My son is almost done with second grade. As strange as that seems to type, it's true. What strikes me about this coming transition is not so much how quickly the year has flown by (it has mind you, very much so), but rather how this past school year represents a watershed in my son's growth and development as a person.
My son has always been precocious and inquisitive. Our evening routine has, for years revolved around asking each other questions. Me, about his day at school, who he likes spending time with (and who he avoids), his favourite things in various categories, etc. He, about the foundations of the universe, why math matters, why stuff works - and why is it so weird.
That gnawing need of his to know has grown in this past year. More than that, his personality has begun to crystallize in a stunningly cogent fashion; his preferences have solidified and his quirks become more clear. He is, my son, and it's truly wondrous to behold.
I am filled with hope; I see in him the potential for a life of great joy, incredible accomplishments, and dreams come true. A thousand thousand futures stretch out before him, and I verdantly believe he may outshine them all.
I am filled with dread; every moment that passes by he needs me less and less. One day, his need for me will end completely, and I will have to redefine who I am in his life. Yet he will ever be my son. Can I navigate that transition with grace and aplomb? Will I cling too tightly to a phase of life that needs must end.
I am filled with gratitude; I have the privilege of being this charming little fellow's father. It's the best job in the world; wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Faster Than a Speeding...Speed...Thingy
Blink your eyes, and six months go by. Or at least, that's how it can seem when you're a parent. My son is now almost eight. I can't even fathom how that happened, yet I'm simultaneously aware of just how much time has passed. After all, those six months were spent playing games and reading books, singing silly songs and listening to crazy stories from his imagination. A few timeouts and lost electronics time, and just as many snuggles as ever (milking those times for as long as they'll last...the inevitable expiration date is looming...).
He really is growing up.
As he gets older, I find myself introspecting more and more. I feel more patient and calm with him the older he gets...why wasn't I more patient when he was littler? His growth has so profoundly impacted my own...yet it only seems obvious in retrospect. As much as I'm raising him, he's raising me, and that's not something I was entirely prepared for. I always say that I hope he'll be a better man than I am; I never stopped to think that he might make me a better man than I was.
It's a strange, but wonderful feeling. I've mentioned before how meaningful his name is; that saying it serves as a constant reminder that my job is to be his hero. But that concept takes on entirely new shades of meaning the older he gets, and I find myself forced to grow, or fail to rise to the responsibility.
With all the busyness in our lives, the time I spend with him is a treasure. I hope someday he knows just how much I enjoyed our time together when he was young.
He really is growing up.
As he gets older, I find myself introspecting more and more. I feel more patient and calm with him the older he gets...why wasn't I more patient when he was littler? His growth has so profoundly impacted my own...yet it only seems obvious in retrospect. As much as I'm raising him, he's raising me, and that's not something I was entirely prepared for. I always say that I hope he'll be a better man than I am; I never stopped to think that he might make me a better man than I was.
It's a strange, but wonderful feeling. I've mentioned before how meaningful his name is; that saying it serves as a constant reminder that my job is to be his hero. But that concept takes on entirely new shades of meaning the older he gets, and I find myself forced to grow, or fail to rise to the responsibility.
With all the busyness in our lives, the time I spend with him is a treasure. I hope someday he knows just how much I enjoyed our time together when he was young.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Not Being Superman
The etymology of my son's first name is thousands of years old. The first part of his name is always translated from Hebrew to English as, "My father." The latter part is the root of many other words, but in the abstract it generally means, "mighty." But only one of the meanings of his first name is the one that I intended when I proposed his name; "My father is my hero."
In Jewish tradition, a name isn't just a label to call someone by. It's common to name children with traits they possess, traits you want them to possess, or with a meaning that's important to the child's parent(s), and it's this latter sentiment that determined our choice of his name.
I promise, it was not my intent (and certainly not my wife's) to stroke my ego in naming our son "My father is my hero." Neither my wife nor I have fathers in our lives who could remotely qualify as our "hero"; we wanted something different for our son.
His name is a constant reminder to me of who I am supposed to be for him. Every time I am angry or frustrated, his name is a call back to my job, my duty, and my mission as his parent.
Be his hero.
It serves as a guideline for why I must provide consistent and reasonable (and enforced) boundaries. If I provide him with loving discipline, he will be better prepared to be an independent and successful adult.
Be his hero.
