Special Saturdays

One thing I am most grateful for in my life is the opportunity I’ve had to become a father myself. Every day, my son amazes me and I think one of the most awesome things in the world is to be a part of your children’s lives. Whenever anyone asks me what I did on the weekend, I don’t have to think long. 

I’m grateful to have some of my own time (to write this blog, among other things), but the majority of my time is spent with my son (he’s a toddler as of this writing), such as planning outings and play dates for him, taking care of him, playing with him, and just doing things with him. It’s busy and exhausting at times, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I happily put his needs above mine, because seeing him happy is gives me the greatest sense of peace and happiness. 

Sometimes I wonder if I do maybe too much, especially after talking with other friends who have kids my son’s age. I was surprised to hear one person tell me that they don’t want to be their kid’s friends, because they have to make their own friends in the world. So they don’t always play with their children when they ask. I can’t imagine not being my son’s friend! Of course, I know he will get older and have his own friends and probably be embarrassed of his old man, but we are so close right now and I hope it is always that way. When he asks me to play or spend time with him, I won’t ignore him or tell him to run along. And I will happily do the things he wants, from pushing him on the swing for an hour to running around role playing as bus driver (him) and passenger (me).

I think part of the reason I’m so intense with this is because growing up, my own father was completely the opposite. I was reading a book to my son the other day (Mighty Mighty Construction Site - I recommend this series to any parent with a toddler who likes vehicles), and I started to try and remember if my father ever read a book to me. We had Bible study growing up, and we would sit in the living room and my father would read passages from the Bible and explain to us kids what it meant. Usually things like how he had to discipline us, how mom had to listen to him, and how we couldn’t question him. When I got older, I used to have to read passages of the Bible or William Branham’s books and write reports for him. I remember doing this as early as 7. I also remember him laughing at my reports.

But did my father sit in bed with me and read a book to me? I honestly have no recollection of that at all. I remember my mother coming in to tuck me in at night. She would talk about my day and I do remember her reading books to me at night and also to me any my brothers together. They are vague, incomplete memories, but they are there and I’m grateful to have had them. 

But I have none of my father. I do remember sitting in bed with him as we listened to music that he liked (of course I had to keep quiet) or watching a movie or TV show he liked that we rented from the library. Before we had a VCR and monitor, we had a reel-to-reel projector that we would set up and he would watch his favorite things, usually documentaries about the Beatles or some history program. Sometimes he would just read a book - his book - while we had to be completely quiet.

My father had a name for this time, but I don’t remember exactly what it was. It was his attempt at spending time with us, but so he wouldn’t be bored we would do what he wanted. Not what any of us wanted. I have a memory of sitting in the big bed with him and my older brother, with one of his arms around me and the other around my brother, while he read one of his books and my brother and I stared at the wall. We couldn’t say anything because we were so afraid of him. But damn, were we bored.

This was my father, though. He must have had some sense of guilt for not spending time with his children, but not enough to actually want to do the things his toddler sons wanted to do. By having us cuddle with him while he read a book, listened to music, or watched a show, he could appease his conscience while he did something he himself enjoyed.

As we got older, my father would spend less time with us and I was totally fine with that. Spending time with my father never meant actually doing something fun. It meant being bored and also constantly worried that I would say or do something that would set him off and result in me receiving another round of physical or psychological abuse. Time with my father was time walking on eggshells. As soon as a shell cracked, the monster that was lurking behind you leapt out.

One very annoying thing he set up when I was middle-school age was something he called “Special Saturdays”. According to him, these were Saturdays that he would spend time with one child in particular. They rotated, so depending on how many of us there were, your turn might come sooner or later. At that time there were four of us (with more siblings born in later years), so my special Saturday would come around about once a month.

This was another way for him to try and appease his conscience. At least he must have felt bad in some way about not spending time with his children. The problem with the implementation of this concept was that they were special for him, not for his kids. During the entire time he implemented these “special” days, I don’t think any of us did anything that we actually wanted to do.

