A Man and His Children
By Dr. James Dobson 
I was walking toward my car outside a shopping center a few weeks ago, when I heard a loud and impassioned howl.
"Auggghh!" groaned the masculine voice.
I spotted a man about fifty feet away who was in great distress (and for a very good reason). His fingers were caught in the jamb of a car door which had obviously been slammed unexpectedly. Then the rest of the story unfolded. Crouching in the front seat was an impish little three-year-old boy who had apparently decided to "close the door on Dad."
The father was pointing frantically at his fingers with his free hand, and saying, "Oh! Oh! Open the door, Chuckie! They're caught...hurry... Chuckie...please...open...OPEN!"
Chuckie finally got the message and unlocked the door, releasing Dad's blue fingers. The father then hopped and jumped around the aisles of the parking lot, alternately kissing and caressing his battered hand. Chuckie sat unmoved in the front seat of their car, waiting for Pop to settle down.
I know this incident was painful to the man who experienced it, but I must admit that it struck me funny. I suppose his plight symbolized the enormous cost of parenthood. And yes, Virginia, it is expensive to raise boys and girls today. Parents give the best they have to their children, who often respond by slamming the door on their "fingers"—-especially during the unappreciative adolescent years. Perhaps that is why someone quipped, "Insanity is an inherited disease. You get it from your kids."
But there are other things that we get from our kids, including love and meaning and purpose and an opportunity to give. They also help us maintain our sense of humor, which is essential to emotional stability in these stressful days. I'm reminded of Anne Ortlund's eleven-year-old son whom she described in her book Disciplines of a Beautiful Woman. She had taken this rambunctious boy to their pediatrician for a routine physical examination. Before seeing the doctor, however, the nurse weighed and measured the child and attempted to obtain a medical history.
"Tell me, Mrs. Ortlund," said the nurse, "how is he sleeping?"
Nels answered on his own behalf, "I sleep very well." The nurse wrote that down.
"How's his appetite, Mrs. Ortlund?"
"I eat everything," said Nels. She wrote that down.
"Mrs. Ortlund, how are his bowels?"
The boy responded, "A, E, I, O and U."*
Those memories are priceless to the parent who isn't too tired to notice. Let me share one more true story. A father told me recently about a five-year-old boy who was sitting on the toilet at the precise instant an earthquake rocked Los Angeles County on February 9, 1971. The jolt was so severe that it knocked this lad off the potty. But never having been in an earthquake before, he thought the rumble had been caused by his own bathroom activity. "What did I do, Mom?" he asked, with childlike wonder.
A family is literally a "museum of memories" to those who have been blessed by the presence of children. Although my kids are now fourteen and nine, I can recall ten thousand episodes that are carefully preserved in my mind. The "videotapes" of their early years are among my most valued possessions: even now, I see a six-year-old girl coming home from school. Her hair is disheveled and one sock is down around her ankle. It is obvious that she's been spinning upside down on the playground bars. She asks for a glass of milk and sits down at the kitchen table, unaware of the tenderness and love that I feel for her at that moment. Then she runs out to play.
Another "tape" begins to roll. I see a four-year-old boy with a Band-aid on his knee and bread crumbs on his face. He approaches my chair and asks to sit on my lap.
"Sorry," I said. "Only one boy in the world can climb on me when he chooses."
"Whoizzat?" he replies.
"Oh, you wouldn't know him. He's a kid named Ryan."
"But my name is Ryan!"
"Yes, but the boy I'm talking about has blond hair and blue eyes."
"Don't you see my blond hair? And my eyes are blue."
"Yes, but many kids have those. The only boy who can get on my lap is my son...my only son...whom I love."
"Hey, that's me! I'm your son. My name is Ryan! And I'm coming up!"
That little game has been played for seven years, and it still has meaning.
But I can hear my readers saying, "You're just a sentimentalist."
"You bet I am!" I reply. I'm not ashamed to admit that people matter to me, and I'm most vulnerable to those people within my own family. I've enjoyed every stage in the lives of our two kids and wished that they (we) could remain young forever.
