My life-long hero, Maurice Sendak, was interviewed by Steve Inskeep on NPR’s Morning Edition today about his new pop-up book, Mommy?.
Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are has remained one of my favorite books since the time I sat with my mother as she read in a gruff voice, “I’ll eat you up, I love you so,” and tickle-munched my little chest.
I still read a worn copy to my boys, Graham and Evan, who are now six and don’t seem anywhere close to outgrowing it. In fact, it’s perhaps fair to say that the upcoming movie adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are is more anticipated in our house than Revenge of the Sith ever was by even the nerdiest of Star Wars nerds.
So, I’m a bit bemused that Sendak–who is an inspiration for both my love of literature, fantasy, and story, and for what some (though likely not Graham and Evan) might consider my light-hearted and playful disposition toward fatherhood–said something I found astonishing and which challenged my assumptions about being a dad.
It wasn’t “I think all children are in jeopardy. I think it is unnatural to think that there is such a thing as a blue sky, white-clouded happy childhood for anybody.” That sentiment is patently obvious.
It was instead, a statement implying, in my interpretation, that fathers are irrelevant. Discussing mothers made weary by children who run circles around them, Inskeep reminded Sendak not to exclude weary fathers.
I do exclude fathers… Fathers are working. I don’t remember my father in my childhood, except that he came home late. And that he had his schnapps. And then, my mother said, “Do you know what he did?” pointing to me. And then he (would) nod. And then he (would) put his newspaper down. And then he (would) take his napkin off. And then he would give a scream like Tarzan, come chasing around the table, and whack me… It explains, even now, why I have a bad stomach.
It’s not without irony that I note, that it’s memories of sitting with my mother, not my father, and reading that form my affection for Sendak’s amusingly subversive stories and illustrations. But I wonder if this stereotype of the distant, workaholic, head-whacking father isn’t as mythical, useless, and offensive as that of the apron-clad mother presenting a fresh pan of chocolate-chip-cookie bars to her children, newly home from another day at school.
I bake cookies, play soccer, go on nature hikes, give hugs, and work outside the home. So does the foxy and clever Jennifer. We both have it all. We’ve arrived folks. Is that really so rare?