Howard Gardner, the noted academician from Harvard, has developed the theory of multiple intelligences. This theory stipulates that there are nine different types of intelligence. The different types of intelligence include linguistic intelligence, mathematical intelligence, spatial intelligence, bodily-kinesthetic intelligence, musical intelligence, interpersonal intelligence, intrapersonal intelligence, naturalistic intelligence, and existential intelligence. During the past couple of weeks, I have been deep in thought regarding multiple intelligences. As a stay-at-home father, I have spent considerable time observing and interacting with my children. I find myself forced to one conclusion. My boys boast extraordinarily high IQs in many of Gardener's intelligences.
Events of the recent past have revealed to me my boys' uncanny deftness regarding musical intelligence, bodily-kinisthetic intelligence, and interpersonal intelligence.
Musical Intelligence:
Musical inteligence "involves skill in the performance, composition, and appreciation of musical patterns." Both my boys had music recitals this past weekend. So, one can deduce that they have musical intelligence. Their "skill in performance" was evident. My older boy's piano recital occurred last Sunday. He created sweet music with rousing renditions of Beethoven's "Fur Elise" and the old classic, "Kum Ba Ya." He was poised and artful in his playing. Certain proof a tremendous musical intelligence. My younger son's choice of music for his violin recital was less complex, yet his performance was exquisite. He absolutely killed the four notes in "Monkey Song." True, many of the other musicians playing violin played more complicated, longer songs, but I would still propose that my boy's musical IQ equals, if not surpasses, many of the others. Why would I make such a bold proposition? My younger boy's musical guide at home is me. I'm the one practicing with him and helping him understand the music. And I have no musical intelligence to speak of (unless the ability to rap counts, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't). Think of the hurdles one would have to overcome if he had to learn to read from an illiterate. My younger boy has done just that. His handling of the Monkey song during his recital led this observer to see a great musical intelligence at work. The ability to perform music is a key component of a high musical IQ. Both my boys meet this standard and ,so, have high musical IQs.
Bodily-Kinesthetic Intelligence:
Next, I will discuss bodily-kinesthetic intelligence. This involves the "use of mental abilities to coordinate bodily movements." Surgeons, dancers,and athletes all have high bodily-kinesthetic intelligence. My boys are not surgeons or dancers (although my older boy has developed a particularly interesting dance move where he shakes his butt wildly while blowing kisses), but they are athletes. My younger boy's soccer season ended a few weeks ago. We arrived a few minutes late to his first game (he was playing a double-header). At the field, we were greeted by my boy's best friend. "We already lost," he reported, "1-0." This was a tad defeatist as the game was only 7 minutes old. Still, life looked bleak for our squad. Until, that is, my boy entered the game. Forty-five seconds later, my boy's team was ahead 3-1, courtesy of my boy's three goals. Forty-five minutes later, the game ended, 9-1. My boy's seven goals spear-heading the rout. While the game was happening, my older boy was holding a soccer clinic for the members of his brothers team not on the field. My younger boy was schooling the other team while my older boy schooled (in a helpful way) his brother's teammates. After the first game, we broke for lunch. The team had a celebratory pizza lunch. All that pizza must have deadened the competitive drive of the crew. For, as we entered the final quarter of the season, my boy's team trailed 2-1. What happened next should come as no surprise to those keen readers who have deduced that I am declaring my boys to be bodily-kinesthetic geniuses. The final quarter started with a bang as my youngest, with a couple of slick moves, dribbled the length of the field for the tying goal. Later, with about two minutes remaining, my boy stole the ball from an opponent. He raced up the field and scored the go-ahead goal from distance. Surrounded by defenders, my son drove the ball into the far corner for the go-ahead goal. Writing about these events now, some three weeks later, still causes my blood to stir. A great day. My boy scored nine goals in two games (and he wasn't playing the whole time either). I've experienced still more evidence of bodily-kinesthetic intelligence in my children (demonstrated in a completely different sport!). We've started private tennis lessons for the boys. As my older boy was hitting with the tennis pro, he elicited some strong praise. "He is so good, so athletic. If he keeps practicing he'll be playing in tournaments in no time." (You may recall from another posting that a different pro once described a shot of my son's as "total Federer). What can I say? Life is sweet for those with high bodily-kinesthetic IQs.
Interpersonal Intelligence:
Interpersonal intelligence is "concerned with the capacity to understand the intentions, motivations, and desires of other people." One can deduce that a person with high interpersonal intelligence should have many friends as he knows how to act to get along with/please/understand others. I observed this intelligence in my children. Starting when they were very young, I've advised my boys, 'be nice to people because if you're nice to others, they want to be nice to you.' With this basic piece of information concerning interpersonal relations, my children have somehow formed a mountain of useful interpersonal knowledge. They've used this aresenal of know-how to their advantage as they have made many good friends. My younger son's store of interpersonal knowledge consists mainly of playground songs and jokes about bodily functions (simple, but real crowd-pleasers). He has taught me the versions of the "I hate Barney" song [the Purple Dinosaur) that he chants with his friends at recess. He has a litany of fart jokes that his friends find hysterical. He has given his friends charming nicknames that they respond to and like. Perhaps not rocket science interpersonally, but age-appropriate for a kindergartener (and effective as evidenced by my boy's many friends). For a more nuanced view of interpersonal intelligence we must turn to my older son who is an ace. A field trip to Northwest Trek, a really cool zoo celebrating the Northwest's animals, was an excellent example of his interpersonal acumen. Within moments, he had organized a game that seemed truly enjoyable to the eight-year olds surrounding us. My son played "the richest, smartest man in the world," and the game consisted of his giving away huge sums of money to his friends. For his friend C, a cute, big-cheeked blonde girl, he had a present of 30 quadrillion dollars. She was over the moon with happiness. For A, another of my son's friends, he promised a castle with a stocked moat (filled, I can only assume, with dolphins- A's favorite animal). This game went on for longer than I would have thought possible. It included eight children, faces aglow. They simply couldn't get enough. Only then did I realize something that my boy, with his keen interpersonal intellect, had grasped instantly. People love getting things. The more expensive and lavish, the better. What, then, could be a more enticing game than "I'm the super-rich guy giving you money"? That my son was a crowd-pleaser seemed sure. My belief was solidified when C took out her digital camera (presumably given her to photograph animals) and began to snap shot after shot of my boy. The camera was out for about twenty minutes and C had it aimed at my boy the whole time (I feel for C's parents who will have had to delete hundreds of pictures of my boy smiling, growling, looking pensive, looking goofy, etc.). Almost lost among all the photographic hubbub was the fact that my boy had proven, once again, his interpersonal expertise.If someone whips out a camera following a make-believe game in which you are the magnaminous, ultra-rich star, they aren't looking for candids. No, he knew that C was seeking some formidable poses and that's what she got.
Once we'd arrived at Northwest Trek, we were divided into smaller groups. It was in this setting that my son took his interpersonal intelligence to the next level. He abandoned words as he and his friend T began to relate (for lack of a better word) completely through action. There we were, walking toward the wolf exhibit when T turned to my boy. With a big smile on her face, she said, "booty block," and preceeded to bend quickly thrusting her bottom into my son's side. A tricky move, and one I'd not seen before. Nor, I later learned had my son. One would never have known this, however, as he mirrored T's smile. "Booty block," he retored, and so it began. The majority of the rest of the field trip was spent in gleeful booty-blocking. With or without words, my eldest demonstrates a deep understanding of what motivates others and appeals to them. His advanced interpersonal skills have made him very likable as evidenced by the positive reactions to his game, his photo session, and his booty blocking.
And my boy knows the how to use his interpersonal skills to his advantage. An examination of his letter to Santa makes this clear:
Dear Santa,
Hello. How are you? I hope that you had a good Halloween, Thanksgiving, and summer.
Tell Mrs.Claus I hope that she had a good Halloween, Thanksgiving, and summer,too.
He then goes on to ask for his gifts. Millions of children send Christmas lists to Santa. But how many how them ask about his Thanksgiving? his Halloween? As if that weren't enough, he butters Santa up a little more by his endearing mention of Mrs. Clause. What will motivate Santa more? A succint, business-like list or a warm letter from a caring child? The interpersonal genius knows. Ask him.
As I love my boys more than anything, I could most certainly find ample proof to support their being geniuses in all of Gardener's multiple intelligences. But I limited myself to intelligences most seen recently. One can't know if their intelligences will take them to carreers as professional musicians, athletes, or the richest-smartest man in the world, but it's nice to have options.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Commitment
The action is intense: brother against brother on the soccer pitch that is our playroom. I sit in the comfortable armchair at what would be midfield. I imagine myself to be, Jose Mourinho, coach of Real Madrid. We're about the same business, Jose and I. We're both trying to create the best soccer players with the pieces we have. He has the likes of Renaldo, Ozil, Khadeira, and Cassillas. I have my boys. But regardless of the quality of players that one is working with, success is hard. It doesn't come easy. It requires hard work and commitment. So, I sit, watching my boys play, shouting directions and encouragement. I am moulding my boys into proper footballers. This summer, when I tilted our sports axis toward soccer, I made a commitment to turn my boys into knowledgeable soccer fans and formidable soccer players. I have been pretty successful. (Their soccer prowess is probably due to their athletic skill, but, knowledge of soccer stars worldwide, their frequently wearing of soccer jerseys, and their interest in the game?- all me).
Last weekend was a good one. My boys did well in their games. The family had a good weekend outside of soccer, too. As with so much in life, however, the successes were mingled with failure. Nevertheless, both the successes and failures were characterized by this week's blog's subject, commitment.
My older boy's team won it's game, 6-1. He scored a goal, had three shots on net, and handled the ball really well. As we were driving away from the field, we passed a friend and her kids (who were in their car). We stopped side by side. We rolled down our windows to exchange pleasantries. "We were just discussing ----- [our oldest boy]. He has gotten so good!" our friend said. Similarly, my younger son enjoyed great success in his game. His team lost 6-3, but my son scored all three goals. So dominant was my little man, that whenever he touched the ball, I would holler, "Get the ball, ----, and take it and score." It worked three times. Not bad. Jose Mourinho would be proud. So, our commitment to soccer has resulted in very good soccer players. But commitment can have a dark side.
Take the games that took place today. My boys played well, but I questioned our commitment to soccer. Today was 46 degrees with a steady down-pour. My younger boy played a double-header. During the first game, he scored the first goal for his team, then he switched teams because our opponents did not have enough players. He then scored three goals for their team. A win-win for my boy. But a drenching one. In the second game, he was tired, soaked and freezing, but he still scored. Afterward, my younger son's best friend exclaimed to his father: "---- and I both scored and we're FRIENDS!!!!!" (Six year-old enthusiasm can outshine even the dreariest weather). My older boy's best friend's parents took our eldest boy to his game. He returned home muddier than I've ever seen him. But he played hard and scored, in a losing effort. Playing in weather so dank, so muddy, so wet, so cold takes true commitment (not to mention the commitment of father who stands on the sidelines for two hours in the aforementioned down-pour). So, we demonstrated commitment, but at what cost? My children seem vaguely traumatized. They are no longer, dripping wet, but the look in their eyes is one of dampness. As I write this, my boys are huddled next to me, watching TV in a near-comatose state. We've shown true commitment to soccer, but commitment in freezing rain can shake the resolve of the stoutest.
So, the dark side of commitment can involve one's needing to attend games (and play games) in inclement weather. The dark side of commitment is also evident in the misallocation of commitment. My younger boy is chronically guilty of this. On Wednesday night of this week, he became committed to the idea that he would not take a "no thank-you" bite of the Chantarelle mushrooms that my wife had prepared. So, we compromised my wife sliced the already tiny mushroom in two. He gingerly put the mushroom in his mouth and began to chew with a pained expression on his face. He took a swig of milk to help the mushroom go down his throat. Instead of doing this, however, he made a dramatic, gagging sound, and spit his mushroom (now mixed with a lovely chocolate-milk sauce) all over the table. My wife tried to reason with my son. Wouldn't it be easier, she wondered, if he just ate the mushroom, rather than fussing so? It goes without saying that the answer should be 'yes,' but my son's resolve is like granite. He was committed to not eating the mushroom and, so, he would not; regardless of our urging. To make a long, and particularly frustrating story short, my son finally did eat the half-mushroom piece, but only after many tears, losing multiple G-bucks, and losing the privilege of having us lie down with him at bed-time (in this, we relented). With my usual soft-touch, I sidled up to my son and asked, "now wouldn't it have been so much easier if you had just eaten the mushroom?" I wondered reasonably. He looked at me like I was crazy. It is hard to sway the truly committed.
Commitment can be a force for good. The strides we have made in regards to soccer illustrate this. Our commitment to practicing, watching, and being interested in soccer have made us legitimate players and fans. Our commitment to wearing soccer jerseys has made us look good while doing this. But that same commitment nearly resulted in three cases of hypothermia today from playing and spectating soccer in near-freezing rain. Commitment to any cause can result in trouble. My younger son's commitment to not trying his mushrooms brought him a world of hurt (an evening of frustration, really). Commitment is a double-edged sword. One should be warned before becoming too... committed.
Last weekend was a good one. My boys did well in their games. The family had a good weekend outside of soccer, too. As with so much in life, however, the successes were mingled with failure. Nevertheless, both the successes and failures were characterized by this week's blog's subject, commitment.
My older boy's team won it's game, 6-1. He scored a goal, had three shots on net, and handled the ball really well. As we were driving away from the field, we passed a friend and her kids (who were in their car). We stopped side by side. We rolled down our windows to exchange pleasantries. "We were just discussing ----- [our oldest boy]. He has gotten so good!" our friend said. Similarly, my younger son enjoyed great success in his game. His team lost 6-3, but my son scored all three goals. So dominant was my little man, that whenever he touched the ball, I would holler, "Get the ball, ----, and take it and score." It worked three times. Not bad. Jose Mourinho would be proud. So, our commitment to soccer has resulted in very good soccer players. But commitment can have a dark side.
Take the games that took place today. My boys played well, but I questioned our commitment to soccer. Today was 46 degrees with a steady down-pour. My younger boy played a double-header. During the first game, he scored the first goal for his team, then he switched teams because our opponents did not have enough players. He then scored three goals for their team. A win-win for my boy. But a drenching one. In the second game, he was tired, soaked and freezing, but he still scored. Afterward, my younger son's best friend exclaimed to his father: "---- and I both scored and we're FRIENDS!!!!!" (Six year-old enthusiasm can outshine even the dreariest weather). My older boy's best friend's parents took our eldest boy to his game. He returned home muddier than I've ever seen him. But he played hard and scored, in a losing effort. Playing in weather so dank, so muddy, so wet, so cold takes true commitment (not to mention the commitment of father who stands on the sidelines for two hours in the aforementioned down-pour). So, we demonstrated commitment, but at what cost? My children seem vaguely traumatized. They are no longer, dripping wet, but the look in their eyes is one of dampness. As I write this, my boys are huddled next to me, watching TV in a near-comatose state. We've shown true commitment to soccer, but commitment in freezing rain can shake the resolve of the stoutest.
So, the dark side of commitment can involve one's needing to attend games (and play games) in inclement weather. The dark side of commitment is also evident in the misallocation of commitment. My younger boy is chronically guilty of this. On Wednesday night of this week, he became committed to the idea that he would not take a "no thank-you" bite of the Chantarelle mushrooms that my wife had prepared. So, we compromised my wife sliced the already tiny mushroom in two. He gingerly put the mushroom in his mouth and began to chew with a pained expression on his face. He took a swig of milk to help the mushroom go down his throat. Instead of doing this, however, he made a dramatic, gagging sound, and spit his mushroom (now mixed with a lovely chocolate-milk sauce) all over the table. My wife tried to reason with my son. Wouldn't it be easier, she wondered, if he just ate the mushroom, rather than fussing so? It goes without saying that the answer should be 'yes,' but my son's resolve is like granite. He was committed to not eating the mushroom and, so, he would not; regardless of our urging. To make a long, and particularly frustrating story short, my son finally did eat the half-mushroom piece, but only after many tears, losing multiple G-bucks, and losing the privilege of having us lie down with him at bed-time (in this, we relented). With my usual soft-touch, I sidled up to my son and asked, "now wouldn't it have been so much easier if you had just eaten the mushroom?" I wondered reasonably. He looked at me like I was crazy. It is hard to sway the truly committed.
Commitment can be a force for good. The strides we have made in regards to soccer illustrate this. Our commitment to practicing, watching, and being interested in soccer have made us legitimate players and fans. Our commitment to wearing soccer jerseys has made us look good while doing this. But that same commitment nearly resulted in three cases of hypothermia today from playing and spectating soccer in near-freezing rain. Commitment to any cause can result in trouble. My younger son's commitment to not trying his mushrooms brought him a world of hurt (an evening of frustration, really). Commitment is a double-edged sword. One should be warned before becoming too... committed.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Celebrations
It's pitch black. The tension is thick in the air. Silently, children creep, waiting to attack. Stealthily, I wind through the maze, my gun clutched to my side. I peek around corners trying to spot any of my pint-sized foes. Suddenly, the silence is broken. In a sing-song chant, my son begins his celebration mantra. "Uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right,uh-huh." It's my boy. We are playing laser tag, and he has clearly gotten someone out. As I stood there, in the dark labyrinth of the laser tag arena listening to my older son, I began to think about celebrations.
