Father's Day

We went to the Father's Day breakfast at the lake, and I ate a couple of pancakes and some orange juice, thus proving that age does not magically bestow wisdom. It's been a sleepy afternoon.

It's been a fine decade of parenting J, though of course he'll take some more time to grasp and accept the extent of my father-figure presence in his life. His biological father is a walking storm of issues--in his Magnanimous Mode, he said he could pick J up at the lake, allowing that I "might have some fatherly feelings" for the boy--who, like a toddler enforcing his ownership of a toy he doesn't actually like, guards his "father" place in J's world by assertion rather than by, I dunno, being a good father.

Fatherhood has granted me some priceless, heart-warming moments.

Around age 6ish, I was driving J somewhere by myself and he was angry I hadn't brought an iPad for him (or whatever), and he yelled "AAAAGH! YOU'RE THE WORST DAD, I MEAN STEPDAD, EVER!!".

But the all-time winner, even though it's second-hand:

One of J's birthday parties was at the place in Half Moon Bay where he took pony-riding lessons for a few years. His oldest friend, the son of Anna's oldest friend, met Bio-Dad, who introduced himself as J's father.

"I thought Chris was J's father."

And that's what happens when you don't show up.

all parents, all the time

I'm writing about the kid a lot, because I'm not interested in publicly writing about work or my well-being right now, and the kid is growing up in that way kids do where they suddenly get 3 feet taller and even more interesting to talk to (to the extent they'll talk to you). Because I acquired him partly-grown, after the bodily-fluids phase, I am probably not quite so astonished that he no longer weighs 15 pounds, but he was still 4 years old when we met, so, yannow. We've had some time together.

(I could write about the garage, I guess, and how it's mostly held together by termite vomit, so now we've bumped up the priority of rebuilding it, but zoning laws mean we can't build an apartment over it, only rebuild it exactly as it is, and then the cost estimate also had one more decimal place than we expected. But that's really the whole story in one sentence, and there's nothing funny or insightful about it.)

The boy is endlessly interesting, because we can scarcely imagine his experience of the world, and his brain is just a black box: we feed stuff in, and there is only failure in predicting what comes out, or when. He routinely repeats conversations verbatim from years ago, but then sometimes he'll be in the middle of a conversation and you'll have to repeat half of your second-to-last sentence, because not only did he get distracted by something inside his head, his distraction was so total and so short that he just checked out completely somehow.

At age 11, he is now differentiating from his parents, which (for many reasons) I've been looking forward to for years and years. This is about when the world starts treating kids like human beings with emotions and opinions, and kids get used to responding as such. (I think most kids are not treated like full human beings, and when I try to do that they get confused and it's all awkward because I've deviated from the script.) He's getting the hang of numerous social interactions, and is being duly prepared for the whole new level of academic and behavioral keeping-his-shit-together he faces in middle school.

Despite his concerns about managing some future life without his parents, he has not shown much urge to learn the necessary skills, so more and more we burden him with the parts of his dinner that involve taking stuff out of the fridge. He can take on the aggrieved air of a hedge fund manager who is forced to take a limo to the Hamptons, instead of a helicopter.

"I have to get the turkey and juice myself?"
"Yep!"
"Next you'll be making me make the macaroni and cheese!"
"Someday, that's the idea!"

I'm sure he can imagine the table service declining to that point, but chooses not to dwell on it and hopes the issue goes away. And really, can you blame him?

where does he get this stuff

J calls me "Chris," and always has; there's never been any question of calling me "Dad" or whatever. I've always been scrupulous about trying to respect the fact that J's father is his father, and I've never tried to be a father replacement. That's sort of happened anyway, because I'm a much better match for J than his father is, so "Chris" in J's mind occupies this huge father-space.

It's still weird for me, and I've talked about it with Anna a lot; it's just an inevitable part of being a step-parent, that you didn't have the kid in its larval stage, and you have to build a relationship like you would with any other sentient human. I'm not sure what he could have called me, since "Daddy" is taken. Maybe "Papa" or something?

We once did offer that if he wanted to use another name for me, he should say so, and that was years ago, but this morning:

"Um, Chris, is it weird for you that I just call you Chris? Do you wish I called you something else?"

"That is an excellent question, and I've thought about it a lot. I think that since 'Chris' holds for you all of the loving Chris-stuff, we should just stick with 'Chris.' Plus, as much as I think about it, I think I would find it strange for you to call me anything else."

Did he think of this himself? Did he overhear a conversation? Is it just the culmination of years of clues? I have no idea.

leveling up

One fine Sunday morning at the end of November, Anna and I were having a lazy morning on the couch. Being adults, we can last a while without breakfast, so we'd stuck with lazing for the moment.

J walked in.

"Um, I need breakfast."
"How about you make breakfast for all of us?"
"Um, I don't know how."
"You could make your own breakfast."
"Umm..."
"Do you think there's an art to pulling the turkey slices out of the package or something?"
"Ummm..."
"Take your time. I can wait, I've got coffee."
"Ummm... Oh! Okay!"

(That's me responding, of course.)

And he went into the kitchen and assembled his own breakfast for the first time ever. (He doesn't eat many things, so most breakfasts involve turkey slices for protein.)

Needling him into a moment of independence is really more than I could have hoped for. I just didn't want either of us to have to get off the couch.

this is new.

"Good night, my wonderful boy. I love you."
"Good night, wonderful Chris. I love you too."