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Illustration by Alex Siklos
As a recent new father of two, I sometimes recall a time where I learned a lot about parenting without knowing it.
The scene is set at breakfast during my childhood. A large table, a family of five gathered, a scene of family and food, plus a golden retriever not allowed at the table. The sun sneaks through the treeline into a large picture window, a spot of warmth shines onto the table setting. My sisters’ springy curls reveal the sparkle of newly summer sun-bitten blonde hair.
Through an open window, the trickle of air, whispering a smell of spring dew, a passenger on a subtle breeze passing through and intermixing and deferring to the odour of breakfast. There is a familiar smell of bread being heated.
All the while, gentle sounds of nature flow in through open windows, the subtle symphony of a songbird competing with the convulsive utterances of a blue jay. The sounds of nature regress to the sound of a knife, a knife who is preoccupied with his old friend, peanut butter. The moment the old friends reunite, they part ways, the knife running across the landscape of toast. The running knife signalling an invitation to jam, who acknowledges the invite through clinking noises as a spoon eagerly searches the bottom of the jar.
In the midst of this effort, a family enjoys breakfast. One man – the father – leads the charge on the morning sustenance. He’s one of two leaders, and the father is at his post in his squeaky, worn-out spring chair. A chair, which is the envy of all of his children, with its deep hue of familiar comfort and parental sacrifice. There he sat on that chair, our dad, directing the flow of provisions. Flirting with the other leader – asking his honey to pass the honey, describing in great detail past events and other great undertakings. Stories of adventure and excitement punctuated with lessons in humility and lessons learned. All this while, specific nuances were signatory of his preferred breakfast order as the meal progressed: jam first, then butter, peanut butter next and finally, sliced bananas. Crosswise, not lengthwise. The blueprint laid out for all to see.
And like any great leader of any operation, allowances and sacrifices were made. And at the time, the young participants of this breakfast did not realize the sacrifices. Our dad, one of the two leaders of breakfast, threw himself onto perceived breakfast grenades: banana skins with brown pocking. Brown and limp. On the fringe of mushy. Not quite ready for banana bread, but children would not eat them. And the heel of the loaf, menacing and scary, grumpy, the real breakfast grenade at the table. Both items were avoided at all costs by his offspring. My dad tried to explain to these leaders of tomorrow how the heel was the best piece and the browner and mushier the banana, the sweeter it tasted. His attempt to woo us, or his positiveness shrouding the obvious pitfalls of the unwanted fruit and bread, were lost to us at the time and discovered far into the future.
Sitting at my own table with my own children so many years later, I again watch golden curls that capture the sun. Watching my daughter and son, I sit there peeling a banana, in my own way, but with influence from those before. I recreate my childhood breakfast in, again, my own way, but with guidance from the leaders before. I now have a glimmer of understanding. The simple brown banana and the heel of the bread becoming a symbol of something. Breakfast sacrifices. Sacrifices made by my parents. I am honoured for the experience, though subtle and not clear while sitting at the table so many years ago, but now, as I raise a young family, I begin to understand what I was being shown at breakfast. Parental sacrifices, parental love, leadership, humility, truth and compassion. I have been shown. I am grateful. I am doing.
Joel Diebolt lives in Thunder Bay, Ont.