Not only have Shirley and I enjoyed the developmental years, but Danae and Ryan have apparently shared that appreciation. Our daughter, especially, has loved every aspect of childhood and has been most reluctant to leave it. Her phonograph records and her stuffed animals and her bedroom have been prized possessions since toddlerhood. Likewise, she sat on Santa's lap for four years after she knew he was a phony. But, alas, she turned thirteen years old and began hearing a new set of drums. About a year ago, she went through her toys and records, stacking them neatly and leaving them in front of Ryan's bedroom door. On the top was a note which Shirley brought to me with tears in her eyes. I read:
Dear Ryan:
These are yours now.
Take good care of them like I have.
Love,
Danae
That brief message signaled the closing of the door called "Childhood." And once it shut, no power on earth could open it again. That's why the toddler and elementary school years should be seen as fleeting opportunities. Yet this priceless period of influence often occurs at a time when fathers are the least accessible to their kids. They are trying to establish themselves in their occupations, racing and running and huffing and puffing, dragging home a briefcase crammed to the brim with night work, scurrying to the airport to catch the last plane to Chicago, moonlighting to pay those vacation bills, and finally collapsing in bed in a state of utter exhaustion. Another day has passed with no interchange between Dad and his teachable little boy or girl.
One mother told me of hearing her preschool son talking to another four-year-old boy on the front steps.
"Where is your daddy?" he asked. "I've never seen him."
"Oh, he doesn't live here," came the reply. "He only sleeps here."
Without wanting to heap guilt on the heads of my masculine readers, I must say that too many fathers only sleep at their homes. And as a result, they have totally abdicated their responsibilities for leadership and influence in the lives of their children. I cited a study in my previous book What Wives Wish Their Husbands Knew About Women that documented the problem of inaccessible fathers. Let me quote from that source.
An article in Scientific American entitled "The Origins of Alienation," by Urie Bronfenbrenner best describes the problems facing today's families. Dr. Bronfenbrenner, is in my opinion, the foremost authority on child development in America today, and his views should be considered carefully. In this article, Dr. Bronfenbrenner discussed the deteriorating status of the American family and the forces which are weakening its cohesiveness. More specifically, he is concerned about the circumstances which are seriously undermining parental love and depriving children of the leadership and love they must have for survival.
One of those circumstances is widely know as the "rat-race." Dr. Bronfenbrenner described the problem this way, "The demands of a job that claim mealtimes, evenings and weekends as well as days; the trips and moves necessary to get ahead or simply to hold one's own; the increasing time spent commuting, entertaining, going out, meeting social and community obligations...all of these produce a situation in which a child often spends more time with a passive babysitter than with a participating parent."
According to Dr. Bronfenbrenner, this rat race is particularly incompatible with fatherly responsibilities, as illustrated by a recent investigation which yielded startling results. A team of researchers wanted to learn how much time middle-class fathers spend playing and interacting with their small children. First, they asked a group of fathers to estimate the time spent with their one-year-old youngsters each day, and received an average reply of fifteen to twenty minutes. To verify these claims, the investigators attached microphones to the shirts of small children for the purpose of recording actual parental verbalization. The results of this study are shocking: The average amount of time spent by these middle-class fathers with their small children was thirty-seven seconds per day! Their direct interaction was limited to 2.7 encounters daily, lasting ten to fifteen seconds each! That, so it seems, represents the contribution of fatherhood for millions of America's children.
Let's compare the thirty-seven-second interchanges between fathers and small children with another statistic. The average preschool child watches between 30 and 50 hours of television per week (the figures vary from one study to another). What an incredible picture is painted by those two statistics. During the formative years of life, when children are so vulnerable to their experiences, they're receiving thirty-seven seconds a day from their fathers and thirty or more hours a week from commercial television! Need we ask where our kids are getting their values?
Someone observed, "Values are not taught to our children; they are caught by them." It is true. Seldom can we get little Johnny or Mary to sit patiently on a chair while we lecture to them about God and the other important issues of life. Instead, they are equipped with internal "motors" which are incapable of idling. Their transmissions consist of only six gears: run, jump, climb, crawl, slide and dive. Boys and girls are simply not wired for quiet conversations about heavy topics.
How, then, do conscientious parents convey their attitudes and values and faith to their children? It is done subtly, through the routine interactions of everyday living. We saw this fact illustrated in our own home when Danae was ten years old and Ryan was five. We were riding in the car when we passed a porno theater. I believe the name of the particular movie was "Flesh Gordon," or something equally sensuous.
