Hot Reads and Negative Takes

The 2019 college football national championship game was a major letdown.  Not only was it not remotely competitive, it was decided by the end of the first half.  Unless you were hoping for the Alabama comeback that never materialized, or can’t get enough of watching Nick Saban’s nose rubbed raw, you likely checked out well before the final became official.  Sure, Clemson fans were all-in, and why shouldn’t they be?  They have cause for celebration.  But the rest of us were just hoping for a good game, regardless of outcome.

When the game itself is more dud than dynamite, the hot reads and negative takes adjust accordingly. Last night was no different.  The target dujour is the halftime show; more specifically the featured act: Imagine Dragons.  The vitriol was as vicious and narrow-minded as it was predictable.  One could argue there was even some truth to the critiques.  Imagine Dragons is legitimately bubble gum, and currently being consumed by audiences much younger than I am, and at a pace envied by many, including yours truly.

I’m reminded of something Bob Costas once said about baseball’s aging fanbase.  His argument was merely that hardcore and diehard fans shouldn’t be catered to.  While our needs and concerns shouldn’t be ignored, they shouldn’t drive the decision making, because we are already all-in.  We show up en massé even when the product is subpar, because quitting cold-turkey is an empty threat.

Attracting new fans from different demographics often requires catering to them, even if it’s only in a small way — which brings me to the halftime show.  My children are currently eleven and nine and their football fandom is marginal at best, yet they always watch the Super Bowl Halftime Show, and by extension, the Super Bowl itself.  This is because the NFL understands its longterm health depends on casual fans tuning in with regularity.

That’s how it was last night.  Marginal as their football fandom may be, they watched the game with bated breath, eagerly anticipating the moment Imagine Dragons took to the stage and made magic.  They sang along.  They danced.  They messaged their friends.  The music of Imagine Dragons is not for me, but it was never meant for me, nor any number of you so quick to post your sensational takes and angry rants.

The halftime show is an afterthought to the hardcore football fan, and networks know it.  This doesn’t (nor am I implying that it should) invalidate anyone’s dislike of Imagine Dragons or their halftime performance.  Art is assessed subjectively, and there’s nothing disingenuous about how it makes you feel (your opinion on the matter may even be shared by many).  But consider this: today there are discussions in grade schools and middle schools and high schools and beyond about the college football national championship game that have nothing to do with the one-sided nature of the contest.  They’re taking place in new circles because Imagine Dragons performed at halftime, because the halftime show was meant for them.

Parade of Pools

When you’re always the smallest or seemingly always among the smallest, you understand one reality: whenever bullies’ lives intersect with yours, they will make a target of you.  Few arenas exist in childhood where is this more true than in a swimming pool.  I’m not saying there aren’t better examples, but the pool has the added element of death as an endgame merely for the amusement of the insecure (albeit physically strong).

Insecurity is at the heart of a bully’s psyche.  Do they take on someone they perceive to be a real threat?  No. In fact, when someone answers the challenge, more often than not, they are prone to wilt; to falter.  If they are so confident, they wouldn’t be following what they perceive to be the path of least resistance by targeting someone half their size.

When you’re small, you endure abuse from all sides.  Rarely do we have the advantage.  Because of this reality, you develop a knack for sizing things up and maximizing your opportunities.  Those who never had to develop this ability out of pure necessity may marvel at such quick thinking, but in reality, there’s not much to tell.  We have one, perhaps two advantages of ten possibilities and are hoping to be close enough to even to make it count in another, while falling well short elsewhere.

At first, you are easily cornered, unsure of what is coming, yet certain it’s bad because the fear is crippling.  Whether the bully is drunk and irrationally angry, or merely another victim perpetuating the cycle, the first time never goes well for us.  We are the victim.  And as a society, we sure love to blame the victim.  Grilled over the lack of any meaningful action to change our circumstances, we are made to feel shame for such inadequacies.