It creates an ever-present sense of the imperative to be honest about my own humanity. That my own failures and shortcomings do not disqualify me from being the man he needs me to be. I'm not aiming to be Superman. Just, to him, a super, man.
Be his hero.
Because even as he grows up, promises mean everything, and the world is so big.
In Jewish tradition, a name isn't just a label to call someone by. It's common to name children with traits they possess, traits you want them to possess, or with a meaning that's important to the child's parent(s), and it's this latter sentiment that determined our choice of his name.
I promise, it was not my intent (and certainly not my wife's) to stroke my ego in naming our son "My father is my hero." Neither my wife nor I have fathers in our lives who could remotely qualify as our "hero"; we wanted something different for our son.
His name is a constant reminder to me of who I am supposed to be for him. Every time I am angry or frustrated, his name is a call back to my job, my duty, and my mission as his parent.
Be his hero.
It serves as a guideline for why I must provide consistent and reasonable (and enforced) boundaries. If I provide him with loving discipline, he will be better prepared to be an independent and successful adult.
Be his hero.
It creates an ever-present sense of the imperative to be honest about my own humanity. That my own failures and shortcomings do not disqualify me from being the man he needs me to be. I'm not aiming to be Superman. Just, to him, a super, man.
Be his hero.
Because even as he grows up, promises mean everything, and the world is so big.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Aesop's Overwrought Metaphors
It is my hope and intent to impart at least a small measure of my (admittedly) peculiar worldview to my son. To that end, I have a tendency to think in terms of metaphor and simile. Recent events in my life have sharpened one of those mental pictures rather significantly, and I share it here, as I share it with my son.
Humans are adrift in a great Ocean of Uncertainty, in small boats that are difficult to steer, and easily overcome by waves. Sadly, we don't get to choose our starting boats, and some are undoubtedly more maneuverable than others, due to not much more than random chance. But even the very best of boats is still adrift in an unimaginably large Ocean, where nothing is guaranteed.
As we drift in this ocean, we occasionally encounter other boats. And rarely, we see that if we were to sail together with this other boat, even for a time, our own journey might be more secure, more fulfilling, or just plain more fun.
But in order for us to sail together, we must first cast a line out to this other boat, and they must cast a line to ours. Then, once we've tied the lines together, we can start to build a bridge between our boats. Some bridges are long, because our boats, while traveling in the same general direction, drift apart for various reasons. Yet the bridge remains. Some bridges are short, for we find our boats sail best when close together.
On rare occasion, if we're truly fortunate, we can build a bridge that brings another boat so close to ours that you can hardly tell where one boat begins, and the other ends.
These bridges can sustain us as we drift upon this great Ocean.
Yet, there are times that it becomes clear that the bridge between one boat and another can no longer stand. Perhaps the other boat has been filling with water, swept over the side as the great Ocean heaves and swells. Perhaps our own boat has taken on water, and for us to survive, it's necessary to empty our boat out...alone. Still other times, we realize perhaps the bridge between boats was unwise from the start, and it just took us being battered by the waves to finally see the truth.
Whatever the reason, when it becomes apparent that the bridge between boats is threatening to sink us, we must be willing to cut loose the lines and let the bridge fall. Better to lose a bridge, than our boat.
It may be, however, for one reason or another, simply cutting away the lines will not be enough for the bridge to fall away. Perhaps over time, the salt and barnacles will have so solidified the attachment of this bridge to our boat, that the only way for us to break it loose is to stride to the middle, douse it in kerosene, and put it to the flame.
In that situation, there's no chance that your own boat won't burn, at least a little. It will take time and effort to repair. But it will remain afloat. And if you've built other bridges, you might not have to repair it alone.
I can't truly say if my image of the world will resonate with my son. I am certain he'll come up with his own picture someday. If I've done a good job of being his father, he just might stroll over our bridge to tell me about it.
Humans are adrift in a great Ocean of Uncertainty, in small boats that are difficult to steer, and easily overcome by waves. Sadly, we don't get to choose our starting boats, and some are undoubtedly more maneuverable than others, due to not much more than random chance. But even the very best of boats is still adrift in an unimaginably large Ocean, where nothing is guaranteed.
As we drift in this ocean, we occasionally encounter other boats. And rarely, we see that if we were to sail together with this other boat, even for a time, our own journey might be more secure, more fulfilling, or just plain more fun.
