How Not To Dad: Episode 27 - It's All In The Reflexes

Well it’s soccer season again. Time for us parents to sit in our fold-out chairs and eat popcorn or chips and pretend like we know what we’re talking about when we call out to our kids on the field. Time for us to yell things at them like “Just kick the ball!” or “Pay attention here it comes!” or “Wrong goal! Wrong goal!” in an attempt to confuse them as much as possible. 

Okay, that’s not the intention but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t happen every game. In truth, though, Logan is finally learning the fundamentals. He’s eight years old and has played since he was four, and you can see the wheels turning when he plays now. He’s scored a few times, he hustles more, he knows how to pass and what the difference is between offense and defense. He plays with a little confidence now. He and his age group have also gotten pretty good at kicking the ball, too. 

Kicking it hard.

Which is where my fatherly instincts come in. I sit in my red folding throne like an emperor watching a battle in the colosseum. I nod approvingly when my team scores. I say things like "They're not getting back on defense fast enough," or "They've got to shoot before they get too close to the goal or the goalie will pick it up every time." followed by, ten seconds later, “See? Every time...” (for more on my soccer knowledge credentials, see footnote #1)

I’m already flexing some dad muscles here. Specifically the one I like to call The Commentator, wherein from the comfort of my chair I not only understand the fundamentals and the strategics of the game I’m watching, I magically know how to impart that knowledge onto a player from the far sidelines by barking commands to a kid who in all likelihood can’t even hear me. It’s quite a skill to have.

So I’m lounging there, analyzing the game while my white knees are burning in the brutal Autumn sun, when the capacity for my dad powers are tested. A soccer ball flies toward us, courtesy of an errant kick (kid probably kicked with his toes and not the side of his foot, but that’s beside the point). It bounces once but shows no sign of slowing down.

My daughter is standing in the ball’s path.

I have maybe two seconds. Without even leaving my lounge chair, I lean forward and kick my leg out in front of my daughter like a traffic barricade arm in a parking deck. I have a split second to gauge the height of the ball. I shift my leg up a couple of centimeters.

The wind brushes the hairs on my legs. It’s a southeasterly. I adjust for windage.

 

At the last second the ball strikes my calf a few inches above my sandal and bounces harmlessly away. A chorus of nearby parents praise my heroism. I smile and nod, wave at a couple of them. “Dad reflexes,” I reply. “Just the dad reflexes.” (see footnote 2. Or just ignore it. No need to read it really. LET ME HAVE THIS!)

After all the ooh’s and aaah’s we settle back down in our chairs. I bask in the reverence for only an instant. The boys have played on, and I return my attention to the field. With my daughter sitting safely beside me, it seems I still have a soccer game to analyze….

Moral of the Story: Know your surroundings. Be vigilant. You never know when your child will need you to instantly transfer dad powers from The Commentator to The Bodyguard in the blink of an eye.

Oh, and second moral: Don’t read footnotes.

   

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Footnote #1: I've never played a game of soccer in my life, except for on a school playground.

 

Footnote #2: Okay, so the ball wasn’t really going that fast. If anything it would have glanced off my daughter’s chest and maybe caused her to take a step back. She’d whine for about five seconds and she’d be fine. And really it wasn’t like I reacted with the speed of a striking snake. In fact I’m fairly certain I grunted when I lifted my leg up to block it.

How Not To Dad: Episode 26 - Where is Abby?

Fun fact about me: My attention span can be measured by microscope. You know how you can look forever for your sunglasses and find out after ten minutes of rummaging through your house that they were pulled up on your head the whole time? I've got that beat.

A few weeks ago in a land not so far away...

It was a fine Spring day, warm in the sun but cool in the shade, a deep blue sky overhead carrying a fleet of clouds so white they almost glowed. The kids had soccer games. (Well, "game" might be a stretch for what Abby and her age group are doing. It's more of a boot camp for toddlers. Imagine disturbing an ant hill and then trying to teach each ant how to dribble a soccer ball with the inside edge of their feet, or dodge plastic cones by dribbling around them in a maze, or hop through rings laid out in a specific pattern. That is a toddler "game" of soccer). Before the games, though, the kids were supposed to get their pictures made. It was a frenzy of attempted order that resulted in chaos. Children were scattered across the fields, revolving in ever-widening circles around their parents and trying to break free of their folks' gravitational pull. The parents themselves walked around confused, unsure of which line to stand in. Random kids shouted or cried or laughed. 