Then there’s the swimming pool.  In the shallow end, most of you is under water, whereas most of them isn’t.  It didn’t take long to figure out with whom to always maintain a safe distance unless you wanted to puke water.  Any proximity had to be in deep water, and always with an eye out, and only if you’re a strong swimmer.  You also learn the cardinal rules of splash fights: never start them (because that only invites challenges and you’re still small), always finish strong (even in a losing effort; regardless of how one-sided), and never engage in the shallow end unless you have the always-advantageous high ground.

The problem with splashing are the laws of physics. The bigger you are, the bigger you splash with ease, and the easier you consistently splash big.  But there’s a price to pay to move that mass: big guys tire.  Why do featherweights throw more punches per round than heavyweights?  Because they can ... and more importantly, the heavyweights cannot.

When you’re the wiry, country strong kid that I was, endurance is your ally.  I learned that while I couldn’t match one of their single splashes with one or two (or even five) of my biggest splashes, I could match them 20-1 and overwhelm them with volume.  In the deep end, I could easily stay afloat and out of reach and splash back with seemingly limitless volume while they struggled with fatigue.  And if I had high ground in shallow water, I could win convincingly.  I’d be lying if that didn’t inflate the ego at least temporarily, but the reality is if I showed I had enjoyed it at all, or gloated even a bit, I’d be inviting more trouble — which I wanted no part of.

I’m reminded of an epiphany I had when I was a teenager.  My eighty-five pound hound dog was after the cat.  I’d seen it so often before that I wasn’t paying it much mind.  Dogs (especially hunting dogs) chase cats and this cat had a knack for reaching trees — except he didn’t this time.  I saw the cat size up his options and make a split-second decision: he couldn’t reach the tree in time so why waste the energy?  There’s no need to waste anything on acts of futility.  Instead, he stood his ground, drew his claws and made a stand.  Thankfully, I was there and was able to spare the cat from a terrible fate, but I couldn’t help but admire his courage.

I’ve always been more of a dog person than a cat person myself, but in that moment, I could identify with the cat much more than the dog.  Despite his 8-1 size deficit, he was willing to suppress his fears and charge forward, face first.

Much like the Slytherins in the Harry Potter series, cats are often given a bad rap.  “Scaredy cat” belies the reality the same way the Slytherins are dismissed as cowards: they size up their options and press their best advantages, regardless if that means running.  Much like cats, the best of the Slytherins run when they’re overmatched and think they can get away.  When they know they can’t get away, they stand their ground, and you should expect their best shots.

There’s an undeniable nobility in facing such circumstances with unyielding tenacity.  And yet there’s the reality of it: do nothing and you end up a victim again, or do something and perhaps get lucky.  I’ve done something and gotten lucky.  Unfortunately, getting lucky never seemed to be the norm, but the mere opportunity to change my fate beat the hell out of being a victim every time.

Reflections and Echoes

Memories are often things we store without trying.  Our minds implicitly record certain events out of joy or fear or necessity as we may need these reminders to survive a future predicament.  For example, everyone seems to remember their bully.  This memory tends to be vivid.  We may not recall the finer points of interactions, but this bully is burned into our subconsciousness as a mortal enemy not to be taken lightly.  Whenever we encounter anyone who emulates that bully's behavior, we instinctively put up our guard and prepare to implement countermeasures.  This is the instinct we cannot turn off because it helps us survive.

The other type of memory is the result of a conscious effort.  An example of this would be remembering lines for a play or performance, or while studying for an exam.  Explicitly committing things to memory results in something that never seems quite as anchored as the implicit variety.  Yes, we remember that we took algebra, but decades removed, can we resolve even the most basic algebraic equation?  How about all of those fascinating history lessons?  Does anyone recall where the Summer Olympics were held in 1936 or who the American President was in 1955?  Explicit memories are even easier to discard in The Internet Age given how mature search engines are.

