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.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
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.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Youth Sports Revisited: The Dark Side
This Saturday was another day of athletic excitement in our family. My wife dropped my older son and I off at his game, then took my younger son to his T-Ball game. I, once again, experienced a deep tranquility due to the game. Although this time, our team lost, by a lot. I realized, however, that one of the glories of baseball is that one can excel even if his team is lousy. This hasn't always been true in my sons' athletic experience, but that's another story. So, my son played an excellent game. He was up at-bat two times and got two hits. One was an electric line-drive double to center that drove in a run. In the field, he was a stud. He was the only player on his team to record three put-outs. These came on crisp grounders to short-stop (where my son plays). He cleanly handled the grounders and ran to third twice to beat a runner there. The other time he fielded the ball and raced to second for the out. My pride in my son's athletic achievement is both appropriate and laudable. Such support will, no doubt, build my son's confidence and help him in future endeavors. Sadly, though, my pride (and love/support etc.) probably represents the only laudable thing about me on this game day.
Now, I will examine the Dark Side of youth sports as experienced by me. Primary among the factors that lead me to the Dark Side (and sadly, this happens in just about every athletic venture in which my sons compete) is a feeling of universal injustice. Take last Saturday's game, for instance. The team that we played was HUGE. Clearly, their coaches had a very liberal understanding of the rules vis-a-vis an 8-Under League. The oldest child should be eight to compete in these games, and the opposing team was clearly made up of children older than eight. Their first base-man, for instance, was about 6'2 with a goatee. (He was actually closer to 4'11, but that made him head and shoulders taller than anyone on our team). The opposing team's catcher was not so tall, but he probably weighed as much as four of our players. And you shouldn't picture a jolly, chubby boy, but a solid, lumbering wall of (at least) nine year-old muscle. They had various other players who, although they were only an inch or two taller than our tallest player, were way better than all but a few of our players (yes, my son is one of those few, and, yes, I am vigorously patting myself on the back). The disparity in terms of size (and skill) always leave me feeling cheated by the experience. What does the father of an eight year-old need to do to find a fair game for his child? Sign him up for a pre-school league, maybe. Many could argue that our team needs to practice harder or more frequently (and invest in some powerful growth hormones), but even that might not do the job, so pervasive and complete is the injustice surrounding youth sports
.
I coached my older son's basketball team when he was in first grade and served as an assistant coach this year. Neither experience did much to allay my sense of worldly injustice. Every team that we played was more skilled and much bigger than our team. And basketball is a game in which it is difficult to excel individually if the team lacks the talent to, for instance, move the ball past half-court. This leads to an unhealthy individualism. I would tell my son as we played basketball at home, "your team has difficulty dribbling/passing/shooting/moving without the ball/functioning, so let's work on some individual moves so that you don't have to ever pass the ball." This is not the message that parents should be sending their children. Wouldn't it be better, if one said, "basketball is a team sport; let's work hard to make your team as good as it can be." But I don't say that. And that is one of the dark sides of youth sports. One wants their child to excel (particularly if one spends an inordinate amount of time playing sports with one's child). Less skilled team-mates are an obstacle to this goal. Rather than teaching my older son to work better with his team-mates, I am teaching him ways to succeed despite his team-mates. Luckily, my boys are very sweet. They are not disdainful of less-skilled team-mates and the individualism that I am teaching regarding sports does not spill over into the rest of their lives. But at what point, will this change? When do I need to start a team-focused approach to athletics (even when the team isn't very good)? Maybe we should stick to tennis.
I am not alone in my sentiments. On Saturday, I was standing in our dug-out, watching the game with two other fathers. My older boy scooped a well-hit grounder and turned to throw the ball to the second baseman, who, as opposed to covering second base awaiting my son's throw, was slowly spinning in circles, looking at birds. "At this level, it might make more sense for your son to simply run the ball to the base," a father suggested to me in an even tone. What he was probably thinking, because I know that I was, was 'OUTRAGEOUS!!!! How was the second baseman not covering the base???!!!!!!!????? If he/she wants to spin, he/she needs to spin on their own time. NOT DURING THE GAME!!!!!!!!!!!!!' Another father, describing the strategy employed by his son's basketball team, said, "we would give the ball to my son, and the other players got out of the way." Sounds like I've found a basketball team for next year. Success over team-work. Victories over giving less-skilled children a chance to play. Sounds perfect. Of course, it isn't perfect. But once one's turned to the Dark Side, what can one do?
Another sinister element of Youth Sports concerns time commitment. This doesn't involve the adoption of skewed world-views as discussed earlier. Time-commitment is merely a weight that every parent committed to their children's athletic success needs to bear. Take tennis, for instance. On Tuesdays, I used to take my boys to the 4PM-5PM tennis lessons (for 7-12 year-olds). Yes, you heard that right. My five year-old is in a tennis class for 7-12 year-olds and, again, that is the sound of my patting my back. It was quickly clear that my eight year-old was too good for this group, but the next level class is from 5PM-6:30PM. Did I really want to spend 2 and a half hours watching my boys' lessons? Last week, I did just that. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I had a wonderful time doing it.