As we entered the park I could see several sub-lines that had formed in front of a row of soccer goals. The photographers had set up here. Kids and parents alike were being ushered (herded) through the lines with calm yet firm haste towards the photo lines. Those lines were the end goal, but before that we learned we had to stand in the first line, a big fat snake of a thing that crossed the main walkway from the concession stand and curved into the fields where the cameras awaited.

My wife, who is the force of order and organization in our family, stood silently losing her mind in the chaos from the minute we arrived. Being the force of absent-minded lollygagging, I just stood there watching it all, waiting for our turn. The depths of my (probably diagnosable) ADD are almost boundless, and today those depths sunk even deeper into the abyss. 

Observe the aging gray-headed southeastern moron as he interacts in the wild:

As we stood in line Abby played with another kid on her "team." At one point she took a spill and landed on her butt. She started crying so I picked her up and held her. Several minutes went by, in which Logan tested boundaries by wandering farther and farther from us. With all the commotion going on  I couldn't focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds. My brain was playing ping pong with my vision. The problem was, my eyes were faster than my brain. 

It all happened in less than two seconds.

For one fleeting moment of moronitude (new word; you're welcome), a synapse snapped in my mind. I couldn't see my daughter anywhere! Panic sputtered like a candle flame in my stomach and I said aloud for everyone to hear, "Where's Abby?" I even turned to scan the throng of people. She'd wandered out of my field of vision, I was sure. That's when I noticed the weight in my arm. 

I was holding her.

When my head spun to locate her I found myself face to face with her blue eyes.

"What did you say?" Nikki asked from beside me.

I chuckled. "I said Abby, but I meant Logan. Where's Logan?"

Here's a little secret, though: I didn't mean Logan. Yes, I really did forget for a second that I was holding my own daughter and started to look for her. Yes, for approximately one and a half seconds my brain farted so hard I felt its wind ruffle my hair. Yes, daydreaming all day is probably bad and all those years being absent minded have caught up with me in my old age. 

I'm going to be forty in a few months. I thought my body might at least give me those few months before it started its slow crumble. 

I was wrong.

Moral of the Story: Exercise your mind. Sharpen your focus. Read books, play memory games, be aware of things, don't get old. Most of that's easy to do. 

Or so you would think.

How Not To Dad Episode 25: And All Through The House...

There's a little ritual that my wife and I both take part in. Maybe it's a rite of passage for parents, or a necessary obstacle to try and salvage your sanity in the face of nonstop loud noises, voices, fights, and run-stomping that sounds like a herd of bison tearing through your home and not just two young kids playing. I practice this ritual on the weekend mornings, and my wife does it while Abby naps during midday. 

(Cue the Mission Impossible music)

I swing my feet over the side of the bed and let them sink slowly into the carpet. The first test presents itself. Will the floorboards creak? Doesn't matter, it's a chance I have to take. I stand, putting my full weight on my two feet, and hear only the faintest of sounds of protest from the floor.

Good.

Using the balls of my feet - and my toes for balance - I creep toward the bedroom door. Daylight is already beginning to filter into the room from the window, and my watch reads six-thirty a.m. I have time. Surely I have time.

The hallway presents the biggest challenge. In days past I'd sneak right down the center of the hall, hearing floorboards protest in sounds ranging from short, dry murmurs to shrieks of dumb fury at every other step. Only a few months ago did my wife let me in on a little secret: if you stay near the walls the floor is less likely to creak. 

So that's what I do. I hug the wall like a jumper on a ledge who's had second thoughts. My feet shuffle against the baseboards. The farther I get away from the door at the end of the hall, the more carefree I can be, but it's best not to chance it. Right now it's 6:32 and I have a good fifteen or twenty minutes to myself. Maybe even thirty. Who knows? A man can dream, right?

