He said his name was Fy. It used to by Fy (pronounced Fee) but that his other name was Jacob. I said the name back to him, Jacob, but he corrected me and said that it was Jacob. I smiled and said it again.
He also explained that he had a different Mommy, and a different Daddy, a brother and a sister and a little brother. Their nicknames were Kuku, Gigi, and Michael. They lived very far away. I was delighted with the story because it couldn’t possibly be true, but he’d begun to tell the story for no reason. We were together, hanging out, and having a really good time. I felt like this was something he’d been thinking about, and felt comfortable enough to share now.
“They died.” He said.
“Who did?”
“My daddy died on a wednesday, and my mommy died on a saturday.” He looked down, sad about the death of his other parents. “It was a bear. A bear slashed them with his sharp claws in the forest on a camping trip.”
“When did this happen?”
“A very long time ago.”
“What about your brothers and sister?”
He had been expecting this question it seemed, and brightened up and said, “They live very far away.”
“That’s a great story. We should write it down.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“It’s true.”
“Well, then how do you account for the fact that I’m your daddy and your mommy lives in Albany, and I saw you come out of her?”
Silence.
“Also,” I added. “You may have brothers and sisters someday, but today there is only us.”
Silence.
“We should write this story down. You are so wonderfully creative, and I think it would be a great idea to keep a book of your stories.”
“Daddy, it’s all true.”
“Shall we write it down together?”
“No.”
I explained how when I was five, I saw a program on television where a little english boy met the most beautiful girl, and they were fast friends. They ran away from home together and took a canoe trip. The canoe was upset in the rush of the river, and the girl fell out and drowned. I sat there with my arm around my son explaining that I was so moved by the film that I immediately went out and told everyone I was english, and that the boat trip had happened to me.
“What happened?” Asked my son.
“No one believed me. Everyone was very upset with me for making up such an impossible story.”
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t true.”
10 Comments
perhaps it is true! perhaps Forest can partially remember his previous life as a Ukrainian Gypsy or something. how very traumatic with the slashing and all. I saw that film Grizzly Man recently… kinda creepy
aw, man. that must really be a trip to see your child start to develop traits that you don’t necessarily like about yourself. i would think that it’s amazing, yet alarming, all at the same time.
What a lucky soul your child is, to have a father who responds to something like this the way you’ve responded.
My father might have called me a liar, and told me that liars aren’t worth anything, therebye immediately associating me with being worth nothing. He’d have likely left it at that, and gave me no way out of feeling like nothing.
I would have continued lying (did), because I was already nothing, so I might as well lie about me being worth something.
Giving Forest the keys to climb out of his fantasy when he’d like to is simply amazing of you. Such an impressive father you are. So wonderful and kind and loving.
I wish you’da been my daddy.
Adam
You’re sweet.
How about settling for little brother?
i dont have to wish for that.
: )
I saw this that Adam wrote: “…so I might as well lie about me being worth something.”
And for some reason my mind created this bastardization of the famous quote:
“Be the lie you want to see in the world.”
:)
That’ a very interesting twist on an old and tedious sociopathology.
Well said!
Is that actually where you got the idea to pretend to be English as a kid? Very interesting to see everything come full circle. All little kids make stuff up, though. Such a cute story. At least he picked a good name (prounounced “Fee”). :-)
This was actually really unnerving to experience.
I imagine that my childhood experiences with dishonesty began because I was abused, very unhappy and the stories went unchecked, and (i suppose) I got what I wanted out of it… attention (positive or negative, didn’t care) and a sense of value for myself.
My son has had none of these experiences. He has a sense of value, and is so truly, and deeply loved in every way. Everyone in his life adores him, and he brings a kind of peace and harmony to everything he enters into. He is truly an amazing child.
He will never see the abuse I’ve seen, nor the neglect or stupidity of his parents in the way I did. But this exchange brought some new information to the table: genetics.
My cousin Jason and I were talking about our family last night. Sitting in the penthouse of a very fancy hotel in SF, we talked over the oddities of our gene pool. Very odd indeed. Not a regular person among us.
So rather than try to figure it out or beat on myself over this, I have accepted it as a natural part of growing up and experimenting. I don’t give his stories weight, or try to diminish them. I take my son at face value, and enjoy him, love him.
And, I am completely unafraid to call bullshit. Not that I say bullshit around my son, I don’t. But I’ll say “Honey, I don’t think that’s quite the case” and then lay the truth out on the table for him.
His response is interesting, and sometimes a lot of fun.