Implicit and explicit memories vary in depth and clarity from person to person.  Some are able to actively memorize better than others, mastering that new song verbatim prior to our peers to earn some fleeting street credit.  Others excel in the classroom without any real effort, absorbing data with nearly photographic quality.  Given the choice, most would rather be able to absorb information automatically, but have they considered the consequences?  Implicit recollection that approaches a photographic quality is a rare gift more akin to a double-edged sword than a golden goose.  Not only are you unable to choose what you recall, you are unable to choose what to forget.

Fatherhood has forced me to confront that double-edged sword.  Benign activities by my children can trigger the most vividly painful recollections of long-buried memories.  As much as I am unprepared for these in the moment, I am grateful as they remind me that my actions toward my children, as well as my actions around them, have ramifications.  

While it's clear to me that my parents never bothered to consider potential consequences prior to following any path, that hasn't prevented me from facing the ramifications of their decision making many years later.  The resentment they felt toward their parents was irrelevant once they became parents themselves.  Their selfish actions conducted in the here and now always outweighed any potential long-term outcomes.  My feet hurt me to this day because I was constantly wearing shoes that were too small for my ever-growing feet, yet my mother always had a new car (among other things), and my father always had a bottomless supply of alcohol.

I still see their shadows when I look in the mirror, but I don't see their reflections.  Despite the genes we share, my parents and I are nothing alike.  This is how I prefer it, because I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror today, and tomorrow as well.  I want to know that my behavior today isn't a source of pain and sorrow for my children tomorrow.  I want my children to be their own person, but out of love and understanding, not pain and fear.  I sat and wondered as I watched them opening presents one Christmas morning, whether my efforts were in vain.

"YES!!!"  Exclaimed my then-seven-year-old son, holding up large, intricate Star Wars Lego sets enthusiastically, while grinning ear to ear.  "Daddy, we need to put these bad-boys together!!!!  You can help me do it!!"

"Yes, we do!  I'd love to!"  I responded, knowing I'd mostly be a spectator despite the age recommendation being above his actual age.   

He didn't need me there; he wanted me there.  Behavior is a product of perspective.  If using 90s slang is the worst of my behaviors that he is going to emulate, it's a perspective I can live with, and with a little luck, this will become an implicit memory for all the right reasons.

Eventfully Redefined

For those who celebrate them, birthdays are often the source of our most vivid memories.  If you happened to have a lot of good or bad fortune on a single birthday, you may grow to associate an anecdotal causality with birthdays in general.  When this happens, it can end up creating eager anticipation or foreboding dread on an annual basis.

Perhaps the only reason you bother to recall a specific event is because it happened on your birthday; a moment you would have otherwise dismissed had it been any other day.  Because of the significance we place on the day, these memories often end up being the stories we tell and retell out of our fondness of them, while others are ingrained for all the wrong reasons (like the ones that resemble a Spanish Novela).  And then there are the days everyone has had from time to time (and I don't just mean birthdays), where nothing seems to go according to plan no matter how much effort you exert in trying to right the ship.

We should have known this was never going to be our best day.  It was my wife's birthday and I was driving her to see the allergist, because when you're a parent, your birthday is just another day in which obligations need to be met.  The only thing is, this wasn't the sort of day anyone could have planned for.

On the way to my wife's allergist appointment, an accident on the freeway completely halted traffic.  In some cities, you can transition to an alternate, albeit less desirable, freeway route — just not in our city.  I would not normally need to take such a trip with my wife, but her previous allergy test had her dealing with low blood pressure on the return drive home (less than ideal when traveling at freeway speeds).  Luckily, I know my way around and was able to get off the freeway and seamlessly snake my way to the office in time for my wife's appointment.

Knowing ahead of time that it would be a long appointment, I dropped her off and ran an errand.  While running my errand, the battery indicator in my instrument cluster suddenly became active — not a good sign on a low mileage vehicle.  Although the light remained on, I ran my errand and parked the car normally.  In turning it off, I was hoping to be able to dismiss the light as a glitch that would correct itself with a power cycle ... except this was a motor vehicle, not a computer.