My boys are champion celebrators, particularly my older son. He's had more time to practice. My older boy's celebrations always take the same form: "uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh." They are so rote that one might think that they are executed without forethought, but that would be a disservice to my son's celebrating. He has made a key strategic decisions that influence his celebrating. First, and most importantly, my son has recognized that life can be hard with few reasons to celebrate. He has combatted this somber truth by stretching plausible 'reason-to-celebrate' moments. He celebrates to acknowledge obvious feats like scoring in soccer, making a basket in basketball, making a nice catch in football, getting a nice hit in baseball- athletic stuff. Celebrations (polite ones, hopefully) and athletics go hand-in-hand. Before sports, I am not sure what people celebrated. Killing a wooly mammoth, maybe. Or starting a fire. But now we do have sports, and this allows us all sorts of chances to celebrate. Of course, my son is no dummy and he has realized that life wouldn't be as fun if one had to wait all week to celebrate (athletic competitions in third grade are held once weekly, usually on the weekends). So, he has expanded his reason-to-celebrate definition to encompass a wide swath of daily life. "Hey dad," he said to me this morning with a smile, "already taken my shower. No problem." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Like my Chelsea jersey? I look smooth, don't I?" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Look at my plate. I ate all my peas. Clean plate, player" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey daddy. Guess what I just did? Helped mommy make cookies. She said I'm her sou-chef." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] Or "hey dad. Go check out the play room. It's been cleaned by the CLEANING MASTER." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] All the above proclamations were made with a smiling face and eyes gleaming with pride. True celebrations. I like celebrating too so I can relate to my son. But he has an ability to weave a reason to celebrate out of seeming nothingness. A couple of weeks ago, I heard him during his piano practice. It was not an atypical piano practice, replete with my son's furious protestations of hating piano and my wife's patient (at first, anyway) reminders of the importance of practice. Even as my boy's playing began to sound more and more like the song he was attempting, his manner did not brighten. He seemed near tears, a happy place a long way off. Suddenly, as if the good sounding playing was only just reaching his ears, he was on his feet with a rhythmic twisting of the hips and a hand out-stretched. "Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh, oh yeah," he triumphantly crowed. Impressive. Celebrations for a piano-practice well-done.
Typically, my younger son's celebrations take a different form. His celebrations are sillier and random. In the middle of soccer game (that he and I are losing to his brother), he might start blowing kisses to an imaginary audience: "to all my ladies," he intones, grinning. Or, we're about to read the bed-time story, and he, inexplicably, starts to shake his booty. "Shake your little-tail feathers," he says, his smiling face nodding to the (pretend) beat.
We just got back from a really beautiful trip to Arizona. There was a lot of amazing hiking there. Curiously enough, my youngest, although always the loudest, in protesting, "I DO NOT WANT TO HIKE" was a champion hiker. On a hike during our last day there, he and I were a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of our extended family. We marched resolutely through the gorgeous terrain. Red rocks marvelously towering above us, we marched on. I noticed that my son was muttering under his breath. I moved closer to listen. "Uh huh, oh yeah, I rule," he whispered, the pride coming off him in waves.
My boys are champion celebrators, particularly my older son. He's had more time to practice. My older boy's celebrations always take the same form: "uh-huh, that's right, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh." They are so rote that one might think that they are executed without forethought, but that would be a disservice to my son's celebrating. He has made a key strategic decisions that influence his celebrating. First, and most importantly, my son has recognized that life can be hard with few reasons to celebrate. He has combatted this somber truth by stretching plausible 'reason-to-celebrate' moments. He celebrates to acknowledge obvious feats like scoring in soccer, making a basket in basketball, making a nice catch in football, getting a nice hit in baseball- athletic stuff. Celebrations (polite ones, hopefully) and athletics go hand-in-hand. Before sports, I am not sure what people celebrated. Killing a wooly mammoth, maybe. Or starting a fire. But now we do have sports, and this allows us all sorts of chances to celebrate. Of course, my son is no dummy and he has realized that life wouldn't be as fun if one had to wait all week to celebrate (athletic competitions in third grade are held once weekly, usually on the weekends). So, he has expanded his reason-to-celebrate definition to encompass a wide swath of daily life. "Hey dad," he said to me this morning with a smile, "already taken my shower. No problem." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Like my Chelsea jersey? I look smooth, don't I?" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey dad. Look at my plate. I ate all my peas. Clean plate, player" [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] "Hey daddy. Guess what I just did? Helped mommy make cookies. She said I'm her sou-chef." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] Or "hey dad. Go check out the play room. It's been cleaned by the CLEANING MASTER." [Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule....] All the above proclamations were made with a smiling face and eyes gleaming with pride. True celebrations. I like celebrating too so I can relate to my son. But he has an ability to weave a reason to celebrate out of seeming nothingness. A couple of weeks ago, I heard him during his piano practice. It was not an atypical piano practice, replete with my son's furious protestations of hating piano and my wife's patient (at first, anyway) reminders of the importance of practice. Even as my boy's playing began to sound more and more like the song he was attempting, his manner did not brighten. He seemed near tears, a happy place a long way off. Suddenly, as if the good sounding playing was only just reaching his ears, he was on his feet with a rhythmic twisting of the hips and a hand out-stretched. "Uh-huh, oh yeah, I rule, that's right, uh-huh, oh yeah," he triumphantly crowed. Impressive. Celebrations for a piano-practice well-done.
Typically, my younger son's celebrations take a different form. His celebrations are sillier and random. In the middle of soccer game (that he and I are losing to his brother), he might start blowing kisses to an imaginary audience: "to all my ladies," he intones, grinning. Or, we're about to read the bed-time story, and he, inexplicably, starts to shake his booty. "Shake your little-tail feathers," he says, his smiling face nodding to the (pretend) beat.
We just got back from a really beautiful trip to Arizona. There was a lot of amazing hiking there. Curiously enough, my youngest, although always the loudest, in protesting, "I DO NOT WANT TO HIKE" was a champion hiker. On a hike during our last day there, he and I were a good ten minutes ahead of the rest of our extended family. We marched resolutely through the gorgeous terrain. Red rocks marvelously towering above us, we marched on. I noticed that my son was muttering under his breath. I moved closer to listen. "Uh huh, oh yeah, I rule," he whispered, the pride coming off him in waves.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Choices or A Thoughtful Examination by a Thoughtful Person
All this blogging has made me a thoughtful man. In this vein, I decided that I would replay this past Saturday in my mind, evaluating some choices that I made. In this way, I might mold future choices emulating successful ones and avoiding less successful ones.
The first choice was actually presented to me before Saturday, and it was not a terribly difficult one to make. Still, there were issues to consider. A friend of mine, S, invited me and another friend to watch a MLS game (Seattle FC versus Toronto FC). S, who is a sociology professor teaching a course on soccer as a reflection of cultural, political and economic issues, was taking a group of his students to see the game (a nice perk for the students of any soccer-based course). The choice: should I go to the game? A no-brainer, but let's examine the issues anyhow, the most important of which is one of abandonment. Namely, am I mistreating my family by leaving them on a Saturday so I can watch a soccer game? Of course not. So, I chose to accept the kind invitation to the game.
Another choice, of seemingly little importance, turned out to be a good one. It involved my choice of shirt for the day. I do not have a Sounders soccer jersey, so I could not make the obvious dressing choice by wearing the home team's jersey. So, I went with the Spanish National Team (David Villa, number 7). This turned out to be a good choice, but not without a little complication. The positive: I stood out boldly, a clear soccer-aficionado, in the strong red color of the Spanish home jersey. As I was walking into the stadium, a voice shouted triumphantly "David Villa" (with correct pronunciation). Proudly, I acknowledged the acknowledgement with a raised fist. As I mentioned, my bold shirt had a slightly unexpected impact as well. I was immediately identifiable to the many people near the stadium who were asking for money. "Hey number 7, Got any change?" and "hey you, in the red shirt, can you help me out?" The above comments were made by two particularly unsavory (and drunk, I think) guys whose attention I could have done without. However, such is the price to pay when making a statement with one's clothes. Despite the unwanted attention, I was still contented with my choice. One can never go wrong with David Villa.
Perhaps the choice that had the most potential for going awry came soon after I entered the stadium. It involved that mystical item that I so covet: the soccer jersey. Now, my wife had wisely put me on a soccer jersey-restriction after my soccer jersey binge this summer. But, she surely wouldn't mind if I bought my boys some jerseys... So I did. And while I was doing that... I bought myself a sweatshirt (a very sweet one with adidas insignia, the Sounders crest, and stripes down the arms). How could I resist? It was the 'item of the match' (meaning it was on sale). But I didn't want to leave my wife out. She would look awesome in a smooth soccer training jersey. Should I buy her something? Or would it be wasted money (as I was pretty sure that she wouldn't be as enthusiastic about receiving a soccer jersey as my boys would be). I consulted one of my friends as to my course of action. "Should I call my wife and ask if she wants me to buy her something?" I wondered aloud, "keep in mind that she might not be totally pleased with my purchases at all as we had an understanding that I was done with soccer jerseys until the holidays." "Well," my friend advised, "if she says that you should return the stuff, will you?" "I hope not," I murmured lamely. "Still," my friend continued, "it is a good idea to offer to buy her something. It would be a nice gesture." So, I called. As it turns out, it was so loud in the stadium that my wife heard nothing that I said; I heard nothing that she said. So, all was good, right? "How'd it go?" my friend asked. "I think it went well," I said uncertainly, "I couldn't actually hear anything she said." We decided that that might be for the best. When I got home, I am happy to report, my choice to buy the gear turned out to be a good one. My wife smiled fondly (or resignedly) when she saw my new purchase. She also liked what I bought the boys. Both boys greeted the purchases with "cool!!!" My older son immediately put the jersey on and began to chant, "I love the Sounders, I love the Sounders." (Now, a day later, he is sitting beside me watching Chelsea versus Arsenal wearing the same jersey). Buying the soccer jerseys (and sweatshirt for me): good choice.
The game was a great time. It passed without any more choices of note. (Other than my bold decision to get an Italian sausage for lunch as opposed to a slice of pizza). Yet, I was greeted with another key decision as I bade my wife a pleasant evening (as she was departing for work). "What are you guys going to do for dinner?" my wife asked. "I don't know," I said, "pizza?" "Well," my wife pointed out, "we are probably going to order out tomorrow night, so maybe you can finish the sausages that we have in the fridge." [Maybe my decision to have a sausage at the game wasn't so bright, after all]. So, we had sausages, lentils, and peach cobbler. It was a successful meal, and quickly thrown together (left-overs); a plus, because we needed enough time enjoy the evening's entertainment, the Karate Kid (the original with Ralph Maccio).
This proved to be another good choice. No matter how many times I see that movie, it never fails to thrill me when Daniel uses the crane position to kick Johnny in the nose. The only reality that prevents the Karate Kid from being a totally positive choice is that my boys, for some inexplicable reason, think that Johnny (the movie's entitled, brutal villain) is cool. Are we not watching the same movie???!!!!??? Please!!!!!!!
After the movie, we decided to play a little soccer in the play room (despite the fact that it was 8:30 at the movie's end). This was not such a good decision. This became painfully (literally) clear when I preformed a smooth looking backward kick reminiscent of Ronaldhino. My older son, who was being valiantly aggressive in goal had slid in to block my shot. Unaware, I solidly kicked him in the stomach. Once I saw what I had done, I, of course, attended to my injured boy. Poor thing. As I knelt down to try to make him feel better, my boy rolled around in a pseudo-fetal position moaning, "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Luckily, he felt better a moment later and we continued playing. I was careful not to try to emulate any other soccer-greats. Any choice that leads to kicking one's son in the stomach: bad decision, poor choice.
Also, my boys ended up going to bed considerably later than their 8:30 weekend bed-time. This, however, had a positive outcome. My wife returned home at 9:12. She found us in the basement, sweaty, but exhilarated from some crisp soccer. She greeted us warmly, clearly pleased to get the chance to help put the boys to bed. Her smile faltered a tad when my older son greeted her with "daddy kicked me in the stomach." I jest. What's a kick in the stomach amongst friends (or fathers and sons).
After the boys were put to bed, my wife chose to read upstairs. I retreated to the TV room to catch my figurative breath. In the peaceful quiet, I turned on the TV to relax: good choice.
The first choice was actually presented to me before Saturday, and it was not a terribly difficult one to make. Still, there were issues to consider. A friend of mine, S, invited me and another friend to watch a MLS game (Seattle FC versus Toronto FC). S, who is a sociology professor teaching a course on soccer as a reflection of cultural, political and economic issues, was taking a group of his students to see the game (a nice perk for the students of any soccer-based course). The choice: should I go to the game? A no-brainer, but let's examine the issues anyhow, the most important of which is one of abandonment. Namely, am I mistreating my family by leaving them on a Saturday so I can watch a soccer game? Of course not. So, I chose to accept the kind invitation to the game.
Another choice, of seemingly little importance, turned out to be a good one. It involved my choice of shirt for the day. I do not have a Sounders soccer jersey, so I could not make the obvious dressing choice by wearing the home team's jersey. So, I went with the Spanish National Team (David Villa, number 7). This turned out to be a good choice, but not without a little complication. The positive: I stood out boldly, a clear soccer-aficionado, in the strong red color of the Spanish home jersey. As I was walking into the stadium, a voice shouted triumphantly "David Villa" (with correct pronunciation). Proudly, I acknowledged the acknowledgement with a raised fist. As I mentioned, my bold shirt had a slightly unexpected impact as well. I was immediately identifiable to the many people near the stadium who were asking for money. "Hey number 7, Got any change?" and "hey you, in the red shirt, can you help me out?" The above comments were made by two particularly unsavory (and drunk, I think) guys whose attention I could have done without. However, such is the price to pay when making a statement with one's clothes. Despite the unwanted attention, I was still contented with my choice. One can never go wrong with David Villa.
Perhaps the choice that had the most potential for going awry came soon after I entered the stadium. It involved that mystical item that I so covet: the soccer jersey. Now, my wife had wisely put me on a soccer jersey-restriction after my soccer jersey binge this summer. But, she surely wouldn't mind if I bought my boys some jerseys... So I did. And while I was doing that... I bought myself a sweatshirt (a very sweet one with adidas insignia, the Sounders crest, and stripes down the arms). How could I resist? It was the 'item of the match' (meaning it was on sale). But I didn't want to leave my wife out. She would look awesome in a smooth soccer training jersey. Should I buy her something? Or would it be wasted money (as I was pretty sure that she wouldn't be as enthusiastic about receiving a soccer jersey as my boys would be). I consulted one of my friends as to my course of action. "Should I call my wife and ask if she wants me to buy her something?" I wondered aloud, "keep in mind that she might not be totally pleased with my purchases at all as we had an understanding that I was done with soccer jerseys until the holidays." "Well," my friend advised, "if she says that you should return the stuff, will you?" "I hope not," I murmured lamely. "Still," my friend continued, "it is a good idea to offer to buy her something. It would be a nice gesture." So, I called. As it turns out, it was so loud in the stadium that my wife heard nothing that I said; I heard nothing that she said. So, all was good, right? "How'd it go?" my friend asked. "I think it went well," I said uncertainly, "I couldn't actually hear anything she said." We decided that that might be for the best. When I got home, I am happy to report, my choice to buy the gear turned out to be a good one. My wife smiled fondly (or resignedly) when she saw my new purchase. She also liked what I bought the boys. Both boys greeted the purchases with "cool!!!" My older son immediately put the jersey on and began to chant, "I love the Sounders, I love the Sounders." (Now, a day later, he is sitting beside me watching Chelsea versus Arsenal wearing the same jersey). Buying the soccer jerseys (and sweatshirt for me): good choice.
The game was a great time. It passed without any more choices of note. (Other than my bold decision to get an Italian sausage for lunch as opposed to a slice of pizza). Yet, I was greeted with another key decision as I bade my wife a pleasant evening (as she was departing for work). "What are you guys going to do for dinner?" my wife asked. "I don't know," I said, "pizza?" "Well," my wife pointed out, "we are probably going to order out tomorrow night, so maybe you can finish the sausages that we have in the fridge." [Maybe my decision to have a sausage at the game wasn't so bright, after all]. So, we had sausages, lentils, and peach cobbler. It was a successful meal, and quickly thrown together (left-overs); a plus, because we needed enough time enjoy the evening's entertainment, the Karate Kid (the original with Ralph Maccio).
This proved to be another good choice. No matter how many times I see that movie, it never fails to thrill me when Daniel uses the crane position to kick Johnny in the nose. The only reality that prevents the Karate Kid from being a totally positive choice is that my boys, for some inexplicable reason, think that Johnny (the movie's entitled, brutal villain) is cool. Are we not watching the same movie???!!!!??? Please!!!!!!!
After the movie, we decided to play a little soccer in the play room (despite the fact that it was 8:30 at the movie's end). This was not such a good decision. This became painfully (literally) clear when I preformed a smooth looking backward kick reminiscent of Ronaldhino. My older son, who was being valiantly aggressive in goal had slid in to block my shot. Unaware, I solidly kicked him in the stomach. Once I saw what I had done, I, of course, attended to my injured boy. Poor thing. As I knelt down to try to make him feel better, my boy rolled around in a pseudo-fetal position moaning, "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." Luckily, he felt better a moment later and we continued playing. I was careful not to try to emulate any other soccer-greats. Any choice that leads to kicking one's son in the stomach: bad decision, poor choice.
Also, my boys ended up going to bed considerably later than their 8:30 weekend bed-time. This, however, had a positive outcome. My wife returned home at 9:12. She found us in the basement, sweaty, but exhilarated from some crisp soccer. She greeted us warmly, clearly pleased to get the chance to help put the boys to bed. Her smile faltered a tad when my older son greeted her with "daddy kicked me in the stomach." I jest. What's a kick in the stomach amongst friends (or fathers and sons).
After the boys were put to bed, my wife chose to read upstairs. I retreated to the TV room to catch my figurative breath. In the peaceful quiet, I turned on the TV to relax: good choice.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Uniforms
my boys' school requires its students to wear uniforms. The upper school girls (there are no upper school boys) wear a blue and white plaid skirt; the middle school kids wear blue shirts and khakis; and the lower schoolers wear red polo shirts and blue pants. There are also dress days, requiring a white button down shirt, tie, vest and khakis. On civvy days, they can wear whatever they want (by "they" I mean me as I use my boys as pint-sized billboards supporting my favorite teams: Patriots, Red Sox, Celtics, assorted soccer jerseys). I had never realized it, but I, too, wear a uniform. This became quite clear to me last Friday.