The call of nature is usually strong in the morning. Luckily a bathroom rests halfway down the hall, on the opposite side of bedrooms. If you're a guy, you're in luck. You can aim. The trick is to not hit the actual water with your stream, or it'll sound like a mini waterfall inside the house. You skirt the water in the toilet, aim for the sides of the bowl. This method will almost eliminate sound altogether from your morning bathroom routine. With that deed done I wash my hands (using the low setting for the sink faucet, allowing only a murmur of water instead of a high pressure blast), and it's time to continue the trek to the ultimate destination: the recliner in the living room. There's only one more stop to make.

I make it into the kitchen. Here, there are two loud sounds that could spell doom for my brief time of solitude. One is the hot water knob at the kitchen sink. For some reason, the knob for hot water lets out its own screech every time you turn it. I'm a lefty and no matter how hard I try to remember to just turn the damn cold water knob with my right hand instead, ol' Mr. Left has a mind of its own and reaches for the closest one before I can stop it. 

Why do I have to turn the water on at all, though, right?

Coffee is why. Without that hot, sweet bean nectar this time alone will mean nothing. It'll be spent trying to clear my head and focus my eyes while a random song plays on repeat in my head (seriously, every morning of my life that I can remember has been accompanied by a soundtrack. Sometimes it's a good one, more often I'm getting Rick-rolled or hearing Baby Shark on a loop). Without coffee I'll sit on the recliner and wonder what day it is until I hear Abby start calling my name. So I have to have coffee. Hence, I have to turn on  the water to fill the pot. 

That brings us to the second loud sound: the coffee maker itself. Granted, it's not too loud, but it still coughs and burps little exclamations of noise into an otherwise quiet house. Add to that my (hopefully dainty) footsteps tip-toeing back and forth to and from the pot, it can be the recipe for disaster. 

I lived alone for several years before I got married. I'm introverted, and alone time was my jam. I like being around people, sure, but I always enjoyed going home and sitting in the silence of my house, watching a movie or playing a video game or reading. 

Now, roughly ten years later, I'm experiencing the flip side of that coin. I wouldn't trade my married life with my kids for anything, but it does not offer an ample amount of time to oneself. I can give up my alone time, but I'm still going to scrounge for little pockets of it whenever I can get it like a druggy jonesing for his next fix.

So I do my little covert waltz through the house. I tip-toe, I wince when my weight causes a snap, crackle or pop, I breathe shallow and slowly ease myself into my recliner. Well over half the time I realize once I've sat down, and once the faux leather has stopped squawking, that I have forgotten the book I was going to read or that my phone is laying on the kitchen island. It requires extra sound to make up for that error. A good rule to remember: Always picture yourself in your spot of rest, doing what you plan to do. What all is around you? What do you need to bring?

In the end my sneaking usually doesn't pan out. Not for any useful length of time, anyway. I may make it a page or two into a book, but inevitably a little voice in the back of the house speaks up.

"Daddy?"

And if you don't answer? If you think Maybe she's still half asleep. Maybe she'll drift off for a few more minutes? Well then the voice gets more assertive.

"Daddy." (No longer a question. A statement, short-clipped, bordering on admonishment.)

...

"Daddy, tum dit me." (Translates into "Daddy, come get me.")

And if I wait too much longer the little voice begins to wail. "I wan' dit outta dis!"

If that voice doesn't speak up first, there's another sound. I'll hear a door open in the hall. A seven-year-old whirlwind will zip toward me, ready to play immediately and fully prepared to send me on a guilt trip if I say no. 

And it's all okay. It's great, even. Alone time can play second fiddle to the boy that spins through the house like the Tasmanian devil or the little smiling girl that calls from the back room. I imagine I'll get my alone time back in some form years from now, and I doubt I'll be looking forward to it so much by then.

Even knowing all that I still sneak alone time when I can get it. Tomorrow I know I'll be back to hugging the wall and slinking my way through the house, avoiding creaky floors and working the coffee pot as if it were a dangerous chemistry experiment, hissing to myself at any noise I make, praying for just a few minutes of solitude before the sounds begin. 

