It started out as a day like any other.  Except as the afternoon approached and then the evening, the email arrived.  Sent by a fellow mum, the email said that she’d been thinking about how we mums rarely get the opportunity to let our hair down together without the saplings and that in the next couple years, as our mini-me’s graduate to big kid school, we’ll probably see less of each other.  And rarely may turn into never. 

Never?  Unthinkable, unless one of us was forced to move to Timbuktu or Nar Nar Goon.  This email served as the initiation of what has become our mums’ monthly “learn-things-we-never-knew-about-one-another-while-laughing-‘til-our-bellies-ache-and-our-eyes-are-filled-with-tears-and-living-it-up-as-if-we-don’t-actually-have-to-wake-up-at-6am-to-‘mummy, mummy, mummy’” evenings. 

I’ve enjoyed our first three get-togethers immensely, and I always anticipate the next.  They remind us mums to remember ourselves, something we so easily forget to do while being a mother, partner, friend, and workmate.  

Our first mamapalooza was at one of the mum’s homes.  As we sat around the table eating her homemade yummies and charcuterie courtesy of a fantastic tapas restaurant and drinking wine, we talked about anything and everything.  We discussed the Royal Wedding and how it made us think of our own weddings and honeymoons.  I told the gals how I crashed on the back of a motorcycle hours before my wedding in Greece (which in my mind means I’m not legally married because I said my vows while on painkillers and wasn’t completely “there”), and one of my closest friends responded, “Lisha, I’ve known you for all these years, and I never knew you got married in Greece!”.  What I find funny is that she could probably tell you the type of nappies/diapers I used, the brand of baby wipes, the snacks my son most prefers, how my son’s potty training went, whether or not my son has had chicken pox yet, and what superhero my son most wants to be, but she never knew this.  We oohed and aahed over one another’s honeymoons, and I told them that due to my crash and subsequent pill-popping, my honeymoon kicked off with a game of Scrabble and some sleep, nothing more. 

We talked about who bid for Olympics tickets, art shows, and the more interesting Japanese sex fetishes.  Yikes.  Now those are some fetishes.  And eventually we said good night, and I walked home pensive, listening to Procol Harum.  You see, my husband and I walked down the aisle (read: I limped down the cliff) to Procol Harum’s “Whiter Shade of Pale”. 

The second matriarch social summit was at Kitchen Club in Soho.  One of the mums organised the evening for us, and we had the venue and the chef all to ourselves.  My palate did cartwheels, my belly handstands, and I still drool when I think of the kablik tatlisi with cream.  But, as was the case during the previous dinner, the conversation was the highlight.  We couldn’t help but talk a bit about pregnancy and labour, nannies and babysitters, and schools, but the good substance started after we had a few glasses.  I learned that marriage counselling exists even in the healthiest of unions, but perhaps more importantly, I received a lesson in geometry – one friend intimately described the difference between a Hollywood and a Brasilian while using her fingers to demonstrate geometric shapes.  And I was educated on vajazzle.  Really?  With rhinestones? (a day later, there was mention from one mom of a possible penazzle). 

 And the most recent Girls Gone Wild Without Their Wee Ones night out, organised by yours truly, involved nameless Lithuanian drug dealers, pills dissolving on our tongues and poo that powered the making of our meal.  Courtesy of my friend Abi, who runs Rambling Restaurant, currently a cafe/restaurant out of a decommissioned ambulance in the Urban Physic Garden, we enjoyed a nice meal outdoors with about 20 other strangers.  I think we’d all agree that the highlight of the meal was the miracle pills which – after dissipating in our mouths – made sour lemons, limes and rhubarb taste like sweet somethings.   I don’t know about the other gals, but after I took my pill, I could swear I had visions of Allen Ginsberg and Timothy Leary doing a moondance around our fire pit.  As we mums all talked about how great the smell and crackling sounds of the “campfire” were, one mum decided to ask one of our hosts who her miracle pill dealer was, to which she responded, “A nameless Lithuanian.  I give him money, he gives me the stuff in a bag.”  On a serious note, these pills are frequently given to patients undergoing chemotherapy as it eliminates the metallic taste in their mouths that they often experience while undergoing treatment. 

To add to what was already a relatively surreal experience, I found myself requesting gherkins from our hosts; I was eager to test their power against this miracle pill.  I was sucking on one as another mum told how she just read in the loo that our meal was powered by poo.  Yes, this was the night I almost choked on a gherkin.  Ahem.  Apparently, the pill hadn’t made her hallucinate.  The toilet does actually package poo and wee into a cartridge, and the cartridge is emptied into an anaerobic digester. The digester converts human waste into natural gas and fertilizer.  And then, as is typical after dinner, we were offered popping candy.  Yes, popping candy.  I ate a whole pack of the apple flavour myself and loved every minute of it. 

