Category: Parenting

Brotherly Love

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As Keara infiltrated the kitchen she called upon each of her fourteen years to support her now. Standing alone in her figure hugging dress, soaring stilettos and darkened eyes she waited. It didn’t take long. Peering above the rim of his glasses, past the ageing sellotape that bound them together, Michael, the eldest in the brood, slowly shook his head.

“That just won’t do”, he commented.

Tight lipped she ignored him.

Stephen, next in line, twisted round to look for himself and tut tutted as big brothers occasionally do. From a very young age Stephen always measured his response. Why use two words when one was enough? For that matter why use words at all when others could speak for you? The child in the middle often gets squeezed out and has to fight harder for his space. If he chooses not to he can become so chilled that freezing is a real possibility.

Now at this point you might think that I, as their father, should have intervened, but time, if it’s taught me anything, taught me that learning to be a good father is not for wimps. It takes lots of patience, a decent amount of bottle and a fair degree of luck.

Keara blew out hard.

Sean, ever the diplomat, just smiled and went on eating, waiting for the next move. The youngest male in the pride knew there was nothing more for him to add. Of course Sean could at any time simply choose to work the room in his own inimitable way. One of a rare breed of enlightened youngsters that could dazzle an audience by cracking a cipher with his eyes closed but unlike most Sean did humility. She knew that too.

Suspecting that I might not have to police her any longer I said nothing. When panning for gold the ancient Chinese used blankets to filter the sand and gravel catching the precious metal in the weave of the fabric. When a daughter’s moves are filtered by three sons there is no need for further sifting.

This was the occasion of Keara’s first trip to Wes. The ultimate teenage disco has a fearsome reputation. At closing time anxious fathers pack the street outside, double and treble parking. Car horns and raised voices threaten every emerging male with a look that says ‘not my daughter’. Here you’ll see the highest of high heels and the least generous of dresses. It’s where boys come of age as the girls teach them how.

“You’re not going out like that”, continued Michael.

Did you ever pick sides in the nurture verses nature debate? I think it depends on whether you are judging boys or girls? For instance, Michael’s declaration was definitely nurtured and came straight from the book of wisdom that all fathers and caring older brothers subscribe to. I think so anyhow. A bit ironic that it came from Michael, given that he had left a trail of broken hearts in his wake as he passed through college. No doubt though he was remembering his own Wes odyssey. He never asked to go a second time and I never asked why, preferring to leave the question aside until some later time, down the road, when father and son were of an age to go for a pint together and share such matters.

“You’re not my father”

Now that was definitely nature. It was accompanied by raised eyebrows and a pause aimed in my direction which much to her disgust didn’t elicit a response.

At this point, knowing that she’d remember that he never went when it was his turn, Stephen opted for discretion and joined the growing band of mutes. Anyhow, the professor had said enough. Sean smiled on, occasionally swallowing hard, trying to choke back the laughter.

Just then it happened. A higher authority arrived. The cavalry appearing in the form of my wife charged through the atmosphere brim full of duty and sense.

“What do you think of your daughter?” she asked, ordering an answer.

At times like this I begin to wonder why the world is so imbalanced. It surely can’t be right that there is an almost equal number of men and women on the planet. While men purport to be the stronger of the species, any self-respecting male who is honest with himself knows that women win most of the battles. Ten to one sounds a bit more reasonable.

Accepting that the tide has turned I cave in.

“Lovely”, I lie.

Adam’s No Saint!

Being called Adam can be a burden at times. By simply taking a bite out of an apple the original holder put a stain on all mankind and ruined the name for future generations. Although I must admit I do feel a certain sympathy for my namesake. After all, despite the idyllic surroundings, can anyone blame him for not wanting to upset the only woman on the planet?

The story of how I came to be called Adam has less to do with the Book of Genesis and more to do with the modern phenomenon where young couples name their offspring after well known personalities. Back in the late 50’s rock and roll was on the verge of becoming mainstream and my mother was infatuated with one of the upcoming stars in the music industry: Adam Faith. Family history doesn’t record what my father thought of the name but I suspect that even if he had disapproved he knew well that this was one battle he could never win. However, on the day of my baptism, the priest saw it differently.

Father Darcy from Ballinrobe and recently promoted to Parish Priest in a Dublin suburb, was traditional in both dress and character. He wore a cassock and collar, black horn rimmed glasses and a rustic appearance that left no one in any doubt of his rural upbringing. Like many clerics of his time he demanded respect for both the church and the law, canon law. Legend has it, at the very moment friends and family gathered around the baptismal font, he baulked at the suggestion that the child would be called Adam and flatly refused to proceed with the ceremony.

‘Adam’s no saint . It must be a saint’s name’, he said.

Years later I was told by a family friend that even my whimpering halted as the silence reverberated around the church and the congregation waited for my parents next move. All eyes turned towards my Mother. She ran the home, a growing family and managed any crisis going. She was small and tough and it was natural that she would answer, but she didn’t. By contrast Dad was quite shy and tall and thin, so much so that you’d wonder how he stood firm against your average breeze. Taking on the church was unimaginable and yet that’s exactly what he did.

‘The boy’s name is Adam’, he said.

This was pre Vatican II and long before the authority of the church was ever open for debate. In the late 50’s the banks, the politicians, the justice system and especially the church were the foundation on which the whole state was built. To dare to question was undeniably brave. Thankfully a voice from the wilderness saved the family from certain excommunication.

‘Give him a second name’, said the voice.

The suggestion seemed acceptable to both priest and parents providing, of course, it was a saint’s name. Being the land of saints and scholars one could be forgiven for thinking that finding a saints name shouldn’t be all that difficult. That’s where you’d be mistaken. Although I suspect Father Darcy could have reeled off any amount of names he refused to be drawn. In fairness, at this juncture, he was probably prepared to be damned than come to the aid of my parents. This was proving to be a problem because as the tension rose Mum and Dad could hardly remember their own names let alone chose a second one for me.

Again the mystery voice spoke up.

‘It’s St Benedict’s Day…call the child Benedict’

With that simple statement I was cursed for ever more. Had I been able to leg it out of there or even voice an objection I suspect I would. It’s kind of nice to be called Adam after a rock star but Benny, good Lord, how could they let that happen?