The Adventures of Cal and Mac, Episode I

I had my sons this past weekend. Always good to see them although, as a half month passes between their stays with Katie and I, I'm often taken aback at how much they've changed since our last time together. According to the markings on the study's door frame, both of them have grown about three inches during the past year. Each time I see Mac I notice a tooth is missing or one is coming through. Cal's sense of humour becomes more sophisticated, he picks up more in general and displays a lot of the behavior we associate with tweens.

Specific things? Well, this last weekend Cal read the whole of The Call of The Wild within a few hours. Mac, I came to discover, had won a merit certificate for language a couple of days before. He's only in first grade, but he's a standout in the basics of reading and writing. I figured he was pretty bright, but it's great to see it made official. So, they're both ticking along pretty well in terms of intellectual development. Along those lines, they'll be starting at a good private school in a couple of weeks.


It's fantastic that their mother and stepfather can afford to give them a superior education, and I believe that Cal and Mac (right) will thrive in such a setting. I'm grappling with my inability to pay for such things, though: as a fledgling high school teacher, half of their annual tuition would cost me just a touch under a quarter of a year's salary. What's the right thing to do here? Should I get a second job and forget about ever owning a house? Please bear in mind that Katie and I have another child to think about now and that I've not been involved with any decision-making processes regarding the boys' schooling.

Hold on a minute... I need to put the brakes on the guilt reaction here. I am not the only working class father of two in the Perth metro area who can't afford to send his kids to an exclusive private school.

What can I offer my kids? What do I offer them?

The Goofy Stuff

While the hour of tennis we play on Sunday mornings is a nod of the head to respectable activities, Mac, Cal and I spend a lot of time drawing at the kitchen table. This is a throwback to my own childhood: one of my earliest and fondest memories is of my Uncle Jim and I, back when he was dating my Aunt Kathy, circa 1970, sitting at the breakfast table drawing cartoon characters. A few years later I would develop a callus on my middle finger from my hours of drawing superheroes and monsters. My mother's brother, Uncle Frank, also a talented sketch artist, would often ask me, "That's pretty good, Gregory, but when are you going to draw something like airplanes?"


Most of my boys' drawings are of The Incredible Hulk, weird faces, pirates, King Kong and Star Wars characters, but the late Uncle Frank would be pleased to know that every now and again Cal will draw WWII era soldiers. Oh - I almost forgot! Lately both boys have been drawing Sasquatch quite a bit. My interest in the cryptid (please note that I am a hopeful skeptic with an accent on "skeptic") has been reawakened recently and I've shared this with them. They've seen the Patterson-Gimlin Film and are familiar with its famous Frame 352 (see Cal's photo at right). For a while they were both doing various Sasquatch calls around the house... but they eventually spooked each other so I had to issue a cease and desist order.


As you can imagine, we watch a lot of movies, too. They've been so steeped in the Star Wars canon that any prolonged periods of misbehavior are blamed on The Dark Side. Cal and Mac have also seen the original King Kong (1933... Cal used to call it "the gray one") and The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), so they'll have a jump on things if they should take a film studies class at the private school. Action figures go about their business to an urgently hummed Indiana Jones theme or an obscure motif from any of the Star Wars films. For a couple of years now they've both been able to pick out the Wilhelm Scream from a movie. The fact that I'm proud of this probably says something about my questionable values.


Then there are the adventures in the real world. A big chunk of this past Saturday was devoted to making a sculpture out of sticks in the park. You see, Perth experienced a hellacious storm last Monday and the grounds were strewn with tree limbs, bark and branches. We had a great time doing this and Mac really threw himself into the task... he imagined the kinds of creatures, both real and mythical, who might live inside. Cal grew bored after an hour or so, but it didn't tower over him like it did Mac, so you can understand. That's when he started perfecting Sasquatch's characteristic arm-swinging walk. I guess the twisted pile of branches made a good backdrop for the imagined antics of the Pacific Northwest's elusive beast.


The headmaster of this really private school gives its two creative students As for their efforts and talents.

Now It Can Be Told

Certainly there's a reason for this blog, right? I mean, other than it being another The World According to Greegor website, there has to be some theme propelling things. The future English teacher in me thinks, "There better be." Well, now that I've told my mother and the world (thank you, Facebook) the news, I can finally get to the point here.