My wife and I were going to a fancy fundraising event for a hospital where she frequently works. This function necessitated my wearing a coat and tie. (I dress up with the frequency of a total lunar eclipse). In lieu of a babysitter, my boys were going to Kid's Night Out (KNO), a service occasionally offered at my boys' school. At KNO, the high schoolers who board at the school "babysit" (while supervised by two teachers). They have take-out pizza, watch movies, play in the gym; a good time for sure. The only possible downside is that one needs to ferry the boys to school to attend KNO. This was my task. So, I walked my boys to KNO. I was nattily dressed in a blue sports coat and tie. My pants charcoal grey, my loafers jet black, I looked icy cool (or like the millions of people who dress-up daily for work- it's a matter of perspective). The route to school is one that we travel daily, but this night's walk was different. In the fifteen minute walk to school, we were stopped by five different people who addressed my boys or me regarding my dress: "I've never seen you in a tie," "looking good," "are your mom and dad going on a date?" "where's your father?" and "who is this good-looking guy? And what's he done with your dad?" This is not to mention the two neighbors who stared at us mutely, their slightly bemused expressions seemingly asking: what's wrong with this scene?". At school the teachers supervising KNO greeted my boys with "hi guys" and me with, "don't you look dolled up?". My attire had its impact on the other parents dropping their kids odd at KNO. One woman was shocked when she saw it was me. "From a distance," she said, "I saw this gentleman whom I did not know, but it turned out to be you.". I got various other comments complimenting my look, including an enthusiastic "you look great.". My dressing up had quite an impact. Now, one could take this experience and appreciate the compliments or one could read between the lines. If people are falling over themselves to favorably comment on my appearance tonight (on the dressed-up full lunar eclipse), what are they thinking when they see me on a daily basis? "Oh, here's that slouch with the cute boys. Hopefully, they'll be better dressed adults than their father." Or "long sleeve t-shirt and jeans again??!!?? Really!!??!!" One parent passed me in the hallway last week, she looked at my shirt (a Lionel Messi Barcelona jersey!) and chuckled, "oh, my ten-year old has that same shirt."
The whole dressing-up experience made me evaluate my stay-at-home uniform. From September to mid October (and any sunny fifty degree-plus day following, I wear shorts (khaki, olive, or blue), an athletic shirt (long-sleeve t, soccer jersey, polo shirt, a Patriot or Red Sox t-shirt), and sneakers (cool sneakers, mind you- Nike Air Max cross-trainers or some throw-back Adidas shell-toes). As the weather grows colder and wetter, the shorts become jeans (various shades of blue, and black) or Nike Sportswear pants (I prefer these to the Adidas pants as the Adidas have no back pocket). Very Occasionally, I'll wear a button-down shirt and nice pants, but this can only happen when my wife has the day off and can drive us to school. The walk to and from school is only a mile and a half, but the hills are steep; this requires exertion and who wants to sweat in nice clothes?
The stay-at-home father uniform should allow for proper execution of stay-at-home dad duties. Helping with homework and violin can be done in any garb; loving, supporting and nurturing one's children similarly involves no set dress, but all the sports that I play with my boys? That, my friends, requires forethought. I will keep this truth with me like a shield, deflecting all the negative thoughts sent my way. Slouch? Ten year-old appearing? These words bounce off me. Tired of seeing my long-sleeved t and jeans? Tough! A Surgeon is not mocked for wearing scrubs, a scientist is not ridiculed for wearing a lab coat, a gladiator receives no jeers for wearing armor, a stay-at-home father should not be looked down on for wearing his uniform. As I am writing this, I am wearing my Nike sneakers, some blue shorts, and a Real Madrid jersey. And I look sharp, and ready to parent, a stay-at-home dad primed for battle.
My wife and I were going to a fancy fundraising event for a hospital where she frequently works. This function necessitated my wearing a coat and tie. (I dress up with the frequency of a total lunar eclipse). In lieu of a babysitter, my boys were going to Kid's Night Out (KNO), a service occasionally offered at my boys' school. At KNO, the high schoolers who board at the school "babysit" (while supervised by two teachers). They have take-out pizza, watch movies, play in the gym; a good time for sure. The only possible downside is that one needs to ferry the boys to school to attend KNO. This was my task. So, I walked my boys to KNO. I was nattily dressed in a blue sports coat and tie. My pants charcoal grey, my loafers jet black, I looked icy cool (or like the millions of people who dress-up daily for work- it's a matter of perspective). The route to school is one that we travel daily, but this night's walk was different. In the fifteen minute walk to school, we were stopped by five different people who addressed my boys or me regarding my dress: "I've never seen you in a tie," "looking good," "are your mom and dad going on a date?" "where's your father?" and "who is this good-looking guy? And what's he done with your dad?" This is not to mention the two neighbors who stared at us mutely, their slightly bemused expressions seemingly asking: what's wrong with this scene?". At school the teachers supervising KNO greeted my boys with "hi guys" and me with, "don't you look dolled up?". My attire had its impact on the other parents dropping their kids odd at KNO. One woman was shocked when she saw it was me. "From a distance," she said, "I saw this gentleman whom I did not know, but it turned out to be you.". I got various other comments complimenting my look, including an enthusiastic "you look great.". My dressing up had quite an impact. Now, one could take this experience and appreciate the compliments or one could read between the lines. If people are falling over themselves to favorably comment on my appearance tonight (on the dressed-up full lunar eclipse), what are they thinking when they see me on a daily basis? "Oh, here's that slouch with the cute boys. Hopefully, they'll be better dressed adults than their father." Or "long sleeve t-shirt and jeans again??!!?? Really!!??!!" One parent passed me in the hallway last week, she looked at my shirt (a Lionel Messi Barcelona jersey!) and chuckled, "oh, my ten-year old has that same shirt."
The whole dressing-up experience made me evaluate my stay-at-home uniform. From September to mid October (and any sunny fifty degree-plus day following, I wear shorts (khaki, olive, or blue), an athletic shirt (long-sleeve t, soccer jersey, polo shirt, a Patriot or Red Sox t-shirt), and sneakers (cool sneakers, mind you- Nike Air Max cross-trainers or some throw-back Adidas shell-toes). As the weather grows colder and wetter, the shorts become jeans (various shades of blue, and black) or Nike Sportswear pants (I prefer these to the Adidas pants as the Adidas have no back pocket). Very Occasionally, I'll wear a button-down shirt and nice pants, but this can only happen when my wife has the day off and can drive us to school. The walk to and from school is only a mile and a half, but the hills are steep; this requires exertion and who wants to sweat in nice clothes?
The stay-at-home father uniform should allow for proper execution of stay-at-home dad duties. Helping with homework and violin can be done in any garb; loving, supporting and nurturing one's children similarly involves no set dress, but all the sports that I play with my boys? That, my friends, requires forethought. I will keep this truth with me like a shield, deflecting all the negative thoughts sent my way. Slouch? Ten year-old appearing? These words bounce off me. Tired of seeing my long-sleeved t and jeans? Tough! A Surgeon is not mocked for wearing scrubs, a scientist is not ridiculed for wearing a lab coat, a gladiator receives no jeers for wearing armor, a stay-at-home father should not be looked down on for wearing his uniform. As I am writing this, I am wearing my Nike sneakers, some blue shorts, and a Real Madrid jersey. And I look sharp, and ready to parent, a stay-at-home dad primed for battle.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Intensity, Part II: Ways to deal with it
Last post, I discussed the treacherous waters of intensity. Dabbling in intensity can, of course, be fruitful: the more intense one is in a certain activity, the more chance for them to develop skills therein. However, how does one deal with intensity when one doesn't want to embrace it fully? I believe that one afternoon/evening two days ago could provide some insight.
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.
It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."
The boys and I were enjoying a boys' night (when my wife works late, and we watch movies and eat chinese food in front of the TV). The movie was over, but it wasn't quite bed-time. The boys (and I am referring to all three of us) decided that we needed to play a little soccer before bed.
It was sons versus father. This is always a good idea. The goal of any athletic endeavor with young children should be, in my opinion, to make sure that they enjoy themselves, thus assuring further playing later. One essential key to a young child's enjoying a sporting event is having them enjoy success. This is much easier with both boys on the same team. If their team wins (i.e. if you lose), they are happy. This happiness is harder to attain when one child plays on the father's team. If the father's team wins, the lone player (usually my older son) feels cheated because he was alone; if the lone players wins, my team-mate (usually my 5-year old) feels cheated because he thinks I didn't try hard enough. With both boys on one team, my task was easy: let them win (although as I posted earlier: my "letting them win" is not so much a personal choice anymore; they are winning, but I am not sure that I am "letting" them). Our games are always good-hearted and played with much love, however, my older boy, perhaps the most susceptible to intensity, can become cut-throat competitive at the drop of a hat (or "way too hype" as my younger son puts it). He has his own way of dealing with his tendency to become too intense. His strategy? Win, or assure that the game will be played giving him a chance of winning. He had initially argued against playing with his brother (for fear that it would lessen his chances of winning). "He's not good enough," my older son complained, seemingly oblivious to his callous comments' effect on his brother's psyche. "Wait a minute," I said, "are you trying to say that, as a five-year old, your brother might not be at an eight-year old level? Are you insinuating that if you, my older son, were five and your brother was eight, you would not be good enough?" My older son grudgingly agreed that it was a matter of athletic development due to age and not an inherent "he's not good enough" from which his complaints emanated. My younger son didn't seem terribly distressed by his brother's original comment or mollified by my clarifying exactly what his older brother was trying to say. But, I had done my part as a parent to assure that no feelings were hurt. Before the game began, I made sure to inform my older son that I would adjust my play to the age of my opponents (i.e. I wouldn't shoot with as much force as I do when my eight-year old is in goal). Now, my older boy was eager to play. Once, he had been assured that the game would be fair, that he would carry no unfair burden he was fine. (I need to mention that my five-year old is actually a really good player; I am not intending to diminish his skills but merely to convey how my older son sees his younger brother's ability). For my older, his being intense in regard to a game is manageable so long as he feels the game is fair.
My younger son's approach to dealing with intensity is genius. He injects every competitive (or intense for these purposes) venture with a healthy dose of imaginary play. During our soccer game, for example, he would, after every save he made, twirl and slash an imaginary sword or punch the air twice, shoot a pretend bow, and kick the air. This was really funny, and made even more so by my older son's passionate pleas to "focus" or "pass me the ball" or "would you stop attacking imaginary foes! PLEASE!!!" I had to step in at one point and calmly tell my 5-year old that "if he wants to play soccer, he really needs to stop his pretend battles- at least until half-time." But this is my younger boy's way of dealing with an intense event. My younger boy avoids the intensity by refusing to completely commit to the intense event. Rather than engage fully in a game that is getting "way too hype," he keeps a healthy distance, battling his way to a peaceful spot. When the intensity is getting too much, my younger boy goes to perhaps his most comfortable spot: battling countless invisible enemies. If he can ever harness that energy and put it toward sports, he will be the next Bo Jackson or Deion Sanders (professional in multiple sports).
I have my own method of avoiding intensity. I don't like to acknowledge it, but I can be a tad competitive. This has made my playing tennis enjoyable, but often stressful. I think that I have found the perfect answer. My new tennis partners, whom I play with every Monday and Wednesday, are all 75-years old and older. Now, this may sound like a cop-out (playing much older players), but they are actually really good. Also, they play hard, but are not competitive at all. This is exactly the athletic environment that I enjoy. Also, they have the most prized time spot at the courts. They have the elusive 1:30 time spot. So treasured because it ends at 2:45, giving me the perfect amount of time to shower and walk next door to my boys' school for pick-up at 3:10. There are other rewards. Even players my own age have commented on my speed on the court, but people in their seventies- PLEASE. They are floored by my quickness. One of the guys I played with looked at me wistfully after I had run down a lob: "you're like a gazelle," he marveled. Perhaps the thing that I like most about my new tennis partners has nothing to do with athletics at all. They have a really cool nick name for themselves; for us, I guess. One of the players turned to me after tennis the other day. "Welcome to the AOFs," he said. "AOFs?" I asked. "We're the Awesome Old Farts," he said, "now we're the AOFs plus one."
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Intensity versus enthusiasm: a parent's perspective
My wife and I had dinner last weekend with a couple whom we do not know very well. I usually handle these circumstances very well as I, either, monopolize the talking so as to avoid any awkward silences or use the therapeutic technique of mirroring (when you aren't sure what to say, repeat exactly what was said to you; the person with whom you are talking will feel that they are being listened to and will be happy). This particular dinner, however, was a dud. The couple was nice, and the food was delicious, but the conversation left me speechless. I felt as I did when, at a family reunion of my wife's, one of her distant cousins approached me and began to babble in Basque, a very confusing language whose only relatives are Finnish and Hungarian. I looked at the cousin with a confused, befuddled half-smile. This is how I looked during the dinner, as if some incomprehensible language was being spoken. I literally had nothing to say. In retrospect, this is bizarre because many of the themes that we were discussing are ones with which I can relate. P, the husband in the couple, is passionate about debate just as I am passionate about sports. His children are really good debaters, and he practices with them daily just as my children are good athletes, and I practice with them. (I am leaving out the obvious emphasis and time that any good parent puts on academics). So, why was our dinner conversation (my end, anyhow) so lacking? Why couldn't I relate to him on the obvious similarities (enthusiasm/passion) that we share?
I believe that the problem relating can be attributed to a fundamental (but subtle) difference in our respective zeal. P is intense. He "has and shows firm purpose and great seriousness" regarding music and his children's involvement in debate. I, on the other hand, am very enthusiastic, even passionate, regarding athletics. I'm "an ardent supporter" who has "strong intense feelings," but I do not treat athletics with "a great seriousness." Where's the fun in that? To be fair, it needs to be noted that P's children are older than mine (15 and 12 as opposed to 8 and 5). Maybe their being older requires a greater seriousness. I can, perhaps, afford to be less intense because my boys and I are simply playing sports. Just games, right?
But maybe I should take a page out of T's book. Is it time for me to pump up the intensity in regards to my children's athletic lives? I have documented the frequency with which we played soccer this summer (and are continuing to after-school). This has garnered tangible results. At this Saturday's game, three different parents approached me to compliment my son's playing. My younger son, whose season has not yet started, is excelling at practice and in our playroom (he likes pretending to be Iker Cassillas, making diving saves- landing safely on strategically placed bean-bags). However, there are negatives that go along with my pumping up the intensity. One obvious negative that leaps to mind regards my muscles, which always seem to be aching after vain attempts to match an 8- and 5-year old's ability to sustain to play endlessly. Another negative concerns intensity's communicable nature. My older son is particularly sensitive to this. During one game of one-on-one soccer, he burst into tears after I had scored (he was beating me 6-0 when I scored). We stopped the game so I could figure out what was troubling him. "I should beat you 10-0," he wailed, "even letting in one goal is to much." Did someone say arts-and-crafts? The negative qualities of athletic intensity have appeared vis-a-vis my younger son, as well. I help out at his soccer practices, and the kids were participating in a shielding/dribbling drill. I was supposed to approach a child, allow him or her to shield the ball with his/her body, and then allow them to dribble away. Not a difficult task, yet somehow the athletically-intense me showed up and caused problems. After one little boy had successfully shielded the ball with his body, he began to dribble away from me, happy in his accomplishment. Enter intense-me. I, somehow, decided that it would be a good idea to take one last poke at the ball with my foot. It was more realistic, I figured, defenders aren't just going to let the opposing player dribble away. Anyhow, I ended up tripping this boy. With a spectacular thud, he face-planted into the grass. He was fine, and the whole incident went unnoticed, but the danger signs were clear. Too much athletic intensity can cloud one's judgement.
To be intense or not to be intense, that is the question. I am not sure that I know the answer. It seems, like so much else in life, to have caused some positives and some negatives. It seems to me, however, that any intensity regarding activities should wait until children are older. One must be careful. A child should choose the arena into which he will pour his intensity. A younger child is, obviously, not yet in the position to make such a decision. So, vis-a-vis my boys: we'll keep it light. Enjoying the sports without causing tears, tripping youngsters or tearing my muscles.
I believe that the problem relating can be attributed to a fundamental (but subtle) difference in our respective zeal. P is intense. He "has and shows firm purpose and great seriousness" regarding music and his children's involvement in debate. I, on the other hand, am very enthusiastic, even passionate, regarding athletics. I'm "an ardent supporter" who has "strong intense feelings," but I do not treat athletics with "a great seriousness." Where's the fun in that? To be fair, it needs to be noted that P's children are older than mine (15 and 12 as opposed to 8 and 5). Maybe their being older requires a greater seriousness. I can, perhaps, afford to be less intense because my boys and I are simply playing sports. Just games, right?
