Familyhood (10 page)

So if having faith means hiding what you don't know until your kids can discover it for themselves, then yes, I'm guilty of being a bad wizard. But not, I pray, a bad man.

Sitting

W
e have some
very good friends who decided to redecorate their home. As a couple, they divided the work according to their strengths; she did all the planning and doing and accomplishing, and
his
contribution was to not actively impede the process.

This is not all that uncommon or remarkable. I think I speak for most—if not all—of my male friends when I acknowledge that had we each never married, we'd all be living in a dimly lit apartment (possibly all in the
same
dimly lit apartment) with the same furniture we had in college. Among the abundant blessings we each enjoy for having married is that we live less like zoo animals than we otherwise would have. We have drapes, we have nice plates and spoons, and even things that serve no purpose but to just be there and make our homes look like homes.

But what I found so intriguing about my friends' redecorating adventure was the contrast between the ferocity, clarity of purpose, and efficiency with which she tackled the project and, in the other extreme, his most modest of expectations.

“All I really want is a
chair
,” he confided in me one day.

“What do you mean you want a chair?” I asked. “Certainly your wife is not going to redo an entire house without
chairs
, is she?”

“Oh, no. Sure,” he acknowledged. “There are chairs, but I mean . . . you know, a
regular
chair. Just . . . a place to sit down.”

I found this so sad. Here's my pal—a very bright and very successful businessman—who, when all is said and done, wanted/requested/expected/hoped for nothing more than to have, in his own home, one guaranteed quiet place to sit down.

And I felt his pain because I myself have, for a long time, hungered for nothing more than the chance to just
sit down
.

I've always been a fan of sitting. Started sitting as a kid, got more heavily into it when I got to high school. You know how that happens: You start off just sitting with your friends, for kicks, and pretty soon you don't even need other people; you're sitting every chance you get—any time of day and night.

But as I get older, I find I appreciate sitting more and more. Because when you're a parent, the amount of time you get to actually sit diminishes progressively—while the
need
to sit only increases.

When you have kids, there is just always something—
hundreds
of somethings—to do. And doing these things invariably involves getting up to do them—the very opposite of
sitting down
.

When I was younger, I used to tease my father for falling asleep at the movies. I don't think in his adult life he ever once saw an entire film through from beginning to end. It made no difference how good the film was—how long, how loud, how engaging—he just wouldn't make it.

Well, like so many other things, I have, with age, come to understand my parents' side of things more clearly and now find the shoe entirely on the other foot. My kids take bets as to how soon their old man will be asleep watching
anything
. I now understand it as a biological truth: at a certain age, the body dynamic changes. After so many consecutive hours of parenting, after so much nonstop movement, along with perpetual mental calculation and intensive emotional engagement, the very act of
sitting down
is such a relief, that the body just succumbs. The instant your bones and brains recognize the support of a cushion, the head goes back, the eyes close, and there's not an action movie yet released that can stop it.

I believe sitting is very underrated. And I'm not just saying that because I'm good at it. Really, it offers everything you could ask from a physical activity. It can be reinvigorating and refreshing, yet it's restful and safe. It lets you relax and think. It doesn't hurt anybody else—unless you're sitting
on
them. (And even that, in the right context, can be good.) You can do it alone, or in groups. It's environmentally safe, it's easy to learn and can be done almost anywhere.

I even use sitting in my work. As an actor, you're supposed to have a
motivation
in every scene. You're meant to know, at every moment, what it is your character
wants
. As any of my colleagues who have ever worked with me will attest, my “character's” motivation is virtually always “I
want
to sit down.”

Should my character already be seated, then of course I adapt. In such cases, my motivation is generally “Please don't make me get up.”

I like to sit, is my point here.

I CAN'T SAY
enough good things about it. Sitting also has a spiritual component. Do it right and you become mindful and appreciative of all aspects of the human condition. You often hear of meditative sitting poses, almost never of meditative “stand over there” poses. Why do you think that is?

There's an implied
sanctity
associated with sitting. Think of anything important you've ever had to share. What do you say? “Let's sit down and talk about it.” “I have to tell you something; are you sitting down?” It's never “Get up and run around the room. Are you jumping? Good, because—I have to tell you something.” No, because you know in your heart that
sitting
is the way to go.

WHICH IS NOT TO SAY I
condone or am prescribing a universal life of sloth. I certainly embrace the importance of exercise and activity. However, I could point out that a lot of terrible things in life might have been avoided had people simply sat down and stopped doing whatever it was they were doing when this terrible thing happened.

As a parent, I've moved beyond
pro-sitting
and become almost
anti-moving.
“Someone's going to get hurt. Just . . . sit down” is perhaps the most frequently uttered phrase in my house.

Just as you almost never hear of a kitchen countertop running into a kid who was sitting nicely, so too do you rarely hear of an unhinged lunatic opening fire on his former coworkers while sitting nicely. It's always the work of somebody standing up, moving around, and getting all agitated. Had he remained seated, perhaps thinking and reflecting a bit more thoroughly, tragedy would have almost certainly been avoided.

Now while it's true that bad things
could
happen to you while quietly sitting, technically most sitting injuries involve getting
into
or
out of
the sitting position, not the actually sitting. Chairs have been known to be pulled out for laughs; knees have buckled, as have lower backs. But, generally speaking, once you're seated, you're pretty much out of the woods.

All of which is to say that if elected, I will work tirelessly to defend your right to sit, and vow to fight with all my powers the vast but unacknowledged
anti-sitting
lobby that works to dominate and destroy the fabric of our American life.