Moral of the Story:  Alone time is great. I mean GREAT. But not as great as spending these younger years with the kids that are literally begging you to notice them at all times. If they interrupt your alone time, give them a pass. Every time. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

How Not To Dad: Episode 24 - Ingenuity

The laws of physics can be cruel. 

I can't dunk a basketball. I can't fly, I can't camouflage myself to blend in with my environment, I can't burn holes through concrete with my laser eyesight. I don't have a single, solitary superpower that I'm aware of (unless you count the ability to smile and nod as if I understand a topic while in a conversation even though my mind is doing cartwheels in the land of make-believe). 

I have, however, developed a decent understanding of the basic laws of physics over the almost forty years I've roamed this earth. On occasion I use that knowledge to my advantage, and harness its power for the forces of good. 

Case in point: Abby and I were in the Dairy Queen drive thru after I'd picked her up from daycare a couple of weeks ago. There are a few toys I have in my car to keep the kids entertained when they ride with me. One is a stuffed Godzilla and the other is a tiny football that fits in the palm of your hand. Abby chose the football as the source of entertainment for the ride home, and that did not bode well for me. Godzilla, destructive as he is, can pass for what Logan would call a "snuggly toy." It's just something soft to hold against you. Abby holds him and plays with him within the confines of her car seat. 

The football is a different story. There is enough college football playing at our house (whenever it's on she points at the screen and yells "Foopah!") for our daughter to understand at least the most basic actions required by the sport.

She knows to throw the ball.

This inevitably leads to a high pitched shriek the minute it leaves her hand. Being strapped into a car seat like a Talladega racecar driver doesn't allow for much of a reach. She throws it, immediately realizes she wants it back but can't reach it, and at least eighty percent of the time I can't get to it myself to hand it back to her. I get to drive the rest of the way home to the song of a mad, whiny toddler.

That night I had made it all the way from town to the Dairy Queen near home without issue. After I'd placed the order with the young lady, I crept forward toward the window to get our food.

Abby let out a whine.

"What's wrong?" I asked in my playful, counter-whine voice.

"Foopah!" Abby responded.

I turn and see the little ball nestled above the middle seat beneath the rear window. It had landed in the perfect location to torment both myself and my daughter. It was within eyesight of her, but just out of reach. With my seatbelt on I couldn't reach it either, and as soon as I tried the car in front of me moved forward and I had to follow the train of vehicles.

"I wan' my foopah!" Abby called.

"I can't reach it, honey. You're gonna have to wait a minute."

Good thing my daughter is extremely patient, right? 

Wrong.

"I WAN' MY FOOPAH!"

I try to reach for it again. No dice. By that time I had gotten to the window and had handed the girl my debit card. An unreasonable yet determined wave of anxiety washed over me. I didn't have time to unbuckle. The minute I did and worked around to a kneeling position in the driver's seat (assuming I could even achieve this without causing a scene with my ass bumping into the horn on the steering wheel or something) she'd be back to hand me my card and my food. She'd have to watch me awkwardly shift and struggle while the car shook with my efforts and my daughter screamed for her foopah in the background. I wasn't having it.

"I can't reach it yet Abby." Used her actual name that time. Hopefully that would let her know I meant business.

"I.. WAN'... MY FOOPAH..." The tears began. 

Anxiety and frustration buzzed like the whine of a half dozen mosquitos hovering just outside my ear.

The worker handed me the food and the debit card. I took a quick glance at the rearview mirror and noted there was only one other car behind me, and they were still placing their order. My focus changed to the little red ball taunting me at the edge of the seat. Abby's hand reached out for it periodically.

And that's when I knew what I had to do.

It's funny how stress forces answers into your brain. Maybe they aren't the smartest answers, but when you're back's against the wall your brain starts pulling from any available experience or bit of half-baked intelligence you might possess. You start calculating, running risk analyses, taking complete stock of your surroundings and making decisions in rapid fire succession.

I was not going to listen to my daughter whining for the rest of the ride home. 

My idea was a simple one. I crept the car forward until I was out of the way of the drive thru window. I looked left, I looked right. Satisfied, I nodded to myself.