As I've made abundantly clear, I love sports. I love playing sports with my boys, and I love watching them play. This requires my becoming invested in youth sports teams. On the surface, one might not consider this a harrowing venture. But such an assumption would be faulty. For, any venture into youth sports requires a visit to the Dark Side.
Now, I will examine the Dark Side of youth sports as experienced by me. Primary among the factors that lead me to the Dark Side (and sadly, this happens in just about every athletic venture in which my sons compete) is a feeling of universal injustice. Take last Saturday's game, for instance. The team that we played was HUGE. Clearly, their coaches had a very liberal understanding of the rules vis-a-vis an 8-Under League. The oldest child should be eight to compete in these games, and the opposing team was clearly made up of children older than eight. Their first base-man, for instance, was about 6'2 with a goatee. (He was actually closer to 4'11, but that made him head and shoulders taller than anyone on our team). The opposing team's catcher was not so tall, but he probably weighed as much as four of our players. And you shouldn't picture a jolly, chubby boy, but a solid, lumbering wall of (at least) nine year-old muscle. They had various other players who, although they were only an inch or two taller than our tallest player, were way better than all but a few of our players (yes, my son is one of those few, and, yes, I am vigorously patting myself on the back). The disparity in terms of size (and skill) always leave me feeling cheated by the experience. What does the father of an eight year-old need to do to find a fair game for his child? Sign him up for a pre-school league, maybe. Many could argue that our team needs to practice harder or more frequently (and invest in some powerful growth hormones), but even that might not do the job, so pervasive and complete is the injustice surrounding youth sports
.
I coached my older son's basketball team when he was in first grade and served as an assistant coach this year. Neither experience did much to allay my sense of worldly injustice. Every team that we played was more skilled and much bigger than our team. And basketball is a game in which it is difficult to excel individually if the team lacks the talent to, for instance, move the ball past half-court. This leads to an unhealthy individualism. I would tell my son as we played basketball at home, "your team has difficulty dribbling/passing/shooting/moving without the ball/functioning, so let's work on some individual moves so that you don't have to ever pass the ball." This is not the message that parents should be sending their children. Wouldn't it be better, if one said, "basketball is a team sport; let's work hard to make your team as good as it can be." But I don't say that. And that is one of the dark sides of youth sports. One wants their child to excel (particularly if one spends an inordinate amount of time playing sports with one's child). Less skilled team-mates are an obstacle to this goal. Rather than teaching my older son to work better with his team-mates, I am teaching him ways to succeed despite his team-mates. Luckily, my boys are very sweet. They are not disdainful of less-skilled team-mates and the individualism that I am teaching regarding sports does not spill over into the rest of their lives. But at what point, will this change? When do I need to start a team-focused approach to athletics (even when the team isn't very good)? Maybe we should stick to tennis.
I am not alone in my sentiments. On Saturday, I was standing in our dug-out, watching the game with two other fathers. My older boy scooped a well-hit grounder and turned to throw the ball to the second baseman, who, as opposed to covering second base awaiting my son's throw, was slowly spinning in circles, looking at birds. "At this level, it might make more sense for your son to simply run the ball to the base," a father suggested to me in an even tone. What he was probably thinking, because I know that I was, was 'OUTRAGEOUS!!!! How was the second baseman not covering the base???!!!!!!!????? If he/she wants to spin, he/she needs to spin on their own time. NOT DURING THE GAME!!!!!!!!!!!!!' Another father, describing the strategy employed by his son's basketball team, said, "we would give the ball to my son, and the other players got out of the way." Sounds like I've found a basketball team for next year. Success over team-work. Victories over giving less-skilled children a chance to play. Sounds perfect. Of course, it isn't perfect. But once one's turned to the Dark Side, what can one do?
Another sinister element of Youth Sports concerns time commitment. This doesn't involve the adoption of skewed world-views as discussed earlier. Time-commitment is merely a weight that every parent committed to their children's athletic success needs to bear. Take tennis, for instance. On Tuesdays, I used to take my boys to the 4PM-5PM tennis lessons (for 7-12 year-olds). Yes, you heard that right. My five year-old is in a tennis class for 7-12 year-olds and, again, that is the sound of my patting my back. It was quickly clear that my eight year-old was too good for this group, but the next level class is from 5PM-6:30PM. Did I really want to spend 2 and a half hours watching my boys' lessons? Last week, I did just that. I am embarrassed to admit it, but I had a wonderful time doing it.
