paddleton (alex lehmann, 2019)
"I want to tell you that I love you."
It's perhaps surprising that I've been writing these reviews-which-aren't-reviews (although we both know that they are) for quite a long time now and have never focused solely on the topic of being a father, or of having children. Or I don't know, maybe it isn't.
These days everyone throws their two cents at the topic. And, of course, everyone's right, and everyone knows the best way to do everything. In fact, it's funny that any of us would ever have any difficulty with anything, considering that all we have to do is follow all the advice out there of all the people who already know everything about everything. But I digress.
One of the reasons I haven't really broached this is because I like unity - you do your thing and I'll do mine. There's no need for us to bleed into each other, to become entangled, difficult to distinguish as two separate entities. But then that is one of the hallmarks of my relationship with my children, so... I don't know.
I've also been keen not to put words into their mouths, to say things on their behalf. And it's difficult to really sum someone up by saying a few words, to get at the kernel of who they are simply by writing.
Additionally, they've been children for a very long time now, but this year the two of them will both be adults in the eyes of the world, so perhaps it's time for me to change the embargo I placed on myself to not talk about them.
So those are all good reasons, but at the same time I want you to imagine this:
You're watching a short video which is about me - it takes the form of a number of different people talking about how they know me and who I am to them. Not because I'm self-aggrandising enough to want this to be an actual thing, no, it's merely because I want you to be placed in a passive position, behind glass, where you can't interact with anyone you see, can't ask questions, steer the discussion.
The video gets to the part where my children are talking about me, and maybe it's a shot of them sitting together, sparring with and complementing each others' insights and memories, or maybe they're in two different set-ups, alone, with objects around them which provide clues as to who they are as individuals. Imagine it the way you'd prefer. You've known me for quite a while now, inside and out, and nothing that you've heard anyone say up to this point is in any way a real surprise, but this part of the video is different.
The person you hear my children talk about has a somewhat different flavour to the description that other people have been giving. Yes, all the same elements are touched on, but in this section there are mentions given to things which haven't been raised so far. Anger would be one, control would be another. Just to name two. Not in a fearful or downtrodden sense, but simply as elements of a personality that contribute to a well-rounded, three-dimensional character.
But no one else mentioned this. Why is that?
Is it because of the sheer amount of time I've spent with my children? More hours together simply means more opportunities for every facet of your personality to be revealed? I don't think so. I don't think that's it at all. I think you and I could share a bathroom together for ten years and I'd never raise my voice at you. No, it's not the time spent together, it's the inherent nature of our relationship. You and me. Me and my children.
You love your children, obviously that's first and foremost. But at the same time your children are a strange extension or offshoot of yourself. You want them to do well, and you want them to be happy, and you want to use some of the experiences you've had in navigating the world to help them achieve these aims. And when something goes wrong in the attainment of this it can be devastating.
Not because they have failed if they experience a moment of failure, or a moment of unhappiness, but instead because you have failed them.
The experience this creates inside you, the sensation of having failed someone that you love and care for so very much can be overwhelming, and the impact that this has on you is often to create very negative sensations. Anger is one, control is another. And this isn't because you want to frighten or control someone, it's merely that you want to navigate a path through this period of unhappiness and disappointment, and to steer them instead towards somewhere where they are standing in the circle of success, loved, and happy.
Their failings, their unhappiness, are your failings, is your unhappiness. But that's not where it ends.
My own failings in life are something like a dull ache. Like I've knocked myself against something that will, in time, come up as a bruise, a rainbow of purple hues.
But their failings, their disappointments, are far more like the cut of a blade. They're sharp, instant, and impossible to ignore. And they take oh so very long to heal. Perhaps longer for you than they do for your children.
Sometimes I project myself far into the future, and I wonder who I'll be and who I'll be for my children - what the nature of our relationship will be like in twenty years or so. Will I be alone? Will I visit them? Will they visit me? Will we continue on the pathway that we have followed up to this point - or will something change? Will our relationships grow stronger or weaker? It's impossible to say.
Sometimes when we're together we'll play a game called 'Shhh' taken from Season 5 episode 20 of Adventure Time (Elizabeth Ito, 2013): we'll all agree not to speak for a day and the night before the morning of the day on which we've agreed not to speak we'll all write on 30 pieces of card. Those 30 cards will feature the only things that we are able to communicate outside of pantomime for the day. I tend to write things like 'Do you want a tea/coffee?' 'Are you hungry?' 'Would you like to go for a walk?' and so on and so forth. 30 statements that I can use to check to see how they're doing, to see if there's anything I can get for them, anything that I can do for them. Because that is part and parcel of who I see myself as for them. I'm a fixer. I help make their experience of life somewhat easier, in whatever capacity I can. And yes, sometimes they'll see a side of me that no one else does, but perhaps that's what I'm there for. To be the cheerleader just as much as the overbearing football coach who takes no nonsense.
And then sometimes I go further into the future, and wonder what their lives will be like when I'm no longer here to do anything for them. And those moments feel fascinating to me. Because then all that will be left is the memories of me, the memory of who I was to them. And it's then that the weight of everything I did with them as a living person will truly be tested. Both the good times and the bad. That's the time when all I will be is the story they tell other people whenever the opportunity presents itself. About the conversations we had, the walks we went on, the games we played, the time we spent together. This is a time when they'll be alone, batting a ball against a wall with no one else to step in and help, no one to cheer when they succeed, no one to encourage them to do better when they miss. Just the ever-changing light falling upon them, the sound of their shoes on the gravel, and the change in timbre as the ball hits the wall, then the ground, and then the strings of their racquet. Over and over and over again. And those are the moments I wish I could be there for them more than any, but, of course, that's just not possible.