When I started the car to return to our allergist's office, the battery light was off.  It was a fluke, I told myself.  There was nothing to worry about until the light reappeared just as I was about to reach the allergist.  I parked out front on a busy street, careful to turn off all electronics, knowing full well that an alternator or battery replacement was likely.  We just need to get home.

Considering the only ramp access to the office was in the back of the building, I decided to hang out in the car until my wife was finished with her appointment.  As the minutes started to add up, my wife sent me a text message: 

"maybe you should come inside as I may be here awhile due to my reactions."

Allergy testing is so medieval.

Instinctively, I notify her that I'll move the vehicle closer to the ramp in the back — except I cannot.  Instead, I sent a text advising that we will be hanging around for awhile longer, waiting for a tow, because the car was completely dead.  So much for returning home in time to join the kids for lunch at school.  At least we will be back in time for my daughter's special presentation ...

When I called my insurance for a tow, they decided to change the rules of the engagement after the game was already afoot: my free towing service (that I pay extra for) now costs $100 because I wanted to be towed home where I had a running vehicle, and not to a shop where my car would have to be parked overnight before it could be serviced the following day.  It was completely normal to them to leave us thirty-five miles from our home and our children as well as with no means of getting there.  If anything, they knew that and took advantage, squeezing us for all they could get.  At least the tow would be prompt.  I supposed that was something positive.

Apparently, thirty minutes in insurance-talk is actually two hours in real-time, because that's when the driver showed up.  He was so young, I wasn't sure he was old enough to legally drive a vespa, much less a tow rig.  He was chipper and enthusiastic and completely oblivious to the fact that my wife and I were silently wondering whether or not he owned a razor.  

On the drive home, my wife was passing out, succumbing to the copious amounts of histamine blockers in her system.  Partially to fill the air and partially to ease the tension, I made small talk with the driver.  At one point, the conversation led him to relate a story of a local driver from a rival outfit that decided to save time by not bothering with secondary tie-downs, thinking the primaries would suffice.  Naturally, the primaries did not suffice or there would be no story to tell.  The primary straps in question ended up failing, sending the the vehicle into oncoming traffic during the evening rush on one of the busiest sections of freeway in the region.

The damage was expensive in many ways, but all we could think about was our vehicle and the thought of it careening into oncoming traffic.  A single collision would total our car, but worse than that, my chair that we had fought so hard to get was locked in the rear cargo area, and it would be crushed for sure.  The thought of losing my mobility again due to circumstances beyond our control was something that would weigh on us until we could get home.  As we neared our destination, driving through a mountain pass, we heard it: BOOM!!!!

A thunderous sound echoed in our ears and shook us to our bones.  My wife screamed, and the driver and I both yelled out in shock and fear.  The three of us turned in unison to ensure our vehicle was still present ... it was.  We pulled over, mere miles from home, and were forced to wait again.  The booming sound was caused by losing an inner tire from the dually axle in the rear.  It had now been several hours and we were still not home.

Knowing that a rescue tow for our tow truck was going to be anything but prompt, the driver gained our consent to drive along the freeway shoulder at fifteen miles per hour, and again along a side street (because it was flatter than the freeway), all to avoid another blowout.  Our day was ruined and he felt responsible.  We made arrangements to have my wife picked up while I waited to be taken home.  There was no way we would get to the school for my daughter's presentation if we didn't split up.

When the tire blowout happened, we were fifteen minutes from home.  I arrived home seventy-five minutes later instead.  I was able to extract my chair once power had been temporarily restored to the vehicle, only something else was wrong.  The battery looked like it had exploded.  There was acid everywhere, and something did not smell right in the state of Denmark.

First thing's first: we needed a new battery and someone to replace it for us.  Once upon a time, I would have done it myself, but fate stepped in and took that away from me.  Thankfully, help arrived in the form of a family friend.  I picked him up and we went to work.  