On our way home, I vowed to buy myself more popping candy and not to ever introduce it to my son for fear that he wouldn’t share the fizzing fun.  And, because the fire pit reminded me of roasted marshmallows – the “meal” I “cooked” the first night I stayed in my very own apartment – to buy some marshmallows and when my son’s old enough, roast them on the hob with him.  

I thought of how much I adore these friends, these fellow mums.  And of how much these evenings allow us to remember times pre-children.  Times that perhaps some of us feel guilty wanting back because it somehow equates to not wanting our little ones.  Reminiscing about these moments in no shape or form means we want to give our children back in order to regain such moments; it means our children are lucky to have mums who have had and will continue to have rich lives – who have, I learned, eaten seeds straight from the sunflowers, who have had the most romantic marriage proposals, whose father is a part-time beekeeper, who likes the Beatles song “Something”.  These are mums who have stories to tell and who intend to teach their children to grab life by the collar. 

For a few hours, we have a chance to be gals who are not just mums.  Since the first dinner was initiated, one mum has moved to another country, one mum has given birth and another has separated from her husband.  But one thing remains constant – mums’ night out.  And the next one I’m told involves dancing.  Time to shake what my mama gave me.

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Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

Very quietly, tiptoe over to mocha beanie mummy to see the rest of the entries.

When my daughter Lisha asked me to write about what it means to be a father, I thought about what I could say.  That process took me back to a very difficult 10-month period in my life some 30 years ago.  This was a time when fatherhood was a most meaningful aspect of my existence. 

Before I get to that story, I want to say that I have two wonderful stepdaughters, Kim and Lisa, who came into my life afterwards.  Both accepted me and have a special place in my heart.  It was an honor when they asked me to walk them down the aisle at their respective weddings.  This is what happened before they entered and enriched my life. 

“Daddy, I want to live with you”, were the words expressed by my teary-eyed, seven-year-old daughter Lisha – an unforgettable visual forever recorded in my mind.  Her mother and I had just informed her that I was moving out.  It was one of those dreaded moments in life that you hoped you would never have to go through.  When you get married you think it is for life, and you are blind to the mere possibility of a break-up.  My three-year-old son Dylan was oblivious to the enormity of this life changing event.  As a typical three-year-old boy, all he wanted to do was play with me, and with all of the thoughts racing in my head at this moment, the reality hit me that tomorrow, I was not going to spend the much cherished daily playtime with him when I walk in the door at the end of a work day.  It was all very confusing to me, and I know it was devastating for Lisha, and for her to emotionally convey her desire to live with me multiplied the already shattered pieces of my heart, especially knowing that would not and could not happen. 

Before I became a father, I knew that I did not want to be the kind of father that I had.  Through observance of friends’ families and relatives (including watching perfect TV fathers), ideas of what a father should and should not be were formulated in my mind as I prepared for this incredible responsibility.  I wanted to be there for my kids, teach them about morals, values, respect, support their interests, praise their achievements and most importantly tell them I love them every night as I put them to bed.  I would still do this, but now it would be every other weekend.  Two of the happiest days of my life were the days that Lisha and Dylan were born.  Not being a part of their daily life was incomprehensible.  “Pain is just a word, until it swallows you” (to quote myself), and I felt devoured and defeated.  The sight of them waving goodbye to me in my rear-view mirror as I drove away brought tears to my eyes. 

As time passed, it was obvious that despite my efforts, reconciliation was not even on the table.  I was at the lowest point in my life.  I had just had my left hand surgically repaired (I’m a lefty) and held together by several pins.  I had chosen not to return to my place of employment where my wife had contracted work.  I missed my kids dearly and was now facing the realization of moving on in life.  For that to happen I had to take action: I was going to file for divorce.  For some unknown reason, my parents stayed married and much of the time they lived separately and unlovingly.  As many unhappy couples who stay married “for the kids”, that was hardly the case in our family.  My parents had nine children and we all could have used some fatherly love and guidance. 

I could not afford an attorney, so I had to represent myself.  In these pre-Internet days, I went to the library, sought advice and filed all of the necessary documents.  I was determined. Sometimes we never know our own capabilities or the inner strength we have until we are tested.  I made a promise to myself, whether I was successful or not, for my love of my teary-eyed little girl and her request; I would give my best effort, despite the odds, to seek full custody of her and her little brother Dylan.  Lisha has always spoken her mind, and her words were my motivating factor.  I now had to establish some stability in my life as I found a job and moved into an apartment. 

