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.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
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.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
You Said What Now?
I've mentioned before that my son's perception of time is skewed. Sometimes, this manifests as a rather annoying or even frustrating trait. But every once in a while, it creates a situation of almost sitcom-level hilarity and absurdity.
My wife and I use a euphemistic code-phrase when we want some uninterrupted alone time while our son is awake. We tell him that we're "going in our room," and that he's not to disturb us. We make sure he has snacks and water, and he is generally free to occupy himself however he likes (reading, video games, etc.). He virtually never interrupts us, and most of the time, doesn't even acknowledge our entry or exit of our bedroom.
Most of the time.
However, one day, not long ago, my wife and I told our son that we were "going in our room", and that we didn't wish to be disturbed.
Our son asked how long we were going to be. He does this sometimes, I'm not actually certain why. He doesn't seem to care what the answer is, he just asks, seemingly, for the sake of asking.
At any rate, we told him we would be "a while", and that he was free to amuse himself with whatever choice he desired. He immediately became engrossed in a Youtube video, and my wife and I went into our room and did things that people attracted to each other do.
Now, as an aside, I don't have any particular hang-ups or insecurities about sex, nor does my wife. We're a fairly frank and open family, and we've discussed sex in an age appropriate and understandable manner many times. So our son knows what "going into our room" means; he just doesn't care.
With that said, I'm pretty sure what follows was unintentional on his part.
My wife and I were in our room for...well, the usual amount of time. There was nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever with this particular bedroom romp. I don't want to put too fine a point on it, but we spent the same amount of time in our room as we almost always do.
Got it?
Yet as we exited our room, we heard a chipper, cheerful voice opine from the living room, "You guys weren't in there very long!"
And while I couldn't see his face when he said it, from his tone of voice, I am almost certain he had a giant, shit-eating grin on his face when he did. My first grader called me out for taking inadequate time in banging his mom.
If I could bottle those moments in time and sell them, I'd be a billionaire.
My wife and I use a euphemistic code-phrase when we want some uninterrupted alone time while our son is awake. We tell him that we're "going in our room," and that he's not to disturb us. We make sure he has snacks and water, and he is generally free to occupy himself however he likes (reading, video games, etc.). He virtually never interrupts us, and most of the time, doesn't even acknowledge our entry or exit of our bedroom.
Most of the time.
However, one day, not long ago, my wife and I told our son that we were "going in our room", and that we didn't wish to be disturbed.
Our son asked how long we were going to be. He does this sometimes, I'm not actually certain why. He doesn't seem to care what the answer is, he just asks, seemingly, for the sake of asking.
At any rate, we told him we would be "a while", and that he was free to amuse himself with whatever choice he desired. He immediately became engrossed in a Youtube video, and my wife and I went into our room and did things that people attracted to each other do.
Now, as an aside, I don't have any particular hang-ups or insecurities about sex, nor does my wife. We're a fairly frank and open family, and we've discussed sex in an age appropriate and understandable manner many times. So our son knows what "going into our room" means; he just doesn't care.
With that said, I'm pretty sure what follows was unintentional on his part.
My wife and I were in our room for...well, the usual amount of time. There was nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever with this particular bedroom romp. I don't want to put too fine a point on it, but we spent the same amount of time in our room as we almost always do.
Got it?
Yet as we exited our room, we heard a chipper, cheerful voice opine from the living room, "You guys weren't in there very long!"
And while I couldn't see his face when he said it, from his tone of voice, I am almost certain he had a giant, shit-eating grin on his face when he did. My first grader called me out for taking inadequate time in banging his mom.
If I could bottle those moments in time and sell them, I'd be a billionaire.
Monday, March 23, 2015
Multifaceted Motivation
Motivation is a tricky thing. When I was younger, I often would do the "bare minimum" required of me. Homework assignment? Whatever the barest amount of work was necessary was all I would commit. Doing chores? Exactly the number of tasks I was assigned and no more.