The battery was easy enough for him to swap, but the spark, and subsequent events were anything but expected.  Despite telling ourselves otherwise, and even trying to rationalize it as benign, there was an unmistakable odor.  It was distinct, as though something electrical was burning.  Around the point where we started to consider the alternator may also be an issue, my friend grazed it with his bare hand and burned himself badly.  It was a lot worse than he let on, but he never complained.  As he disconnected the battery and began tearing apart the many items in the way of removing the alternator, a closer inspection revealed smoke rising from within, that unmistakable smell becoming stronger the closer I was.

With the dead unit wrapped in rags to protect our hands from further burns, we headed to the auto parts store once again.  The store that had the battery did not have the alternator.  Thankfully, the only other auto parts store in town that was open past five in the evening had several on hand ... only the first one they brought looked like it had been removed from a salvage.

"I'm not paying for that."  I informed the worker.  "It's in worse shape than the dead one we brought in."

"Do you think I should test it?"  She asked, clearly unsure if it was necessary, as if we were making a mountain of a mole hill.

"Please."  My friend and I responded in unison.  As she walked away, we exchanged looks of disbelief.

"Huh!"  Exclaimed the worker, genuinely shocked.  "It's dead.  I'll get a different one off the shelf," she mumbled, walking away.  She returned with a boxed alternator as pristine as one expects new parts to be.  "I'll test it."  She declared.  "This one's good."  She informed us, as though we hadn't been present for the test.  

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

It was sunset by the time everything was replaced.  I had spent $500 on my wife's birthday and hadn't even made dinner.  I hadn't gotten her the drinks she had requested and hadn't even warmed up the oven, but thanks to the kindness of family friends, she was able to attend my daughter's presentation, and I was able to ensure our most reliable running vehicle was running once again.  Another good friend of mine showed up while I was cooking to help save the dinner with my wife's favorite specialty beer, and he livened up our evening with his kindness and wit.

The day was a disaster, make no mistake.  While it was full of many downs, the ups served to remind us of the wealth one can never attain with money.  The series of events that took place sound wilder than fiction when retold, yet we lived it and the kindness that was given to us that day are what make me remember it fondly.

My wife's ride to the school spared my daughter any unnecessary sadness and my good friend's arrival for dinner helped bring a smile to our faces as we wound down a tough day, but our real savior that day was from a special family that had selflessly helped us so many times before.  I found myself, once again, humbled by their generosity, knowing I could live ten lifetimes and never repay it — even with the sincerest of efforts —  but that won't stop me from trying.

Heart of a Lion

When you come from a family that acknowledges birthdays, you cannot help but compare your experiences to those around you.  How big are your parties?  How many presents did you receive?  Who received superior gifts?  My answers to these questions growing up were always the same: we didn't throw parties and if my father remembered my birthday, I received one gift, and it definitely wasn't a superior one, and if my mother remembered, I received a phone call.

We may not actively conduct this comparison, but our internal sense of fairness won't allow us to overlook it completely.  The thing is, we never seem to be all that worried about those who did poorly.  Worse-than-me is not of great concern for most people.  Instead, the ones who draw our ire are those who do better.  That's human nature, I suppose.  And the more aware of it you are, the easier it is to avoid the trappings that come along with it, though a full escape isn't really an option.

With this perspective in mind, I have tried to ensure my children do not fail to understand the realities of human nature.  It's not a uniquely enlightened approach, but I try to have them focus on what they have more so than what they do not have, as well as what they have as a result of their opportunities (that may not be available to others).  The problem, as with many things, is easier to identify and much more challenging to address.  

Active self-awareness is something that is taught.  It also needs to be cultivated over time, because failing to do so will result in footnotes; those irrelevant afterthoughts of times past.  As a father, this leaves me with two questions to answer: at what age do my children become self-aware, and when should we start cultivating active self-awareness?  The answer to the first question is easy: you know when they are truly self-aware the first time they show embarrassment or altered behavior as a result of having all eyes on them, which is surprisingly young.  The answer to the second question seems as varied as the children we all have.