Danae, who was sitting in the front seat, pointed to the theater and said,
"That's a dirty movie, isn't it, Dad?"
I nodded affirmatively.
"Is that what they call an X-rated movie?" she asked.
Again, I indicated that she was correct.
Danae thought for a moment or two, then said, "Dirty movies are really bad, aren't they?"
I said, "Yes, Danae. dirty movies are very evil."
This entire conversation lasted less than a minute, consisting of three brief questions and three replies. Ryan, who was in the back seat, did not enter into our discussion. In fact, I wondered what he thought about the interchange, and concluded that he probably wasn't listening.
I was wrong. Ryan heard the conversation and apparently continued thinking about it for several days. But amusingly, Ryan did not know what a "dirty movie" was. How would a five-year-old boy learn what goes on in such places, since no one had ever discussed pornography with him? Nevertheless, he had his own idea about the subject. That concept was revealed to me four nights later at the close of the day.
Ryan and I got down on our knees to say his bedtime prayer, and the preschooler spontaneously returned to that conversation earlier in the week.
"Dear Lord," he began in great seriousness, "help me not to go see any dirty movies...where everyone is spitting on each other."
For Ryan, the dirtiest thing he could imagine would be a salivary free-for-all. That would be dirty, I had to admit.
But I also had to acknowledge how casually children assimilate our values and attitudes. You see, I had no way of anticipating that brief conversation in the car. It was not my deliberate intention to convey my views about pornography to my children. How was it that they learned one more dimension of my value system on that morning? It occurred because we happened to be together...to be talking to one another. Those kinds of subtle, unplanned interactions account for much of the instruction that passes from one generation to the next. It is a powerful force in shaping young lives, if! parents are occasionally at home with their kids; if they have the energy to converse with them; if they have anything worthwhile to transmit; if they care.
My point is that the breathless American lifestyle is particularly costly to children. Yet 1.8 million youngsters come home to an empty house after school each day. They are called "latchkey" kids because they wear the keys to their front doors around their necks. Not only are their fathers overcommitted and preoccupied, but now, their mothers are energetically seeking fulfillment in the working world, too. So who is at home with the kids? More commonly, the answer is nobody.
A popular song beautifully portrays the cost of overcommitment in family life. It was written by Sandy and Harry Chapin, who titled it "Cat's in the Cradle." I've obtained permission to reproduce the lyrics, as follows, specifically for the fathers who are reading this book:
CAT'S IN THE CRADLE
By Sandy and Harry Chapin
My child arrived just the other day
he came to the world in the usual way—
But there were planes to catch and bills to pay
he learned to walk while I was away
and he was talkin fore I knew it and as he grew he'd say
I'm gonna be like you, Dad
you know I'm gonna be like you.
and the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man in the moon
when you comin' home, Dad
I don't know when
but we'll get together then—
you know we'll have a good time then
My son turned 10 just the other day
he said, Thanks for the ball, Dad, com'on let's play
Can you teach me to throw?
I said not today, I got a lot to do
He said, That's okay
and he walked away but his smile never dimmed
it said I'm gonna be like him, yeah
you know I'm gonna be like him
and the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man in the moon
when you comin' home, Dad
I don't know when
but we'll get together then—
you know we'll have a good time then
Well he came home from college just the other day
so much like a man I just had to say
Son, I'm proud of you, can you sit for awhile
He shook his head and said with a smile—-
what I'd really like, Dad, is to borrow the car keys
see you later, can I have them please?
When you comin home, Son?
I don't know when
but we'll get together then
you know we'll have a good time then
I've long since retired, my son's moved away
I called him up just the other day
I said I'd like to see you if you don't mind
He said, I'd love to, dad—-if I can find the time
You see my new job's a hassle and the kids have the flu
but it's sure nice talkin to you, Dad
It's been nice talking to you
And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me—-
he'd grown up just like me; my boy was just like me
and the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Like boy blue and the man in the moon
when you coming home, Son?