My mom insisted at the time that I was being lazy. To be truthful, until I became a father, I thought I was too.
Now I know better.
See, my son very clearly shares this trait with me. His most common retort when tasked with something is, "Do I have to?" In fact, he asked it so often, and with such obnoxious inflection, that we had to ban the phrase in our household.
Here's the thing; he's not lazy, and neither am I. We just have a low tolerance for tasks that are set for us by others. And this challenging aspect of my own nature plagued me until I was a fully-independent adult.
I am attempting to help him avoid that fault.
After all, life is filled with tasks we must complete that we don't set for ourselves. School, work, relationships...every facet of life is filled with required compromises of our time, energy, and attention.
Yet it can be difficult to find much pleasure or reward in the mundane, yes? Even more so if you recognize that the meaning of life is whatever you make of it. Nothing matters, in the abstract sense, except the things we choose to care about. So how does one find motivation for the mundane repetition that is day-to-day life?
I'd be lying if I said I had a complete answer to that question. It may sound like a simple thing, but to me at least, it isn't. I'm certain that my son is going to ask me though, so I continue to ponder it at length.
Personally, I motivate myself not by chasing what I want, but by fleeing what I don't. You may think me craven, but I've found that chasing desires becomes rapidly unfulfilling. Like a dog that finally catches a car, it's impossible to know what to do with it once you have it.
But fleeing the undesirable...now that contains a lifetime of possibility. You can't always know what you do want. But there will always be something you don't.
Will that hold true for him? Will it help him achieve success by his own definition? Or will he find that perspective unsatisfying and unacceptable?
My mom insisted at the time that I was being lazy. To be truthful, until I became a father, I thought I was too.
Now I know better.
See, my son very clearly shares this trait with me. His most common retort when tasked with something is, "Do I have to?" In fact, he asked it so often, and with such obnoxious inflection, that we had to ban the phrase in our household.
Here's the thing; he's not lazy, and neither am I. We just have a low tolerance for tasks that are set for us by others. And this challenging aspect of my own nature plagued me until I was a fully-independent adult.
I am attempting to help him avoid that fault.
After all, life is filled with tasks we must complete that we don't set for ourselves. School, work, relationships...every facet of life is filled with required compromises of our time, energy, and attention.
Yet it can be difficult to find much pleasure or reward in the mundane, yes? Even more so if you recognize that the meaning of life is whatever you make of it. Nothing matters, in the abstract sense, except the things we choose to care about. So how does one find motivation for the mundane repetition that is day-to-day life?
I'd be lying if I said I had a complete answer to that question. It may sound like a simple thing, but to me at least, it isn't. I'm certain that my son is going to ask me though, so I continue to ponder it at length.
Personally, I motivate myself not by chasing what I want, but by fleeing what I don't. You may think me craven, but I've found that chasing desires becomes rapidly unfulfilling. Like a dog that finally catches a car, it's impossible to know what to do with it once you have it.
But fleeing the undesirable...now that contains a lifetime of possibility. You can't always know what you do want. But there will always be something you don't.
Will that hold true for him? Will it help him achieve success by his own definition? Or will he find that perspective unsatisfying and unacceptable?
Thursday, March 19, 2015
When Dreams Die
Life has an interesting way of just...happening. Most parents I've spoken to agree that having children is metaphorically tantamount to having a volcano erupt right in the middle of your life plan. Even if you knew it was going to happen, the fallout is still unimaginable, permanent, and it obliterates the old landscape.
(This isn't inherently a good or bad thing; it's just a reflection on what seems to be).
I'm trying to teach this principle (that life just sorta happens) to my son, in an age-appropriate manner. Most of the time, this boils down to him asking me a question, and me replying with a five-minute soliloquy on how things are sometimes one way, then for no discernible reason, they are another, often in a very short span of time. Thus far he seems to both enjoy, and understand my pontificating (he is rarely satisfied with simple answers); time will tell if that remains to be true in his elder childhood years.