But in order for us to sail together, we must first cast a line out to this other boat, and they must cast a line to ours. Then, once we've tied the lines together, we can start to build a bridge between our boats. Some bridges are long, because our boats, while traveling in the same general direction, drift apart for various reasons. Yet the bridge remains. Some bridges are short, for we find our boats sail best when close together.
On rare occasion, if we're truly fortunate, we can build a bridge that brings another boat so close to ours that you can hardly tell where one boat begins, and the other ends.
These bridges can sustain us as we drift upon this great Ocean.
Yet, there are times that it becomes clear that the bridge between one boat and another can no longer stand. Perhaps the other boat has been filling with water, swept over the side as the great Ocean heaves and swells. Perhaps our own boat has taken on water, and for us to survive, it's necessary to empty our boat out...alone. Still other times, we realize perhaps the bridge between boats was unwise from the start, and it just took us being battered by the waves to finally see the truth.
Whatever the reason, when it becomes apparent that the bridge between boats is threatening to sink us, we must be willing to cut loose the lines and let the bridge fall. Better to lose a bridge, than our boat.
It may be, however, for one reason or another, simply cutting away the lines will not be enough for the bridge to fall away. Perhaps over time, the salt and barnacles will have so solidified the attachment of this bridge to our boat, that the only way for us to break it loose is to stride to the middle, douse it in kerosene, and put it to the flame.
In that situation, there's no chance that your own boat won't burn, at least a little. It will take time and effort to repair. But it will remain afloat. And if you've built other bridges, you might not have to repair it alone.
I can't truly say if my image of the world will resonate with my son. I am certain he'll come up with his own picture someday. If I've done a good job of being his father, he just might stroll over our bridge to tell me about it.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Setting the Example
We all encounter toxic individuals in our lives. It's inevitable; someone, somewhere in your circle of family, friends, and acquaintances is a toxic personality. They are an emotional black hole, a source of stress, tension, and bad vibes in your life.
If you're lucky, this person will be at the fringes of your periphery. Maybe a friend-of-a-friend, or an associate you rarely have to see. If you're less fortunate, this person might be close to you. A dear friend, perhaps, who's changed in the course of your friendship from someone who adds value to your life, to someone who creates chaos and storms.
To me, it's apparent, that sometimes it's a parent. Such is the case with my son's paternal grandmother. She's never been a role model for me; I suppose it should come as no surprise she's not a role model for my son either.
But how do you adequately explain the complexities of an adult relationship like this to a child? Who only knows that grandma loves him and wants to fill him with sweets and treats and let him do whatever he wants?
Don't misunderstand me; my son has a good grounding in reality. He understands that he is not at all entitled to everything he wants all the time. At home, he is generally well-behaved, and our discipline is reasonable, consistent, and clearly explained. So he doesn't expect the spoilage he receives at grandma's to occur all the time. That's not really the problem here.
The problem is that grandma's influence on the people around her is toxic. She is a hoarder, a control-freak, and can swing from sweet to viscous with very little warning or provocation. She's immature, narcissistic, and not a person I want my son to emulate in the slightest.
So, he and I had to have a talk. We talked about how you can love someone very deeply, but still not want to be around them. We discussed the importance of accepting constructive criticism from others, so that we can know if our behaviour is offensive or off-putting. We shared ideas on how we can make healthy choices for our bodies and our minds, and how important it is to surround ourselves with people who make us want to be better.
And we talked about how, sometimes you have to let people leave your life, when they've made it clear they cannot or will not behave in a manner consistent with your needs, expectations, and agreed upon ethics.
It's a conversation I wish I'd never had to have with him. But as teachable moments go, it was an incredible conversation. When he is grown, I hope (and will strive to ensure!) he will never have to have a similar conversation with his children. Because I intend to be the kind of person he would want his own kids to emulate.
If you're lucky, this person will be at the fringes of your periphery. Maybe a friend-of-a-friend, or an associate you rarely have to see. If you're less fortunate, this person might be close to you. A dear friend, perhaps, who's changed in the course of your friendship from someone who adds value to your life, to someone who creates chaos and storms.
To me, it's apparent, that sometimes it's a parent. Such is the case with my son's paternal grandmother. She's never been a role model for me; I suppose it should come as no surprise she's not a role model for my son either.
But how do you adequately explain the complexities of an adult relationship like this to a child? Who only knows that grandma loves him and wants to fill him with sweets and treats and let him do whatever he wants?