I don't know when
but we'll get together then, Dad,
we're gonna have a good time then
Do those words strike home to anyone but me? Have you felt the years slipping by with far too many unfulfilled promises to your children? Have you heard yourself saying,
"Son, we've been talking about that wagon we were going to build one of these Saturdays, and I just want you to know that I haven't forgotten it. But we can't do it this weekend 'cause I have to make an unexpected trip to Indianapolis. However, we will get to it one of these days. I'm not sure if it can be next weekend, but you keep reminding me and we'll eventually work together. And I'm going to take you fishing, too. I love to fish and I know a little stream that is jumping with trout in the Spring. But this just happens to be a very busy month for your mom and me, so let's keep planning and before you know it, the time will be here."
Then the days soon become weeks, and the weeks flow into months and years and decades...and our kids grow up and leave home. Then we sit in the silence of our family rooms, trying to recall the precious experiences that escaped us there. Ringing in our ears is that haunting phrase, "We'll have a good time...then..."
Oh, I know I'm stirring a measure of guilt into the pot with these words. But perhaps we need to be confronted with the important issues of life, even if they make us uncomfortable. Furthermore, I feel obligated to speak on behalf of the millions of children around the world who are reaching for fathers who aren't there. The names of specific boys and girls come to my mind as I write these words, symbolizing the masses of lonely kids who experience the agony of unmet needs. Let me acquaint you with two or three of those children whose paths I have crossed. I think, first of the mother who approached me after I had spoken some years ago. She had supported her husband through college and medical school, only to have him divorce her in favor of a younger plaything. She stood with tears in her eyes as she described the impact of his departure on her two sons.
"They miss their daddy ever day," she said. "They don't understand why he doesn't come to see them. The older boy, especially, wants a father so badly that he reaches for every man who comes into our lives. What can I tell him? How can I meet the boy's needs for a father who will hunt and fish and play football and bowl with him and his brother? It's breaking my heart to see them suffer so much."
I gave this mother a few suggestions and offered my understanding and support. The next morning I spoke for the final time at her church. Following the service, I stood on the platform as a line of people waited to tell me goodbye and extend their greetings. Standing in the line was the mother with her two sons.
They greeted me with smiles and I shook the older child's hand. then something happened which I did not recall until I was on my way back to Los Angeles. They boy did not let go of my hand! He gripped it tightly, preventing me from welcoming others who pressed around. To my regret, I realized later that I had unconsciously grasped his arm with my other hand, pulling myself free from his grip. I sat on the plane, realizing the full implications of that incident. You see, this lad needed me. He needed a man who could take the place of his renegade father. And I had failed him, just like all the rest. Now I'm left with the memory of a child who said with his eyes, "Could you be a daddy to me?"!
Another child has found a permanent place in my memory, although I don't even know her name. I was waiting to catch a plane at Los Angeles International Airport, enjoying my favorite activity of "people watching." But I was unprepared for the drama about to unfold. Standing near me was an old man who was obviously waited for someone who should have been on the plane that arrived minutes before. He examined each face intently as the passengers filed past. I thought he seemed unusually distressed as he waited.
Then I saw the little girl who stood by his side. She must have been seven years old, and she, too, was desperately looking for a certain face in the crowd. I have rarely seen a child more anxious than this cute little girl. She clung to the old man's arm, who I assumed to be her grandfather. Then as the last passengers came by, one by one, the girl began to cry silently. She was not merely disappointed in that moment; her little heart was broken. The grandfather also appeared to be fighting back the tears. In fact, he was too upset to comfort he child, who then buried her face in the sleeve of his worn coat.
"Oh, God!" I prayed silently. "What special agony are they experiencing in this hour? Was it the child's mother who abandoned her on that painful day? Did her daddy promise to come and then change his mind?"
My great impulse was to throw my arms around the little girl and shield her from the awfulness of that hour. I wanted her to pour out her grief in the protection of my embrace, but I feared that my intrusion would be misunderstood. So I watched helplessly. Then the old man and the child stood silently as the passengers departed from two other planes, but the anxiety on their faces had turned to despair. Finally, they walked slowly through the terminal and toward the door. Their only sound was the snuffing of the little girl who fought to control her tears.
Where is this child now? God only knows.
If the reader will bear with me, I must introduce you to one other child whose family experience has become so common in the Western world. I was waiting at Shawnee Mission Hospital for word on my dad's heart condition, after he was stricken in September. There in the waiting room was an American Girl magazine which caught my attention. (I must have been desperate for something to read to have been attracted to the "American Girl".)
