The Family Room

Fathers and sons

Sometimes as I write, J. will look over my shoulder and wonder aloud why there isn't more mention of the elusive "J" in my posts. The truth is, he's there all the time. He is the author and architect of the concept of "QAP." He plays with Isaac with an abandon and delight that makes me want to be a child all over again. In fact, one day a woman approached him near a bus stop in San Francisco. She was a retired occupational therapist, and told him, in a tone of awe, that she'd never seen a father play with a child like that in her experience. Ever.

Now I have to say that I have seen some damn fine play in my time. But there is a challenge, as we all know, to finding the right kind of play for a child on the spectrum. And J has always known exactly how to reach Isaac, even when others saw only disinterest.

I took J. for an overnight to a hotel last night. We swam, we read in the sun, and I bought him a massage. We went to a terrific dinner, and this morning swam again. When it was time to leave, we went to a local deli, bought two enormous, freshly-made sandwiches, and ate them in the park as a young man played guitar and sang lovely, haunting Spanish songs. His baby daughter was asleep on the shoulder of the older man sitting next to him--his father? His wife took photos. A lovely tableau and a perfect day.

When we got home, Isaac grinned coyly at us and informed us that he wanted more cake. Seems that he and his babysitter had baked a simple yellow cake and decorated it with colored sugar and icing. It was still a little warm. Yum.

Happy Father's Day, my love.

Fathers and daughters

My dad is not a conventional dad. He worked in the music business, went to a lot of parties (including one at Hugh Hefner's house, about which I pestered my parents endlessly. Were there naked people? Did you SEE any naked people? And, most importantly, did they eat dinner naked? I never got a satisfactory answer.)

We didn't really go to baseball games, unless you count a softball game at a local park when I was about 11. My dad was the announcer, which was a riot because he knows absolutely nothing about baseball, and the team was made up of Motown musicians and songwriters and session musicians and who-knows-who else. All was fine--quiet even--until Marvin Gaye landed in a helicopter in right field, royally pissing off Berry Gordy, who had a sort of running practical joke battle with him. My childhood was fun and often exciting, and, when my parents' marriage started to sour, sad and chaotic and confusing. And it took a long time for me to forgive my father for that, and to sort out all of my complicated feelings.

The truth is, my dad has never really been a kid guy. In general, he likes them when they can talk, and after the part when they're smelly and loud all the time. But he loves Isaac with all his heart, and he listens to my every story, and Isaac's every accomplishment, with excitement and sometimes even something approaching awe. He says he can't remember a damn thing these days (like what movie he saw that day or what he ate for lunch), but he remembers absolutely everything I tell him about Isaac. Selective listening, dad, I'm telling you.

So on this father's day, I want to thank my own father, who I love with all MY heart. Happy Father's Day, Pops!

P.S. I'm going to have to figure out a prize, but I promise an as-yet-unpecified prize to the first one of you who can identify the grinning, fish-holding gentleman in the photo, circa about 1980. (Hint: My dad is the one without dreads.)