February 25 2024

Murphy was inconsolable. I don’t remember what it was about. He’s 6, so it was something typical for that age, which means it’s typical for me at 40 as well, whatever it was — not getting what he was wanting, not feeling understood, tired, scared. We’re nearly the same. The universe is 13.7 billion years old, the earth is 4.5 billion years, humans are 300,000 years old — and Murphy and I have 34 years between us. He and I are a microsecond apart. To think any of us are any different from another is both true and as close to not true as you can get.

I was inconsolable as well come to think of it. Murphy expresses it with tears, stomping, crying, yelling — maybe I’d come to peace more quickly if I had the courage to do the same. But I have cowardice in me, so I shove it down, inwardly pout, play the mental victim, and slowly seethe over the course of days and weeks and lifetimes.

Standing over Murphy, his body wrenching, I feel my own anger and frustration. At him? At futility? At being a parent? I begin to heighten, matching his energy but not his way of expression. It’s all subconscious for me at this point. He’s frustrated, I’m frustrated at his frustration.

Then, in a moment, I remember that I’m powerless. Ugh. I forgot. I’m not in control. It’s so obvious when mere seconds ago I couldn’t see it. I get down with his body on the ground where he’s yelling and crying. Man do I understand. My boy my boy, I know. I want what I can’t have too. It’s the worst. I love your tears and I love your writhing and I love your flailing.

He’s just like me. He wants to be heard and understood and wanted and to have someone join him. I can’t control him, and the more I try to control him the more I set him up for a restricted and constrained life, and I do not want that for him. I want him to be free.

Let’s eat a cookie, pal. Sometimes that helps.

Ok dad.