Catholic Dads » David Marciniak

Thank you, sir…may I have another?

David Marciniak — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 14:15:52 +0000

On occasion after dinner I will recline on my luxurious sofa (as long as there isn’t dried cereal stuck to it or the milk spilled between the cushions doesn’t smell like feta cheese that has been partially digested). From my pampered position I will summon my beloved children, one by one, to my side…but they won’t come. They have learned over the years that I merely intend to yank them onto the couch, tickle them mercilessly, and send them unceremonioulsly down to the floor in a crumpled, giggling heap. Like Pavolv’s dogs who drooled at the tinkle of a bell, my children have recognized the consequences of certain behaviors, specifically that approaching a seemingly placid father lying on the couch means ticklepalooza. But every once in a while, carelessly detatched from impending events, one of them will wander near…and I get ‘em. Oh, boy I get ‘em.

The children are not unique to this behavior; I am certain each of us could conjure up examples of personal behaviors we are well aware to be detrimental and yet… For example, I am painfully aware that putting any hope in the Buffalo Bills will lead to bitter disappointment, yet I watch. I have tasted the bitter gall of telling one’s wife that one’s mother makes a particular dish a bit better, yet I speak. I have felt the the burn of the searing gaze of a teen-aged daughter when I comment on the location of her most recent blemish, yet my lips move. I am Charlie Brown. I must kick the ball, and so I run, with all my strength, and moments later I am on my back while Lucy howls in laughter.

Today I am feeling very much like Charlie Brown, spinning in the air and awaiting a fleshy thud as I become one with the cold, hard ground. Parenting can be like that…I have a teen child who can’t seem to grow up. This child will not take responsibility, will not commit himself to work, will not recognize that diligence and character define us. He is neglectful of his studies, his faith, and his family. Logical, reasonable, rational people would tell me to give up. They would carefully justify the reasons for throwing up my hands and surrendering responsibility. They would nod in grim agreement if I simply said, “enough”. But I can’t. I am a father. And so I will rant, rave, cajole, advise, discipline, ground, punish and plead; but I will not give up. Believe me when I say that many days I do want to give up, protect myself from disappointment, and abdicate responsibility for a boy who will take none. It is a struggle. But what of the father of the prodigal? What of St. Monica? What of our Heavenly Father who calls us to Himself despite our unyielding propensity to sin?

Please, God, give me strength. One of these times I will kick the ball.

With my luck it will probably go wide right…

Teenage Angst and German Shepherds…

David Marciniak — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 16:21:00 +0000

I have four teenagers, and in four months that number climbs to five.

Cards and letters of support can be mailed to my home address. In liu of flowers send donations to the Research Department of Premature Graying, c/o Grecian Formula.

For those who have teenagers or are survivors, you know the struggle. I have heard many erudite explanations of the phenomena: hormonal imbalances, myelinization irregularities, etc. I commend researchers as they attempt to find a cause for behaviors currently unexplained. Unfortunately, no one has found a cure.

Nothing helps. My wife used to tell me to let them sleep in on the weekends, with the naive idea that a good night’s (or morning’s, and perhaps afternoon’s)sleep is all that is needed. Nope. The angst is pervasive. They call into question everything, from their faith, the meaning of life, and the value of putting laundry in a hamper. They question authority as they maneuver to discover their place in society, believing inheritantly that they truly should be Emperor of the World. Time is immaterial and is measured only in relation to social activity and “how incredibly long it took me to do the inhuman household chores you have forced me like a Hebrew Slave to complete on a SATURDAY, my Day of Rest”. They look at life through relativistic lenses, believing that all points of view are of equal merit and value. Well, not quite; they believe that THEIR point of view is of merit and value, whether that changes daily, hourly, or in the space of a few seconds. Your point of view is irrelevant if it is even remotely in opposition.

As a parent I have to constantly check the atmosphere of my home in the midst of the battle, to insure that MY influence is not relegated to obscurity in the face of the struggle. Not for the weak of heart. Add to the fray the little fact that you love them with all your heart, and there is potential for hurt, misunderstanding and anger. In many families one can recognize early on that the teenager rules the roost. I’ll go down fighting. Without vigilence it is inevitable that the culture of the home will embrace a sense of anti-authority and relativism. Not to mention the phone bill…

In related news, this appeared in the National Catholic Reporter on April 14th:

The Vatican’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith has initiated a
doctrinal investigation of the largest U.S. women’s religious leadership
organization, the Leadership Conference of Women Religious.

Sounds to me like our Holy Father has recognized that there is a metaphoric “teenager” in the Church, anti-authoritative and relativistic; the Church has made a move to re-exert it’s influence in it’s house. Check out this link for some in-depth analysis:

http://catholickey.blogspot.com/2009/04/why-lcwr-is-being-investigated.html

Let’s pray for the leaders of our Church that they may persevere in the battle! I can relate; oh, how I can relate…

Did I mention that I was the model of perfection as a teenager? Don’t let my parent’s abundant gray hair and nervous tics fool you. That was probably from my brother…

Holes in my Socks

David Marciniak — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 21:29:00 +0000

Every time I put on a pair of socks lately there seems to be a hole in one of them. It started about a year ago, and the problem persists. Whether a white crew sock or a black dress sock, it matters not. The holes suddenly appear, glaringly and uncomfortably present. They make themselves known early in the workday as I go about my routine; I worry that my big toe will have gas gangrene from a lack of blood supply as the sock constricts around it like a tiny cotton blend anaconda. I asked my sweet baboo if we had a moth problem, at which time she looked at me as if I was accusing her of gross household negligence and public drunkenness. No moths. Got it.

This afternoon I looked at my fifteen-year-old son’s feet. They are huge. I asked sweet baboo what size shoe he wears; “10 and a half”, she said as she strained the tortellini. Wow. Them’s big feet. I wondered if his socks had holes like mine. When I asked him he looked at me funny, like he does sometimes when he thinks that I must have fallen on my head from a significant distance as a child. “Yeah, they do, Dad.” He kicked off his sneakers that sweet baboo had refranined from reporting the cost of when he was sure he had a future as a cross country runner and needed JUST THE RIGHT SHOE.

He was wearing my socks.

That explains alot. My children, despite groundations lasting several weeks if not years, still have the nasty habit of running about outside in their socks. Honorable son number one is the worst offender. It is no wonder one get’s holes in ones socks when the fruit of one’s loins insist on running around the neighborhood in one’s socks.

Alas, I have determined this a battle I cannot win. There are others, and their feet are growing. I might as well accept the fate doled out on my socks. Man, when did his feet get so BIG?? He is growing so fast. It really makes me feel proud. Not that he’s wearing my socks; that just irritates me. What makes me proud is that he is growing into a man. I have prayed for so many years that my kids would grow into good, holy adults. It’s happening right before my eyes, and it took holes in my socks to see it.

Now why is my new “Fusion” shaver sitting on the side of the tub (you know, the one with the razor cartridges that cost six gazillion bucks for four?)? Maybe I’ll ask the sixteen year old daughter…