I stepped on the gas, the force of acceleration pushing me back against my seat for a second or two, and then I immediately hit the brakes.

The change in force pushed me forward. Abby, strapped firmly into her car seat, probably felt nothing. The football shot forward and hit the back of the console near my elbow with a satisfying thud. I reached back, grabbed the ball that was now easily within reach, and handed it to my fussing daughter.

I reveled in my victory for a moment, thinking of how ingenious the solution had been. I held a half smile on my face for roughly the next minute and a half...

Until she threw the damn ball again.

Moral of the Story: I don't know. Just don't give your kid something that they feel inspired to throw when on trips in the car. You won't always be able to harness the power of physics to help.

How Not to Dad: Episode 23 - Hey Jerk, Get Off Your Phone!

I don't usually consider myself a millennial even though I think I technically fall into that category, at least by some estimations. I was born in '81 and was privileged to be part of the generation that sort of got the best of both worlds, as far as kids' interests go. I'm old enough to have spent the majority of my childhood days outside playing with sticks and pine cones, exploring the woods, and riding my bike all over the place, but my later childhood also saw a boom in technology. Namely, video games and VCR's. As I got older and technology continued to grow, I was part of the generation that first began to carry cell phones (albeit it was the size of a small brick, with a six inch retractable antenna, and came with a stern warning from my mother of "Do not use unless it's an emergency, each minute costs money."). 

Cell phones advanced, and I was in my early twenties when text messaging exploded. You could text all you wanted, too! As long as the person you were texting was using the same phone service, that was. Otherwise you had to wait until after nine o'clock for free texting. Unlimited nights and weekends!

Basically I became a young adult right as the flashy cell phones with all the little bells and whistles were being marketed towards people in my demographic. Soon came smart phones and social media, Youtube, and all the rest. No longer would I have to sit bored in a waiting room. No longer would I be bored waiting for anything, really, as long as I had that phone. Untold thousands (or millions?) of apps were available, giving me endless ways to amuse myself in my down time. I could read books on my phone. I could play games, use a calculator, talk to friends, shop online, listen to music, look up which actor played in what movie, learn about the Cuban Missile Crisis if I wanted. The possibilities were endless.

How easy it is to get addicted to something like that.

Today a cell phone for most people is pretty much a part of their wardrobe. I'd no sooner forget mine than I would my car keys. What if I need to get in touch with someone? What if my car breaks down or I have a flat tire? What if the school needs to get in touch with me about one of the kids? What am I going to look at while sitting at lunch? If I'm sitting on my bed at night, it's beside me or in my hands. My hands reflexively reach for it whenever I sit still for too long, or if I feel the slightest bit bored. 

The glaring, obvious problem with all of this is that it draws you away from the present. You spend your time staring at that glowing rectangle instead of interacting with the people around you. My son, God love him, called me out on this in the most subtle yet effective way just the other day.

Earlier that night he'd made a plan. I was supposed to go with him to his room when it was time for Abby to go to bed. We were going to hang out in there for fifteen minutes before it was his bedtime.

We were all sitting on the bed in our master bedroom, and the time came. Logan stood up.

"Let's go," he said.

I stood and immediately reached for my phone.

Logan saw this and murmured under his breath, "Why do you always have to bring that?"

I think he said it mostly to himself, more of a frustrated statement than a question meant for me. I slid the phone in my pocket, and as it dropped heavily and bumped the side of my leg, a matching thud of guilt hit home inside. Why was I bringing my phone? What purpose would it serve if the fifteen minutes Logan was requesting was meant for bro time? The more I thought about it, the more I realized grabbing my phone was a dick move. 

To my credit the phone stayed in my pocket during our hangout time that night. That's not always the case, though, even now. The phone creeps back in. There's a horror movie idea in here somewhere, I just know it. Some half-sentient phone that longs to be human, and it's got some creepy fetish about always wanting to be cradled in a human palm. Keeps finding ways to subtly crawl back into your hand.

Okay so it's a B-movie.