If it wasn’t for heartbreak there would not be so many great songs written by songwriters who lived the experience.  All you have to do is turn on the radio and take your pick.  Music is a saving grace, and a salvation for the soul.  Some of my relatable loneliness, anger and heartache songs at this time were provided by Bob Dylan’s “Blood On The Tracks” his emotional lyrics and delivery of them, I was living. Tom Petty and Minnie Riperton (I was always impressed by her five and a half octave range) were also on the cassette play list.  Lisha and I would sing duets in the apartment and in the car.  I think she believed (probably not) my bragging of a seven octave range even though I never proved it, due to an excuse of one vocal ailment or another.

I had never been as nervous in my life as I was on the day of my appearance in the courtroom.  It is rare for custody rulings to be made in favor of the father, and I was prepared for the worst. As my case was called and the judge began reading the documents, he stopped for a moment and directed his eyes towards me for what seemed like minutes but in actuality was about 20 seconds.  Not only was I nervous but also uncomfortable.  I didn’t know how to react.  Should I smile?  I know I cleaned up pretty good for this important day.  He lowered his head again to finish his review.  He then proceeded to ask me his only question which was, “Is the respondent present?”  I answered, “No your honor, she is not.”  It might have been that as the petitioner who presented a case that the respondent did not contest, the Superior Court judge granted the divorce and also awarded me sole custody of my two minor children.  I was elated.  I would be lying if I said that everything was happily ever after.  Everyone who raises kids knows it is a challenge.  I don’t know how different their lives might be or what direction they would have taken had I not pursued custody.  I am proud that Lisha received a degree in Communications from California State University, Fullerton and a Masters degree in Fine Art from the prestigious Central Saint Martin’s College of Art and Design in London, UK, where she currently lives with her husband Keith and three-year-old son Enlai.  Dylan earned a full football scholarship to play quarterback at University of California, Los Angeles.  Unfortunately, he was forced to retire as a redshirt freshman due to injury.  Soon after 9/11, he enlisted in the Army and presently lives in Germany with his wife Erika and their three sons who are five, three and one.

Lisha loved and adored her little brother.  As a seven-year-old big sister she was mature for her age, even taking on a motherly role.  She has maintained these caring and giving attributes over into her adulthood. I know as far as parenting goes, Lisha and Dylan have improved upon the way they were raised.  We all want to be better parents than ours and in retrospect, I can see where I could have done better.  We live and we learn.  A father’s thought process and approach to issues may differ so much from a mother’s or daughter’s.  Sometimes we are in the dark with our failure to see the obvious because our minds are elsewhere.  Guys do things differently, sometimes without much thought.  For example, when a little boy has to relieve himself, a mother may suggest he hold it until he finds a toilet.  One day, we were on a blended family outing at the Los Angeles County Arboretum.  From his fidgety actions and grabbing of himself (parents of sons know what I mean), I knew Dylan needed to go.  To the dismay of his stepmother and sisters, I gave him permission to go in the bushes and off he ran.  I didn’t know he would urinate on a rare imported tree with a long, difficult to pronounce series of Latin names and in the presence of a small audience.  Needless to say, we rapidly moved along. 

Lisha and Dylan have inspired me since the day they were born, and it was at this difficult time in my life that my love for them as their father gave me the strength to step up for them, to be responsible, all along knowing that a child’s smile and laughter is so worth the effort it takes, including silly behavior.  It is so true that in every man there is a little boy, and it is rewarding to me when that little boy comes out and makes a child happy. 

Did you ever watch a TV show, play or a children’s DVD when all of a sudden they break out into a song?  Well here is the time in this story where I break out into a poem. 

To see her
on
her Daddy’s shoulders
sitting
on top of the world
like an angel in flight
gobs of security
miles and smiles
of fun
feeling tall
as a tree

To be carried
in
her Daddy’s arms,
thinking
there is no one stronger
and where she is
being held
so firmly
no one
will ever harm her
So happy
that he is there

To have
a loving Daddy
in the home
some
are not so lucky

It is sad
to hear
of absent fathers
who do not
give a damn
or kids
who never
had a man
they could call
their Daddy,
to share
a special moment
like cradling
at bedtime
a story voice
so soothing
tired eyelids
finally surrender
and dreams begin
and love
never ends
and responsibility
rides
on Daddy’s shoulders

Carrying a child on your shoulders is a love bond ride.  When you see kids carried in this manner they almost always have a smile on their face. While at Disneyland recently with Dylan, Erika and the boys, three-year-old Evan was tired, and his dad put him on his shoulders like I used to do with him.  All of a sudden we hear a loud bang and the sky was lit up with colorful fireworks.  As we stopped to watch the show, I glanced at Evan, and I was very sentimentally happy at this moment, to see the wide eyes and smile on his face, with an occasional “wow” and “cool” coming from his mouth.  He was on top of the world!  Watching this loved, innocent, three-year-old boy took me back 30 years where dreams began and love never ends.