BY THE WAY,
in case you're wondering: my friend never did get his chair either. Side tables and bric-a-brac? You betya. A nice chair to sit down in? Not so much.

The Other Woman

A
big part
of being a father—if not the biggest part—is giving the impression that you have things under control. That you may
not
in fact have
anything
under control is almost beside the point. Illusion and appearances are everything here.

And nothing shatters that illusion faster than driving with your family and getting lost. They can smell failure in a heartbeat. My children can instinctively tell the difference between “We're almost there” and “This is horribly wrong” with uncanny accuracy. Their mother can sense the same thing two to three miles earlier. Sometimes they bring it up right away, sometimes they allow me a short grace period to rectify the situation or to prove their hunch wrong. But either way, it's not a pleasant situation; I do not like not knowing where I am.

Which is why I love that they invented the GPS. Just the idea of a device that can calmly tell you how to get from where you are to where you want to go—who could ask for more out of any appliance?

It even gives you a selection of different voices to choose from—male, female, British, Asian accent, French accent . . . whatever you like. I use the nondescript mid-Atlantic-accent woman that's preset at the factory because, really, what's the difference? And also I don't know how to change it.

For the longest time, the directions have been accurate, and the attitude courteous and pleasant. It's been a perfect, professional relationship.

But lately I've noticed a change. Maybe it's because we've spent more time together—I seem to not know where I'm going more often than I used to—but a sense of
familiarity
has set in.

The other day we got into a little spat, my GPS lady and I. I was driving alone (fortunately, as it turns out), and as is the case when any two personalities share a long car ride, no one shoulders the blame alone for what transpires. The friction between us on this particular day was a little bit my fault, a little bit hers. (Though, I have to say, mostly hers.)

It should be noted that I don't subscribe to the cliché that “guys never ask directions.” I have no problem asking for directions. I'm happy to ask directions. I'll pretty much ask them of anybody; I just don't necessarily listen to them. Or I'll listen to start with and then, just wing it. GPS Lady doesn't like that.

When you do as she suggests, things go nicely. She'll nod supportively—silently, of course, but you can tell she's pleased. Then she'll methodically ready the next piece of useful information you requested.

“In three hundred feet, turn right,” for example, she'll say, with the perfect balance of civility and calm authority.

But, as often happens, I may elect to make some judgment calls of my own. (I'm entitled, I figure. It's
my
car, it's
my
day. Plus—bear in mind—she's not real.)

So yes, sometimes I take it upon myself to call an audible—based on my take of the situation “on the ground.” I may see, for example, that the suggested right turn coming up in three hundred feet isn't exactly correct. I need to, in fact, go a bit past that.

So I dispense with her advice and do instead what I know is correct. (As is my right both as the operator of the vehicle and, frankly, as an American.)

Instantly, there's a huffy little silence emanating from the GPS that, truth be told, stings. I'm not going to pretend otherwise. I don't like disappointing
any
woman, even if she's digital, virtual, and easily disassembled.

But bless her heart, even with this obvious rebuff, this challenge to her expertise and ruffling of her feathers, she says nothing. She tactfully absorbs the slight, takes a moment to herself, and then, with a very dignified restraint, recalibrates and suggests yet another way for me to get where I told her I wanted to go.

“In six hundred feet make a U-turn, and then turn left.”

I choose to ignore that one too, because it'll just put me where she had me going a minute ago. I'm not stupid, you know. And also, it's kind of passive-aggressive on her part, trying to get me back on her route, and it just rubs me the wrong way.

Well. When you ignore her the
second
time, the attitude gets a bit spicier. Now she's certain that the first instance of overruling her was no accident. My sudden display of geographic independence has offended her, and threatened our relationship.

The voice deepens in register, and the instructions spit out with a chilling briskness.

“Proceed to the next exit and turn left.”

“No, that's okay,” I tell her, as gently as I can, knowing she's a bit out of joint now. “The entrance I'm looking for is actually
this
way.”

That's it. She's done.

“Proceed to the . . . Hey, you know what?” she snips at me. “Do what you wanna do.”

“Now, wait a minute—don't go away mad . . .”

But there's no talking to her at this point. I just have to let her vent.

“You
asked
me to help you. I tried to help . . .”

“I didn't
ask
you,” I gently correct. “I
programmed
you. And yes, yes—you did help. But—”

“May I speak?”

“Sorry,” I say. “Go ahead.”

“A lot of very smart people invented me and . . . No. Never mind. Forget it.”

“No, no—I want to hear.”

But she's too hurt to argue now.

“No, no—you know best. You don't need me.
Obviously
. We're here, so . . .”

“You're right,” I agree. “And by the way,” I add, trying to finish this conversation with a touch of civility, “I certainly couldn't have gotten here without all your great directions.”

“I don't appreciate being patronized,” she sputters, the words—even with their neutralized mid-Atlantic accent—carrying a surprising punch.

“How am I being patronizing?” I plead. “I'm just saying that—”

“Can we just drop it?”

“Fine,” I say. “We'll drop it.”

We pull into the parking spot, the air in the car heavy with a strained and bruising silence. Then, because I think it'll be funny—and because I'm not really so great at dropping things—I say, “So, as it turns out,
my
way worked pretty well too, did you notice? Because, I mean, here we are. I guess
my
way wasn't
that
bad, huh?”

She says nothing, but the message is unmistakable: This relationship is over. It's not working for either of us and—if we're both honest—hasn't been for some time.

As I get out of the car and walk away, I make a mental note for next time to figure out how to set the thing to the French guy.