As I've made abundantly clear, I love sports. I love playing sports with my boys, and I love watching them play. This requires my becoming invested in youth sports teams. On the surface, one might not consider this a harrowing venture. But such an assumption would be faulty. For, any venture into youth sports requires a visit to the Dark Side.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Dropping Knowledge
I have already written a post regarding the importance of providing one's child with a well-rounded education. I concentrated on musical education as I earlier did on athletic know-how. But have I missed a larger, more important goal? How does one ensure that one's child is smart? To a great extent, a child's intelligence is probably out of a parent's control. Learning difficulties such as dyslexia or ADHD are often beyond a parent's control. There is a lot, however, that a parent can do to positively affect the chances of one's child being a curious, aware, logical and capable scholar.
To bolster a child's sense of curiosity, it is important to provide him or her with many stimulating experiences that might lead to questions. My boys and I are frequent visitors to the zoo. This is an excellent starting point for the smartening of one's child(ren). There's nothing more satisfying than taking one's three year-old child to the zoo and having him say, "look, daddy, there's the Debrasas Guenon [a type of monkey]," or "look at the ring-tailed lemur, dad. In Madagascar, I bet they're as common as squirrels" or "if I could be any animal, I would be the reticulated python because it is 18 feet long and 180 pounds [big = cool in a boy's world]." So often do my boys and I visit the zoo that the workers at the gate no longer offer us the zoo maps. "Those are just for the average visitors," I tell my boys, "not for true naturalists like us." Occasionally, my boys choose to play in the zoo playground. This only reinforces the utility of the zoo in my mind. Not only is it informative and stimulating, but it provides an outlet for any excess energy that boys so often tend to have. Another excellent aspect to the zoo experience is that it necessitates walking. I've mentioned before my fondness for Animal Planet, but there is nothing like actually exercising while seeing cool animals. I would strongly encourage purchasing a zoo membership. Not only does this facilitate entering the zoo, but it provides cool goodies like a monthly zoo magazine and free tickets for visiting family/friends. Finally, little makes one feel more the naturalist than skipping the long ticket lines to access the animals than doing so via the Zoo Member entrance.
Another potential challenge to building on our children's knowledge-base comes from their relative lack of life-experience. It is difficult to, for instance, explain the notion of diplomacy to a five year-old. A canny parent will deftly side-step such an obstacle, however. To explain the notion of diplomacy, a parent could describe the major themes behind diplomacy: cooperation toward a mutually beneficial goal, accord, respect for the needs of others, peace-keeping, But a parent endeavoring to explain diplomacy thus would run into a major obstacle. The themes upon which diplomacy is built are antithetical to a five year-old who is basically interested in the satisfaction of his needs regardless of means. How to teach diplomacy to a five year-old boy, then? Star Wars. "Remember when Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi visit the trade federation ship in an effort to end the blockade of Naboo?" I said to my son, "that was diplomacy." "Oh right," he responded, "then the Neimoidians tried to poison the Jedi, who responded by killing all the battle droids with light-sabers."
So, it's not a fool-proof means of explaining complex adult notions. But, hey, I got the conversation started, right?
Another invaluable key to the intelligence-building in our children is the internet. As a child, I remember asking my parents countless obscure questions about the world. They always seemed to have a satisfying, informative answer. I, now, realize that they might have been making up a lot of what they said. Usually when my boys ask me such a question (and my boys seem to relish asking question that require an absurd knowledge-base), I can provide a pretty good answer (a so-so answer, anyhow). But usually, I say, "good question. Let's look it up." (I have thus far resisted them temptation to say, "let's google it;" such a response would be unnecessarily nerdy). Google did not exist when I was asking my obscure questions to my parents so, they must have been fudging their answers to some extent. But back to my kids, and making them intelligent. By saying "good question, let's look it up," I am both encouraging their curiosity and assuring that we come to an answer that is most-likely correct (I am aware that Google can occasionally be incorrect).
Books are, obviously, a terrific means of gaining information. For both my boys, the Magic Tree House books by Mary Pope Osborne are excellent in this regard. In each of the books, a brother and sister, Jack and Annie, travel in a magic tree house to different ages or environments to fulfill quests. Whenever they arrive in the the different time/location, Jack and Annie (and thus, the readers) learn facts about historical ages, animals or geographical locations. For instance, in "Good Morning, Gorillas," my boys learned a lot about gorillas. Similarly, they learned a great deal through "Lions at Lunchtime" and "Polar Bears Past Bedtime." My boys often cite Magic Tree-House books when discussing facts about animals. When discussing history, they are likely to cite "Dinosaurs before Dark" or "The Knight at Dawn" or "Revolutionary War on Wednesday." Any discussion of rain-forests is sure to include some mention of "Afternoon in the Amazon." These books are amazing. A first- or second-grader can easily read (and enjoy) them. A preschool or pre-K student can't read them, but would certainly be captivated by the stories. These books are excellent sources of enjoyment/information.
Intelligence (knowledge, curiosity, logic, etc.) is a crucial component to the success of a chid. Helping one's child foster his or her intelligence should be a top priority of any parent. There are many ways to do this. I have offered a few, here. A parent needs to put a positive focus on intelligence whether it be gained through books (Magic Tree House) through experiences (zoos) through the internet or through explanation (via Star Wars).