With Father’s Day right around the corner, I asked my husband what it means to him to be a father.  For our son Enlai, this is for you, from your pa.  The bit about “to be on time” – I can only say that your pa has put the “late” back in “fashionably late”, often missing the entire event.  When it comes to being on time, follow his words, not his example.

To Be a Mensch

When I was asked by my wife to contribute to this meditation on fatherhood, I said I would do so if forced – a response which was met with the inevitable rejoinder “Consider yourself forced.”  So here ‘tis.

Fatherhood to me is, to a large extent, the art of finding a great mother for your child, something I had the great fortune of doing in my case.  Being a male, with an inherent yen for brevity of thought and the laconic statement, my inquiry, and my contribution, could end there, but I get the sense I have been expected to probe deeper.  And, to be fair, my empathy for Mies van der Rohe aside, I, too, sense that I should provide, and am capable of providing, further insight into this profound, esoteric and highly important subject.

Fatherhood, to me, is like falling off a couch – something that, even with the best of intentions, is very difficult to do well.

For my beautiful three-year old son (soon to be four), my sweet and gentle Enlai who loves to fill the minute with 60 seconds run, I have endeavoured, and shall continue to endeavour, to recognize, cherish and repeat everything that my father (and, for that matter, my dear old mum) did right – and to put the kibosh on all the rest.  Along these lines, I shall, throughout Enlai’s years and mine, strive to offer up, share with and instill in him the following jambalaya of thoughts, exhortations, purported insights and a couple of notes to self:  that to succeed in life one needs wisdom and that wisdom comes from good judgment and that good judgment, alas, often comes from having exercised bad judgment; that Picasso was on to something when he said he wanted to live like a poor man with lots of money; to never decline a wedding or a funeral invitation – even from or for someone disagreeable – for to do so would be very poor form indeed; to lend a hand; to eschew hatred (for anything more than mild dislike is a complete waste of time and energy); before criticizing someone, to realize that he/she may not have had all of the advantages in life that he has had, but if he/she has, well, then, okay, fair enough to slip in an elbow or two whilst passing by; to be a good cook and a good eater and to know that there are few things in life better than sharing a great meal with a great friend; to be a bon vivant; to realize that women, who have the gift of giving life, are thankfully, and extraordinarily, different from men and are to be loved, revered and celebrated for these differences; to be good to his mother; to always tell the truth (for, amongst other things, it’s easier to remember); to take off his hat when a woman enters a lift; to be a free thinker; to travel (and enjoy the journey as well as the destination); to let him know that I love him and will always have his back; to hold the door open and to say thank you when someone holds the door open for him; to not even think about taking the lift at John Lewis or Selfridges when he has good use of his limbs (take the escalator and leave the lifts for the elderly, parents with prams and the physically challenged); to relish a challenge (and a hot dog); to place a premium on learning and education; to be discreet; to pounce on the opportunity to live and work in different cities and different countries; to never stop exploring; to be on time (and to know that time is the most valuable thing you can take from a man); to have a love and appreciation for words, domestic and foreign; to be a mensch; to stand up for himself and others; to realize that the surest way for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing; to keep a cool head and sometimes lose it; to teach him expressions like GIT (get it together) and TCB (take care of business) and let him know that, when the going gets tough, the only thing to do in life is man-up, GIT and TCB; to grow old gracefully; to be tolerant, brave, thoughtful and sincere; to work hard; to realize that self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglect; to question everything always (and not just to be precocious or a pain in the arse); to realize that, even after all these years of human evolution, after diplomacy has failed, the only remaining effective solution is often, alas, a swift hook to the rib (and any rib will do); to be a man; to be especially kind to the elderly, children and animals; to be inspired and to inspire others; to read books made of paper; to watch all of the films in my and ma’s movie collection and realize that even the bad ones are in there for one fairly good reason or another; to be a gentleman; to savour the moment; to avoid the self-righteous tone unless he truly feels indignant about something and then, well, fair enough, to use it; to stand up to bullies; to listen and dance to all genres of music; to avoid motorized transport if he can walk to his destination in 30 minutes or less; to give blood; to perpetrate acts of random kindness; to realize that a blow upon the back that does not break the back makes the back stronger (and the same can be said of a broken heart); to be a good lover; to understand the value and importance of courtesy, civility, trust and hard work; to forgive but never forget; to have at least one good friend; to persevere; to look before he leaps (which is not to say don’t leap); to share kind thoughts; to have balls, common sense and integrity; to speak his mind and his heart; to look people in the eye when speaking to them or shaking their hand; to never let the bastards get him down; and, perhaps above all, my sweet Enlai, to laugh, to be kind and strong and to love and be loved.

