Parental Perspective

By Marty Smith
Cambron, Mia & Vivie's Daddy

Parenthood is Wild Kingdom. It is The Wild Wild West. Where The Wild Things Are. Youth Gone Wild. It is the most-difficult, most-rewarding job imaginable, as wonderful as it is worrisome.

There is no off-switch. Little feet are the alarm clock. Giggles are soul-fuel. Smiles are tangible. So are tears. Mistakes hurt.

The moment the doctor smacks those little cheeks, the unknown shifts instantly -- from personally intriguing prospect to terrifying spectre.

That tiny little body makes you, in fact, realize how small you are.

The relentless day-to-day parental itinerary that leads from carpool to swimming pool and classroom to practice field and negotiation table to dinner table makes it difficult to keep a stranglehold on perspective and a proper priority scale -- even for the most-devoted parents.

That dynamic is made even more difficult when parents are forced to constantly thwart mind-numbing sibling quarrels about such things as who-sits-where and who's-watching-what, and the incessant verbal jabs spoken by little sister with the sole intent of poking big brother the lion.

Refereeing proves exhausting. It compromises patience.

I try extremely hard to maintain patience. I often don't.

I am not patient by nature. But my patience is far greater today.

I was told early on in parenthood not to sweat the small stuff. But in this world gone awry in the most fundamental arenas of common courtesy, I refuse to raise anything other than respectful children. I harp on it. Yes ma'am. No ma'am. Yes sir. No sir. Please. Thank you. Don't back-talk your momma. Straighten-up your toys. Quit whining. Do your homework.

Maybe I go too far. Maybe I shouldn't sweat every tantrum.

Maybe I should change my approach, let a few things slide.

Sandy Hook Elementary School is no different than the school my seven-year old attends.

Those sweet children could be his class. They were his age. They may have shared many of his interests. Maybe they loved Monster Trucks like he does. Maybe they requested chicken nuggets every other meal like he does. Maybe they picked on their sisters like he does.

That stopped me in my tracks. No tragedy in my lifetime hit me harder. I mourned 9/11 deeply. I wept for Virginia Tech. Blacksburg is 10 minutes from my hometown. But nothing felt like this felt.

It's children. Pure. Defenseless. Precious.

Innocent.

There are many moments, as I sit quietly snuggled in the comfy far-right corner of my couch, that I adjust my gaze from whatever frivolity dances across my television screen and fix it solely on the precious face of whichever of my children happens to be buried beneath "blankies" and "amilals" in the opposite corner.

I just sit and stare, for minutes on-end, until  my mind creeps dangerously into the fantasy I hold dearly for the future. I sit and stare, at the wide eyes and the snaggle-tooth grins, and let my thoughts try to guess  their thoughts.

The innocence is intoxicating.

It is a portrait of perfection. It is a sweet so sweet words can't possibly articulate the taste.

Maybe it's because my children are so young, and I'm living the lives many of those heartbroken parents are living. Maybe it was the realization that it all speeds by so fast.

And the realization that it can stop so fast.

I sat Wednesday and watched my son perform in his class' Christmas program. He walked confidently to the microphone and told us that every Advent Sunday many Germans light a candle on their Christmas wreath.

And then he sang "Oh Tannenbaum."

And then he did the Macarena to "Deck the Halls."

And I laughed.

And I wept.