To bolster a child's sense of curiosity, it is important to provide him or her with many stimulating experiences that might lead to questions. My boys and I are frequent visitors to the zoo. This is an excellent starting point for the smartening of one's child(ren). There's nothing more satisfying than taking one's three year-old child to the zoo and having him say, "look, daddy, there's the Debrasas Guenon [a type of monkey]," or "look at the ring-tailed lemur, dad. In Madagascar, I bet they're as common as squirrels" or "if I could be any animal, I would be the reticulated python because it is 18 feet long and 180 pounds [big = cool in a boy's world]." So often do my boys and I visit the zoo that the workers at the gate no longer offer us the zoo maps. "Those are just for the average visitors," I tell my boys, "not for true naturalists like us." Occasionally, my boys choose to play in the zoo playground. This only reinforces the utility of the zoo in my mind. Not only is it informative and stimulating, but it provides an outlet for any excess energy that boys so often tend to have. Another excellent aspect to the zoo experience is that it necessitates walking. I've mentioned before my fondness for Animal Planet, but there is nothing like actually exercising while seeing cool animals. I would strongly encourage purchasing a zoo membership. Not only does this facilitate entering the zoo, but it provides cool goodies like a monthly zoo magazine and free tickets for visiting family/friends. Finally, little makes one feel more the naturalist than skipping the long ticket lines to access the animals than doing so via the Zoo Member entrance.
Another potential challenge to building on our children's knowledge-base comes from their relative lack of life-experience. It is difficult to, for instance, explain the notion of diplomacy to a five year-old. A canny parent will deftly side-step such an obstacle, however. To explain the notion of diplomacy, a parent could describe the major themes behind diplomacy: cooperation toward a mutually beneficial goal, accord, respect for the needs of others, peace-keeping, But a parent endeavoring to explain diplomacy thus would run into a major obstacle. The themes upon which diplomacy is built are antithetical to a five year-old who is basically interested in the satisfaction of his needs regardless of means. How to teach diplomacy to a five year-old boy, then? Star Wars. "Remember when Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi visit the trade federation ship in an effort to end the blockade of Naboo?" I said to my son, "that was diplomacy." "Oh right," he responded, "then the Neimoidians tried to poison the Jedi, who responded by killing all the battle droids with light-sabers."
So, it's not a fool-proof means of explaining complex adult notions. But, hey, I got the conversation started, right?
Another invaluable key to the intelligence-building in our children is the internet. As a child, I remember asking my parents countless obscure questions about the world. They always seemed to have a satisfying, informative answer. I, now, realize that they might have been making up a lot of what they said. Usually when my boys ask me such a question (and my boys seem to relish asking question that require an absurd knowledge-base), I can provide a pretty good answer (a so-so answer, anyhow). But usually, I say, "good question. Let's look it up." (I have thus far resisted them temptation to say, "let's google it;" such a response would be unnecessarily nerdy). Google did not exist when I was asking my obscure questions to my parents so, they must have been fudging their answers to some extent. But back to my kids, and making them intelligent. By saying "good question, let's look it up," I am both encouraging their curiosity and assuring that we come to an answer that is most-likely correct (I am aware that Google can occasionally be incorrect).
Books are, obviously, a terrific means of gaining information. For both my boys, the Magic Tree House books by Mary Pope Osborne are excellent in this regard. In each of the books, a brother and sister, Jack and Annie, travel in a magic tree house to different ages or environments to fulfill quests. Whenever they arrive in the the different time/location, Jack and Annie (and thus, the readers) learn facts about historical ages, animals or geographical locations. For instance, in "Good Morning, Gorillas," my boys learned a lot about gorillas. Similarly, they learned a great deal through "Lions at Lunchtime" and "Polar Bears Past Bedtime." My boys often cite Magic Tree-House books when discussing facts about animals. When discussing history, they are likely to cite "Dinosaurs before Dark" or "The Knight at Dawn" or "Revolutionary War on Wednesday." Any discussion of rain-forests is sure to include some mention of "Afternoon in the Amazon." These books are amazing. A first- or second-grader can easily read (and enjoy) them. A preschool or pre-K student can't read them, but would certainly be captivated by the stories. These books are excellent sources of enjoyment/information.
Intelligence (knowledge, curiosity, logic, etc.) is a crucial component to the success of a chid. Helping one's child foster his or her intelligence should be a top priority of any parent. There are many ways to do this. I have offered a few, here. A parent needs to put a positive focus on intelligence whether it be gained through books (Magic Tree House) through experiences (zoos) through the internet or through explanation (via Star Wars).