The approach we've taken with our children has been to ask questions about how and why certain events have unfolded the way they have, both good and bad.  Much the same way we tend to learn more from mistakes than success, those less-than-favorable moments tend to afford the superior teaching opportunities.  Asking them questions that force them to analyze and reflect in ways they aren't going to on their own has been our go-to.  We also ask them what they feel they could do differently, offering suggestions that may or may not work, and taking ownership of the reality that we simply cannot answer every question they have because nobody has all the answers.

This leads us back to birthdays and the inevitable measuring sticks that result.  My birthday was a summer birthday that I was never forced to endure in front of my peers.  One might think I was sad to not have birthday parties (which was definitely true), but a part of me knew nobody would attend even if I had them, and an even bigger part of me knew that my parents didn't have it in them to do it right, because effort on behalf of another human being was never part of their makeup, even if it would have been for their children.  Sitcoms and after-school specials often use the story line of parents forgetting anniversaries or birthdays for laughs or a moral-of-the-story, but when your parents genuinely forget about your birthday multiple times in your life, you know you are not a priority.

My children have never experienced what it's like to fall short on their birthday.  Their mother has actively sought to ensure birthdays are a priority; a day of celebration.  We may not have the means to deliver an expensive experience, but we make it memorable.  The real surprise is the value you can find if you look.  Who knew renting out a children's museum or a mobile video game party would be cheaper than a bowling alley or a pool party birthday?  Could we make it more memorable if we had more to spend?  Undoubtedly so, but if our children do not know the difference, that extra spending becomes more about us and less about them.

The obvious casualty of making their birthdays special is the absence of grandeur for our birthdays.  We've had so many that were forgotten, so a few more won't make much difference ... or so we thought.  Whether it's my son enthusiastically asking what special dish I'm going to make us for my birthday dinner, or it's my daughter demanding when guests are arriving, we have found our children value our birthdays the way we value theirs, and if their means were any different, they would do something about it.

With fatherhood, such things manifest in the most unexpected of ways.  A few years ago, for example, I was working for one of those rah-rah-team-spirit-company-culture sort of places where they expect people to be company men that show unapologetic team spirit.  It felt like something out of "Office Space (1999)."  Everyone's desk was peppered with photos of their children or pets and other personal effects, whereas my desk was void of anything personal and only contained items that were required for the job.  It was a bad fit for someone as cynical as me, but it was a job that paid the bills, so I endured.  

Birthdays in an environment like this were downright scary.  Desks were covered in confetti and streamers and balloons and whatever else one could think of.  Those who had a chair had to extract it from the madness upon arrival before they could even consider using it for work.  When I arrived for my birthday, my desk was no different upon first glance, though I noticed they had used restraint with the confetti, and thankfully, my chair was BYO.  They even gingerly asked if I was mad, except I genuinely was not because they had handmade a card for me, signed by the entire team with well-wishes that were largely more than obligatory.  It was done with a lion theme, to commemorate my star sign: Leo.  I offered my sincere thanks and went about my day, returning home for lunch (as was my routine), Leo card in hand.

My children were napping while I was on lunch, but during the latter half of my shift, my wife showed my five-year-old daughter the card that had been given to me by my coworkers and how it was handmade.  Inspired, my daughter decided to make me a card, in that image, to commemorate my birthday.  She would not accept anything less.  Here they are, side-by-side:

I may have approached my coworkers' efforts with cynicism prior to that day, but the inspiration they provided my daughter was priceless.  Even now, she tells me, "I have something special planned for your birthday, Daddy!"

Of course you do.  Thank you for making my day special.

As We Know It

Inspiration is a funny thing.  It can be cultivated and nurtured, but never without a sense of spontaneity.  Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991) was released more than two decades ago.  As excited as I was to see it because of how much I loved the story of Robin Hood, it was Morgan Freeman's performance that I tend to remember the most vividly.  The wisdom and compassion of the character was made all the more significant by his delivery, and it resonated with me — especially when counseling the protagonist with his version of "the best laid plans," reminding him that "there are no perfect men in this world ... only perfect intentions."