I opened the cover page and immediately saw a composition written by a fourteen-year-old girl names Vicki Kraushaar. She had submitted her story for publication in the section of the magazine entitled "By You." I'll let Vicki introduce herself and describe her experience.
"That's the Way Life Goes Sometimes"
When I was ten, my parents got a divorce. Naturally, my father told me about it, because he was my favorite. [Notice that Vicki did not say, "I was his favorite."]
"Honey, I know it's been kind of bad for you these past few days, and I don't want to make it worse. But there's something I have to tell you. Honey, your mother and I got a divorce."
"But, Daddy—-"
"I know you don't want this, but it has to be done. Your mother and I just don't get along like we used to. I'm already packed and my plan is leaving in half an hour."
But, Daddy, why do you have to leave?"
"Well, honey, you mother and I can't live together anymore."
"I know that, but I mean why do you have to leave town?"
"Oh. Well, I got someone waiting for me in New Jersey."
"But, Daddy, will I ever see you again?"
"Sure you will, honey. We'll work something out."
"But what? I mean, you'll be living in New Jersey, and I'll be living here in Washington."
"Maybe your mother will agree to you spending two weeks in the summer and two in the winter with me."
"Why not more often?"
"I don't think she'll agree to two weeks in the summer and two in the winter, much less more."
"Well, it can't hurt to try."
"I know, honey, but we'll have to work it out later. My plane leaves in twenty minutes and I've got to get to the airport. Now I'm going to get my luggage, and I want you to go to your room so you don't have to watch me. And no long goodbyes either."
"Okay, Daddy. Goodbye. Don't forget to write."
"I won't. Goodbye. Now go to your room."
"Okay, Daddy, I don't want you to go!"
"I know, honey. But I have to."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't understand, honey."
"Yes, I would."
"No, you wouldn't."
"Oh well. Goodbye."
"Goodbye. Now go to your room. Hurry up."
"Okay. Well, I guess that's the way life goes sometimes."
"Yes honey. That's the way life goes sometimes."
After my father walked out that door, I never heard from him again.*
Vicki speaks eloquently on behalf of a million American children who have heard those shattering words, "Honey, your mother and I are getting a divorce." Throughout the world, husbands and wives are responding to the media blitz which urges and goads them to do their own thing, to chase impulsive desires without regard for the welfare of their families.
"The kids will get over it," goes the rationalization.
Every form of mass communication seemed mobilized to spread the "me first" philosophy during the 70's and early 80's. Frank Sinatra said it musically in his song, "I did it my way." Sammy Davis, Jr., echoed the sentiment in "I've gotta be me." Robert J. Ringer provided the literary version in Looking Out for Number One, which became the best-selling book in America for forty-six weeks. It was flanked by Open Marriage, Creative Divorce, and Pulling Your Own Strings, among hundreds of other dangerous best sellers. The est program then sold the same sickness under the guise of psychological health.
It all sounded so noble at the time. It was called "the discovery of personhood," and if offered an intoxicating appeal to our selfish lusts. But when this insidious philosophy had wormed its way into our system of values, it began to rot us from within. First, it encouraged an insignificant flirtation with sin (perhaps with a man or woman from New Jersey) followed by passion and illicit sexual encounters, followed by camouflaging lies and deceit, followed by angry words, and sleepless nights, followed by tears and anguish, followed by crumbling self-esteem, followed by attorneys and divorce courts and property settlements, followed by devastating custody hearings. And from deep within the maelstrom, we can hear the cry of three wounded children—two girls and a boy—who will never fully recover. "The when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death" (James 1:15, KJV).
Lest I sound self-righteous and "preachy," let me focus the glaring spotlight on my own inadequacies. While I have never been involved in an affair, nor will I ever, there have certainly been times when I have permitted overcommitment to rob my children of my involvement. I'll reveal the details in the following chapter for those who have the inclination to continue.
My father often quoted Eugene Field's Little Boy Blue to me when I was a child. This poem has always been a favorite, but it has assumed new meaning since the birth of my children.
"Little Boy Blue"
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.
"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,
"And don't you make any noise!"
So, toddling off to his trundle--bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys;
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue-—
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are True!
Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place—-
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
The smile of a little face;
And they wonder, as waiting the long years through
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.
Eugene Field
1850-1895
From Straight Talk to Men by Dr. James Dobson
Copyright © 1991. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
