Tips from a dad of six
June 13, 2008
Ken Dafoe
As a single dad with six kids repetition is the key to all things survival. Two girls, four boys, blended and together. Finish one day, rinse it off, repeat it the next. I read a lot of shampoo bottles for inspiration.
I wish I could tell you some deep, meaningful secret to raising kids, but I can’t. Keep them in school and keep them out of jail. I don’t know. On a good day I might tell you to laugh a lot, even at the stupid things. Humour works a lot around here. My grocery bill is bigger than my mortgage. That’s funny. On a bad day, I’m at my local A&P at 5:30 in the morning because I don’t have anything to give them for lunch. On my list of 50 things to do before 50 I stroked out "Become wiser" years ago. Right after I stroked out "Become richer." And "Plan better."
But as I said, repetition helps me find my way. Sometimes, it’s the only way.
Take the case of the missing Jos. Louis. Six kids, six Jos. Louis, but only five left in the box and no one has had one yet. I set up a room with a desk, a lamp, and a chair and I question the kids one by one. Edward, my oldest stepson is first. I turn the light on him.
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Did you take it?”
“NO!”
What my method lacks in depth it makes up in simplicity. After six hours of interrogation, Matt, my then 8 year-old bio-son confesses. But he also confesses to knowing something about Jimmy Hoffa, and the money in Fargo. I let him go. I don’t get phased by much anymore, I take it all in stride. At least that’s how I feel when it comes to food.
As a good father, I feed my children everyday. I used to rotate odd and even days, and draw straws for lunches. But then the school called and asked if Jackie was going to get a lunch tomorrow because she missed an even day last week. I laughed nervously, then began sending lunches with them all.
Dinner we usually eat together, and sometimes we go out, Swiss Chalet being the restaurant of choice because I can feed them all and get out of there for under $200. Gas excluded.
When the kids were young, I always opened the van door in front of Swiss Chalet just to watch them pile out, one-by-one, like a prison gang. When the fresh-faced hostess asked, “How many?” I liked saying seven because it threw off their whole seating plan. When she asked, “How many adults?” I replied one, which threw off their whole crayon allowance.
Often we were hustled to a table in the back corner, away from all the paying customers just in case one of my kids had Tourettes. I even got Matt to walk with a bit of a limp, just for effect. But it was worth it. Sometimes we silenced the whole restaurant as we filed by. Old women gasped in horror. Old men came over and shook my hand.
I once overheard a couple of women at the next table. “A single dad with two kids is sexy,” one said.
“But six kids is a lack of self-control,” replied the other and they both laughed.
I stopped the waitress and asked her to bring me a BBQ rib platter along with my chicken meal. Then I smiled at the two women and tipped my fork.
I’m fine with couples, just not in relationships. The death of my first wife to cancer and the separation from my second gave me my full-time dad status. I sleep on good nights and wake in the morning, thankfully. I once got a full night’s sleep at a conference in Long Beach, California, but felt too guilty to enjoy it. You learn to grab your time in elements. Night time, when everyone is in bed, being one of my best elements. Unless, Allison, my youngest, comes to see me.
Sunday night after her weekend with her mom and Allie can’t sleep. She’s at my bedroom door with her pillow and comforter looking for a bed to share. I’m at my desk marking papers, so I want to tell her, "No, go back to bed." But I can see in her eyes that she needs more time with me. I sigh: "But you have to be quiet and let me work. Okay?"
With a nod of her head she’s up on my bed and sitting, where she can hug my neck as I try to read.
"I love you Daddy," she says.
"I love you too Al," I say, and pat her arms while they squeeze tighter.
For the next ten minutes she asks simple little questions about my day. She asks what I’m doing. Did I know she saw a horse on the weekend? Do I know what it means when a cow lifts its tail? All these until I stop marking and turn my attention to a nine-year-old girl with no concern for time.
"Hey," I say to her, "Why don’t we have a cheese bun with a pinch of sugar on top?"
So we do. Split in half with two glasses of milk. We talk and laugh, and she brings me into her world while we sit in mine, on top of my bed.
"Daddy, can we watch Sherlock?" she asks. She’s talking about the old TV series. It’s eleven-thirty and she’s still not done for the day. I know she will never make it to school in the morning.
"Okay," I reply, "but we have to lie down to watch it."
And she’s already there with her pillow under her chin, propped up on her elbows. I settle in next to her, and we watch "The Empty House" episode on my computer until we both fall asleep. The desk lamp still on. Her fingers in my hand.
As a single dad of six, these are the elements I hold close.