But maybe I should take a page out of T's book. Is it time for me to pump up the intensity in regards to my children's athletic lives? I have documented the frequency with which we played soccer this summer (and are continuing to after-school). This has garnered tangible results. At this Saturday's game, three different parents approached me to compliment my son's playing. My younger son, whose season has not yet started, is excelling at practice and in our playroom (he likes pretending to be Iker Cassillas, making diving saves- landing safely on strategically placed bean-bags). However, there are negatives that go along with my pumping up the intensity. One obvious negative that leaps to mind regards my muscles, which always seem to be aching after vain attempts to match an 8- and 5-year old's ability to sustain to play endlessly. Another negative concerns intensity's communicable nature. My older son is particularly sensitive to this. During one game of one-on-one soccer, he burst into tears after I had scored (he was beating me 6-0 when I scored). We stopped the game so I could figure out what was troubling him. "I should beat you 10-0," he wailed, "even letting in one goal is to much." Did someone say arts-and-crafts? The negative qualities of athletic intensity have appeared vis-a-vis my younger son, as well. I help out at his soccer practices, and the kids were participating in a shielding/dribbling drill. I was supposed to approach a child, allow him or her to shield the ball with his/her body, and then allow them to dribble away. Not a difficult task, yet somehow the athletically-intense me showed up and caused problems. After one little boy had successfully shielded the ball with his body, he began to dribble away from me, happy in his accomplishment. Enter intense-me. I, somehow, decided that it would be a good idea to take one last poke at the ball with my foot. It was more realistic, I figured, defenders aren't just going to let the opposing player dribble away. Anyhow, I ended up tripping this boy. With a spectacular thud, he face-planted into the grass. He was fine, and the whole incident went unnoticed, but the danger signs were clear. Too much athletic intensity can cloud one's judgement.
To be intense or not to be intense, that is the question. I am not sure that I know the answer. It seems, like so much else in life, to have caused some positives and some negatives. It seems to me, however, that any intensity regarding activities should wait until children are older. One must be careful. A child should choose the arena into which he will pour his intensity. A younger child is, obviously, not yet in the position to make such a decision. So, vis-a-vis my boys: we'll keep it light. Enjoying the sports without causing tears, tripping youngsters or tearing my muscles.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Start of Soccer Season or Enthusiasm, and Its Benefits
Soccer season began this weekend, and my natural inclination is to spend this entire posting crowing about the game. However, to cater to the less sports-inclined among my readers I will focus on enthusiasm, an attitude with which I'm well acquainted. Webster's Dictionary defines enthusiasm as "supernatural inspiration or possession; inspired ecstasy; intense or eager interest; fervor or zeal." To be an enthusiast is to be "an ardent supporter." Enthusiasm, meet your human relatives: me and my family.
My boys awoke this past Saturday at 7AM. My older boy dressed quickly for his soccer game and entered my room. "Daddy," he said breathlessly,"get up! We're missing Chelsea versus West Ham." He was referring to the English Premier League match. He was excited. We had been discussing European professional football at great length this summer (see my earlier postings), but had yet to see a match televised. I, then, heard my younger son approach. I expected him to enter with his Saturday fixture: "can we watch Hotwheels Battle Force Five?" What I saw near moved me to tears. Fully dressed in his Brazilian Football Kit (official jersey, official shorts, and official socks), he said, "daddy, get up. Soccer." I was feeling very excited about the pro-soccer vibe, but my youngest son's next question made me even happier. "Daddy, can I wear my cleats while we watch the game?" With contented smiles, we went downstairs to watch Chelsea versus West Ham. It was a Rockwellian scene if there's ever been one. A proud father and his two boys (both in full soccer uniforms).
After watching the soccer game for a little bit, it was time to go to my older son's soccer match. It was a thrilling affair for various reasons. On a personal level, I was juggling the soccer ball like a seasoned pro. With ease, I dribbled the ball around my younger son and one of his kindergarten friends. I looked and felt good. I belonged on the football pitch. Perhaps more important from a paternal/mature adult level was my younger son's skill. He can really kick the ball, he's fast, and gives off a loose, relaxed, yet talented vibe that evokes Ronaldhino. Most importantly of the various factors that made my eldest son's match a thrilling affair was his play. We played a team with exceptional goal-tenders. Still, our best player (and my son's best friend) scored the first goal. I recognized this game plan. My son's friend would score a bunch of goals and we would coast to victory on his coattails. Or would we? My sons' opponents were well-coached and battle-worn. They did not give up easyily. Indeed, they scored the next three goals. One of these goals was scored on my son, but he still acquitted himself well in goal. Into half-time we went, down 3-1. In my head, I was repeating the mantra "it's not about winning or losing; it's about having fun." Second half starts. My son gets off a couple of excellent shots on goals. Both blocked. My son's good friend (our, as of yet, sole goal-scorer) blasted an excellent shot that bounces off of the back of the goalie's head. No goal. It seems we will have to go home with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth's. Nay and nay. My son, no longer playing goalie, received the ball to the right of the opposing goalie (from the edge of the goalie's box). With tremendous force and velocity, he blasted the ball off his foot as if shot from a cannon. GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL. But we still trailed by one point. Surely, someone would step up and score the trying goal. But who? Soon the answer came. My son received (poetically enough) a crisp pass from his friend. But at too sharp an angle for a clear shot on goal. With a slight step to the right, my boy once again uncorks a vicious strike . Once again, the sweet satisfaction of a goal. He tied the game. It remained tied. There is true honor in a draw. Particularly in a draw secured in such exciting fashion.
Now, can one draw a direct line from my enthusiastically pushing soccer all summer and the wonderful events of this Saturday morning? Did enthusiasm play a role? I'll let others decide, but one cannot deny that the "inspired ecstasy" [of my boys' and I] had created a "fervor and zeal" that facilitated frequent practicing and thinking about soccer that lead to some very favorable results. Also, being "ardent supporters" of the sport made watching Chelsea versus West Ham fun.
Later Saturday afternoon, I was playing (believe it or not) soccer with my boys when I decided we needed a rest (I did anyway). I told my boys that there was a video on the computer that I wanted them to see. I had been reading an article in Sports Illustrated about big wave surfing, an awe-inspiring endeavor in which people attempt to surf waves of up to 100 feet. I had decided to find footage of this sport on Youtube to show my boys. I thought that the combination of the surfer's bravery and skill and the wave's awesome power would appeal to my boys. My older boy declined to watch the video. He stayed downstairs to continue kicking the soccer ball. My younger son and I went to watch the videos of Laird Hamilton, best big wave surfer of all time. As we watched the video, I was describing to my son just how powerful and dangerous these waves were. I told him that while these waves are cresting the space created is so huge that an office building could fit inside. I told him a story of a surfer who was sucked under by one of these huge waves and shot underwater 500 meters by the force created. (There's nothing like a good Sports Illustrated article to engender the proper sense of wonder in an event). So, we watched in silence as this incredibly brave man surfed through this monstrous wave. After a time, I looked over my shoulder to see if my son was equally awed by what we were seeing. I turned more fully, to find my son in a perfect surfer's pose (we don't surf, but he looked like the guy we were watching). His legs were bent at the knees, his hamstrings flexing. He had his front arm extended as if trying to point toward the shore. His back arm was stretched behind him at an 120 degree angle, feeling for the wave just as Laird Hamilton was. His concentration was absolute. He was feeling this moment. He was riding the big wave. In our study, on the rug, in safety, he was surfing the biggest wave in the world. Once he was done with the wave, he looked at me. The expression in my boy's face could only be described as inspired ecstasy.
My wife has begun running recently, and yesterday, she had a 5K race. There was a 1K race for kids that was run just prior to the adults' race. My younger son did not feel like participating. He was probably a little overwhelmed by the hubbub. My older boy did run. And he ran really well. He was so inspired that he wants to run in a 5K that my wife is doing in November (many parents run 5Ks with their kids). "That was so awesome," he gushed to my wife as we drove home, "can we go on a run this afternoon?" Yes, occasionally enthusiasm can be exhausting, but the good outweighs the bad by far.
Sports-related enthusiasm is not the only sort that is in the air. My boys, due entirely to my wife's passion for it, are very enthusiastic gardeners. My younger boy, oddly, loves to participate in the growing of and eating, raw, of Swiss Chard. The truism different strokes for different folks applies to enthusiasm as well. On the topic of different strokes for different folks, my older boy LOVES going to our neighbor's house to help her pull weeds. She is an excellent gardener and often shares her spoils with us. Yesterday, my older boy said, in response to her suggestion that he pick some blueberries that she had grown, "but I feel so bad. We're always taking the stuff that you grow." "It's a pleasure," she said, "I love giving the fruit to you because you're always so enthusiastic!" Score yet another point for the virtues of enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm benefitted our house in another way, yesterday. My wife asked my boys and I what we wanted for dinner. She had run the 5K race earlier in the day, so I suggested that we make something easy. Both boys had a different opinion. "Make paella," they screamed in cheerful unison, "we love your paella. It's so good. So delicious. So wonderful. We need it. Please." At this, my younger son raised his pointer and middle fingers to his lips, kissed them, then sent off peace signs to display his approval/love of paella. He did this rapidly, sending out kissed peace-signs by the hundreds. Simultaneously, my older boy got up and joyfully, for lack of a better word, shook his booty. He danced his affirmation of the dinner choice. My wife, who had looked pretty tired beforehand, smiled and was given energy from the boys' reaction to her question. "Alright," she said, "we'll have paella."
In one weekend, enthusiasm's finger-prints were all over a super soccer experience, a joyful jogging experience, the getting of tasty berries from our neighbor, and a delicious paella for dinner. This weekend, enthusiasm resulted in positive outcomes. Sometimes, there might not be many positive outcomes to be found. Yet still, enthusiasm is of great use. One can skirt the treacherous depths of sadness, riding the positive energy of enthusiasm like a young big wave surfer pointing toward shore.
My boys awoke this past Saturday at 7AM. My older boy dressed quickly for his soccer game and entered my room. "Daddy," he said breathlessly,"get up! We're missing Chelsea versus West Ham." He was referring to the English Premier League match. He was excited. We had been discussing European professional football at great length this summer (see my earlier postings), but had yet to see a match televised. I, then, heard my younger son approach. I expected him to enter with his Saturday fixture: "can we watch Hotwheels Battle Force Five?" What I saw near moved me to tears. Fully dressed in his Brazilian Football Kit (official jersey, official shorts, and official socks), he said, "daddy, get up. Soccer." I was feeling very excited about the pro-soccer vibe, but my youngest son's next question made me even happier. "Daddy, can I wear my cleats while we watch the game?" With contented smiles, we went downstairs to watch Chelsea versus West Ham. It was a Rockwellian scene if there's ever been one. A proud father and his two boys (both in full soccer uniforms).
After watching the soccer game for a little bit, it was time to go to my older son's soccer match. It was a thrilling affair for various reasons. On a personal level, I was juggling the soccer ball like a seasoned pro. With ease, I dribbled the ball around my younger son and one of his kindergarten friends. I looked and felt good. I belonged on the football pitch. Perhaps more important from a paternal/mature adult level was my younger son's skill. He can really kick the ball, he's fast, and gives off a loose, relaxed, yet talented vibe that evokes Ronaldhino. Most importantly of the various factors that made my eldest son's match a thrilling affair was his play. We played a team with exceptional goal-tenders. Still, our best player (and my son's best friend) scored the first goal. I recognized this game plan. My son's friend would score a bunch of goals and we would coast to victory on his coattails. Or would we? My sons' opponents were well-coached and battle-worn. They did not give up easyily. Indeed, they scored the next three goals. One of these goals was scored on my son, but he still acquitted himself well in goal. Into half-time we went, down 3-1. In my head, I was repeating the mantra "it's not about winning or losing; it's about having fun." Second half starts. My son gets off a couple of excellent shots on goals. Both blocked. My son's good friend (our, as of yet, sole goal-scorer) blasted an excellent shot that bounces off of the back of the goalie's head. No goal. It seems we will have to go home with the bitter taste of defeat in our mouth's. Nay and nay. My son, no longer playing goalie, received the ball to the right of the opposing goalie (from the edge of the goalie's box). With tremendous force and velocity, he blasted the ball off his foot as if shot from a cannon. GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL GOAL. But we still trailed by one point. Surely, someone would step up and score the trying goal. But who? Soon the answer came. My son received (poetically enough) a crisp pass from his friend. But at too sharp an angle for a clear shot on goal. With a slight step to the right, my boy once again uncorks a vicious strike . Once again, the sweet satisfaction of a goal. He tied the game. It remained tied. There is true honor in a draw. Particularly in a draw secured in such exciting fashion.
Now, can one draw a direct line from my enthusiastically pushing soccer all summer and the wonderful events of this Saturday morning? Did enthusiasm play a role? I'll let others decide, but one cannot deny that the "inspired ecstasy" [of my boys' and I] had created a "fervor and zeal" that facilitated frequent practicing and thinking about soccer that lead to some very favorable results. Also, being "ardent supporters" of the sport made watching Chelsea versus West Ham fun.
Later Saturday afternoon, I was playing (believe it or not) soccer with my boys when I decided we needed a rest (I did anyway). I told my boys that there was a video on the computer that I wanted them to see. I had been reading an article in Sports Illustrated about big wave surfing, an awe-inspiring endeavor in which people attempt to surf waves of up to 100 feet. I had decided to find footage of this sport on Youtube to show my boys. I thought that the combination of the surfer's bravery and skill and the wave's awesome power would appeal to my boys. My older boy declined to watch the video. He stayed downstairs to continue kicking the soccer ball. My younger son and I went to watch the videos of Laird Hamilton, best big wave surfer of all time. As we watched the video, I was describing to my son just how powerful and dangerous these waves were. I told him that while these waves are cresting the space created is so huge that an office building could fit inside. I told him a story of a surfer who was sucked under by one of these huge waves and shot underwater 500 meters by the force created. (There's nothing like a good Sports Illustrated article to engender the proper sense of wonder in an event). So, we watched in silence as this incredibly brave man surfed through this monstrous wave. After a time, I looked over my shoulder to see if my son was equally awed by what we were seeing. I turned more fully, to find my son in a perfect surfer's pose (we don't surf, but he looked like the guy we were watching). His legs were bent at the knees, his hamstrings flexing. He had his front arm extended as if trying to point toward the shore. His back arm was stretched behind him at an 120 degree angle, feeling for the wave just as Laird Hamilton was. His concentration was absolute. He was feeling this moment. He was riding the big wave. In our study, on the rug, in safety, he was surfing the biggest wave in the world. Once he was done with the wave, he looked at me. The expression in my boy's face could only be described as inspired ecstasy.
My wife has begun running recently, and yesterday, she had a 5K race. There was a 1K race for kids that was run just prior to the adults' race. My younger son did not feel like participating. He was probably a little overwhelmed by the hubbub. My older boy did run. And he ran really well. He was so inspired that he wants to run in a 5K that my wife is doing in November (many parents run 5Ks with their kids). "That was so awesome," he gushed to my wife as we drove home, "can we go on a run this afternoon?" Yes, occasionally enthusiasm can be exhausting, but the good outweighs the bad by far.
Sports-related enthusiasm is not the only sort that is in the air. My boys, due entirely to my wife's passion for it, are very enthusiastic gardeners. My younger boy, oddly, loves to participate in the growing of and eating, raw, of Swiss Chard. The truism different strokes for different folks applies to enthusiasm as well. On the topic of different strokes for different folks, my older boy LOVES going to our neighbor's house to help her pull weeds. She is an excellent gardener and often shares her spoils with us. Yesterday, my older boy said, in response to her suggestion that he pick some blueberries that she had grown, "but I feel so bad. We're always taking the stuff that you grow." "It's a pleasure," she said, "I love giving the fruit to you because you're always so enthusiastic!" Score yet another point for the virtues of enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm benefitted our house in another way, yesterday. My wife asked my boys and I what we wanted for dinner. She had run the 5K race earlier in the day, so I suggested that we make something easy. Both boys had a different opinion. "Make paella," they screamed in cheerful unison, "we love your paella. It's so good. So delicious. So wonderful. We need it. Please." At this, my younger son raised his pointer and middle fingers to his lips, kissed them, then sent off peace signs to display his approval/love of paella. He did this rapidly, sending out kissed peace-signs by the hundreds. Simultaneously, my older boy got up and joyfully, for lack of a better word, shook his booty. He danced his affirmation of the dinner choice. My wife, who had looked pretty tired beforehand, smiled and was given energy from the boys' reaction to her question. "Alright," she said, "we'll have paella."
In one weekend, enthusiasm's finger-prints were all over a super soccer experience, a joyful jogging experience, the getting of tasty berries from our neighbor, and a delicious paella for dinner. This weekend, enthusiasm resulted in positive outcomes. Sometimes, there might not be many positive outcomes to be found. Yet still, enthusiasm is of great use. One can skirt the treacherous depths of sadness, riding the positive energy of enthusiasm like a young big wave surfer pointing toward shore.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Responsibility
The subject of this post occurred to me this summer as I was doing dishes. From the sink, I could see my wife helping my older child practice piano. He was not in the mood to practice and was making life difficult. My wife's voice was slowly, but steadily, losing patience. After her fifteenth request that my son 'focus and just play already,' progress seemed near. "Alright, alright," my son said, "I'll do it." A contented silence followed. My wife knew that her goal would soon be achieved. My son would practice. I was delighted, too. It's nice to see one's child do as he's told. My son put his fingers on the keys. He took a deep breath. He started to place the slightest pressure on the piano keys.... He stopped. He looked at my wife with a grin. "I have a new name for my penis," he said, laughing. This is an example of one not living up to his responsibilities.
At the end of school last year, I was approached by a friend who, in the space one sentence (of a mere eight words) thrust me into the uncomfortable position of having to face responsibilities. "Do you want to be in the PA?" She said. PA, I thought, she wants me to be a physician's assistant? I went to school for social work, not being a PA. Plus, I am a stay-at-home father, I can't be burdened with the responsibilities of a PA. I was, obviously, wrong. By PA, my friend was referring to the Parents Association at our school, a position most definitely appropriate for a stay-at-home dad. My initial reaction to her request came without thought. "I don't know," I said, "how much work is involved?" I decided to lob a few doubt grenades to make her rethink the decision to ask me to join. "Will the work involve organization? because I'm terrible at that. Will it require me to devote untold hours? because I fatigue easily. Will it require my interacting with stuffy people? because they probably won't appreciate my free spirit. Will the duties entail my being concise? because I am terribly long-winded. Penmanship? I'm messy." There, I thought, that should buy me some time, at least. I need time to wiggle out of this job. My friend looked at me. She knows me and was not fooled by my assurances that I was actually bad at everything. She tried a different tact. I was clearly too slippery to nail down in a one-on-one conversation. She called over three or four other women. They approached, and my heart sank. I was being confronted by an intimidating cabal of PA mothers. "Come on," they said to me, "it will be fun." My head whirled around. I desperately looked for some means of escape. I contemplated pulling the fire-alarm, but decided that such an action would be a bad example for my boys. I looked at the group of smiling bullies. I had been out-maneuvered. It was clear. "OK," I said, "when do I start?."