But I struggle sometimes with ideas surrounding dreams and accomplishments. I am a firmly grounded realist, and even when I was younger, though I took more risks than I take now, I was decidedly cautious and calculative in my approach to life decisions.
I was, and still am, the person in the first panel on left side of this XKCD.
However, the message in the rest of that comic haunts me. I do not wish to push my son into a mold that is foreign to him, yet I also don't want to fill his head with unlikely scenarios and nearly impossible to accomplish fantasies. I want him to be prudent with his speech (especially today when it lives on forever in the ether), but be free to speak his mind. I want him to be free to dream big...
Yet it's not true that anyone can grow up to be an astronaut or fighter pilot (strict height and physical health requirements). The vast majority of humans are ineligible to ever be President of the United States (strict age and citizenship requirements). And luck will always play a far larger role in our accomplishments than any of us are likely comfortable admitting.
So what does that leave for my son? I cannot lie to him; it's not in my nature to hide the truth, no matter how difficult it may be to face. Nor am I comfortable sugar-coating reality; the world can be a beautiful, magical place. It can also be (and let's be honest, much more frequently is) cold, cruel, lonely, crushing, and terrifying.
I'm still trying to find the right equilibrium. Maybe there isn't one to be found. Perhaps the balance lies somewhere in the middle, although the older I get, the less true I find that to be.
As for my own dreams? A long, healthy, and happy life for my son. Who could ask for anything more?
(This isn't inherently a good or bad thing; it's just a reflection on what seems to be).
I'm trying to teach this principle (that life just sorta happens) to my son, in an age-appropriate manner. Most of the time, this boils down to him asking me a question, and me replying with a five-minute soliloquy on how things are sometimes one way, then for no discernible reason, they are another, often in a very short span of time. Thus far he seems to both enjoy, and understand my pontificating (he is rarely satisfied with simple answers); time will tell if that remains to be true in his elder childhood years.
But I struggle sometimes with ideas surrounding dreams and accomplishments. I am a firmly grounded realist, and even when I was younger, though I took more risks than I take now, I was decidedly cautious and calculative in my approach to life decisions.
I was, and still am, the person in the first panel on left side of this XKCD.
However, the message in the rest of that comic haunts me. I do not wish to push my son into a mold that is foreign to him, yet I also don't want to fill his head with unlikely scenarios and nearly impossible to accomplish fantasies. I want him to be prudent with his speech (especially today when it lives on forever in the ether), but be free to speak his mind. I want him to be free to dream big...
Yet it's not true that anyone can grow up to be an astronaut or fighter pilot (strict height and physical health requirements). The vast majority of humans are ineligible to ever be President of the United States (strict age and citizenship requirements). And luck will always play a far larger role in our accomplishments than any of us are likely comfortable admitting.
So what does that leave for my son? I cannot lie to him; it's not in my nature to hide the truth, no matter how difficult it may be to face. Nor am I comfortable sugar-coating reality; the world can be a beautiful, magical place. It can also be (and let's be honest, much more frequently is) cold, cruel, lonely, crushing, and terrifying.
I'm still trying to find the right equilibrium. Maybe there isn't one to be found. Perhaps the balance lies somewhere in the middle, although the older I get, the less true I find that to be.
As for my own dreams? A long, healthy, and happy life for my son. Who could ask for anything more?
Monday, March 16, 2015
Teachers Aide
We seem to live in an age of endless hand-wringing about the state of education. There are infinite reasons proffered as to why America typically ranks so low compared to other wealthy, industrialized nations.
Having volunteered at my son's school, in multiple elementary grade classrooms, I confess I am unable to pinpoint any one problem at the root of our (alleged) educational malady. But I have noticed some trends that often come up in the conversation, and in no particular order, I offer my observations on them.
It's an oft-quoted truism that children learn better when class sizes are smaller. This has been fairly well proven to be true in K-3 learning, although, the results aren't as clear-cut as common sense might seem to dictate.