One thing I’ll regret forever is getting my father interested in flying. When I was about 13 I saw a movie about brothers who flew across the continental US in a biplane and thought it was the coolest thing. It was at that moment I wanted to be a pilot, and asked my father if I could save my allowance to take flying lessons when I got older. My father always had to be the better person, so he couldn’t bare to have his son do something that he couldn’t do. 

Sure, he said, but the condition was that he would learn how to fly first and that I couldn’t progress any faster than him because it would make him look bad. Eventually he became a private pilot and purchased two airplanes (one single engine and one twin engine), and this flying hobby of his caused my family great hardship and distress. His flying adventures are posts for other days, but I remember on many of my special Saturdays we would go flying.

What did this mean? We would get up early - much earlier than I wanted to on a Saturday - drive an hour out to the airport and start a long day that was not fun for me, but fun for him. First, I’d have to clean the plane. Then, I’d have to carry all of his luggage or whatever he had and load it up into the plane. While he did his pre-flight check or chatted with other pilots, I’d have to sit in the hanger and stare at the wall. I couldn’t bring a book or anything because that was against the rules of special Saturdays. A book meant I wouldn’t be giving him my attention, never mind the irony of him not really caring about me, or giving me any attention at all, for the entire day.

He would pick someplace to fly to and it would always be some random town anywhere from one to three hours away. With preflight checks complete, we would hop in the plane, taxi, take off, and be on our way. He installed a CD player in his airplane so he could listen to music. We weren’t even talking in the airplane. With headsets on, we would be listening to his favorite music only to be interrupted by air traffic controllers. Every now and then he would make a comment about how much fun this was and how great a time we were having.

Yeah, right. If I had a parachute, I would have jumped out of the plane.

After arrival in our destination, he would borrow a car from someone at the airport (some places had official car rental offices, some had loaner cars offered to pilots) and we would drive into town to get a piece of pie. My father always had a fascination with pie. I mean, I like pie as much as the next person. But he was infatuated with it. Baker’s Square was one of his favorite chains to get pies, but if there weren’t any around we would just go to a local diner. 

In the car, we would of course listen to music. The only time we actually had some interaction was when we were eating pie. He would try to think of things to say, and sometimes he’d ask me a question like if I like this or what do I think of that, but it would always drag back to himself. He was so self-centered that even on the days he put aside for his children, he would talk about himself, what he liked, and do things he wanted to do. I made sure not to talk about much, because my father was the type of person who could never be wrong. If you expressed an opinion he disagreed with, he would chide you and yell at you until you would verbally agree with him, even if you didn’t.

After the delicious pie, we’d get back in the car, head back to the airport, do the whole process over again, fly back to his airport, park the plane, clean everything up, and head back home. We wouldn’t get home until late in the evening, many times such a day would easily take 12 hours. 

The funny thing is, whenever it was your special Saturday it was actually a mini hell on Earth, while the rest of the family was enjoying the day. An entire day without dad around? What bliss!! What serenity!! What peacefulness!! I’d get home exhausted and depressed, while my siblings and my mom were in much better moods. The only thing that would kill their mood is if you didn’t do any of the number of things that my father asked you to do that day while he was out. Forget to wash the car, cut the lawn, or clean up his library? Fireworks would ensue. But you know, even if that happened, it was worth it for all of the nice hours with him out of the house. 

Now with a child of my own, I can’t imagine acting this way or treating my child the way my father did with me and my siblings. He never had any real desire to spend time with his children or do the things they wanted to do. I just can’t understand that. Maybe it’s because children were more of free labor to him (he joked about this many times when I was growing up, but I suspect it wasn’t really a joke) than actually family that was worthy of his real time and attention. Or maybe it’s because he didn’t get any attention himself, so he was doing the same thing to his children that his parents did to him.

Whatever the reason, I’m determined to break this cycle and it’s not hard to do because I love spending time with my son and fostering a real relationship with him. Not one that is based on fear, which was the dynamic for the relationship with my father and myself, but one that is based on love, trust, and compassion.