At that early point in the PA process, one could not describe me as a person living up to his responsibilities. After all, I had done nothing, been given no tasks, and tried really hard to wiggle out of the who mess. But that changed. Over the summer, I decided that the PA sounded like a good use of my time. After all, what could be more important than working for one's children's school. It was with high spirits, therefore, that I approached my friend at the start of school this year. "When do I start," I said with a smile. She didn't tell me at that time, but I found out yesterday. I am going to be the PA's secretary, in charge of taking notes for the meetings among other duties, I am sure. I am cautiously hopeful. I wasn't joking when I told my friend that I wasn't the most organized person. Being a secratary would, I assume, entail some degree of organization. We'll see how it goes.
I think that I see the whole concept of responsibility through the lens of a younger brother. Do your best and if (when) you don't do the job properly, someone else will step in to make things right. Violin practice is an excellent example of this concept of responsibility with a cushion. My younger son, as a mere kindergartener, is not expected to practice for as much time as a first-grader (or in his brother's case, a third-grader). {This is actually true, as I saw the listing for suggested practice time in my younger boy's violin teacher's room). As suggested by the aforementioned list, my younger boy's violin practices are quite short. This tends to make life easier for both him and me. My older boy, on the other hand, has always (in my memory) had extensive practice sessions (perhaps because he started in first grade or perhaps because he is an older child taking lessons monitored by an older child). Sucks to be the oldest. Responsibilities always fall heaviest on them (I feel obliged to send a shout-out to my father-in-law, mother, sister, wife and oldest boy- all, sadly for them, oldest siblings).
So, how will I do in the PA? Will I overcome my birth order-issues vis-a-vis responsibility? It will be fun to see and I will be sure to let everyone know.
At the end of school last year, I was approached by a friend who, in the space one sentence (of a mere eight words) thrust me into the uncomfortable position of having to face responsibilities. "Do you want to be in the PA?" She said. PA, I thought, she wants me to be a physician's assistant? I went to school for social work, not being a PA. Plus, I am a stay-at-home father, I can't be burdened with the responsibilities of a PA. I was, obviously, wrong. By PA, my friend was referring to the Parents Association at our school, a position most definitely appropriate for a stay-at-home dad. My initial reaction to her request came without thought. "I don't know," I said, "how much work is involved?" I decided to lob a few doubt grenades to make her rethink the decision to ask me to join. "Will the work involve organization? because I'm terrible at that. Will it require me to devote untold hours? because I fatigue easily. Will it require my interacting with stuffy people? because they probably won't appreciate my free spirit. Will the duties entail my being concise? because I am terribly long-winded. Penmanship? I'm messy." There, I thought, that should buy me some time, at least. I need time to wiggle out of this job. My friend looked at me. She knows me and was not fooled by my assurances that I was actually bad at everything. She tried a different tact. I was clearly too slippery to nail down in a one-on-one conversation. She called over three or four other women. They approached, and my heart sank. I was being confronted by an intimidating cabal of PA mothers. "Come on," they said to me, "it will be fun." My head whirled around. I desperately looked for some means of escape. I contemplated pulling the fire-alarm, but decided that such an action would be a bad example for my boys. I looked at the group of smiling bullies. I had been out-maneuvered. It was clear. "OK," I said, "when do I start?."
At that early point in the PA process, one could not describe me as a person living up to his responsibilities. After all, I had done nothing, been given no tasks, and tried really hard to wiggle out of the who mess. But that changed. Over the summer, I decided that the PA sounded like a good use of my time. After all, what could be more important than working for one's children's school. It was with high spirits, therefore, that I approached my friend at the start of school this year. "When do I start," I said with a smile. She didn't tell me at that time, but I found out yesterday. I am going to be the PA's secretary, in charge of taking notes for the meetings among other duties, I am sure. I am cautiously hopeful. I wasn't joking when I told my friend that I wasn't the most organized person. Being a secratary would, I assume, entail some degree of organization. We'll see how it goes.
I think that I see the whole concept of responsibility through the lens of a younger brother. Do your best and if (when) you don't do the job properly, someone else will step in to make things right. Violin practice is an excellent example of this concept of responsibility with a cushion. My younger son, as a mere kindergartener, is not expected to practice for as much time as a first-grader (or in his brother's case, a third-grader). {This is actually true, as I saw the listing for suggested practice time in my younger boy's violin teacher's room). As suggested by the aforementioned list, my younger boy's violin practices are quite short. This tends to make life easier for both him and me. My older boy, on the other hand, has always (in my memory) had extensive practice sessions (perhaps because he started in first grade or perhaps because he is an older child taking lessons monitored by an older child). Sucks to be the oldest. Responsibilities always fall heaviest on them (I feel obliged to send a shout-out to my father-in-law, mother, sister, wife and oldest boy- all, sadly for them, oldest siblings).
So, how will I do in the PA? Will I overcome my birth order-issues vis-a-vis responsibility? It will be fun to see and I will be sure to let everyone know.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Boxers
Good will abounds in my household, at present. From a musical standpoint, my younger son and I have come to a truce (albeit an uneasy truce) regarding violin. We have learned Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. This seemingly small success has made violin, on the whole, significantly more palatable. During today's lesson at school, my boy's strokes sounded smoother, his demeanor more confident although he still suffers from a seemingly incurable case of floppiness. (In the Suzuki method of violin correct posture is very important, so my son's refusal to stand rigidly for more than a couple of seconds is problematic). However, I'm a positive person and will look at the positive. He sounds great. He is doing great in kindergarten as is his brother in third grade. Life is looking good for me and mine.
So replete with joy is the current state of our house that my older son greeted my finishing the laundry last night with arms stretched in a sign of victory. "Yes," he uttered, as if acclaiming some sacred vision, "awesome." What, one might wonder, could lead a typical eight year-old boy to be so delighted with clean laundry? To answer this question, I must take us back in time. It's a late June day, and I have just brought my older son his dry clothes after swimming. I turn and am on my way out of the locker room when I hear a sneering voice enquire of my son, "are those tighty-whities?" "No," my son calmly answered, "they're camouflage-green." Perhaps he had missed the question's mocking tone, perhaps he is a too mature to be bothered by the prattering of some kid. I, however, did not and am not.
As soon as my son had exited the locker room, I approached him. "Did that bother you?" I asked, concerned. "No," he answered, "not really." At that moment, I knew what had to be done. This is a modern age when kids are forced into difficult decisions at very young ages. My eight year-old son needed to leap a hurdle that I, myself, did not until I was twelve. He needed boxers. Now, had I not asked my son if he was bothered, had not made it clear that I heard what went down in the locker room, I'm not sure that my boy would have cared that much. But the combustible combination of my suggesting 'maybe we can get you some boxers' and my son's natural enthusiasm resulted in the creation of a true adherent to the boxers not brief school of thought.
My wife went to Target and purchased two four-packs for my son (one boxer-brief pack, one old-school boxer pack). With the zealotry of the newly converted, my son embraced boxers as they've never been embraced. For the next few weeks after boxers entered his life, my son needed to continually reminded that it was not polite to greet family friends with 'wanna see my boxers?' (said as he pulls down his pants). I had to admit, though, he looked really cool in his boxers. Why not throw modesty to the wind for a little self-promotion (boxer-promotion)? Soon, my boy's eight boxers did not seem enough. This was particularly true while we were traveling, when my son would anxiously say, "if we don't do laundry soon, I'll have to wear regular underwear." Luckily, my wife, boss of Spanish laundry, never let my son fall to that sorry state. There were clean boxers in Spain, always. Still, my son had a point. Could a child survive on a paltry diet of eight boxers? Please. On one of our school-supply shopping trips after returning to the States we revisited Target and bought copious amounts of boxers. I believe, and sadly I am not joking, that my boy has, now, twenty-four pairs of boxers (still with a healthy balance of boxer-brief and traditional boxer).
When I told my son that I had finished the laundry and he broke into his solemn victory pose, he was not so much acknowledging the finishing of the laundry as he was celebrating the very existence of boxers. He is now boxer-rich with a veritable multi-colored coat of boxers. A different color for a different day, a different pattern for a different hour, even a different brand for a different moment. Life is good.
So replete with joy is the current state of our house that my older son greeted my finishing the laundry last night with arms stretched in a sign of victory. "Yes," he uttered, as if acclaiming some sacred vision, "awesome." What, one might wonder, could lead a typical eight year-old boy to be so delighted with clean laundry? To answer this question, I must take us back in time. It's a late June day, and I have just brought my older son his dry clothes after swimming. I turn and am on my way out of the locker room when I hear a sneering voice enquire of my son, "are those tighty-whities?" "No," my son calmly answered, "they're camouflage-green." Perhaps he had missed the question's mocking tone, perhaps he is a too mature to be bothered by the prattering of some kid. I, however, did not and am not.
As soon as my son had exited the locker room, I approached him. "Did that bother you?" I asked, concerned. "No," he answered, "not really." At that moment, I knew what had to be done. This is a modern age when kids are forced into difficult decisions at very young ages. My eight year-old son needed to leap a hurdle that I, myself, did not until I was twelve. He needed boxers. Now, had I not asked my son if he was bothered, had not made it clear that I heard what went down in the locker room, I'm not sure that my boy would have cared that much. But the combustible combination of my suggesting 'maybe we can get you some boxers' and my son's natural enthusiasm resulted in the creation of a true adherent to the boxers not brief school of thought.
My wife went to Target and purchased two four-packs for my son (one boxer-brief pack, one old-school boxer pack). With the zealotry of the newly converted, my son embraced boxers as they've never been embraced. For the next few weeks after boxers entered his life, my son needed to continually reminded that it was not polite to greet family friends with 'wanna see my boxers?' (said as he pulls down his pants). I had to admit, though, he looked really cool in his boxers. Why not throw modesty to the wind for a little self-promotion (boxer-promotion)? Soon, my boy's eight boxers did not seem enough. This was particularly true while we were traveling, when my son would anxiously say, "if we don't do laundry soon, I'll have to wear regular underwear." Luckily, my wife, boss of Spanish laundry, never let my son fall to that sorry state. There were clean boxers in Spain, always. Still, my son had a point. Could a child survive on a paltry diet of eight boxers? Please. On one of our school-supply shopping trips after returning to the States we revisited Target and bought copious amounts of boxers. I believe, and sadly I am not joking, that my boy has, now, twenty-four pairs of boxers (still with a healthy balance of boxer-brief and traditional boxer).
When I told my son that I had finished the laundry and he broke into his solemn victory pose, he was not so much acknowledging the finishing of the laundry as he was celebrating the very existence of boxers. He is now boxer-rich with a veritable multi-colored coat of boxers. A different color for a different day, a different pattern for a different hour, even a different brand for a different moment. Life is good.
Friday, September 3, 2010
vacation
My family had an amazing time in Spain. My experience was enhanced by the fact that I inexplicably experienced no jet lag. We arrived at the apartment where we would be staying at midnight. We went to bed. I woke up about eight hours later, exercised, and read a book for three hours in complete silence as my family, all in the throes of jet lag, slept off the journey from the USA. There is no peace like the peace of a silent house filled with sleeping noisemakers (children). So, I luxuriated whilst my family slept. I went to the local market and bought us cereal, milk and bread. This was a particularly joyful event as, when on vacation in Spain, I am allowed to purchase Frosties (the Spanish name for Frosted Flakes). I am a true connoisseur of sugar cereals. At home, I cannot indulge this expertise because I don't want my children's teeth to fall out. But, when in Spain....
So, I arrived back at the apartment, had a delicious breakfast, and read some more. My family was still asleep. More time for myself generously donated by the gods of jet lag.
I began to meditate on the vacation ahead. My first thought concerned necessities for the passage of time. In other words, I determined that we needed to buy sports equipment of some type to pass our days. We bought a soccer ball. It seemed the best option. One can take a soccer ball most places and play without worrying about equipment. Spain had recently won the World Cup (a wonderful sporting event witnessed in near-entirety by my boys and I- not merely the final game, mind you, but the entire tournament). We decided that soccer was our favorite sport. This realization led, logically, to the next: we needed to go all out in our embracing of this wonderful sport. We needed jerseys (my eldest came home with two, my youngest acquired a jersey/shorts/socks combo, and I purchased three), we needed a knowledge-base sufficient to identify us as true fans, we needed to practice so that we looked cool while kicking the ball around, and finally, and perhaps most significantly, we needed to refer to the sport as football. Sorry Tom Brady. We still love you, but only in an American Football sort-way. Our true heroes now? None other than Fernando "El Nino" Torres, David Villa, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso, Xavi Hernandez, Cesc Fabregas, Carles Puyol, Gerard Pique, and Iker Casillas. I could mention every player on the Spanish team, but I won't bore you. Nor will I drop names like Messi, Robinho, Kaka, Tevez. But I could. We all could. Even my wife is conversant when Spanish football is discussed. And my boys? Totally conversant! We became football (soccer for you Americans) experts in a matter of days. I initially quizzed my boys to test their knowledge of Spanish/European/Brazilian players, but realized, with considerable gratification, that my job had been successfully completed when I found my boys arguing, near blows, as to who would be Ronaldo and who would be Zidane in their match. There is something quite thrilling for the avid sports fan to develop a passion for a previously uninspiring (personally) sport. I have stuffed my (and my boy's) heads so full of soccer information that we appear to have been avidly following the sport for years, not weeks. Now that we're back in the states, I am following La Liga (the Spanish premier league) on the internet. I am in the know. But I digress. Back to our vacation. Every day, we would wake up, go outside and play soccer. We did this at the beach, at the pool, during long lunches (after eating or before). We even played with Spanish kids, and held our own.
Not surprisingly, there was a lot wonderful about this trip besides soccer/football. We spent time with some really close friends who were visiting Spain. We saw my in-laws, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law (and his family) It was awesome. San Sebastian has great food. Much of it can be found in child-friendly restaurants with play areas close by. Therefore, eating out is often a far more pleasant experience with children than eating out at home. It also has an awesome aquarium which is interesting, educational and fun. Perhaps most conducive to family fun are San Sebastian's three beaches where we spent significant time jumping waves (and playing soccer). From a parent's perspective, however, I think that my favorite thing about San Sebastian regards my in-law's apartment. It is in a residential, as opposed to tourist, section of the city. Therefore, eating out, going to parks, going shopping for groceries is all done surrounded by Spaniards. It is really cool to see one's children playing with other children from a completely different culture. Providing one's children with an opportunity to see that the world is bigger than they previously had thought is really cool. It's nice to feel like one is instilling in one's children important life lessons. In the immortal words of EPMD, my favorite rappers when I was in high school, "it feels good, my friends."
So, I arrived back at the apartment, had a delicious breakfast, and read some more. My family was still asleep. More time for myself generously donated by the gods of jet lag.
I began to meditate on the vacation ahead. My first thought concerned necessities for the passage of time. In other words, I determined that we needed to buy sports equipment of some type to pass our days. We bought a soccer ball. It seemed the best option. One can take a soccer ball most places and play without worrying about equipment. Spain had recently won the World Cup (a wonderful sporting event witnessed in near-entirety by my boys and I- not merely the final game, mind you, but the entire tournament). We decided that soccer was our favorite sport. This realization led, logically, to the next: we needed to go all out in our embracing of this wonderful sport. We needed jerseys (my eldest came home with two, my youngest acquired a jersey/shorts/socks combo, and I purchased three), we needed a knowledge-base sufficient to identify us as true fans, we needed to practice so that we looked cool while kicking the ball around, and finally, and perhaps most significantly, we needed to refer to the sport as football. Sorry Tom Brady. We still love you, but only in an American Football sort-way. Our true heroes now? None other than Fernando "El Nino" Torres, David Villa, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso, Xavi Hernandez, Cesc Fabregas, Carles Puyol, Gerard Pique, and Iker Casillas. I could mention every player on the Spanish team, but I won't bore you. Nor will I drop names like Messi, Robinho, Kaka, Tevez. But I could. We all could. Even my wife is conversant when Spanish football is discussed. And my boys? Totally conversant! We became football (soccer for you Americans) experts in a matter of days. I initially quizzed my boys to test their knowledge of Spanish/European/Brazilian players, but realized, with considerable gratification, that my job had been successfully completed when I found my boys arguing, near blows, as to who would be Ronaldo and who would be Zidane in their match. There is something quite thrilling for the avid sports fan to develop a passion for a previously uninspiring (personally) sport. I have stuffed my (and my boy's) heads so full of soccer information that we appear to have been avidly following the sport for years, not weeks. Now that we're back in the states, I am following La Liga (the Spanish premier league) on the internet. I am in the know. But I digress. Back to our vacation. Every day, we would wake up, go outside and play soccer. We did this at the beach, at the pool, during long lunches (after eating or before). We even played with Spanish kids, and held our own.