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Renaissance Men
Leonardo Da Vinci exemplified the ideal person, the Renaissance Man. He was extremely well-rounded, skilled in a variety of pursuits: academic, athletic, artistic, and musical. I have already described ad nauseam how I have contributed to the renaissancification of my boys sports-wise. Allow me to describe another facet to the well-roundedness that my wife and I are trying to foster in our boys- music. My older son takes piano lessons, and my younger son has just started the violin. Exposing one's child to music is, of course, a wonderful thing as music lessons benefit the child in many more ways than mere mastery of one instrument. Learning a musical instrument requires discipline, hard work, frustration tolerance, and concentration. Any parent would agree that these are required components for a healthy and successful person. Unfortunately, assisting one's child in learning a musical instrument also requires discipline, hard work, frustration tolerance, and concentration. One could argue that these are required components for a healthy and successful adult, too, but, honestly, don't we have enough on our plate already?
This past Sunday, my boys each had a recitals. They performed well (this is probably more of an accomplishment for my older boy as pre-K students' first recital does not involve any playing of the instrument and only consists of their bowing before the audience). But as I proudly watched my children during the recital, I could not block the memories of helping them get to this point.
My older boy has played piano for two years. He is quite good. This may not be saying much as I am both his father and a totally incompetent musician. However, I can honestly say that he performs well, and his piano pieces sound good. Whenever I see his finished work (i.e. a recital or an impromptu performance at home), I am struck by that old adage "practice makes perfect." Although, I would change the words to "practice is painful." Now, I've got to tip my proverbial hat to my wife, here, because, as a piano player, she handles all practices with my older boy. And handle, really is the appropriate word because she does more than merely practice the music in question. She handles the constant struggles that orbit my son's practicing. "Constant" may be too weak a word to describe the frequency of the aforementioned struggles. They are not merely constant; they are a force of nature as usual and predictable as the rising of the sun. The struggles stared as my son refusing to practice. "I hate piano," "it's stupid," "I stink," were all provided as reasons for not practicing. These struggles were invariably more pronounced early in the week before my son knew the piece that he was practicing. As he gained mastery throughout the week, however, he would practice more readily, eager to display his new-found skills. These struggles remain, today, but there has been a shift in his problems with practice. Currently, he starts playing a song quite well, but misses a note in the middle of the song that totally derails him. There was a character from the Muppet Show (I believe he was called Mr. Music) who perfectly demonstrates my boy's problem. Mr. Music would start to play a song like "Mary Had A Little Lamb," but would always run into problems, forgetting one word. That one forgotten word would so frustrate him that he would pound the piano in frustration. "I'll NEVER GET THIS RIGHT!!!!" Mr. Music would wail, "NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!" His head would then collapse on the keyboard. Like Mr. Music, my son will play wonderfully until he mishits one note in his song. Instead of overlooking the mistake and continuing the song, he become fixated with the error. This fixation never fails to end with my son either pounding the keyboard in frustration with his hands, dejectedly lowering his forehead onto the keyboard, throwing piano book on the ground, screaming 'I'll never get this. NEVER!!" or a mixture of any of these reactions. It seems, that in my child's case, piano is teaching him frustration intolerance rather than tolerance. Still, kudos need to be given to both my son and my wife. Through her patient assistance and his persistence, my boy has become a really good pianist who always performs well in his recitals. Sunday, after he had played the piano wonderfully, my boy and a friend went to the back of the Great Hall (where the recitals occur). My boy sat down in one of the plush chairs. Putting his hands contentedly behind his head, he reclined, beaming. He looked every ounce the don. "This is my domain," his body posture proclaimed, "I rule here." I smiled to myself.
My younger boy has the bad luck of having me as a practice partner. He started violin about two months ago. I have never played violin, but played cello for about a year as a child. (This was not a very successful venture into the world of music. I was fired by the tutor whom my parents had gotten for me.) My younger boy and I have frequent struggles regarding practice. These usually consist of my boy (I've described him as a crafty little guy previous postings) playing me like a fool using a vicious cocktail of passive and active resistance. He's a true master at the body flop. He, and this is really quite a sight to see, manages to stand for a fifteen minute practice without ever really standing at all. His body is in constant motion. He doesn't move his feet really, but he never stands solidly. He is a living, breathing limp noodle, always giving the impression of impending collapse. This makes focussing on the violin difficult for him. It makes keeping my cool hard for me. "Cheese and RIce!" I often will exclaim (see my earlier post on avoiding frequently uttered oaths) "Will you please stand still!!!!!?????!!!!!" When we do start to play the violin, he gets floppy with his bow hand, creating an ear-piercing shrieky sound that nearly brings tears to my eyes. I think he does this on purpose, but I don't really know (one of the signs of achieved psychological attack is making one's victim doubt reality). On the whole, though, our practices go fairly well. For every successful practice (which is every completed practice, in my mind), my boy gets a smiley face on his practice chart. Ten smiley faces equals one prize (he's earned three Tintin books thus far). Our newest hurdle, comes on Wednesdays when we have practice at school with the violin teacher (in a cruel twist of fate, I have to be present for these mental scuffles). My youngest, who started his violin career being very deferential toward his violin teacher, has gotten rather provocative. He does the spaghetti flop with him, refusing to stand straight during rest position. He claims to not know how to do different drills that we have practiced. All in all, he makes a difficult situation a little more difficult. Last practice, the violin teacher assured me that beginning students will try to test the teacher after a few lessons so I shouldn't worry. He also said that the one on one practice format (my child and the teacher) can be a little overwhelming for children. These are all probably true. Such assurances, however, do little to bolster my resolve when I am entrenched in battle position (practicing violin with my boy). In a couple of years, however, I'll look over my shoulder at my younger boy reclining in the back of the Great Hall. By then, he, too, will be a young don. That will make all the pain of practice worth it.