Moral of the Story: If your kids are annoying you while you look on your phone, there's a good chance that you are the annoying one. Put the phone down, ya jerk! Cell phones are fun but at the end of the day they're a tool and nothing more. They aren't friends or family, and can never take the place of them. Even if they are soul-starved, half-alive beings intent on taking over humanity, or creepy little robot kinksters that just want to be held all day.

How Not To Dad: Episode 22 - The Slow-down Period

My brother and I are sitting outside on his patio furniture. One of his teen daughters sits across from us, not paying us any attention. The other is in town with her new boyfriend. We turn our attention to my daughter, just two years old and crawling around on the outdoor sofa beside her cousin.

"It goes by so fast." My brother says, and there's a bitterness in the way he says it. There's passion and sincerity too, but more than anything else there's a palpable sense of longing. 

How many times had I heard a parent say that over the years? How many times had I (at least inwardly) rolled my eyes at the thought, shrugged it off as something adults say to pass the time like talking about the weather? 

Now a father myself, I know exactly what that statement means. It's a warning. It's an attempt to alert us new parents that this won't last forever, that you need to hold tight to your kids now and treasure every moment - even the frustrating ones - because it will one day be gone and you'll be begging for it back again. 

It's also, I think, a plea. It's begging time to slow for just a little while, maybe give us a rewind button so we can hold our kids again after they've grown too large for such things. It's the thought that maybe, just maybe if we say it enough, somehow we will be transported back to a time before the world drew them away from us, a time when we were everything to them. 

When we were most important.

The irony is that as a parent of two young children, I already know this. I know it and despite that knowledge I let the time pass by anyway. I get tired of their energy, I get bored with the things they want to watch on TV (darn you Blippi), I want to scroll on Facebook or work on some stupid blog (hehe) in my spare time instead of watch Logan furiously clack two action figures together as they "fight" or listen to "Wheels on the Bus" for the three-hundredth time with Abby.

Labor Day Weekend: I spent most of the long weekend hanging out with Nikki and Abby. Logan was at his dad's for the weekend. We had Abby's 2nd birthday party, which Logan did attend. We didn't do much otherwise, mostly sat on the bed and watched Abby's little sing-along videos on Youtube, and walked in the park a couple of times. An unproductive weekend, really. But, as I handed my daughter over to her mom Tuesday morning, as I watched her little face bouncing to the cadence of Nikki's footsteps while being carried toward the car, that feeling hit. Most parents know the one. A heavy, sinking feeling. Longing. Knowing that time is perpetually changing, always moving forward, and all we can do is smile and wave as it walks out the door. I found myself hearing, of all things, a country song that gets me every time I hear it (despite the fact that it's corny as hell and I would have laughed it off the radio when I was younger, before I had kids) called "It Won't Be Like This For Long." 

I remember a story my mother told me about when my oldest brother started school. I'm probably going to mangle this a little bit, but it went something like this: She dropped my brother off that first day and watched him walk up the steps to the door. When he got to the door he turned and looked at her for a few seconds, and then walked inside. I don't know if my mom had a job at that time, but I have to assume she spent the majority of the first years of my brother's life at his side. Then one day she had to turn him over to school. When they looked at each other that morning they must have both known that this was the end of an era, that things were moving on.

The reason I remember her telling this story is because she went with him when he moved into a dorm in college some twelve years later. She sat in her car and watched him walk toward the building (I'm assuming the dormitory), and just before he went in he turned and looked at her just like he'd done on that first day of school. They waved at each other as the car pulled away. The end of another era. That brought all the memories flooding back to her, and I imagine the dam broke then. 

And now my brother is in her shoes, watching his oldest working a job and going to college, while his youngest is inching towards graduation from high school next year. I guess one day if all goes as planned I'll be doing the same when my time comes. By my calculations I have eleven years before that day for Logan and sixteen years for Abby. The circle keeps turning. I believe there's a song on The Lion King that says something about this whole mess.

When you're a parent the majority of your life revolves around your kids. Most of the time it feels like you're running a losing race, trying to get too much done in too little time. You get home from eight hours of work to discover your kid has homework and they need your help. Homework, dinner, baths, and by then it's bedtime. Repeat the cycle tomorrow. And the next day. When you get a few days extra, like a Labor Day weekend, the race stops for a bit. You get a slow-down period. You can take a few breaths and actually spend time with your family without succumbing to the routine you know is waiting on idle just around the bend.