Not surprisingly, there was a lot wonderful about this trip besides soccer/football. We spent time with some really close friends who were visiting Spain. We saw my in-laws, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law (and his family) It was awesome. San Sebastian has great food. Much of it can be found in child-friendly restaurants with play areas close by. Therefore, eating out is often a far more pleasant experience with children than eating out at home. It also has an awesome aquarium which is interesting, educational and fun. Perhaps most conducive to family fun are San Sebastian's three beaches where we spent significant time jumping waves (and playing soccer). From a parent's perspective, however, I think that my favorite thing about San Sebastian regards my in-law's apartment. It is in a residential, as opposed to tourist, section of the city. Therefore, eating out, going to parks, going shopping for groceries is all done surrounded by Spaniards. It is really cool to see one's children playing with other children from a completely different culture. Providing one's children with an opportunity to see that the world is bigger than they previously had thought is really cool. It's nice to feel like one is instilling in one's children important life lessons. In the immortal words of EPMD, my favorite rappers when I was in high school, "it feels good, my friends."
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Traveling with Children
My last entry documented the routine that my boys and I entered into to facilitate the passage of our summer days. Truth is that routine did not last the entire summer.
On July 31st, our family flew to my wife's homeland, Spain, for a three week stay. It was incredibly fun and, from a traveling with children standpoint, wonderfully successful. It was not the whimsy of fate that led to the pleasant travel. There are definite, identifiable keys to peaceful, efficient travel with one's brood.
First, I will address the actual journey. To reach Spain from our city, one needs to take three flights and one hour long taxi ride (we have tried other routes in the past, but as this was what we did this last time, we'll treat the latest route as the best). First, there is a ten-hour flight to London. This is followed by a two-and-a-half hour flight to Barcelona. From there, one must take an hour's flight to Bilbao. From that fair city (this is a joke that will only resonate with people from San Sebastian or other San Sebastianites world-wide), an hour's taxi ride delivers one to San Sebastian, the Jewel of Spain (my opinion).
A lengthy journey by anyone's standards. So, how does one achieve a stress-free day of traveling that, including lay-overs, lasts 20-and-a-half hours? My first piece of advice would be to fly British Airways (we take them to London). Not only do the jolly accents of the crew create a nice environment, but every seat has a screen embedded above the facing tray-table. This screen contains countless movies and TV shows, many of which are perfect for entertaining a child during countless airborne hours. (It goes without saying that many of the offered movies are not child-friendly, so one needs be aware). It also helps that the flight to Spain leaves at 6:45-what my wife calls a "night-night" flight. The power of suggestion seems to work on my boys as they sleep for much of the ten hours to London. (My sleep is never terribly sound because the allure of limitless movies is too great, making sleep seem uninteresting). Another factor aiding our family in our quest for pleasant journeys has to do with experience. Both of my boys have travelled to Spain many times, from the age of eight months (in my older boys' case) and from ten months (in my younger son's case). Their having completed the journey in the past makes present journeys easier. So, what makes for easy traveling with one's children? Picking the right airline, having a flight leave at night thus encouraging sleep, and having children that have flown frequently seem to be the keys. Of course, none of the factors that I have mentioned have anything to do with parenting, but one needs to take credit when one can.
Honestly speaking, enthusiasm helps as the most boring airplane magazine can seem interesting to a child if a parent gushes over it. Bringing lots of books is, obviously, a good idea. Materials for drawing also come in handy to pass the time. Another key component would be patience and calm under pressure (otherwise known as the ability to ignore hateful stares from fellow passengers who were apparently never children). We have had flights that have been difficult in the past. Luckily for our dyad, my wife is both patient and cool under pressure. So in past, more trying journeys, while I wilt in the seat trying to avoid glares, my wife has picked up whichever boy is having a problem and coolly carried him to the back of the plane to soothe him. Now, luckily for me, my boys don't have any significant problems on the plane so I can finish a journey feeling as refreshed as possible without feeling the guilt that goes along with knowing that one's wife has done all the real work on the flight.
So, we did have a relatively hassle-free journey to Spain. Whether we actually did anything to ensure the positive journey is a matter of debate. Possibly, any family with five and eight year old boys would fare well on a Transatlantic, behemoth of a journey. Regardless, we arrived safely in Spain and had a wonderful three weeks.
On July 31st, our family flew to my wife's homeland, Spain, for a three week stay. It was incredibly fun and, from a traveling with children standpoint, wonderfully successful. It was not the whimsy of fate that led to the pleasant travel. There are definite, identifiable keys to peaceful, efficient travel with one's brood.
First, I will address the actual journey. To reach Spain from our city, one needs to take three flights and one hour long taxi ride (we have tried other routes in the past, but as this was what we did this last time, we'll treat the latest route as the best). First, there is a ten-hour flight to London. This is followed by a two-and-a-half hour flight to Barcelona. From there, one must take an hour's flight to Bilbao. From that fair city (this is a joke that will only resonate with people from San Sebastian or other San Sebastianites world-wide), an hour's taxi ride delivers one to San Sebastian, the Jewel of Spain (my opinion).
A lengthy journey by anyone's standards. So, how does one achieve a stress-free day of traveling that, including lay-overs, lasts 20-and-a-half hours? My first piece of advice would be to fly British Airways (we take them to London). Not only do the jolly accents of the crew create a nice environment, but every seat has a screen embedded above the facing tray-table. This screen contains countless movies and TV shows, many of which are perfect for entertaining a child during countless airborne hours. (It goes without saying that many of the offered movies are not child-friendly, so one needs be aware). It also helps that the flight to Spain leaves at 6:45-what my wife calls a "night-night" flight. The power of suggestion seems to work on my boys as they sleep for much of the ten hours to London. (My sleep is never terribly sound because the allure of limitless movies is too great, making sleep seem uninteresting). Another factor aiding our family in our quest for pleasant journeys has to do with experience. Both of my boys have travelled to Spain many times, from the age of eight months (in my older boys' case) and from ten months (in my younger son's case). Their having completed the journey in the past makes present journeys easier. So, what makes for easy traveling with one's children? Picking the right airline, having a flight leave at night thus encouraging sleep, and having children that have flown frequently seem to be the keys. Of course, none of the factors that I have mentioned have anything to do with parenting, but one needs to take credit when one can.
Honestly speaking, enthusiasm helps as the most boring airplane magazine can seem interesting to a child if a parent gushes over it. Bringing lots of books is, obviously, a good idea. Materials for drawing also come in handy to pass the time. Another key component would be patience and calm under pressure (otherwise known as the ability to ignore hateful stares from fellow passengers who were apparently never children). We have had flights that have been difficult in the past. Luckily for our dyad, my wife is both patient and cool under pressure. So in past, more trying journeys, while I wilt in the seat trying to avoid glares, my wife has picked up whichever boy is having a problem and coolly carried him to the back of the plane to soothe him. Now, luckily for me, my boys don't have any significant problems on the plane so I can finish a journey feeling as refreshed as possible without feeling the guilt that goes along with knowing that one's wife has done all the real work on the flight.
So, we did have a relatively hassle-free journey to Spain. Whether we actually did anything to ensure the positive journey is a matter of debate. Possibly, any family with five and eight year old boys would fare well on a Transatlantic, behemoth of a journey. Regardless, we arrived safely in Spain and had a wonderful three weeks.
Friday, August 27, 2010
New Beginnings
It has been a long time since I last shared my experiences as a stay-at-home father with the cyber-world. I have a good reason for the absence. In the crazy world of the stay-at-home parent, much is flip-flopped. Weekends are more work than weekdays, vacations often more work than non-vacations and, most of all, summer more work than school months. Indeed, for the stay-at-home father, summer is when the heavy lifting is done. (I mean this both metaphorically and literally as the constant presence of my boys increases my work-load and their growing has made wrestling them quite a chore). Thus, my incommunicado status for the past months. I couldn't blog because I was busy. Very busy. Often near insanity sort busy. Having one's children present all day every day will do that to a guy. To avoid the obviously unpleasant alternative of losing one's sanity, plans need to be laid. My strategy for the summer months involves routine, or scheduling, if you prefer.
My boys take swim lessons and tennis lessons over the summer. The swim lessons last for 30 minutes and occur every day. The tennis lessons occur twice weekly (from 11-12 for my younger boy, 12-1:30 for my eldest). Both boys continued with music lessons. My older son's piano lessons happened in his teacher's house on Monday's at 12:45 or 1 or 1:30; the piano teacher is a great guy and a wonderful teacher, but a tad disorganized so the lessons seemed to start at slightly (occasionally radically) different times depending on the week. Luckily, the piano teacher has a back yard where my boys could play while awaiting the lesson (and where my younger son and I could continue to play whilst my older boy had his lesson). My younger son's violin lessons occurred on Wednesdays at 11 am. His teacher lives too far away to hold lessons at his house. Instead, the violin lessons were offered in another family's house. I would describe this house as "loosely" in our neighborhood. It required a long walk. But walking is a forte of ours, and every Wednesday a-violin-ing we did go. To keep our spirits up during long, hot summer treks to and from music lessons, I decided that my boys and I needed (nay, deserved) some reward. Thus, we ate lunch twice weekly at our favorite restaurant (before piano and after violin). This restaurant is a frequent destination for my boys and I. The staff never give us menus. Instead they greet us with, "hey guys. Two apple juices, a Diet coke, a Peanut-butter and honey, a Grilled cheese, and a Rosewood Deluxe, right?" And they never forget to bring us two chocolate-chip cookies (split three ways) for dessert.
After the boys and I returned home, they would read or do other school work for an hour (on impressive days) or a half-hour (on less impressive days). The work would be followed by a celebratory hour-long TV show which would be followed by sports (baseball or basketball or paddle-tennis or football or soccer) until my wife came home. Thus, Mondays consisted of swimming, walk to our favorite restaurant, lunch, walk to piano teacher's house wait/play/pray for the start of lesson, walk back home, school work, TV, play. Tuesdays and Thursdays were made up of swimming, tennis, walk home, lunch, school work, TV, play. Wednesdays consisted of play, long walk to violin, violin, walk to favorite restaurant, lunch, walk home, work, TV, play. Fridays were the simplest: swimming, walk home, lunch, work, TV, play.
To see my summer summed up so concisely does not entirely do it justice. 'Swimming, walk to lunch, walk to piano, walk home, work, TV, play..... This sounds so orderly, so neat, so easily achieved. The words do not do justice to the constant battle to keep the peace, to maintain tranquility. Every facet of our summer days was occasionally visited by conflict. Fights between brothers, complaints about fatigue, complaints about hating whatever activity was next on our agenda, arguments regarding school work, regarding TV shows, regarding play. In short, each phase of every day this summer has seen its battles. Enjoyable battle to be sure, but combat none-the-less.
If I were a rapper, they'd call me Smoky the Bear because I'm always putting out fires. However, to be totally accurate, I would be a far more contented Smoky the Bear than the one who dominated the anti-forest fire push of yesteryear. The fires of disquiet that my boys constantly set this summer were annoying at times, but, for the most part, they did not mar what was a very successful summer. We are all happy, healthy, and ready for school. As the fires of summer cool, I must prepare for new fires to come. I am now father to a third grader and a kindergartener.
My boys take swim lessons and tennis lessons over the summer. The swim lessons last for 30 minutes and occur every day. The tennis lessons occur twice weekly (from 11-12 for my younger boy, 12-1:30 for my eldest). Both boys continued with music lessons. My older son's piano lessons happened in his teacher's house on Monday's at 12:45 or 1 or 1:30; the piano teacher is a great guy and a wonderful teacher, but a tad disorganized so the lessons seemed to start at slightly (occasionally radically) different times depending on the week. Luckily, the piano teacher has a back yard where my boys could play while awaiting the lesson (and where my younger son and I could continue to play whilst my older boy had his lesson). My younger son's violin lessons occurred on Wednesdays at 11 am. His teacher lives too far away to hold lessons at his house. Instead, the violin lessons were offered in another family's house. I would describe this house as "loosely" in our neighborhood. It required a long walk. But walking is a forte of ours, and every Wednesday a-violin-ing we did go. To keep our spirits up during long, hot summer treks to and from music lessons, I decided that my boys and I needed (nay, deserved) some reward. Thus, we ate lunch twice weekly at our favorite restaurant (before piano and after violin). This restaurant is a frequent destination for my boys and I. The staff never give us menus. Instead they greet us with, "hey guys. Two apple juices, a Diet coke, a Peanut-butter and honey, a Grilled cheese, and a Rosewood Deluxe, right?" And they never forget to bring us two chocolate-chip cookies (split three ways) for dessert.
After the boys and I returned home, they would read or do other school work for an hour (on impressive days) or a half-hour (on less impressive days). The work would be followed by a celebratory hour-long TV show which would be followed by sports (baseball or basketball or paddle-tennis or football or soccer) until my wife came home. Thus, Mondays consisted of swimming, walk to our favorite restaurant, lunch, walk to piano teacher's house wait/play/pray for the start of lesson, walk back home, school work, TV, play. Tuesdays and Thursdays were made up of swimming, tennis, walk home, lunch, school work, TV, play. Wednesdays consisted of play, long walk to violin, violin, walk to favorite restaurant, lunch, walk home, work, TV, play. Fridays were the simplest: swimming, walk home, lunch, work, TV, play.
To see my summer summed up so concisely does not entirely do it justice. 'Swimming, walk to lunch, walk to piano, walk home, work, TV, play..... This sounds so orderly, so neat, so easily achieved. The words do not do justice to the constant battle to keep the peace, to maintain tranquility. Every facet of our summer days was occasionally visited by conflict. Fights between brothers, complaints about fatigue, complaints about hating whatever activity was next on our agenda, arguments regarding school work, regarding TV shows, regarding play. In short, each phase of every day this summer has seen its battles. Enjoyable battle to be sure, but combat none-the-less.
If I were a rapper, they'd call me Smoky the Bear because I'm always putting out fires. However, to be totally accurate, I would be a far more contented Smoky the Bear than the one who dominated the anti-forest fire push of yesteryear. The fires of disquiet that my boys constantly set this summer were annoying at times, but, for the most part, they did not mar what was a very successful summer. We are all happy, healthy, and ready for school. As the fires of summer cool, I must prepare for new fires to come. I am now father to a third grader and a kindergartener.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Picture a young child preparing for music practice (in this case, violin lessons). Are you picturing a contented youth, brimming with potential, smiling as he puts rosin on his bow and attaches his chin rest to the violin? That may be how it is in many houses, but not ours. The following is a word for word transcription of the near-daily struggle my younger son and I have.
Me: "Alright babe, time for violin."
Him: "No."
Me: "It'll be quick, love. Let's just do it."
Him: "Nope. No way."
Me: "We need to practice what you've learned in violin lessons."
Him: "No."
Me: "Come on, babe. Just pick up the violin! Get ready. Let's go already."
Him: "You can't make me."
Me: "If you don't practice, you don't earn smiley faces."
Him: "So?!!!?"
Me: "Then you won't earn any more Tintin books."
Him: "I hate TinTin."
Me: "Alright, no TV for a week if you don't practice."
Him: "I hate TV."
Me: "Babe, if you had just started when I asked you would have been finished with violin three times over."
Him: "You're not the boss of me."
Me: "I am the boss of you. Please practice violin, NOW!"
Him: "Nope. Never."
Me: "Fine. If you don't practice then I'm going to donate all your toys to charity."
Him: "What's 'donate' mean?"
Me: "It means 'give away forever.'
Him: "So. I hate toys."
I then start to leave the room to donate his toys to some random charity when he caves.
Him: "Alright, daddy. But I don't know how to set up my violin."
He does. But I know which battles to pick.
Me: "Fine. I'll set it up [put on the chin rest]. Now, let's practice."
Same dance. Every day.
But we may have turned an important corner this week. Now, my boy can play a song, and violin is a significantly more satisfying activity. He's learned the "Flower Song," and things are looking bright on the violin scene. It's a simple song (pepperoni pizza rythms on E, F sharp, E, and A). Easy and satisfying.
Beginning violin consists of endless perfecting of fairly boring skills like holding the bow, holding the violin, standing correctly for playing violin, bowing properly, etc. Understandably, my younger boy found the practices in which he practiced standing, bowing, and holding the bow rather dry. He was bored so wasn't excited to practice. That has changed. He's now feeling excited by his new skills. Practices, for the moment anyway, are going to proceed with much less drama.
My older boy experienced some success this week, too. He was awarded a PE All Star for the third straight year at school. This award is given to the best athlete/rule follower in gym class. A significant achievement as it is one of the only awards available to K-3rd grade. (He won a math award, too, last year, but I'm trying to stay classy and resist the temptation to brag).
Speaking of bragging, my eldest son's baseball game was a resounding success yesterday. My boy was 3-3 with two doubles and a single. He played good defense. My boy and his best friend (who's also on the team) were accused of being too old to participate by the opposing coach. This suggestion was both preposterous (because of relative size of my son's opponents) and gratifying (all those hours of catch have clearly paid off).
Perhaps this posting was a bit too self-congratulatory, but parents need an occasional weekend like this. In chronicling my experiences parenting, it has become clear to me that parenting is frequently an exercise ripe with failure and humiliation. Occasional moments of true success are hard to come by and should be savored and posted for posterity.
Me: "Alright babe, time for violin."
Him: "No."
Me: "It'll be quick, love. Let's just do it."
Him: "Nope. No way."
Me: "We need to practice what you've learned in violin lessons."
Him: "No."
Me: "Come on, babe. Just pick up the violin! Get ready. Let's go already."
Him: "You can't make me."
Me: "If you don't practice, you don't earn smiley faces."
Him: "So?!!!?"
Me: "Then you won't earn any more Tintin books."
Him: "I hate TinTin."
Me: "Alright, no TV for a week if you don't practice."
Him: "I hate TV."
Me: "Babe, if you had just started when I asked you would have been finished with violin three times over."
Him: "You're not the boss of me."
Me: "I am the boss of you. Please practice violin, NOW!"
Him: "Nope. Never."
Me: "Fine. If you don't practice then I'm going to donate all your toys to charity."
Him: "What's 'donate' mean?"
Me: "It means 'give away forever.'
Him: "So. I hate toys."
I then start to leave the room to donate his toys to some random charity when he caves.