This past Sunday, my boys each had a recitals. They performed well (this is probably more of an accomplishment for my older boy as pre-K students' first recital does not involve any playing of the instrument and only consists of their bowing before the audience). But as I proudly watched my children during the recital, I could not block the memories of helping them get to this point.
My older boy has played piano for two years. He is quite good. This may not be saying much as I am both his father and a totally incompetent musician. However, I can honestly say that he performs well, and his piano pieces sound good. Whenever I see his finished work (i.e. a recital or an impromptu performance at home), I am struck by that old adage "practice makes perfect." Although, I would change the words to "practice is painful." Now, I've got to tip my proverbial hat to my wife, here, because, as a piano player, she handles all practices with my older boy. And handle, really is the appropriate word because she does more than merely practice the music in question. She handles the constant struggles that orbit my son's practicing. "Constant" may be too weak a word to describe the frequency of the aforementioned struggles. They are not merely constant; they are a force of nature as usual and predictable as the rising of the sun. The struggles stared as my son refusing to practice. "I hate piano," "it's stupid," "I stink," were all provided as reasons for not practicing. These struggles were invariably more pronounced early in the week before my son knew the piece that he was practicing. As he gained mastery throughout the week, however, he would practice more readily, eager to display his new-found skills. These struggles remain, today, but there has been a shift in his problems with practice. Currently, he starts playing a song quite well, but misses a note in the middle of the song that totally derails him. There was a character from the Muppet Show (I believe he was called Mr. Music) who perfectly demonstrates my boy's problem. Mr. Music would start to play a song like "Mary Had A Little Lamb," but would always run into problems, forgetting one word. That one forgotten word would so frustrate him that he would pound the piano in frustration. "I'll NEVER GET THIS RIGHT!!!!" Mr. Music would wail, "NEVER!!!!!!!!!!!" His head would then collapse on the keyboard. Like Mr. Music, my son will play wonderfully until he mishits one note in his song. Instead of overlooking the mistake and continuing the song, he become fixated with the error. This fixation never fails to end with my son either pounding the keyboard in frustration with his hands, dejectedly lowering his forehead onto the keyboard, throwing piano book on the ground, screaming 'I'll never get this. NEVER!!" or a mixture of any of these reactions. It seems, that in my child's case, piano is teaching him frustration intolerance rather than tolerance. Still, kudos need to be given to both my son and my wife. Through her patient assistance and his persistence, my boy has become a really good pianist who always performs well in his recitals. Sunday, after he had played the piano wonderfully, my boy and a friend went to the back of the Great Hall (where the recitals occur). My boy sat down in one of the plush chairs. Putting his hands contentedly behind his head, he reclined, beaming. He looked every ounce the don. "This is my domain," his body posture proclaimed, "I rule here." I smiled to myself.
