Family Mayne

Before I became a family man, I spent a lot of time wondering why in the hell anyone would want to have a child. Not that I didn't like kids - I do. I did. I have. But not to the extent that I ever really yearned for my own larvae. No way. Mainly because I always figured that good dads are guys who work forty-five hours a week at a job they neither hate nor love, bring home the bacon, are deacons, and play city-league softball. Not some wormy bastard like me, surrounded by his collages and journals and drawings of nude vampires building tree houses. My assumption, egocentric as it was, was that if I became a father, my child would resent me for being bizarre and atypical and I wd resent said child for effing with my time to create art. Plus, I'd have to deal with all those diapers and Fisher Price plastic toys.

What a crock all that turned out to be. But whatever, I didn't know. I couldn't know. And my guess is that nobody knows about a thing until that thing happens to them...Like, I had no way to even begin imagining what it's like to love your child. But let me tell you: It will knock you on your ass. And I don't mind all the diapers. Gotta have those. (Plus, I've seen what happens when you can't find a diaper in time, and it ain't pretty.) For some mysterious reason, cheap plastic toys still give me a taste of existential fear and sorrow, so we try to limit those. But I like watching Ella play with her toys. It's fun.

As for the art: One might think that having an infant would drastically reduce one's ability to produce works of art, what with all that limit-setting, diaper-changing, and late night rocking. And while there is some truth in that, it's also true that you get more done in less time (i.e., you learn to prioritize). And you also get really good at multi-tasking, which is something I used to be horrible at. And let's not forget the experience of parenting, and how it can cause your art to grow.

And so, how do I write, parent, and bring home some bacon bits? Well, sometimes I can write while Eleanor is playing nearby. But I have to watch her (and thus split my attention), because she'll put something dangerous or gross in her mouth, or make a grab for my laptop. So usually that doesn't work.

I've learned to steal scraps of paper and write down ideas at least, while at work, in the bath, on the phone, or while playing with Ella. It's anybody's guess as to whether or not I'll actually be able to save the scraps and get them into a story. I think so far I've lost most of them. But whatever. It's still writing. I make time to do it, so it's disciplined, and I'm proud of that.

Now whenever Eleanor is napping, that is the magic hour for writing. But, conversely, it's also when I want to be doing other stuff like: aimlessly wandering, watching t.v. on DVD, or connecting with my Special Lady. So I have to choose wisely. And it's not always easy. Most naps last from 45 min. to 90 min., which isn't a lot a of time for any of the above. But, man, if I can sit down, focus, and just write, Eleanor's naptime feels like centuries. It's a weird thing that happens with time, I guess.

Basically, having a child has taught me all about sacrifice. I used to live in horror of the kind of sacrifice I've learned via Eleanor, but now, I pretty much feel like I've lived through my greatest fear. Now new ones arrive to take its place...You get concerned about what kind of a reality is laying in wait for your babe. It can get heavy sometimes. I've learned that certain, esoteric skills and tools are necessary for dealing with this fear. The usual denial or internal bullshitting doesn't hold up under the weight of your sincere hope that the world is okay-enough for your child.

Which brings be back to writing. I'm not really a "writer." I mean, I'll be writing pretty steady for the next two years, but I don't have big ideas about literature and poetry (other than: most people don't even read it). I just like to write. But I like to do a lot of other things too. Like walk. So I guess I'm a walker, as well. (Renaissance man is in the house!) My point is: we're all just a bunch of hominids. We'll live, we'll die, and we each have something special to add to the pea-soup of human experience. But at the end of the day, all you have is your experience. (You can't take your vampire nudes with you, in other words.) But if you can show up for your life, you'll be doing something infinitely cooler than the vampire nudes, or even the Sistine Chapel could ever do: You'll be connecting eye-to-eye with the living, breathing love-mystery of life itself. And that shit's out-of-control, baby. The point is to not waste time...with art, without art, with a child, without a child, or any variation thereof. That's what I've learned. It has taken me thirty-four years to learn it.

Okay. That's my sermon. But check it: Today I'm a super-proud father because Eleanor is a walker now. She started last week. Well, really, she started when first began crawling. But last week she put two and two together and realized that, like most every other human, she could stand upright on her hind legs in this ridiculous pose called "standing" and actually achieve motion by placing one foot in front of the other. Watching her realize this has been hilarious, inspiring, and triumphant. That's my girl, yo.