Calling Me Home: A Father's Tale

A phone call reminds a father that he's a father.

Now and then, parents need a break from their children. Whether it's a day spa, a ballgame, poker, a nice dinner, a movie, or the porcelain throne, it recharges our batteries and ultimately makes us better parents. Stealing away a few hours or even a few minutes readies us for that tantrum or that spilled plate of spaghetti all over the new Oriental rug.

 

But we never really do leave parenting behind. Not completely anyway. Sure, we may at times temporarily hand over childcare responsibilities to the other parent, or a grandparent, or a teacher, or a babysitter. But we never abdicate parental responsibilities. Our kids are always on our mind and as close as a phone call – and in this day and age of cell phones, that's a lot closer than it was when we were kids.

 

This hit home for me when I was 1,500 miles away from home – and away from both my wife and our four-year-old boy. I'd made a trip to Key West, Florida, with fellow author and Chicagoan Jimmy "J.D." Gordon for a book-signing gig at Meeting of the Minds, the annual convention of Parrotheads (the nickname given to the fans of musician Jimmy Buffett).

 

The two of us had boarded a plane on Halloween morning. We're both fathers (Jimmy has two little ones to my one) and on the flight down, we both lamented that we'd be missing trick-or-treating with our kids for the first time since we'd become fathers.  But our fatherly regrets were soon lost in a tropical breeze and a haze of rum drinks. Our inner-pirates had taken command of our guiding ships.

 

Kids have a mysterious power over our inner-compasses, though, as I discovered on the second night of my journey. After the rough waters of our first night in the Conch Republic, Jimmy and I had set our course for calmer waters. We'd settled in at a nice outdoor restaurant called Mangoes whose motto is: It's not just a fruit, it's a lifestyle.

 

Just when the server sets the seafood cocktail in front of me, I feel that familiar vibration in the pocket of my shorts. I'd made the obligatory call home just a few minutes earlier and thought that I would be able to relax and enjoy my dinner. But my son wants to talk about the Pirate Museum.

 

Earlier that evening, I'd stumbled upon the museum while scoping out the island. It had been closed when I happened upon it, but that's irrelevant as far as my son is concerned. To a boy whose wild-eyed imagination has been fed by the likes of Captain Hook and Jack Sparrow, this is a treasure that must be dug up. So I do what any good father would do. I try as mightily as I can to satisfy the insatiable hunger of my son's wondrous mind while my stomach growls at the sight of that seafood cocktail sitting temptingly in front of it.

 

By the time I get off the phone, I'm as hungry as a pirate at sea. I attack the seafood cocktail, and then level my aim on the now cold plate of jerk chicken, plantains, and rice and beans. When the pocket of my shorts vibrates again.

 

My son wants to know about my book, "Lost in the Ivy," presumably because it was the reason I'd traveled away from home. I glance at my watch. He should be in bed.

 

While my son certainly is aware that I am the author of a book and he's even seen my book in the local library and accompanied me to book signings, he didn't know much else about it and had never asked about it. Until now. When I'm 1,500 miles away, staring at that plate of Caribbean delicacies.

 

Here's the thing about my book: It's not a kid's book. Not even close. If it were to be made into a movie, as I have daydreamt about, it would get an R rating because of its depiction of graphic violence and its mature themes, language and content. I've shied away from talking about it in front of my son, because I'm not sure how to explain it to him.

 

Now I'm on the spot. The thing is, he asks good questions. Really good questions – about characters and their motivations, and plot. Some I myself struggle to answer – and not just because it's a four-year-old asking them.

 

Like any red-blooded boy of four, he's mostly intrigued by the "bad guy." Why is he bad? What did he do? How did he end up dead? The questions come rapid-fire before I eventually surrender by asking him to give the phone back to Mommy.

 

When I finally say goodnight that night, it comes to me that my son is calling me home. It isn't the pirate museum or my book that he's curious about, it's me.

 

It would be two days later before I would see him, and due to sleep and work schedules, I have to wait eighteen long hours after my arrival home before I finally get to see him.

 

When I spot him in the preschool classroom, he's wearing the tie-dyed pirate shirt I'd bought for him. Printed on it are the words "Tales from the Tropics: Key West." When I see that smile on his face and feel the warmth of his embrace, I know that I am home and that my tale from the tropics is over.

 

Reviews

[Sara Muschweck]

You know you are a great father when the call of a four year old child can disrupt any thoughts of bikini clad ladies, rum drinks, and enjoying a great seafood plate. This was delightful, having children of my own, reading of you being put on the spot trying to explain to a child your book. When you know inside you are trying to explain satisfactorily to the child why you need to be away from them for that length of time.