That's why I had the sinking feeling the morning after Labor Day, I think. I had an extra day of quality time with Abby.  In those times I get to marvel at the person my daughter is becoming. I get to hear her talk with an ever expanding vocabulary that surprises me every day. I get to watch her explore and learn. I get to see her growing before my very eyes, and because of that time sort of slows down, if only for a few moments. It's only time enough for me to recognize that it's happening. Then it's back to work and school, back on the tracks we've constructed that carry us efficiently through our weekday lives. When Nikki and Abby left that morning they carried the slow-down period with them, and now its back to the races. Until the next one I'll only catch glimpses of how quickly she and Logan are growing, how smart they're becoming, how they're turning into little people. I'm already ready for the next slow down.

Moral of the Story: I guess it's obvious. Take note of the extra time with the kids. Cling to it, immerse yourself in it, squeeze it tight even though it'll slip through your fingers anyway. In the end you'll still be saying "It goes by too fast," but every bit of slow-down helps. 

Look at me, being all philosophical.

How Not To Dad: Episode 21 - The Ties That Bind

I've forgotten a lot about what it feels like to be a kid, but one thing I do remember is how easy it is to be embarrassed in front of other kids. I also remember how you can hear someone say something, even if it's just an off-hand remark, and take it to heart without the speaker having any idea they've just rocked your world.

I screwed up the other day.

It all started two years ago, when Logan was four and my wife and I decided we'd get the jump on teaching him to tie his shoes. Logan's a smart kid, and we figured he'd take to it and have it figured out in an afternoon. A weekend, at most. We sat down with him, sat a shoe in his lap and went through the motions of tying one of his shoes while he followed along. I tried to show him the way I learned, and it went something like this:

    "Okay buddy, make an X with the strings. Now wrap the top one around the one on bottom, and pull both ends. No, not like that.  That's not the top one, is it? There, that's the one. Loop it over the other one, tuck it back under, and pull."
    Logan pulls and the strings come apart; he sighs.
    "Nope. Try again."
    He tries again and pulls the strings apart again. My blood pressure is like that stupid yodeler on the Price Is Right. The little bastard is climbing the mountain past ever increasing blood pressure values. 130/82.... 135/85... 141/90... 155/95. Yodel-oh-ee-dee. Logan tries again and barely gets the first part of the knot to work.

    "Good! Good! See? This is easy, right? Now, make a loop."
    He stares at me.
    "Remember? Like this." I take the string and make a loop. "Now wrap the other string around the loop, but leave a little room at the bottom."
    He stares at me. Diddly-odel-oh-ee-dee...165/98... 170/100...  I do it for him.
    "Okay now push the other string through the space at the the bottom, pull the loop through, and..."
    He pulls the wrong string and it all unravels. He huffs. We repeat the process five or six more times with the same results. Yodel-oh-ee-dee-ayee. Here comes the cliff edge. 180/105... 185/108... 
    "I can't do it!" He yells.

    The yodeler goes off the cliff.

It wasn't so much that he wasn't grasping the concept (which he wasn't), but that it was hard as hell to try and explain how to tie a knot to a four-year-old. Eventually Nikki and I - and Logan too, I think - got too frustrated and decided on the simple, kick-the-rock-down-the-road solution.

We bought him Velcro shoes. 

Two years and two pairs of Velcro shoes later Logan was prepared to enter second grade and still didn't know how to tie his shoes. Enough was enough. Armed with the knowledge that this was going to be monumentally harder than we'd anticipated two years ago, we searched for some teaching aids. There is a video on Youtube that shows how to tie a shoe in an infinitely easier way than I had learned back in the mid eighties (I posted it below, for the parents who are currently living this nightmare). Nikki, Logan and I watched the video and he exclaimed "That's easy!" and asked for his shoe.

    

Hey, guess what? It wasn't easy. The video is extremely helpful - I'd recommend it to anyone - but seeing and doing are two different things. The strings of his new shoes were made of a material that does not lend itself to tightening easily into knots. It wasn't elastic enough, I think. 