Don't misunderstand me; my son has a good grounding in reality. He understands that he is not at all entitled to everything he wants all the time. At home, he is generally well-behaved, and our discipline is reasonable, consistent, and clearly explained. So he doesn't expect the spoilage he receives at grandma's to occur all the time. That's not really the problem here.
The problem is that grandma's influence on the people around her is toxic. She is a hoarder, a control-freak, and can swing from sweet to viscous with very little warning or provocation. She's immature, narcissistic, and not a person I want my son to emulate in the slightest.
So, he and I had to have a talk. We talked about how you can love someone very deeply, but still not want to be around them. We discussed the importance of accepting constructive criticism from others, so that we can know if our behaviour is offensive or off-putting. We shared ideas on how we can make healthy choices for our bodies and our minds, and how important it is to surround ourselves with people who make us want to be better.
And we talked about how, sometimes you have to let people leave your life, when they've made it clear they cannot or will not behave in a manner consistent with your needs, expectations, and agreed upon ethics.
It's a conversation I wish I'd never had to have with him. But as teachable moments go, it was an incredible conversation. When he is grown, I hope (and will strive to ensure!) he will never have to have a similar conversation with his children. Because I intend to be the kind of person he would want his own kids to emulate.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Human Fondue
Growing up, I remember much being made of the concept that America is a "melting pot". Ideas, cultures, languages; multiple elements and facets of a myriad of viewpoints and traditions, all merging together into something new. Or so was my impression.
As a teenager and young adult, I recall that the metaphor changed; America was no longer a melting pot, I was informed, rather it was more akin to a salad bowl. Cultures, languages, traditions, and ideas were certainly all thrown together in this great experiment of a country, but no longer were we to expect them to meld into something uniform. Instead, we were to honor and respect the distinctions between said elements, while still drawing value from their mutual inclusion.
This "salad bowl" metaphor certainly seems to be in effect today. I observe it in the classroom dynamics of my son's school, the multilingual and multicultural efforts the school district makes, in an attempt to be as inclusive as possible.
I spend a fair amount of time pondering this, especially in light of events that highlight a deep and lingering cultural divide (only one of many) that has potentially lethal results.
Call me crazy, but I really like the idea of America being a melting pot (at least in theory). That image always conjured for me a concept of human fondue; ideas and traditions with sharp lines of division and distinction dumped into a pot, where those lines and distinctions blurred and melted away, leaving something new (and tasty) in their place.
The salad bowl simile, on the other hand, leaves in place those stark distinctions. In fact, it highlights and emphasizes, not our similarities, but our differences.
I am trying to teach my son cultural awareness and sensitivity. I don't discount the importance of people's traditions and familial history. But I can't help but wonder if our country would have fewer divisions and internal strife if, instead of considering oneself <cultural variable>-American, if residents of this country were simply "Americans".
After all, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, and McDonald's all serve food that originated in another country, yet are thoroughly American in every way. If that's not the quintessential example of America the melting pot, I don't know what is.
As a teenager and young adult, I recall that the metaphor changed; America was no longer a melting pot, I was informed, rather it was more akin to a salad bowl. Cultures, languages, traditions, and ideas were certainly all thrown together in this great experiment of a country, but no longer were we to expect them to meld into something uniform. Instead, we were to honor and respect the distinctions between said elements, while still drawing value from their mutual inclusion.
This "salad bowl" metaphor certainly seems to be in effect today. I observe it in the classroom dynamics of my son's school, the multilingual and multicultural efforts the school district makes, in an attempt to be as inclusive as possible.
I spend a fair amount of time pondering this, especially in light of events that highlight a deep and lingering cultural divide (only one of many) that has potentially lethal results.
Call me crazy, but I really like the idea of America being a melting pot (at least in theory). That image always conjured for me a concept of human fondue; ideas and traditions with sharp lines of division and distinction dumped into a pot, where those lines and distinctions blurred and melted away, leaving something new (and tasty) in their place.
The salad bowl simile, on the other hand, leaves in place those stark distinctions. In fact, it highlights and emphasizes, not our similarities, but our differences.
I am trying to teach my son cultural awareness and sensitivity. I don't discount the importance of people's traditions and familial history. But I can't help but wonder if our country would have fewer divisions and internal strife if, instead of considering oneself <cultural variable>-American, if residents of this country were simply "Americans".
