Training wheels

Yesterday we were driving home when we saw a young boy in shorts careening happily down a steep hill on a bike with training wheels. I cringed inside. "Be careful, little boy!" I said audibly, and Isobella commented, "It seems like his parents should keep him closer to home until the training wheels are off."

It was a brief moment, and we drove on. But it flashed me back to yet another "hilarious" story that my dad used to always tell.

With mirth all over his face, and his eyes dancing, he would tell the story of how I, as a young child, was driving very quickly and happily down a steep hill. I was doing just fine. The training wheels weren't even on the ground. But then one of them fell off. I looked back and noticed, became scared, lost control, and (with exaggerated hand motions, and much laughter), "you crashed!" (making the hand motions of flying end-over-end).

Growing up, we always thought these stories were normal, and even funny. Just like the time I fell down the stairs. Oh, what a hoot. This was one of my first memories that I processed on this journey, and one of the first times that I began to question whether there was something really wrong with my dad. Later, I realized that I was raised by a psychopath: dad is not troubled by feeling the emotions of others. More than this (and this just occurs to me now), dad was a closet sadist, which means that he actually found pleasure in the pain of others. This is why he can look at a story where his young son suffered distress, confusion, and intense pain due to his actions (it was his job to screw on the training wheels, after all), and laugh. 

After writing my first post about the stairs, I questioned myself. Was I being too hard on him? I heard another father talk about a time when their child fell down the stairs. They recounted it with some laughter. Laughter? Let me think about that. He recounted it, and shook his head and laughed slightly. He said something like, "...and that was a close one! I'm glad he wasn't hurt in the end." That was very different than the enraptured delight of my dad retelling the stories of one of his young sons in pain. These stories seem to be in a repertoire of his favourite, most hilarious stories to tell.

A few weeks after writing I fell down the stairs, I was seriously questioning whether I was imagining things, and beign too hard on my dad. I had these thoughts often, at the time. Then, my own child fell down the stairs.

I have to work to draw up the memory: it was awful. We had a carefully purchased and well installed baby gate. Yet our child was very good at going up and down stairs, and so we let him if we were close. On this particular occasion, I was trying to prevent him from going down, but he was too quick for me. He climbed over and through, and began sliding down. He looked up at me, one hand on the baby-gate. It swung closed, destabilizing him, and to my absolute horror, he began to topple backwards down the wooden stairs. I let out a choking scream to Isobella, at the bottom of the stairs. The gate slammed shut infant of me as he toppled again. I yelled for my wife, knowing it was hopeless: neither of us could get to him in time. I wrestled with the gate for what felt like hours, and watched as my son flipped, slid, and  smacked against the steps. My brain catalogued every impact, instantly evaluating its severity.

I had placed foam pads at the bottom of the stairs, just in case anyone fell: but mercifully, there were blankets and pillows there from one of the kids. My child came to rest and I finally got the gate open, tripped my way down the stairs, and took him in my arms. Isobella was instantly there, and we wept together. "He's not seriously hurt," I said in a hoarse voice, "he didn't land on his head."

I was deeply shaken. I kept saying, "I just couldn't get to him in time! The gate was closed!" And Isobella said, "I heard you, but I couldn't come in time!" It was distressing for both of us.

As we talked, however, we were reminded that we had taken all the precautions possible: we had put up a gate, and even foams at the bottom of the stairs. We watched him, and also allowed him to practice. We did all that we could. But also, God sent little deliverances to help us: those blankets and pillows. Thank you, Father!

We are competent, and our Father always comes to save us. This has become my mantra, since my accident in Africa. It is very true.

...I want to get back to my dad, but it is hard to shift my mind from this sacred, and pignant memory. Myself and my wife, deeply caring for our child, doing all that we can yet still failing (because parenting is hard), feeling deeply scared and sad, yet refusing to blame ourselves because there was nothing we could have done. Then finding and giving peace to one another, and thanking God for our safe child. What a precious and poignant memory.

But my dad just laughed.

Ha ha, my kid fell down and hurt himself. I couldn't be bothered to put up a baby gate and there he went! He landed on his head! What a hoot! I wonder if that's why his neck was always so short! What a goof! Ha ha, the training wheels fell off. I couldn't be bothered to tighten them. It was so funny to see him flipping and smacking his way down the hill. Oh, how I remember coming to him with tears of mirth in my eyes, as he was sitting there with bloody knees and deep pain and confusion in his eyes. What a fun memory! I should make this a funny story, and remind him of it over and over! Oh, what fun we had, my son and I!

...my dad was not normal. That is all.

I was raised by a psychopath. But my children are being raised by a normal, healthy person.

There is a difference, and I see it clearer and clearer every day.

***

Later thoughts: one significant result of these stories (and we told them often, even between ourselves and even now I need to struggle to not se them as funny, but to see them as hurtful and dysfunctional). One result of these stories was to impress upon us very clearly that *our emotions and pain did not matter.* Oh yes, it mattered if dad was in pain. Or mom. That mattered a great deal. We could be spanked for making either cry. But our tears? They meant nothing. Worse than nothing. They were funny. 

This profoundly affected my sense of self worth, and probably affects how I still seeGod, especially when it comes to my sufferings.