My younger boy has the bad luck of having me as a practice partner. He started violin about two months ago. I have never played violin, but played cello for about a year as a child. (This was not a very successful venture into the world of music. I was fired by the tutor whom my parents had gotten for me.) My younger boy and I have frequent struggles regarding practice. These usually consist of my boy (I've described him as a crafty little guy previous postings) playing me like a fool using a vicious cocktail of passive and active resistance. He's a true master at the body flop. He, and this is really quite a sight to see, manages to stand for a fifteen minute practice without ever really standing at all. His body is in constant motion. He doesn't move his feet really, but he never stands solidly. He is a living, breathing limp noodle, always giving the impression of impending collapse. This makes focussing on the violin difficult for him. It makes keeping my cool hard for me. "Cheese and RIce!" I often will exclaim (see my earlier post on avoiding frequently uttered oaths) "Will you please stand still!!!!!?????!!!!!" When we do start to play the violin, he gets floppy with his bow hand, creating an ear-piercing shrieky sound that nearly brings tears to my eyes. I think he does this on purpose, but I don't really know (one of the signs of achieved psychological attack is making one's victim doubt reality). On the whole, though, our practices go fairly well. For every successful practice (which is every completed practice, in my mind), my boy gets a smiley face on his practice chart. Ten smiley faces equals one prize (he's earned three Tintin books thus far). Our newest hurdle, comes on Wednesdays when we have practice at school with the violin teacher (in a cruel twist of fate, I have to be present for these mental scuffles). My youngest, who started his violin career being very deferential toward his violin teacher, has gotten rather provocative. He does the spaghetti flop with him, refusing to stand straight during rest position. He claims to not know how to do different drills that we have practiced. All in all, he makes a difficult situation a little more difficult. Last practice, the violin teacher assured me that beginning students will try to test the teacher after a few lessons so I shouldn't worry. He also said that the one on one practice format (my child and the teacher) can be a little overwhelming for children. These are all probably true. Such assurances, however, do little to bolster my resolve when I am entrenched in battle position (practicing violin with my boy). In a couple of years, however, I'll look over my shoulder at my younger boy reclining in the back of the Great Hall. By then, he, too, will be a young don. That will make all the pain of practice worth it.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Youth Sports Teams
Last Saturday morning, at about 10:30AM, we returned home from an active morning. I found myself filled with a deep sense of well-being. Imagine the scene. A happy, healthy family exiting their mini-van, entering their lovely house, being greeted by their sweet dog, sauntering into their sun-filled living room (it was actually very cloudy, but I'm trying to set the mood, here), preparing for the other exciting activities that awaited them that day. Idyllic, no? Any one of those realities, by itself, could fill a man with a 'deep sense of well-being.' Yet my satisfaction came from another, equally powerful source. We had just returned from my older son's coach-pitch baseball game. And let me tell you- it was a resounding success. And when I say 'resounding success' in reference to a game that one of my boys has been in, I mean that my boys performed well, very well. What made my joy doubly sweet was the fact that (to make up for the lack of players) my 5 younger, 5 YEAR-OLD PRE-K'er, played, as well. For those of you not in the know, and believe me I pity you, coach pitch is for 1st graders and 2nd graders. T-Ball is the intended forum of the pre-K and kindergardener. But there was my younger son on the field with the big boys (and with a perfect defensive stance, to boot).
The game began slowly. My older boy came up to bat in the bottom of the first (he was hitting CLEAN-UP- oh the joy!) with a man (six year-old) on second. My son hit the ball squarely, but the suspiciously large 3rd baseman caught the ball. After the inning, the father who had been acting as third-base coach remarked on how talkative the third-baseman was. "He told me his whole life story: what foods he likes, his favorite color, that he's been playing baseball for four years." Four years! I thought and began mentally composing my letter of protest to the head of the league (if, indeed, there is a head of the league).
In the top of the second, trouble struck (in the form of the loquacious/cheater third-baseman. He hit a double. On the next play, my older son (who plays short-stop) cleanly fielded a sharply hit grounder and ran to third to force out the runner who was approaching from second. The problem here was that to get a runner out going from second to third, my son needed to tag the runner, not step on the base. It's a confusing rule (my wife was totally befuddled) and an understandable mistake by my son. Still, the next bater drove the runner in with a single to the pitcher's mound. As we entered the bottom of the second inning, our team was losing 1-0. To start out the inning, my younger son came up to bat. As a proud father, I need to remind my readers that this boy is two years removed from being eligible to play in coach-pitch. Not surprisingly, he struck out (but he took some excellent cuts at the ball). The girl after him got a single. "Keep your helmet on," one of the coaches shouted to my younger son, "we need you to run for ____" [the girl who had just singled]. So, my younger son jogged onto first base. My pulse was starting to pound; at the same time, I'm trying to remind myself to be a grown-up; it doesn't matter who wins or loses; it's all about every child doing his or her best; BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. The next batter up singled. My youngest son bravely, and wisely, advanced from first base to third base. Like a mother cheetah watching her cub chase down a gazelle, I watched with pride from our team's bench, admiring my son's graceful/cheetah-like gait (cheetah-like or 5 year-old-like- they're really very similar). The next single brought my son home with the tying run. That single was followed by a double. Men (kids) on second and third. One out. The next batter up strikes out. Up stepped my older son to the plate. Tied game, 1-1. Two outs. DO YOU FEEL THE TENSION? He fouled the first pitch back. His swing was a thing of beauty, but no results. The next pitch. A swing and a miss. Two outs, two strikes, two runners in scoring position. If my boy is to live up to his spot in the batting order, he has got to produce (the clean-up hitter is relied on to get key hits and drive in runs). The next pitch and, pow, the sweet sound of ball on bat. My son hit a laser shot into center field. Running with great intensity, he doubled, driving in both runs. The crowd goes wild (the fictional crowd in my head, anyway. In reality, we have very little fan support- four coaches, two dads, my wife and another mom). The score was now 3-1. One of my boys had scored the tying run and my other boy had a double and two RBIs . Who says that the world isn't a just place? Another single drove in my older boy from second. The next player struck out and burst into tears. I had to admire the intensity, but felt bad for the boy (who sobbed, unabated, and his father who was appropriately if unsuccessfully soothing with a "you'll get 'em next time, slugger" sort speech that was falling on definitely deaf ears.