It's perhaps surprising that I've been writing these reviews-which-aren't-reviews (although we both know that they are) for quite a long time now and have never focused solely on the topic of being a father, or of having children. Or I don't know, maybe it isn't.
These days everyone throws their two cents at the topic. And, of course, everyone's right, and everyone knows the best way to do everything. In fact, it's funny that any of us would ever have any difficulty with anything, considering that all we have to do is follow all the advice out there of all the people who already know everything about everything. But I digress.
One of the reasons I haven't really broached this is because I like unity - you do your thing and I'll do mine. There's no need for us to bleed into each other, to become entangled, difficult to distinguish as two separate entities. But then that is one of the hallmarks of my relationship with my children, so... I don't know.
I've also been keen not to put words into their mouths, to say things on their behalf. And it's difficult to really sum someone up by saying a few words, to get at the kernel of who they are simply by writing.
Additionally, they've been children for a very long time now, but this year the two of them will both be adults in the eyes of the world, so perhaps it's time for me to change the embargo I placed on myself to not talk about them.
So those are all good reasons, but at the same time I want you to imagine this:
You're watching a short video which is about me - it takes the form of a number of different people talking about how they know me and who I am to them. Not because I'm self-aggrandising enough to want this to be an actual thing, no, it's merely because I want you to be placed in a passive position, behind glass, where you can't interact with anyone you see, can't ask questions, steer the discussion.
The video gets to the part where my children are talking about me, and maybe it's a shot of them sitting together, sparring with and complementing each others' insights and memories, or maybe they're in two different set-ups, alone, with objects around them which provide clues as to who they are as individuals. Imagine it the way you'd prefer. You've known me for quite a while now, inside and out, and nothing that you've heard anyone say up to this point is in any way a real surprise, but this part of the video is different.
The person you hear my children talk about has a somewhat different flavour to the description that other people have been giving. Yes, all the same elements are touched on, but in this section there are mentions given to things which haven't been raised so far. Anger would be one, control would be another. Just to name two. Not in a fearful or downtrodden sense, but simply as elements of a personality that contribute to a well-rounded, three-dimensional character.
But no one else mentioned this. Why is that?
Is it because of the sheer amount of time I've spent with my children? More hours together simply means more opportunities for every facet of your personality to be revealed? I don't think so. I don't think that's it at all. I think you and I could share a bathroom together for ten years and I'd never raise my voice at you. No, it's not the time spent together, it's the inherent nature of our relationship. You and me. Me and my children.
You love your children, obviously that's first and foremost. But at the same time your children are a strange extension or offshoot of yourself. You want them to do well, and you want them to be happy, and you want to use some of the experiences you've had in navigating the world to help them achieve these aims. And when something goes wrong in the attainment of this it can be devastating.
Not because they have failed if they experience a moment of failure, or a moment of unhappiness, but instead because you have failed them.
The experience this creates inside you, the sensation of having failed someone that you love and care for so very much can be overwhelming, and the impact that this has on you is often to create very negative sensations. Anger is one, control is another. And this isn't because you want to frighten or control someone, it's merely that you want to navigate a path through this period of unhappiness and disappointment, and to steer them instead towards somewhere where they are standing in the circle of success, loved, and happy.
Their failings, their unhappiness, are your failings, is your unhappiness. But that's not where it ends.
My own failings in life are something like a dull ache. Like I've knocked myself against something that will, in time, come up as a bruise, a rainbow of purple hues.
But their failings, their disappointments, are far more like the cut of a blade. They're sharp, instant, and impossible to ignore. And they take oh so very long to heal. Perhaps longer for you than they do for your children.
Sometimes I project myself far into the future, and I wonder who I'll be and who I'll be for my children - what the nature of our relationship will be like in twenty years or so. Will I be alone? Will I visit them? Will they visit me? Will we continue on the pathway that we have followed up to this point - or will something change? Will our relationships grow stronger or weaker? It's impossible to say.
Sometimes when we're together we'll play a game called 'Shhh' taken from Season 5 episode 20 of Adventure Time (Elizabeth Ito, 2013): we'll all agree not to speak for a day and the night before the morning of the day on which we've agreed not to speak we'll all write on 30 pieces of card. Those 30 cards will feature the only things that we are able to communicate outside of pantomime for the day. I tend to write things like 'Do you want a tea/coffee?' 'Are you hungry?' 'Would you like to go for a walk?' and so on and so forth. 30 statements that I can use to check to see how they're doing, to see if there's anything I can get for them, anything that I can do for them. Because that is part and parcel of who I see myself as for them. I'm a fixer. I help make their experience of life somewhat easier, in whatever capacity I can. And yes, sometimes they'll see a side of me that no one else does, but perhaps that's what I'm there for. To be the cheerleader just as much as the overbearing football coach who takes no nonsense.
And then sometimes I go further into the future, and wonder what their lives will be like when I'm no longer here to do anything for them. And those moments feel fascinating to me. Because then all that will be left is the memories of me, the memory of who I was to them. And it's then that the weight of everything I did with them as a living person will truly be tested. Both the good times and the bad. That's the time when all I will be is the story they tell other people whenever the opportunity presents itself. About the conversations we had, the walks we went on, the games we played, the time we spent together. This is a time when they'll be alone, batting a ball against a wall with no one else to step in and help, no one to cheer when they succeed, no one to encourage them to do better when they miss. Just the ever-changing light falling upon them, the sound of their shoes on the gravel, and the change in timbre as the ball hits the wall, then the ground, and then the strings of their racquet. Over and over and over again. And those are the moments I wish I could be there for them more than any, but, of course, that's just not possible.