After all, Taco Bell, Pizza Hut, and McDonald's all serve food that originated in another country, yet are thoroughly American in every way. If that's not the quintessential example of America the melting pot, I don't know what is.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Uncertainly Principled
Ours is world of polarization and extremes. Throw a stick into a crowded room, and you'll find a young-earth creationist, a 9/11-truther, an anti-vaxxer, and someone who believes the first moon landing was a hoax.
(For the record, I subscribe to none of those ideologies).
As an adult, one has to think carefully about the evidence presented to us; accepting something as "fact" on the basis of the authority of the author, or the reliability of the source, is a comforting, but fallacious policy. Even the experts are often wrong. One must question, not only the source of information, but also their bias, agenda, and the ever-present possibility that they may be wrong.
Now try teaching that to a child. I've mentioned before that my son has a strong desire for the world to be black and white. "Good" guys fight "bad" guys, and while the good side might not always win, they are always good. That very oversimplification is at the root of a significant amount of the ideological extremes that exist in our modern discourse (Not that extreme polarization is new, mind you. The volume is simply louder in modern contexts).
Yet it's necessary, in some respects, to teach my son in "absolutes". He lacks the reasoning skills to determine, for example, when he may be in danger. If I see an environmental danger that he does not, he must be conditioned to obey my instructions immediately, or his physical safety may be compromised. There is no time for a philosophical debate on why he must obey me when a car is barreling towards him.
But life-threatening danger is such a rare potential occurrence, that I cannot use it to condition him. I have to train him to obey in the mundane, so that he will instinctively obey in the extreme.
Which is the exact opposite of the message I want to send him.
In order to survive, adapt, and thrive in the adult world, he must develop a finely honed sense of skepticism. But in order for him to have the best chance to survive to that stage of life, he must also develop a healthy sense of obedience; until he has enough experience to suss out dangers (both immediate, and potential) on his own, he must rely on the adults around him.
Moreover, there a numerous dangers that are subtle and non-physical; the danger of trusting the wrong person, the danger of losing the respect of someone you care about, the danger of alienating those around you. I won't be able to spare him those, except in the most limited of ways...
The older I get, it's painfully obvious that the more I learn, the less clear things become. There are so many ideas and arguments, most of which have some kernel of verifiable fact within them. If I can't fully trust myself to know the truth about, well, anything, how on earth can I possibly teach my son?
I suppose I just have to do my best. And highly encourage him to learn math, the language of the universe. It's pretty hard to insert any uncertainty into a2 + b2 = c2.
(For the record, I subscribe to none of those ideologies).
As an adult, one has to think carefully about the evidence presented to us; accepting something as "fact" on the basis of the authority of the author, or the reliability of the source, is a comforting, but fallacious policy. Even the experts are often wrong. One must question, not only the source of information, but also their bias, agenda, and the ever-present possibility that they may be wrong.
Now try teaching that to a child. I've mentioned before that my son has a strong desire for the world to be black and white. "Good" guys fight "bad" guys, and while the good side might not always win, they are always good. That very oversimplification is at the root of a significant amount of the ideological extremes that exist in our modern discourse (Not that extreme polarization is new, mind you. The volume is simply louder in modern contexts).
Yet it's necessary, in some respects, to teach my son in "absolutes". He lacks the reasoning skills to determine, for example, when he may be in danger. If I see an environmental danger that he does not, he must be conditioned to obey my instructions immediately, or his physical safety may be compromised. There is no time for a philosophical debate on why he must obey me when a car is barreling towards him.
But life-threatening danger is such a rare potential occurrence, that I cannot use it to condition him. I have to train him to obey in the mundane, so that he will instinctively obey in the extreme.
Which is the exact opposite of the message I want to send him.
In order to survive, adapt, and thrive in the adult world, he must develop a finely honed sense of skepticism. But in order for him to have the best chance to survive to that stage of life, he must also develop a healthy sense of obedience; until he has enough experience to suss out dangers (both immediate, and potential) on his own, he must rely on the adults around him.
Moreover, there a numerous dangers that are subtle and non-physical; the danger of trusting the wrong person, the danger of losing the respect of someone you care about, the danger of alienating those around you. I won't be able to spare him those, except in the most limited of ways...
The older I get, it's painfully obvious that the more I learn, the less clear things become. There are so many ideas and arguments, most of which have some kernel of verifiable fact within them. If I can't fully trust myself to know the truth about, well, anything, how on earth can I possibly teach my son?
I suppose I just have to do my best. And highly encourage him to learn math, the language of the universe. It's pretty hard to insert any uncertainty into a2 + b2 = c2.
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