Him: "Alright, daddy. But I don't know how to set up my violin."
He does. But I know which battles to pick.
Me: "Fine. I'll set it up [put on the chin rest]. Now, let's practice."
Same dance. Every day.
But we may have turned an important corner this week. Now, my boy can play a song, and violin is a significantly more satisfying activity. He's learned the "Flower Song," and things are looking bright on the violin scene. It's a simple song (pepperoni pizza rythms on E, F sharp, E, and A). Easy and satisfying.
Beginning violin consists of endless perfecting of fairly boring skills like holding the bow, holding the violin, standing correctly for playing violin, bowing properly, etc. Understandably, my younger boy found the practices in which he practiced standing, bowing, and holding the bow rather dry. He was bored so wasn't excited to practice. That has changed. He's now feeling excited by his new skills. Practices, for the moment anyway, are going to proceed with much less drama.
My older boy experienced some success this week, too. He was awarded a PE All Star for the third straight year at school. This award is given to the best athlete/rule follower in gym class. A significant achievement as it is one of the only awards available to K-3rd grade. (He won a math award, too, last year, but I'm trying to stay classy and resist the temptation to brag).
Speaking of bragging, my eldest son's baseball game was a resounding success yesterday. My boy was 3-3 with two doubles and a single. He played good defense. My boy and his best friend (who's also on the team) were accused of being too old to participate by the opposing coach. This suggestion was both preposterous (because of relative size of my son's opponents) and gratifying (all those hours of catch have clearly paid off).
Perhaps this posting was a bit too self-congratulatory, but parents need an occasional weekend like this. In chronicling my experiences parenting, it has become clear to me that parenting is frequently an exercise ripe with failure and humiliation. Occasional moments of true success are hard to come by and should be savored and posted for posterity.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Mirror Image
Every parent has had this experience. The parent's child is acting in an obnoxious manner. The parent turns to his/her spouse and says, "YOUR child is acting in unacceptable fashion [being stubborn/rude/too loud/too quiet]"etc. My wife and I are experts at this particular manner of conversation. I tend to view every instance of our children's being stubborn as the perfect time to say to my wife, "I wonder why he's being so stubborn? Where did he inherit that?" As I say this, I am pointedly looking at my wife, clearly blaming her stubborn streak. My wife, interestingly enough, can observe the same scene, the same stubborn streak, and fault my genes. Such interactions seem fractious, yet I believe them to be healthy and normal. What better way to relieve the stress of irritation with one's child than to blame it on one's spouse.
Sometimes the opposite can be true. Rather than blame one's spouse for a child's misbehavior, a parent gladly takes responsibility for a child's positive behavior. I specialize in this. I often credit myself for my older son's athletic skills or his charming ways; I also see myself in my younger son's zany sense of humor or his great imagination. Yes, it is easy to see one's self in one's children when they are acting in a pleasing manner. But what happens when we see our short-comings in our children. How to handle this?
The first challenge in the handling of our less pleasant qualities' appearing in our children is to recognize the qualities. It has taken me years, literally, to realize that I wasn't a perfect child. For the life of me, I could not recognize anything of me in my older boy's ultra-hyper-uber competitiveness. Then, and this actually took considerable reflection, I recalled tapping a tremendous source of competitive aggression when playing against my father in a Thanksgiving day basketball game when I was in high- school. The realization that I, too, had the capacity for athletic-oriented, intensely competitive zeal/mania was eye-opening. It provided me with some insight into my older boy's reactions to playing sports with me. Also, a considerable searching of childhood memories afforded me with an insight into my older son's occasional (and completely age-appropriate) shabby treatment of his friends when they don't want to do what he wants. I was i second grade. My best friend was over to play. Somehow, I got the idea that we could go to see the movie Grease (it would be my seventh viewing). I LOVED that movie (Olivia Newton-John was my first love). My best friend was not so excited. He said he didn't want to go. My father, very appropriately said, we would not be going. I was outraged. In a huff, I ran upstairs and, slamming my door, sequestered myself in my room. Obviously, this was not the most gracious reaction to disappointment. I had completely forgotten about the incident until I witnessed my son's sequestering himself in his room during his birthday party (I forget what set him off). After observing his behavior, searching my memory, and realizing that I had once acted similarly- I felt better equipped to help my son more graciously handle his frustrations vis-a-vis his friends.
As a child, I played the role of the incompetent like a pro. Any task that I was asked to do (like setting the table before dinner or clearing the table after dinner), I did so poorly that my sister or mother or father had to take over and complete themselves. It is pure justice, therefore, that my younger son has adapted a similar approach to his chores. He feigns the inability to do many tasks that I know he can do. He does it with such conviction, such creativity that I almost believe him. But then I recall my own childhood, my own youthful shenanigans to get out of daily chores. Empowered with such knowledge, I'll often say to my son, "you can't fool me. I used to try the same tricks. Please go ahead and do...." But my younger boy is unyielding. His insistence that he cannot perform the chore is so convincing that I often find myself completing his tasks. Boy, can he be inflexible!!!!! He's so... stubborn!!! (And that's my wife's fault).
Just joking.
Sometimes the opposite can be true. Rather than blame one's spouse for a child's misbehavior, a parent gladly takes responsibility for a child's positive behavior. I specialize in this. I often credit myself for my older son's athletic skills or his charming ways; I also see myself in my younger son's zany sense of humor or his great imagination. Yes, it is easy to see one's self in one's children when they are acting in a pleasing manner. But what happens when we see our short-comings in our children. How to handle this?
The first challenge in the handling of our less pleasant qualities' appearing in our children is to recognize the qualities. It has taken me years, literally, to realize that I wasn't a perfect child. For the life of me, I could not recognize anything of me in my older boy's ultra-hyper-uber competitiveness. Then, and this actually took considerable reflection, I recalled tapping a tremendous source of competitive aggression when playing against my father in a Thanksgiving day basketball game when I was in high- school. The realization that I, too, had the capacity for athletic-oriented, intensely competitive zeal/mania was eye-opening. It provided me with some insight into my older boy's reactions to playing sports with me. Also, a considerable searching of childhood memories afforded me with an insight into my older son's occasional (and completely age-appropriate) shabby treatment of his friends when they don't want to do what he wants. I was i second grade. My best friend was over to play. Somehow, I got the idea that we could go to see the movie Grease (it would be my seventh viewing). I LOVED that movie (Olivia Newton-John was my first love). My best friend was not so excited. He said he didn't want to go. My father, very appropriately said, we would not be going. I was outraged. In a huff, I ran upstairs and, slamming my door, sequestered myself in my room. Obviously, this was not the most gracious reaction to disappointment. I had completely forgotten about the incident until I witnessed my son's sequestering himself in his room during his birthday party (I forget what set him off). After observing his behavior, searching my memory, and realizing that I had once acted similarly- I felt better equipped to help my son more graciously handle his frustrations vis-a-vis his friends.
As a child, I played the role of the incompetent like a pro. Any task that I was asked to do (like setting the table before dinner or clearing the table after dinner), I did so poorly that my sister or mother or father had to take over and complete themselves. It is pure justice, therefore, that my younger son has adapted a similar approach to his chores. He feigns the inability to do many tasks that I know he can do. He does it with such conviction, such creativity that I almost believe him. But then I recall my own childhood, my own youthful shenanigans to get out of daily chores. Empowered with such knowledge, I'll often say to my son, "you can't fool me. I used to try the same tricks. Please go ahead and do...." But my younger boy is unyielding. His insistence that he cannot perform the chore is so convincing that I often find myself completing his tasks. Boy, can he be inflexible!!!!! He's so... stubborn!!! (And that's my wife's fault).
Just joking.
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Delicate Balance
My boys' baseball game was cancelled this Saturday. However, our Saturday was not athletics-free. Instead the athletic void created by the cancellation led to a near-frantic playing of any sport available. This consisted of Basketball and Paddle Tennis (with some catch thrown-in- excuse the pun). For the most part, my older son and I played; my younger son helped my wife with gardening. While playing with my older son, I reflected on the delicate balance that needs to be struck in any father/son competition.
The balance in question? How hard to try. Do I let my son win? Sure. He will feel good for the moment, but am I doing him a disservice by not trying harder. This is a pertinent question when I play with my son. First, he's very competitive. Like many people, he loves to win and hates to lose. Second, he is very talented athletically and wants to improve his game (and ultimately achieve his goal of having a professional sports/naturalist TV host career).
Regarding my son's competitiveness: it is important that I let him win to foster his self-esteem, but isn't it also important that I teach him how to handle not always winning? (I know this sounds self-serving because any lesson in losing for my son is an experience in winning for me.) That I'm even discussing the "experience in winning for me" point is an indication that I, too, am perhaps guilty of being a tad competitive (I can picture my wife nodding in agreement when she reads this). The cynic would say that I might want to beat my son because I want to win, not because I want to teach him how to handle defeat. The earnest father might argue otherwise, but his words might ring hollow. Perhaps I am winning just because I like to win, but I am going to avoid taking responsibility for what is surely a profound immaturity by blaming my son (and, in so doing, prove that I'm not immature?).
If he wasn't so good at sports, this whole "who should win?" conflict would never arise. When he was younger, there was no question who was better. Our games were clearly dictated by the more skilled player (the one who had been playing for twenty-five years before my son was even born). I could afford to let him win because I was confident that I could beat him if I tried. Now, I can still beat my son, but I have to really try which is troubling on a number of levels. It is embarrassing (because I am trying to defeat my son and, thus, teach him how to be less competitive?), tiring (because I am old and he is young), and ultimately frustrating because I either win (and feel guilty as I witness my son's disappointment) or lose (and feel disappointment which revolves around either my chagrin due to losing or due to my caring that I lost).
This Saturday was a good example of the quandary in which I frequently find myself. My son and I were playing a game of basketball. He quickly jumped out to a 16-6 lead. I said to him, "now I'm going to try hard and catch up, okay?" (This was kind of a cop-out; my son acquiesced, but what else was he going to do? And by verbalizing that I was about to engage in potentially immature behavior: does that make the immaturity any less immature? So, I clamped down on D and caught up. It was no cake-walk, and I was feeling faint when, at 30-26 (MY LEAD!!!!!), my son mercifully said, "I'm not really in the mood. Let's play paddle tennis."
During the tennis game, I did not play too hard. I hit balls to my son that he easily return. I was trying to allow him to gain experience and feel that he was gaining skills. Still, he was agitated. His demeanor slowly evolved from sunny to serious to quiet to sullen to near-tears. He was extremely frustrated that I was returning some of his hardest hit balls. I felt somewhat frustrated myself as I had made a point not to play too hard yet had still managed to discourage/upset my boy. Finally, he said that he wanted to quit. We went home, where my son angrily stormed to his room. At first, I was puzzled by his reaction. I had thought that I had reached the perfect competitive compromise, forcing my son to play well while not trying to win. But it is a delicate balance, and I have not yet found the proper recipe. I ended up focusing on the positive. True, my son is wildly competitive, but what champion isn't. Bill Russell, Tom Brady, Lary Bird, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett. I'm sure that their reactions to athletic adversity would have been equally strong as my boy's.
The balance in question? How hard to try. Do I let my son win? Sure. He will feel good for the moment, but am I doing him a disservice by not trying harder. This is a pertinent question when I play with my son. First, he's very competitive. Like many people, he loves to win and hates to lose. Second, he is very talented athletically and wants to improve his game (and ultimately achieve his goal of having a professional sports/naturalist TV host career).
Regarding my son's competitiveness: it is important that I let him win to foster his self-esteem, but isn't it also important that I teach him how to handle not always winning? (I know this sounds self-serving because any lesson in losing for my son is an experience in winning for me.) That I'm even discussing the "experience in winning for me" point is an indication that I, too, am perhaps guilty of being a tad competitive (I can picture my wife nodding in agreement when she reads this). The cynic would say that I might want to beat my son because I want to win, not because I want to teach him how to handle defeat. The earnest father might argue otherwise, but his words might ring hollow. Perhaps I am winning just because I like to win, but I am going to avoid taking responsibility for what is surely a profound immaturity by blaming my son (and, in so doing, prove that I'm not immature?).
If he wasn't so good at sports, this whole "who should win?" conflict would never arise. When he was younger, there was no question who was better. Our games were clearly dictated by the more skilled player (the one who had been playing for twenty-five years before my son was even born). I could afford to let him win because I was confident that I could beat him if I tried. Now, I can still beat my son, but I have to really try which is troubling on a number of levels. It is embarrassing (because I am trying to defeat my son and, thus, teach him how to be less competitive?), tiring (because I am old and he is young), and ultimately frustrating because I either win (and feel guilty as I witness my son's disappointment) or lose (and feel disappointment which revolves around either my chagrin due to losing or due to my caring that I lost).
This Saturday was a good example of the quandary in which I frequently find myself. My son and I were playing a game of basketball. He quickly jumped out to a 16-6 lead. I said to him, "now I'm going to try hard and catch up, okay?" (This was kind of a cop-out; my son acquiesced, but what else was he going to do? And by verbalizing that I was about to engage in potentially immature behavior: does that make the immaturity any less immature? So, I clamped down on D and caught up. It was no cake-walk, and I was feeling faint when, at 30-26 (MY LEAD!!!!!), my son mercifully said, "I'm not really in the mood. Let's play paddle tennis."
During the tennis game, I did not play too hard. I hit balls to my son that he easily return. I was trying to allow him to gain experience and feel that he was gaining skills. Still, he was agitated. His demeanor slowly evolved from sunny to serious to quiet to sullen to near-tears. He was extremely frustrated that I was returning some of his hardest hit balls. I felt somewhat frustrated myself as I had made a point not to play too hard yet had still managed to discourage/upset my boy. Finally, he said that he wanted to quit. We went home, where my son angrily stormed to his room. At first, I was puzzled by his reaction. I had thought that I had reached the perfect competitive compromise, forcing my son to play well while not trying to win. But it is a delicate balance, and I have not yet found the proper recipe. I ended up focusing on the positive. True, my son is wildly competitive, but what champion isn't. Bill Russell, Tom Brady, Lary Bird, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett. I'm sure that their reactions to athletic adversity would have been equally strong as my boy's.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Good, Clean Rap and an Embarrassment of Riches
It was last Saturday morning. My older boy was standing in front of our stereo. He was intently listening to some really cool rap music that I had down-loaded the day before. If you've read my previous posts than you know that one of my strategies for producing hip (socially speaking) children is introducing them to cool music. There is no music cooler than cool rap music. So, I was delighted. My son turned to me. "Daddy," he said in the excited voice that he uses when he's discovered something really interesting, "now I know why you like rap so much. It's awesome!!!" I was pleased to hear him speak these words. He has always liked rap music, but had never articulated his appreciation so eloquently. (At this point, I feel that an apology is order for my wife who doesn't share my enthusiasm for rap. Sorry, babe.) Along with my excitement, there came a little apprehension. While down-loading the songs, I had not been able to find the edited (or clean, as it appears in itunes) versions of most of the songs. It's alright, I thought, he won't pick up the inappropriate words for years. All worries regarding the new rap music left my consciousness at this point. It was nearly game time. We had to get our minds right.
When I say "we," I mean my older boy, younger boy and I. My wife was, unfortunately, working this morning so would be unable to attend the game. Another reason that WE needed to get our minds ready for the game is that both boys would be playing on my older son's team. I'll sum up the game quickly. It was, as always, super fun. I am not sure why I enjoy watching my boys play baseball so much, but boy do I. Our team lost, but it didn't matter at all. My boys, and I am saying this with a great degree of pride, were a combined 3-3 from the plate. My older boy hit a single and a double. (He easily could have stretched his double to a triple or even an inside the park home-run; it was that well-hit). And my younger son, and this is possibly more impressive than the work by his more experienced, harder-hitting brother, legged out a well-hit single. Now, I would like to tell you that I handled my younger son's hit with a been-there, done-that style, but I can't. I stood in the entrance to the dug-out leaping up and down with my hands raised in triumph. As dorky as I undoubtedly looked, my younger son was beaming. It was worth it.
Later that night, we were eating dinner with friends, discussing the baseball game (our friends' son is on the team, as well). The reason, we decided, that baseball is such an excellent forum for youth sports is this. It is, in a lot of ways, a very individual sport. One can appreciate, just to take a random example, my older boy's masterful handling of a ground ball, his expertly turning to second to get the force-out, and ignore the second basement who was playing in the dirt. Similarly, one could ignore the players who struck-out before and after my younger son's single. The point is the team can not be performing at an optimal level, but the individual child can still excel.
But the baseball game was just the beginning of what would be a treasure trove of athletic activities during the weekend. We arrived home from the game and rested? no, cleaned ourselves? no, ate? no again. We arrived home and went out back to play basketball. Now, everyone should now have the impression that we are a very tough, hard-nosed family when it comes to sports. But just to further emphasize this point, we all played basketball shirtless. That's right. One father and two sons sans shirts. We played for, and I am not joking here (sadly), almost two hours. During this time, I realized a depressing thing. My older son is not that far away from beating me even if I really try. Now, I started to beat my father in basketball at the age of eleven. I was always sure that I could hold my son off, easily, until he was fifteen or sixteen. It is time to, perhaps, rethink this as he, an eight year-old, has some serious skills. Serious skills, indeed, that are often put to excellent use. Perhaps my favorite moment of the afternoon came when, after I had gone inside for a quick drink, I came out to find my older boy schooling my younger son on basketball technique (at my younger son's request; awesome). My older boy's advice was sound too. Establish your outside shot. Then use a pump-fake and drive to the basket. Picture me weeping tears of joy. All is right with the world, and it is not yet noon.
One negative of the basketball experience involves my younger son. He loves to play, but is too small, yet to reach a ten foot basket. Our basket is supposed to be adjustable, but it doesn't operate properly so my youngest is relegated to a tiny hoop. It won't be long, however (probably sometime this summer) that he will be able to reach the bigger hoop. That will represent paradise-found.