When we started I was patient. I probably deserved a medal for how calm and understanding I was in those first five minutes. I was certain we were about to have this problem solved. I watched Logan leaning over his shoe, carefully working the shoestrings one over the other, and every time he tried it would fall apart in front of his face.

"It's alright," I'd say, and each time Logan's breathing would get heavier as if he were revving up some internal engine. "Try again." I punctuated each mistake with statements like "Don't rush" and "It's okay you're doing fine."

The frustration began welling up in him as time after time the knot unraveled in his hands. Less than ten minutes in, Logan exploded.

  

"I can't do it!" He yelled.

"Yes you can. Try again."

Remember the yodeler from before? That guy was back, and he began his ascent of Mount Blood Pressure.

I guided Logan as best I could. Eventually  after a lot of anger and frustration, things began to turn around. He made the first part, the pretzel, flawlessly. He got to the second pretzel, made it, and prepared for step three, the loops. The loops always foiled him. His fingers grabbed the loops, pulled outward, and the strings slipped like limp noodles out of the knot.

Logan growled. Seriously, growled like a wolf. "I can't do it!" He yelled again, and the tears came.

Yodel-oh-ee-dee.

"I know you can do it." I went through the whole diatribe about how smart he was and how easy this would seem once he gets it right. 

Logan wasn't buying it. He clammed up with his arms folded. I was agitated myself, in part because now he was so mad he was trying to mess it up. I was more mad though because I couldn't really tell him what he was doing wrong. My agitation grew as his did.

And then I screwed up. 

Out of my own frustration I said "Do you want to be the only kid in second grade who can't tie his shoes? Do you want to be made fun of?"

It just popped out. I didn't think he'd even heard it, to be honest. I figured he was so mad he wasn't hearing anything.

Two days later we were getting ready for work and school and Logan was still struggling with his shoes. I heard him lose his temper and then I heard crying. I walked into the kitchen where Logan sat on the floor with his shoes untied.

  

"What's wrong?" I asked, knowing damn well what was wrong.

Nikki walked up to me and, out of earshot of Logan, said "He's afraid the kids will make fun of him because he still can't do it."

It hit home.

At that point I became the Incredible Shrinking Man. The Hubble telescope wouldn't have been able to see me if it had been hovering outside my own front door, I felt so small. 

I couldn't stop thinking about Logan that day. I thought about what it was like to be a kid. I remembered feeling confused a lot. Not intelligent enough, not fast enough or tall enough or thin enough or whatever other "enough" that people try to use to measure a person's worth. If I recall correctly I was one of the last in my class to learn how to tie shoes. I don't know why my mind held onto this, but I remember holding a paper cutout of a shoe with holes punched in it, and laces looped through the holes like a real shoe. We were supposed to tie them in class, and I had to whisper to a friend to help me because I couldn't do it.

When you're a kid you're still trying to find your place in the world. A lot of it doesn't make sense (hell, it still doesn't as an adult) and sometimes it's scary or uncomfortable or lonely or confusing. To this day I sometimes have this suspicion that everyone but me is in on some sort of understanding about life that I'm not privy to. Maybe we all have that, though, and some people are just really good at hiding it. Or maybe that suspicion comes from my own inadequacies, perceived or actual. I'm not sure but I can say this, though. However frustrated I get, I will never again suggest that fear of shame or embarrassment is a good motivator to learn how to do something. It's hard enough to get along in the world without having to worry whether or not you measure up to someone else's idea of what you should be.

Well that got deep, didn't it? Sort of like a closing monologue on an episode of The Wonder Years. Read it in a Daniel Stern voice, if you don't mind.

Moral of the Story: 

1) Kids hear what you say more than you think they do.

2) Self esteem is more important than aptitude. There is a quote usually attributed to Albert Einstein that says that everyone is a genius, but if you judge a fish by his ability to climb a tree, he'll live his whole life believing he's a failure. Whether Einstein said it or not, it's something to think about.

Read that in a Daniel Stern voice too. In fact, read all these posts in a Daniel Stern voice. Those vocal chords are a national treasure.