In my own observation, class size seems to matter much less than class composition. A large class of well-behaved (in the abstract sense) children is much easier to manage than even a class half its size, filled with unruly behavior. One child throwing a loud temper-tantrum can just as easily derail a class of 15, as it can a class of 25.
The question then becomes, what techniques can a teacher employ to maintain order in their classroom? This is an interesting problem, I've observed, and there probably is no real right answer. But I've certainly seen techniques that are effective...and others that are less so.
But as I look at my own parenting style and skills, I am reminded that our ability as parents to direct our children's behavior becomes more and more limited the older they get. They are, after all, small humans, with all of the complex emotions and incomprehensible decision-making instincts that we adults have, without the benefit of experience and logic to temper them. The more I observe of a day in the classroom, the more I'm convinced that Nature is a far bigger influence on our growth than Nurture.
My son, for example, exhibits numerous traits that I too expressed as a child. Yet he's never observed me directly engaging in such activities or behavior. There are times when he speaks, I hear my own voice reflected, from decades past, saying (virtually) the exact same thing in the exact tone of voice.
You may accuse me here of projecting my own psyche onto my son (and I can't honestly be certain you'd be wrong), but even if that's true...it's a sobering thought. That these patterns, even unconsciously, repeat themselves in the imprint of our offspring.
Perhaps that's the uncomfortable truth at the core of the "problems" we see in the classroom. It's not necessarily a lack of parental engagement, or dysfunctional schools (though those likely play a part); perhaps it's more our inability to understand our own actions and motives. Our own dysfunctions as human beings, reflected back at us through the immutable lens of our children's eyes.
If I'm honest with myself (and I owe you at least that, dear reader), I can't really say that I enjoy my time spent at his school. Don't get me wrong, I want and choose to be there, and I think it's important. I believe I need to model the behavior I expect my son to emulate, and a big part of that is demonstrating that progress is made by the people who show up. But I struggle when I'm there with an overwhelming sense of...melancholy? A profound sense that the struggles and challenges manifested in these children are not problems that can be "solved"; rather they are a fundamental component of who and what humanity is.
That probably sounds far more hopeless than I intend. Rest assured, I have no illusions that the way things are now is the way they have to be. Which is why I'll continue to volunteer and show up. Because if there is any progress to be made, it'll be made by those who do.
Having volunteered at my son's school, in multiple elementary grade classrooms, I confess I am unable to pinpoint any one problem at the root of our (alleged) educational malady. But I have noticed some trends that often come up in the conversation, and in no particular order, I offer my observations on them.
It's an oft-quoted truism that children learn better when class sizes are smaller. This has been fairly well proven to be true in K-3 learning, although, the results aren't as clear-cut as common sense might seem to dictate.
In my own observation, class size seems to matter much less than class composition. A large class of well-behaved (in the abstract sense) children is much easier to manage than even a class half its size, filled with unruly behavior. One child throwing a loud temper-tantrum can just as easily derail a class of 15, as it can a class of 25.
The question then becomes, what techniques can a teacher employ to maintain order in their classroom? This is an interesting problem, I've observed, and there probably is no real right answer. But I've certainly seen techniques that are effective...and others that are less so.
But as I look at my own parenting style and skills, I am reminded that our ability as parents to direct our children's behavior becomes more and more limited the older they get. They are, after all, small humans, with all of the complex emotions and incomprehensible decision-making instincts that we adults have, without the benefit of experience and logic to temper them. The more I observe of a day in the classroom, the more I'm convinced that Nature is a far bigger influence on our growth than Nurture.
My son, for example, exhibits numerous traits that I too expressed as a child. Yet he's never observed me directly engaging in such activities or behavior. There are times when he speaks, I hear my own voice reflected, from decades past, saying (virtually) the exact same thing in the exact tone of voice.