In a sense, I've been given a second chance: my partner, Katie, and I are expecting a baby. Katie's first, my third. Wonderful news and definitely a planned-for pregnancy, although I thought it would take a while for the alchemy to happen. Why do I consider our baby a second chance rather than a third blessing (which it is)?

I have two sons, Callum and Cormac. I spent five years under the same roof with Cal by the time my ex-wife and I called it quits; Mac was 14 months old. When Cal blew out his candles on that day, I remember thinking, "Wow, I lasted a year longer with Cal than my father did with me." I'll be the first to admit that I harbored a defeatist mindset there. That's a failing in itself. The old apples, gravity and trees thing at work, I suppose. Always aware of most of my shortcomings—I have no doubt that I have my blind spots—I just assumed that the marriage wouldn't last. The bank account of resentments starts off with a big deposit when two hemispheres factor into the young union.

Let me quickly put the brakes on things: I can pillory myself here, but not the boys' mother.

Anyway, after the divorce I wrote up a list of things that I felt I did wrong and areas in which I might want to improve. I carried it around with me for a while and it soon had me thinking that maybe I didn't deserve to be a father. Sure, I paid my child support, had the kids on a weekend night and, initially, a night or two during the workweek. I did my best despite having a virtually non-existent support system but I wasn't really a father... I was Uncle Dad.

That feeling persists to the present day. Mac had his sixth birthday four days ago but I was not there. If he wants to come over this weekend, we'll do something to mark his special day. Hey, he's a little kid and knows that cake and presents are waiting, so it's a safe bet he'll be over. Another safe bet is that, when he first gets here, Mac will slip-up once or twice and call me "Papa," something I'm almost numb to after three and a half years.

Two weeks ago, when I was dropping the boys off at their mother's house, their stepfather was out front washing the Volvo. At this point Mac almost ran in front of a car while crossing the street, and to steer him off of what could've been a tragic trajectory I yelled (admittedly, my voice gets big and scary), "Mackie! Mackie! Mackie!" Screeching brakes and nasty thump were avoided, but not tears, wailing and a cry of, "No! You're not the boss of me!" All of this was within easy earshot of Papa, who probably is the boss of my son Cormac.

Uncle Dad.

Phoenix Fathers

No, I am not the only Uncle Dad in the world. What makes my situation a bit spicier, though, is that I too was raised by a stepfather and had my own you're-not-the-boss-of-me moment. I guess I was about 15 years old and it was Christmas Eve over at my Aunt Martha's house, sister of my natural father whom I had not seen in... maybe six or seven years. At one point in the evening, Aunt Martha handed me the phone and I spoke into the receiver, "Hi. Who's this?"

"It's your father."

"You're not my father. I have a real father now." End of conversation. Ouch.

Truth be told, I don't remember the incident. I think my sister, Meg, relayed it to me years later. But it certainly seems characteristic of me back then.

About 15 or 16 years after that call I had started feeling like the loser he was supposed to be. So I called him to apologise for my callous remark. Wow... it just dawned on me that the apology call is temporally equidistant from the remark and the present day. At any rate, we both apologised during that short phone call. Never saw each other again. Charles Gregory McNeil, Sr. died in subsidized housing in November of 2000.

We've heard time and again that being a parent is the most important job in the world. How many of us have screwed up that job royally or at least feel like we've botched things? How many of us toil under and try to escape the shadow of a bad parent? Are we ever allowed to say, "From this point on, I am indeed a good father"? Or shall we pay for those sins, real or perceived, forever?

When can we rise from the ashes of our failings, take wing and approach that job with a renewed purpose, confident in our good intentions and become a phoenix father, if you will?

Sure, if you go to any orchard you'll see that apples really don't fall far from their trees. Last time I checked, though, apples can be shiny but they're not reflective.

I have not wronged my sons in any significant way and probably not any insignificant ways, now that I think about it. They have enviable and privileged lives and I will again contribute to those lives financially when I'm finished at university and working full time. But I'm here for them, have a comfortable room for them and deny them nothing during their fortnightly stays. Hey... at least Mac has someone he can shout "You're not the boss of me" to! There is indeed value in that. Trust me.

Katie, thank you for telling me that I will be a good father to Little One. And for continuously reminding me that I'm good to Cal and Mac. Someday I'll get the message.