Life as Father
I wrote this as a column for The Times-News in Twin Falls, Idaho, shortly after my first son was born. I now have four children and still love being a dad.
Roads less traveled
By Christijan Draper
Life as father
Sometimes it seems as though I’ll never get outside again.
Some days, I stand at my window, staring out as sunlight pummels its way through drifting clouds, engulfing everything.
Everything except me.
I’m inside – with my boy.
In September, my wife gave birth to our first child and I have been playing Mr. Mom ever since.
My wife Valorie teaches during the day; I work evenings, so I watch the boy, whom we named Matthew, until I go to work in the afternoon.
It makes for a hectic day. The weeks seem to bleed together.
Sometimes, I have watched the squirrels with envy as I changed a soiled diaper.
Or, during Matthew’s nap time, as I struggled to keep my own eyes open, I have caught a glimpse of a raven or dove dancing in the air above the city. It sets my soul longing for freedom.
At times, I feel shackled.
Until Matthew smiles.
Because Matthew’s smile beams at me like sunlight. His gurgling giggles waft like wind across my face.
The roof and the walls and time fade into white and it’s easy to be happy inside.
I can handle a few months cooped up with my son if he keeps smiling. I need the time, anyway, to learn what I’m supposed to do to be a dad.
My own parents were good examples. I never felt like I was a waste of their time. In fact, they treated me as part of the core of what made them happy. I never felt incidental.
As a family, we visited sites that filled me with wonder and fed my imagination.
We tromped through Dinosaur National Monument; scoured the ruins at Mesa Verde, in Colorado; traversed the Catwalks in New Mexico; drove on backwoods dirt roads all the way from Show Low, Ariz., to northern Utah.
We explored the Mogollon Rim, Canyon De Chelly and the Gila valley in Arizona; stared in awe at the great lakes; and we engorged ourselves on Alaska.
If there was a rainbow, my parents always made sure we kids saw it. If there was a burning red sunset, they never failed to have us savor it. We would lick up every last morsel of God’s wondrous creation.
Among my favorite memories are the chilly mornings when I stepped from my tent, shortly after dawn, to find my dad busy rekindling the fire and preparing breakfast before my other family members awoke.
Our breath would swirl around our heads as I would ask him questions about what he was doing.
He would talk to me, laugh with me and teach me.
As the sun scattered its warm morning light across our camp site, I always felt important.
I grew, in our numberless excursions, to feel the importance of communing with the earth that lent me of its dust.
My parents helped me discover, in the wilderness of my youth, a sense of my own completeness and my own worth.
I’d like Matthew to know what he’s worth. And it’s more than a thousand words can say.
I know it’s not only through outdoor activities that Matthew will get a sense of who he is and what he means to me. But, I know that heading outside will, for certain, help develop our relationship.
The boy is only about five months old now, so we’ve only been able to take a couple of excursions together.
Valorie and I took Matthew on a hike around Dierkes Lake on a sunny day not too long ago.
I strapped him into a Snuggli on my chest, zipping my coat up over the two of us. His head bobbed and swayed with each step as we wound our way through the sage brush toward the canyon walls.
We stopped to look out over the Snake River. We paused to take in the glassy surface of one of the hidden lakes. Matthew fell asleep somewhere along the line, but on the final bends of the trail, he awoke.
When he did, I held him in my arms and he smiled as the cool breeze tickled his face.
I love to see him smile.
© 2002 The Times-News, Twin Falls, Idaho
Roads less traveled
By Christijan Draper
Life as father
Sometimes it seems as though I’ll never get outside again.
Some days, I stand at my window, staring out as sunlight pummels its way through drifting clouds, engulfing everything.
Everything except me.
I’m inside – with my boy.
In September, my wife gave birth to our first child and I have been playing Mr. Mom ever since.
My wife Valorie teaches during the day; I work evenings, so I watch the boy, whom we named Matthew, until I go to work in the afternoon.
It makes for a hectic day. The weeks seem to bleed together.
Sometimes, I have watched the squirrels with envy as I changed a soiled diaper.
Or, during Matthew’s nap time, as I struggled to keep my own eyes open, I have caught a glimpse of a raven or dove dancing in the air above the city. It sets my soul longing for freedom.
At times, I feel shackled.
Until Matthew smiles.
Because Matthew’s smile beams at me like sunlight. His gurgling giggles waft like wind across my face.
The roof and the walls and time fade into white and it’s easy to be happy inside.
I can handle a few months cooped up with my son if he keeps smiling. I need the time, anyway, to learn what I’m supposed to do to be a dad.
My own parents were good examples. I never felt like I was a waste of their time. In fact, they treated me as part of the core of what made them happy. I never felt incidental.
As a family, we visited sites that filled me with wonder and fed my imagination.
We tromped through Dinosaur National Monument; scoured the ruins at Mesa Verde, in Colorado; traversed the Catwalks in New Mexico; drove on backwoods dirt roads all the way from Show Low, Ariz., to northern Utah.
We explored the Mogollon Rim, Canyon De Chelly and the Gila valley in Arizona; stared in awe at the great lakes; and we engorged ourselves on Alaska.
If there was a rainbow, my parents always made sure we kids saw it. If there was a burning red sunset, they never failed to have us savor it. We would lick up every last morsel of God’s wondrous creation.
Among my favorite memories are the chilly mornings when I stepped from my tent, shortly after dawn, to find my dad busy rekindling the fire and preparing breakfast before my other family members awoke.
Our breath would swirl around our heads as I would ask him questions about what he was doing.
He would talk to me, laugh with me and teach me.
As the sun scattered its warm morning light across our camp site, I always felt important.
I grew, in our numberless excursions, to feel the importance of communing with the earth that lent me of its dust.
My parents helped me discover, in the wilderness of my youth, a sense of my own completeness and my own worth.
I’d like Matthew to know what he’s worth. And it’s more than a thousand words can say.
I know it’s not only through outdoor activities that Matthew will get a sense of who he is and what he means to me. But, I know that heading outside will, for certain, help develop our relationship.
The boy is only about five months old now, so we’ve only been able to take a couple of excursions together.
Valorie and I took Matthew on a hike around Dierkes Lake on a sunny day not too long ago.
I strapped him into a Snuggli on my chest, zipping my coat up over the two of us. His head bobbed and swayed with each step as we wound our way through the sage brush toward the canyon walls.
We stopped to look out over the Snake River. We paused to take in the glassy surface of one of the hidden lakes. Matthew fell asleep somewhere along the line, but on the final bends of the trail, he awoke.
When he did, I held him in my arms and he smiled as the cool breeze tickled his face.
I love to see him smile.
© 2002 The Times-News, Twin Falls, Idaho