You may accuse me here of projecting my own psyche onto my son (and I can't honestly be certain you'd be wrong), but even if that's true...it's a sobering thought. That these patterns, even unconsciously, repeat themselves in the imprint of our offspring.
Perhaps that's the uncomfortable truth at the core of the "problems" we see in the classroom. It's not necessarily a lack of parental engagement, or dysfunctional schools (though those likely play a part); perhaps it's more our inability to understand our own actions and motives. Our own dysfunctions as human beings, reflected back at us through the immutable lens of our children's eyes.
If I'm honest with myself (and I owe you at least that, dear reader), I can't really say that I enjoy my time spent at his school. Don't get me wrong, I want and choose to be there, and I think it's important. I believe I need to model the behavior I expect my son to emulate, and a big part of that is demonstrating that progress is made by the people who show up. But I struggle when I'm there with an overwhelming sense of...melancholy? A profound sense that the struggles and challenges manifested in these children are not problems that can be "solved"; rather they are a fundamental component of who and what humanity is.
That probably sounds far more hopeless than I intend. Rest assured, I have no illusions that the way things are now is the way they have to be. Which is why I'll continue to volunteer and show up. Because if there is any progress to be made, it'll be made by those who do.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Velocity, Like Family, Is Relative
My son's perception of time is skewed. It always has been. He claims that 300 years is not a long time; you have to get into the million+ range to elicit from him a span of time deemed "lengthy".
I spend more time than I really ought to, trying to remember my own perceptions at his age. I do remember sitting in the car while my mom would run errands, becoming more and more furious that her errand-running was causing me an inordinate amount of boredom. I'm certain at least one of my adult neuroses is directly related to those experiences (though even with a gun to my head, I couldn't tell you which one). Thanks a lot mom!
But in all seriousness, I'm fascinated by the curious way my son's brain organizes relative concepts. While it's entirely possible (perhaps even likely) that he's just being oppositional for his own sake of fun, part of me is convinced he really doesn't believe anything less than a million is a "lot". And given that such things are relative...I can't really say he's wrong, can I? I mean, a million of something is a lot. And when compared to 300, a million really is a lot, and 300 really isn't. I can count to 300 comfortably in a sitting. A million? Not so much.
It's these kinds of things that really throw me for a loop. I endeavor to teach my son the nuanced and complicated nature of the world. He often asks me if characters in a movie or show are "good guys" or "bad guys", and I tell him that it largely depends on your perspective. He wants the world to be black and white (understandably), but I can't abide washing the world of it's vibrant (and complicated) colors. He seems to find this, at varying turns, irritating or illuminating, and if it's possible to quantify and predict which one he'll choose, I'm damned if I can figure out how.
So, I do my best to provide him with the length and breadth of the universe (or at least as much as I understand of it), and hope that in time he and I can fill in the blanks together. I think we're in for a treat when we get to E=mc².
I spend more time than I really ought to, trying to remember my own perceptions at his age. I do remember sitting in the car while my mom would run errands, becoming more and more furious that her errand-running was causing me an inordinate amount of boredom. I'm certain at least one of my adult neuroses is directly related to those experiences (though even with a gun to my head, I couldn't tell you which one). Thanks a lot mom!
But in all seriousness, I'm fascinated by the curious way my son's brain organizes relative concepts. While it's entirely possible (perhaps even likely) that he's just being oppositional for his own sake of fun, part of me is convinced he really doesn't believe anything less than a million is a "lot". And given that such things are relative...I can't really say he's wrong, can I? I mean, a million of something is a lot. And when compared to 300, a million really is a lot, and 300 really isn't. I can count to 300 comfortably in a sitting. A million? Not so much.
It's these kinds of things that really throw me for a loop. I endeavor to teach my son the nuanced and complicated nature of the world. He often asks me if characters in a movie or show are "good guys" or "bad guys", and I tell him that it largely depends on your perspective. He wants the world to be black and white (understandably), but I can't abide washing the world of it's vibrant (and complicated) colors. He seems to find this, at varying turns, irritating or illuminating, and if it's possible to quantify and predict which one he'll choose, I'm damned if I can figure out how.
