurrences in parenting is that transition period when they are growing too old to hold my hand any more. It is such an awkward time. We may be on a walk around the block or just walking together into the store. Both of these scenarios are where one of my sons or daughters would naturally take my hand. During this transition period I'll be aware of the potential for them to take my hand and they may or may not do it. If they don't take my hand I can almost hear the door closing on another room in our relationship—a room that was most pleasant. If they do take my hand I will enjoy the moment, but I am all to aware of the tentativeness of the act. I can almost hear their awareness that they are getting too old for this. This transition has never become routine for me. With each child the sadness I feel is the same because it signifies that our relationship has changed forever. Of course there are great joys to come in the new relationship I am developing with them, but I'm grateful I still have three hand-holding children left.

My first son, now twenty-four, grew up so fast. This son must have been like my current four-year-old at one time, but for the life of me I can't remember without looking at pictures and reading journal entries. I do remember an incident when he was fourteen. He was a teenager—no longer my little boy. He had long ago passed from the hand holding stage. We still got along fine, but there was definitely more distance between us. He had his own interests and often treated my requests to do household chores or to attend a family function as if I were interrupting his life. One Saturday found most of our family and a couple of friends at Lagoon, a local theme park. Tory, his brothers and his friend took off on their own and left me to escort his younger siblings around the park. After traversing the park three times in search of adventure and junk food I sat down with the little ones on a park bench. Although my two younger children had plenty of energy left I was ready to leave. Suddenly I felt someone lean on me from behind—a forearm on each of my shoulders.

“You having fun?” a voice asked near my ear.

It was my oldest son. He and the others had seen me sitting there and came over to say hello. I heard happiness and contentment in his voice. I felt a sudden surge of joy at his happiness—not actually at his happiness, but in his willingness to stop what he was doing to come over to share his happiness with me. There he was, my teenage son, leaning comfortably on my shoulders to chat with me for a moment. I was afraid to move; almost afraid to breathe for fear of scaring him away. I didn't want to feel his weight leave my shoulders. Since he had grown too old to hold my hand intimate moments like this had grown rarer. Eventually he did leave my shoulders and run off with his pack, but I found that moment was enough. My feet didn't hurt as much and I was able to attack the park with renewed energy. With a child on either side of me, each holding my hands, we headed for the Tilt-a-Whirl.