Parent-child

I have no experience in parenting, and I'm at the point in my life when I often view this as a great loss. Whenever I hear a young adult refer to her "darling father" or a son look up to his dad, I realize I've missed something important in human experience.

At the same time, I know parents whose children have caused them oceans of grief, particularly when addictions are involved. I've been spared all that.

I wrestled with these thoughts in developing a poem a few weeks ago.

Parenting

Sometimes I regret having never raised children.

Then I have lunch with a friend, or afternoon coffee,
or sit next to a stranger in a smoky bar
and suddenly I’m listening to parental confessions
about how Helen called after midnight,
a black eye, broken tooth, the bleeding just stopped,
yes, her husband got drunk and hit her again
but she already has an appointment with a lawyer.
This was the last straw, this time
she will divorce him (her third).

Or Stu, after three years on the straight and narrow,
a job he loves, up for promotion,
relapsed and is back in rehab.
He would have called earlier but they don’t allow
phone calls out during the first week.

Or it’s a cry for money before the electricity
is turned off, or the rent overdo, or the taxes.
It’s always something.

Or the kids barge in unannounced
with their children at heel,
everybody yapping at once.
The baby-sitter is sick, they are desperate,
and so you cancel your own dinner plans
to watch the grandkids for the evening.
It’s always something.

And all the while the friend or stranger
assumes I’m a kindred soul, a parent,
and therefore understand how they feel.

But what I hear is something else entirely:
the sweet voice of Helen in the school musical,
high notes glittering off a golden crown,
standing now by the coffee pot.
She has the voice of an angel.

And Stu’s tether is not addiction
but a taut rope up the middle in the bottom of the ninth,
zipping right through the busboy’s legs,
a walkoff hit that wins the Little League game.

There’s so much cheering and applause,
I no longer hear the complaints and regrets and self-doubts
for all the loud celebration—
Such wonder and awe and innocence
in this last gasp of childhood!

(Before the web of life
entangles them as it snared you
– and slowly, inevitably
begins to teach them

the rules of parenting.)

If I don't have parenting experience, I have a "surrogate dad" relationship with Dick's two sons, who have no memory of not knowing me. I'm in touch with each often, especially the oldest son. I like them in my life.