So, I do my best to provide him with the length and breadth of the universe (or at least as much as I understand of it), and hope that in time he and I can fill in the blanks together. I think we're in for a treat when we get to E=mc².
Monday, March 9, 2015
Everything Old Is New...
In 2008, I started a blog about fatherhood, or more specifically, my experiences being a father. At the time, my son was less than a year old, so the posts were largely centered around the joys (and more often, perils) of having an infant.
I kept writing, until 2010, when life, the universe, and everything simply sapped my time and energy, and the blog fell by the wayside. Apparently, in the intervening years, our all-knowing lord and master Google purged inactive blogs, such as mine, and all of that content was lost to the ether.
Just as well; I highly doubt anything I wrote at the time was particularly interesting or novel. (Spoiler alert; the same is likely true for this resurrected incarnation, but that's the risk you take, dear reader.)
The truth is, after 7 years of parenting, I've found that very few of my ideas or experiences are actually unique (I know, stop the presses, right?). Whatever existential angst this understanding might have caused me is overwhelmed by a resounding "meh", as I contemplate the fact that so it has been for every parent who has gone before me.
So what prompted me to breathe life back into this idea, which wasn't very good the first time around? Authenticity.
Seven years into this lifelong gig, the one thing that's held true for me as a person, outside of being a parent, is the necessity of living an authentic life. In trying to model behavior that I want my son to emulate, I have to have a frank and honest conversation with myself; is what I'm modeling really how I behave, or is it just something I'm doing for him? If it's the former, then there is an outside chance that the seeds I plant may sprout as he grows into a man, surviving the crucible of puberty and taking deep root in the core of who he defines himself to be.
But, if it's the latter, he'll suss that out immediately and recognize my hypocrisy faster than he wolfs down cupcakes at grandma's house.
So it's on me to be true and authentic. That is the the theme this reborn blog will explore, as it relates to parenting. And like parenting, I can't really guarantee much. I can't guarantee that I'll post as often as I'd like. I can't even promise the content will prove to be interesting. But like I'm trying to teach my son, I'll do my best along the way. If that's not the crux of parenting, then I don't know what is.
I kept writing, until 2010, when life, the universe, and everything simply sapped my time and energy, and the blog fell by the wayside. Apparently, in the intervening years, our all-knowing lord and master Google purged inactive blogs, such as mine, and all of that content was lost to the ether.
Just as well; I highly doubt anything I wrote at the time was particularly interesting or novel. (Spoiler alert; the same is likely true for this resurrected incarnation, but that's the risk you take, dear reader.)
The truth is, after 7 years of parenting, I've found that very few of my ideas or experiences are actually unique (I know, stop the presses, right?). Whatever existential angst this understanding might have caused me is overwhelmed by a resounding "meh", as I contemplate the fact that so it has been for every parent who has gone before me.
So what prompted me to breathe life back into this idea, which wasn't very good the first time around? Authenticity.
Seven years into this lifelong gig, the one thing that's held true for me as a person, outside of being a parent, is the necessity of living an authentic life. In trying to model behavior that I want my son to emulate, I have to have a frank and honest conversation with myself; is what I'm modeling really how I behave, or is it just something I'm doing for him? If it's the former, then there is an outside chance that the seeds I plant may sprout as he grows into a man, surviving the crucible of puberty and taking deep root in the core of who he defines himself to be.
But, if it's the latter, he'll suss that out immediately and recognize my hypocrisy faster than he wolfs down cupcakes at grandma's house.
So it's on me to be true and authentic. That is the the theme this reborn blog will explore, as it relates to parenting. And like parenting, I can't really guarantee much. I can't guarantee that I'll post as often as I'd like. I can't even promise the content will prove to be interesting. But like I'm trying to teach my son, I'll do my best along the way. If that's not the crux of parenting, then I don't know what is.
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