After the basketball, and I know how crazy this sounds and is, we went to our across-the-street neighbors' house. They have a paddle-ball (picture tennis with paddles on a half-sized tennis court) in their back-yard. My boys and I love to play there, and as our neighbors' boys have graduated college (no longer live at home) the court is always free. Anyhow, this was a very exciting event because we can all participate. At one point, I moved off to the side as my boys played against each other. With the pride of a job well-done, I watched my younger son's perfect follow through on his forehand only to be equally pleased with my older boy's backhand form.
Life was going pretty smoothly at this point. A wonderful morning filled with sunny skies, a great baseball game, fun basketball, paddle tennis and athletic prowess displayed by both boys. I became a little alarmed. Too much was going right. Some challenge was bound to appear and, soon, it did.
We went home after an hour of playing paddle tennis. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the water, and my older boy ran in with a smile. "Daddy," he said breathless with excitement, "guess what Snoop Dogg just said?" Oh, no, I thought. "What?" I asked preparing for the worst. "Big Booty!!!!" he exclaimed with glee, "he said BIG BOOTY." I froze. How to respond appropriately to this situation? "It's okay, though," my son said, "he was just joking. Snoop wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings." "You're right," I answered, "Snoop tries very hard not to hurt anyone's feelings." As I took my shower, I thought, that didn't go too bad. Big Booty!!??!!!?? Of all the bad words he could have heard, that's really light weight. My wife didn't think so. She came home while I was in the shower. My son greeted her with, "Mom, I love Snoop Dogg. [Just what any tired mother wants to hear]. And he said 'BIG BOOTY.'" My wife opened our bathroom door. "We have to do something about these new rap songs, she said. They're all marked 'explicit.'" "I'll go on i-tunes later," I said, "and try to find the edited versions."
I finished my shower and got dressed. It was time to go to our friends' house for dinner. Maybe all this rap mania will die down, I was hoping. Perhaps my son has already lost interest.
I went into the garage to join my family for our drive to our friends' house. "Snoo-oop, Snoo-oop," my son chanted. He was referring to Snoop Dogg. GULP. "Drop it like it's hot, Drop it like it's hot," my older boy began to rap. Time for me to find some edited songs and maybe encourage my son to listen to opera. Puccini rarely has words deleted from his songs when they play on radio.
After dinner, I went on i-tunes and re-downloaded all the songs, but made sure to download the 'clean' or edited version. Crisis averted. I had found some good, clean rap for my boys. They could still benefit from the cool music (in terms of making them cooler). But the rap my boys heard would be as non-offensive as possible.
When I say "we," I mean my older boy, younger boy and I. My wife was, unfortunately, working this morning so would be unable to attend the game. Another reason that WE needed to get our minds ready for the game is that both boys would be playing on my older son's team. I'll sum up the game quickly. It was, as always, super fun. I am not sure why I enjoy watching my boys play baseball so much, but boy do I. Our team lost, but it didn't matter at all. My boys, and I am saying this with a great degree of pride, were a combined 3-3 from the plate. My older boy hit a single and a double. (He easily could have stretched his double to a triple or even an inside the park home-run; it was that well-hit). And my younger son, and this is possibly more impressive than the work by his more experienced, harder-hitting brother, legged out a well-hit single. Now, I would like to tell you that I handled my younger son's hit with a been-there, done-that style, but I can't. I stood in the entrance to the dug-out leaping up and down with my hands raised in triumph. As dorky as I undoubtedly looked, my younger son was beaming. It was worth it.
Later that night, we were eating dinner with friends, discussing the baseball game (our friends' son is on the team, as well). The reason, we decided, that baseball is such an excellent forum for youth sports is this. It is, in a lot of ways, a very individual sport. One can appreciate, just to take a random example, my older boy's masterful handling of a ground ball, his expertly turning to second to get the force-out, and ignore the second basement who was playing in the dirt. Similarly, one could ignore the players who struck-out before and after my younger son's single. The point is the team can not be performing at an optimal level, but the individual child can still excel.
But the baseball game was just the beginning of what would be a treasure trove of athletic activities during the weekend. We arrived home from the game and rested? no, cleaned ourselves? no, ate? no again. We arrived home and went out back to play basketball. Now, everyone should now have the impression that we are a very tough, hard-nosed family when it comes to sports. But just to further emphasize this point, we all played basketball shirtless. That's right. One father and two sons sans shirts. We played for, and I am not joking here (sadly), almost two hours. During this time, I realized a depressing thing. My older son is not that far away from beating me even if I really try. Now, I started to beat my father in basketball at the age of eleven. I was always sure that I could hold my son off, easily, until he was fifteen or sixteen. It is time to, perhaps, rethink this as he, an eight year-old, has some serious skills. Serious skills, indeed, that are often put to excellent use. Perhaps my favorite moment of the afternoon came when, after I had gone inside for a quick drink, I came out to find my older boy schooling my younger son on basketball technique (at my younger son's request; awesome). My older boy's advice was sound too. Establish your outside shot. Then use a pump-fake and drive to the basket. Picture me weeping tears of joy. All is right with the world, and it is not yet noon.
One negative of the basketball experience involves my younger son. He loves to play, but is too small, yet to reach a ten foot basket. Our basket is supposed to be adjustable, but it doesn't operate properly so my youngest is relegated to a tiny hoop. It won't be long, however (probably sometime this summer) that he will be able to reach the bigger hoop. That will represent paradise-found.
After the basketball, and I know how crazy this sounds and is, we went to our across-the-street neighbors' house. They have a paddle-ball (picture tennis with paddles on a half-sized tennis court) in their back-yard. My boys and I love to play there, and as our neighbors' boys have graduated college (no longer live at home) the court is always free. Anyhow, this was a very exciting event because we can all participate. At one point, I moved off to the side as my boys played against each other. With the pride of a job well-done, I watched my younger son's perfect follow through on his forehand only to be equally pleased with my older boy's backhand form.
Life was going pretty smoothly at this point. A wonderful morning filled with sunny skies, a great baseball game, fun basketball, paddle tennis and athletic prowess displayed by both boys. I became a little alarmed. Too much was going right. Some challenge was bound to appear and, soon, it did.
We went home after an hour of playing paddle tennis. I decided to take a shower. I turned on the water, and my older boy ran in with a smile. "Daddy," he said breathless with excitement, "guess what Snoop Dogg just said?" Oh, no, I thought. "What?" I asked preparing for the worst. "Big Booty!!!!" he exclaimed with glee, "he said BIG BOOTY." I froze. How to respond appropriately to this situation? "It's okay, though," my son said, "he was just joking. Snoop wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings." "You're right," I answered, "Snoop tries very hard not to hurt anyone's feelings." As I took my shower, I thought, that didn't go too bad. Big Booty!!??!!!?? Of all the bad words he could have heard, that's really light weight. My wife didn't think so. She came home while I was in the shower. My son greeted her with, "Mom, I love Snoop Dogg. [Just what any tired mother wants to hear]. And he said 'BIG BOOTY.'" My wife opened our bathroom door. "We have to do something about these new rap songs, she said. They're all marked 'explicit.'" "I'll go on i-tunes later," I said, "and try to find the edited versions."
I finished my shower and got dressed. It was time to go to our friends' house for dinner. Maybe all this rap mania will die down, I was hoping. Perhaps my son has already lost interest.
I went into the garage to join my family for our drive to our friends' house. "Snoo-oop, Snoo-oop," my son chanted. He was referring to Snoop Dogg. GULP. "Drop it like it's hot, Drop it like it's hot," my older boy began to rap. Time for me to find some edited songs and maybe encourage my son to listen to opera. Puccini rarely has words deleted from his songs when they play on radio.
After dinner, I went on i-tunes and re-downloaded all the songs, but made sure to download the 'clean' or edited version. Crisis averted. I had found some good, clean rap for my boys. They could still benefit from the cool music (in terms of making them cooler). But the rap my boys heard would be as non-offensive as possible.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Trials and Tribulations
Yes, parenting can be a roller-coaster rides. At one moment, a parent is climbing toward the heavens only to drop steeply back to earth a moment later. Last night, I experienced a couple of significant "rise toward the heavens" moment; this morning, I precipitously fell back to earth.
Yesterday, the Boston Celtics beat the Cleveland Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. Rising toward the heavens. My boys and I were, of course, watching. At one point, there was a gatorade advertisement which featured various NBA players. Expressions of determination/aggression/manliness were displayed on our TV. This ad did not focus on teams; one could only see the players faces. It was with considerable pride that I beheld my five year-old son greet each player's face with "dumb-head" or "cool guy" depending on whether they played for the Celtics. I would guess that most adults couldn't recognize the faces of different NBA players (no jerseys) and successfully identify his team. Not only did my son do this, but he had the excellent sense to berate all players who do not play for the Celtics. Ah, sweet music. The ascent to the heavens was almost dizzying at this point.
The night before, I experienced a similar moment of pride. I was in our office downloading some music from i-tunes. My older son was downstairs reading "How to Speak Dragonese" (book 3 in the How to Train a Dragon series by Cressida Cowell; My son loves these books) and my younger boy was engaged in an imaginary sword battle in our living-room. The music that I was downloading consisted of some particularly cool rap songs that I really enjoy. Before one downloads any song from i-tunes, one has the chance to listen to thirty seconds of the song (to make sure that it is the intended song). As if drawn by the coolness of the music (that was just emanating from my computer), both boys dashed into the office and began to dance. And not merely haphazard dancing. No, they were feeling the music- bopping at all the right times, a smooth gangster-lean and faces of dispassionate coolness. And my boys are not followers. They have their own moves. My older son does a jerky, but effective, hybrid of the running-man and a jump-squat, and my younger son's dancing closely resembles Brazilian martial-arts dancing (punches and kicks to the rhythm). VERY COOL. The warm winds of gratifying parenting-moment (parent-moment?) were washing over me.
Sadly, every rise to the heavens moment is met with a startling fall. Enter this mornings activities. We were doing great. We had eaten our breakfasts. It was 7:31AM. We were on-schedule and looking cool. Then, it all fell apart. Getting my younger son to put on his shoes is like organizing a middle-east peace summit- not easy. So, I am asking, requesting more firmly, Asking Loudly Now, YELLING, "would you, PLEASE, put on your shoes!!!!???!!!" If I had opened the door to the space shuttle and asked the moon to put on its shoes, I would have gotten more of a response. This is frustrating. "Come on," I yell at no one in particular (this is good because, I assure you, no one was listening). Then, to make my morning experience even more pleasant my younger son taunted my older son with a "I'm stronger than you" comment. And my older son, rather than maturely pointing out their age difference/size difference/and thus, strength difference, straight-arms his younger brother into the floor. Now, I found myself yelling at my older boy, "Why did you do that? You are bigger and stronger than him; you could hurt him." My older boy looked at me like I was speaking Greek. "Because he said that he was stronger than me. So, I had to show him he was wrong." My blood had gone from a light simmer (when I first noticed my younger son's not putting on his shoes) to a far more intense simmer (after having seen my younger son thrown to the ground by his brother). Enter the full boil. My boys (somehow working in cahoots to drive me mad without ever formulating a game plan) ratchet up their vexing of me. My younger son put on our dog's leash in an effort to prepare for our walk to school (although HE STILL DOESN'T HAVE HIS SHOES ON). At this point, my older son grabs the leash and proceeds to drag my younger son on the floor. Now, I really lost it. "THAT'S IT," I bellowed, "YOU HAVE BOTH LOST ALL YOUR G-BUCKS! YOU'VE LOST YOUR ALLOWANCE!" I pounded our counter-top for emphasis (The counter-top is very hard; hitting it makes no noise and really hurts, but it seemed like the right move). Even in the midst of my rant, I realized how ridiculous I looked/sounded. So, did my boys, but they had the grace not tell me to my face (why kick a man when he's down?). The yelling does convince them that it's time to actually leave for school. It was now 7:47AM. Sixteen minutes wasted; our leisurely walk to school would now have to be a quick march/slow jog. But we made it to school on time. I admitted, during our walk, that "Daddy got a little hype there, boys. It isn't really fair for me to fly off the handle and take away all your G-Bucks." My older son seemed to appreciate that I was coming back to my senses. "Yeah daddy," he said, "I've done a lot worse and only lost five G-Bucks." I smiled at my older boy. He was right. I looked at my younger son, wondering what I should say to make sure that he wasn't distressed by my outburst. I needn't have worried. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, "daddy," he said, "isn't it funny in Planet 51 (the movie), when the alien looks at the guy's penis and thinks it's an antenna?" "Yeah, that is funny," I said. We resumed our walking. Ours was a peaceful, but purposeful pace. I wondered why I couldn't maintain a rational/even demeanor in the midst of pre-depart-for-school-madness of morning. For a moment, I wondered if a better father would have acted differently. But this notion didn't last. I took a zen approach to the whole ordeal. Pleasing ascents to the heavens will always be met by the occasional descent back to earth.
Yesterday, the Boston Celtics beat the Cleveland Cavaliers in the Eastern Conference Semifinals. Rising toward the heavens. My boys and I were, of course, watching. At one point, there was a gatorade advertisement which featured various NBA players. Expressions of determination/aggression/manliness were displayed on our TV. This ad did not focus on teams; one could only see the players faces. It was with considerable pride that I beheld my five year-old son greet each player's face with "dumb-head" or "cool guy" depending on whether they played for the Celtics. I would guess that most adults couldn't recognize the faces of different NBA players (no jerseys) and successfully identify his team. Not only did my son do this, but he had the excellent sense to berate all players who do not play for the Celtics. Ah, sweet music. The ascent to the heavens was almost dizzying at this point.
The night before, I experienced a similar moment of pride. I was in our office downloading some music from i-tunes. My older son was downstairs reading "How to Speak Dragonese" (book 3 in the How to Train a Dragon series by Cressida Cowell; My son loves these books) and my younger boy was engaged in an imaginary sword battle in our living-room. The music that I was downloading consisted of some particularly cool rap songs that I really enjoy. Before one downloads any song from i-tunes, one has the chance to listen to thirty seconds of the song (to make sure that it is the intended song). As if drawn by the coolness of the music (that was just emanating from my computer), both boys dashed into the office and began to dance. And not merely haphazard dancing. No, they were feeling the music- bopping at all the right times, a smooth gangster-lean and faces of dispassionate coolness. And my boys are not followers. They have their own moves. My older son does a jerky, but effective, hybrid of the running-man and a jump-squat, and my younger son's dancing closely resembles Brazilian martial-arts dancing (punches and kicks to the rhythm). VERY COOL. The warm winds of gratifying parenting-moment (parent-moment?) were washing over me.
Sadly, every rise to the heavens moment is met with a startling fall. Enter this mornings activities. We were doing great. We had eaten our breakfasts. It was 7:31AM. We were on-schedule and looking cool. Then, it all fell apart. Getting my younger son to put on his shoes is like organizing a middle-east peace summit- not easy. So, I am asking, requesting more firmly, Asking Loudly Now, YELLING, "would you, PLEASE, put on your shoes!!!!???!!!" If I had opened the door to the space shuttle and asked the moon to put on its shoes, I would have gotten more of a response. This is frustrating. "Come on," I yell at no one in particular (this is good because, I assure you, no one was listening). Then, to make my morning experience even more pleasant my younger son taunted my older son with a "I'm stronger than you" comment. And my older son, rather than maturely pointing out their age difference/size difference/and thus, strength difference, straight-arms his younger brother into the floor. Now, I found myself yelling at my older boy, "Why did you do that? You are bigger and stronger than him; you could hurt him." My older boy looked at me like I was speaking Greek. "Because he said that he was stronger than me. So, I had to show him he was wrong." My blood had gone from a light simmer (when I first noticed my younger son's not putting on his shoes) to a far more intense simmer (after having seen my younger son thrown to the ground by his brother). Enter the full boil. My boys (somehow working in cahoots to drive me mad without ever formulating a game plan) ratchet up their vexing of me. My younger son put on our dog's leash in an effort to prepare for our walk to school (although HE STILL DOESN'T HAVE HIS SHOES ON). At this point, my older son grabs the leash and proceeds to drag my younger son on the floor. Now, I really lost it. "THAT'S IT," I bellowed, "YOU HAVE BOTH LOST ALL YOUR G-BUCKS! YOU'VE LOST YOUR ALLOWANCE!" I pounded our counter-top for emphasis (The counter-top is very hard; hitting it makes no noise and really hurts, but it seemed like the right move). Even in the midst of my rant, I realized how ridiculous I looked/sounded. So, did my boys, but they had the grace not tell me to my face (why kick a man when he's down?). The yelling does convince them that it's time to actually leave for school. It was now 7:47AM. Sixteen minutes wasted; our leisurely walk to school would now have to be a quick march/slow jog. But we made it to school on time. I admitted, during our walk, that "Daddy got a little hype there, boys. It isn't really fair for me to fly off the handle and take away all your G-Bucks." My older son seemed to appreciate that I was coming back to my senses. "Yeah daddy," he said, "I've done a lot worse and only lost five G-Bucks." I smiled at my older boy. He was right. I looked at my younger son, wondering what I should say to make sure that he wasn't distressed by my outburst. I needn't have worried. He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, "daddy," he said, "isn't it funny in Planet 51 (the movie), when the alien looks at the guy's penis and thinks it's an antenna?" "Yeah, that is funny," I said. We resumed our walking. Ours was a peaceful, but purposeful pace. I wondered why I couldn't maintain a rational/even demeanor in the midst of pre-depart-for-school-madness of morning. For a moment, I wondered if a better father would have acted differently. But this notion didn't last. I took a zen approach to the whole ordeal. Pleasing ascents to the heavens will always be met by the occasional descent back to earth.
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