When I think of seagulls, I think of irksome squawks, poo, sausages, and now – death.  I know that they’re birds, animals that are said to symbolise the soul or freedom.  And I know that they’re white, a colour which can signify purity, innocence or virtue.  But any mom who witnessed what I and other moms witnessed this past week would likely join the Consortium to Sort Out Sick-Making Seagulls.  Call it maternal revenge. 

Prior to what shall henceforth be referred to as The Seagull Incident, the idyllic backcloth – picnic remnants that somehow indicate that the words spoken and the laughter shared between bites and drinks will stay with the picnickers for a time, along with sundrenched up-aboves, sporadic swans on the Thames, and children’s chatter – was its own beautiful morsel of life. 

When I first saw the seagull – the eradicator in The Seagull Incident – I was reminded of how my mom would always say, “Rain’s coming,” when we heard their squawks.  I was also reminded of my high school days when the flocks, reminiscent of vultures, would swoop down in a feeding frenzy and attack our lunch remnants.  Minutes later, they’d pinpoint their victims – using a precision targeting system obviously borrowed from the US government – and drop their excrement bombs.  The human screeches served as indicators of who’d been hit.  

Watching the seagull – who by this time was flying in a repetitive circle above one particular spot on the Thames – also took me back to a time when my husband and I had a lazy Sunday, indulging in brunch only steps away from the Pacific Ocean on a beach in southern California.  As we dined outside and were about to take the first bites of our food, a seagull plunged toward my husband’s plate and pinched his sausage.  Absolutely no pun intended here – we’re talking seagulls.  After the bird managed to gobble the last bite, he flew to a nearby swimming pool and gulped some water, presumably to help wash down the banger. 

During The Seagull Incident, a banger was replaced by two live ducklings.  Some moms and I sat along the Thames with our little ones, watching boats go by, pointing at the cows on the other side, listening to the harmonics of the train wheels on the track, and then the seagull abruptly interrupted everything.  After circling above, he dove toward the first duckling – whose mother and six siblings were close by – and trapped it in his beak, carrying it away to eat it.  As this happened, all of us moms were shouting and running toward the seagull in an attempt to scare it away and save the duckling’s life.  Of course, our hollers frightened some of the little ones, causing them to ask what we were shrieking about.  I looked at the other moms, and I don’t think any of us knew how to respond.  One mom and I stared at each other, both searching for clues on the other’s face of how to explain to our little ones what just happened.   Another mom was in shock and continued to apologise for her instantaneous reaction to scream loudly.  Only moments later, having been satisfied with his appetiser, the seagull came back for his main.  Mother duck left with two less ducklings that afternoon. 

Moments like these unfortunately serve to remind us that life strolls – and sometimes leaps – alongside death.  Now – contrary to what my adoring husband may believe – I’m a glass half full sort of person.  I have had my moments of glass half empty and glass with but a few drops left at the bottom, but they are fleeting (note to self:  find a book that uses a metaphor suitable for the inner-workings of the male psyche which explains the difference between pessimism and realism).  

For days, I couldn’t stop thinking about The Seagull Incident, replaying it in my mind, and my glass felt empty.  And for days, my son insisted on telling anyone who would listen about The Seagull Incident, complete with shrill sound effects and flying and diving motions, and with each telling, my heart would break a little.  I’m aware of evolution, of survival of the fittest, of food chains, of nature, of all of it.  But awareness and firsthand, live observations or experiences are different. 

The Seagull Incident has also served to remind me that there is an empathy, a sensitivity that moms have for other moms, often regardless of whether they know each other (I never met the mother duck).  One of the moms present at the Incident said that a few days later, she felt somewhat emotional, saying that the seagull eating the ducklings emphasised for her how short life is and how lucky we are to be able to enjoy it.  At the same time, there is a bittersweet feeling that little ones grow up.  Her little one will start school soon and while she knows that it’s time to let go and move on to the next phase, she’s sad that this wonderful period of her and her little one’s lives is coming to an end. 

I want my son Enlai to aim to understand evolution and to have a respect for both life and death.  My hope is that if in the depths of his mind he understands that we human beings are mortal, he will live more fully.  And I will be here, not to help him see that his glass is half full, but that it runneth over.

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