So, into the third inning we went. Our team's lead 4-1. Coach-pitch games only last three innings. So this was it. We needed to protect our lead with solid defense. Provided by? What can I say? It was a good day, a good life, a just world, but I digress. With two outs and a man (girl) on first and third (it was a boy on third), a ball was sharply hit toward my older son at short. He fielded the ball cleanly, stepped on second (which, because the girl had to run from first, would have been enough for the out) and then proceeded to tag the girl out, too. He made the final out of the game (and did this with great relish, seeming to stare down his adversary (in this case, a slightly chubby, eight year-old girl) after tagging her.
Ah, the elation of sport (of victory, really, but I'm trying to be poetic). The father of the first baseman on my son's team and I had discussed youth sports earlier in the week. We commented on the overriding opinion that youth sports should be concerned primarily with instructing kids and letting them have fun. "Yeah," he said, "but there's nothing wrong with winning and having fun, too." Amen, brother.
The game began slowly. My older boy came up to bat in the bottom of the first (he was hitting CLEAN-UP- oh the joy!) with a man (six year-old) on second. My son hit the ball squarely, but the suspiciously large 3rd baseman caught the ball. After the inning, the father who had been acting as third-base coach remarked on how talkative the third-baseman was. "He told me his whole life story: what foods he likes, his favorite color, that he's been playing baseball for four years." Four years! I thought and began mentally composing my letter of protest to the head of the league (if, indeed, there is a head of the league).
In the top of the second, trouble struck (in the form of the loquacious/cheater third-baseman. He hit a double. On the next play, my older son (who plays short-stop) cleanly fielded a sharply hit grounder and ran to third to force out the runner who was approaching from second. The problem here was that to get a runner out going from second to third, my son needed to tag the runner, not step on the base. It's a confusing rule (my wife was totally befuddled) and an understandable mistake by my son. Still, the next bater drove the runner in with a single to the pitcher's mound. As we entered the bottom of the second inning, our team was losing 1-0. To start out the inning, my younger son came up to bat. As a proud father, I need to remind my readers that this boy is two years removed from being eligible to play in coach-pitch. Not surprisingly, he struck out (but he took some excellent cuts at the ball). The girl after him got a single. "Keep your helmet on," one of the coaches shouted to my younger son, "we need you to run for ____" [the girl who had just singled]. So, my younger son jogged onto first base. My pulse was starting to pound; at the same time, I'm trying to remind myself to be a grown-up; it doesn't matter who wins or loses; it's all about every child doing his or her best; BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. The next batter up singled. My youngest son bravely, and wisely, advanced from first base to third base. Like a mother cheetah watching her cub chase down a gazelle, I watched with pride from our team's bench, admiring my son's graceful/cheetah-like gait (cheetah-like or 5 year-old-like- they're really very similar). The next single brought my son home with the tying run. That single was followed by a double. Men (kids) on second and third. One out. The next batter up strikes out. Up stepped my older son to the plate. Tied game, 1-1. Two outs. DO YOU FEEL THE TENSION? He fouled the first pitch back. His swing was a thing of beauty, but no results. The next pitch. A swing and a miss. Two outs, two strikes, two runners in scoring position. If my boy is to live up to his spot in the batting order, he has got to produce (the clean-up hitter is relied on to get key hits and drive in runs). The next pitch and, pow, the sweet sound of ball on bat. My son hit a laser shot into center field. Running with great intensity, he doubled, driving in both runs. The crowd goes wild (the fictional crowd in my head, anyway. In reality, we have very little fan support- four coaches, two dads, my wife and another mom). The score was now 3-1. One of my boys had scored the tying run and my other boy had a double and two RBIs . Who says that the world isn't a just place? Another single drove in my older boy from second. The next player struck out and burst into tears. I had to admire the intensity, but felt bad for the boy (who sobbed, unabated, and his father who was appropriately if unsuccessfully soothing with a "you'll get 'em next time, slugger" sort speech that was falling on definitely deaf ears.
So, into the third inning we went. Our team's lead 4-1. Coach-pitch games only last three innings. So this was it. We needed to protect our lead with solid defense. Provided by? What can I say? It was a good day, a good life, a just world, but I digress. With two outs and a man (girl) on first and third (it was a boy on third), a ball was sharply hit toward my older son at short. He fielded the ball cleanly, stepped on second (which, because the girl had to run from first, would have been enough for the out) and then proceeded to tag the girl out, too. He made the final out of the game (and did this with great relish, seeming to stare down his adversary (in this case, a slightly chubby, eight year-old girl) after tagging her.
Ah, the elation of sport (of victory, really, but I'm trying to be poetic). The father of the first baseman on my son's team and I had discussed youth sports earlier in the week. We commented on the overriding opinion that youth sports should be concerned primarily with instructing kids and letting them have fun. "Yeah," he said, "but there's nothing wrong with winning and having fun, too." Amen, brother.
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