I suppose "men" would be replaced with "people" if the film were made today, but life has a way of imposing limits on us.  We encounter them everywhere we go, and with every turn.  In fact, these limits are so commonplace that we are often only superficially aware of them.  Whether it's the remaining number of hours of sunlight in any given day or how long a battery will last, knowing the limits in life helps one navigate better than those who do not.

As a father, I have tried to help my children understand their own limitations, as well as understand more about the limitations that are beyond their control.  Understanding why things are how they are (despite what you do) is essential for anyone who wants to succeed in life.  The challenge for me, beyond my perfect intentions, has been figuring out a way to convey how it affects our individual perspectives in relatable terms.

The thing is, perspective is something we can never escape, even if we pay it no mind.  It defines us, motivates us, and challenges us.  Everything from political leanings to behavior is governed by our perspective.  Fatherhood taught me the value of perspective in ways I never previously anticipated when my children shared their perspectives with me, because the perspective of a child is unlike any other.  Yes, it governs their behavior, but it hasn't yet been corrupted by the pitfalls of adulthood and is decidedly less jaded.  

My daughter caught me by surprise with the sincerity and warmth she demonstrated extremely early on.  She has also always had a vivid imagination and has never failed to inspire me with it.  As soon as her limited vocabulary would allow her to, she actively spoke with her toys, responding as though there was a back and forth.  She would even seat them opposite her at her toy picnic table set and offer them shares of her food, because they were hungry too.

One time, we were visiting the Ophthalmologist and ended up describing how she feeds her toys for whatever reason, but as we were failing to paint a vivid picture, we asked my daughter to demonstrate.  There she was, eighteen months old, and wondering why all the adults in the room were so intent on watching her toy eat.  She held her bag of Cheerios under her stuffed Chihuahua's nose, despite her unmistakable suspicion.  "Num num num, NO!"

As she shouted the last word, she jerked the bag of food away swiftly and forcefully as if declaring, "That's enough, you GLUTTON!"  Or perhaps she meant, "I said you could have SOME, not ALL!"  Our doctor burst into really energetic laughter, clearly blindsided, prompting us to laugh harder than we otherwise would have.  Even my daughter laughed, despite her confusion as to why.  

Some limits are learned whether we want to or not, as our doctor found out.  In addition to discovering that maintaining professional composure around my children was always going to be a challenge, she learned what happens when toys take more than their share of Cheerios.  My daughter had already learned the limits of her toys' imaginary stomach and she wasn't afraid to let her toys know when those limits were reached.  So much for my perfect intentions.

Disappointment Included

The absence of empathy is becoming increasingly pervasive in society, or at least, that's my perception of it.  The frequency of encountering the "I have mine, and it's irrelevant if it came at your expense" attitude is alarming to me.  I suppose I used to be part of the problem when I clung to similar beliefs.  While I never had much to begin with (in terms of material possessions), I was raised to be indifferent to the struggles of my peers.  Their struggles were their business, not mine, and their struggles were certainly not the responsibility of society at large.  Rugged American Individualism dictates that those who struggle do so because of their own flaws.  To overcome, one should simply pull harder on their bootstraps and "man-up."  There doesn't seem to be room for much else — not even women.

There is a certain romance associated with Rugged American Individualism.  "I made it on my own and nobody helped me" is the badge of honor believers wear with pride.  Imagine how much more success you could have had, if only someone had lent a helping hand?  That is irrelevant to the champion of this flawed philosophy, because then they would have to thank someone ... and share the accolades.  Share?!

Sharing is a small component of the empathy and altruism qualities we hope to instill in our children.  No, they are not required to share with people they don't know, but unless they have a legitimate reason to exclude someone, they should make reasonable attempts to be inclusive, and if someone is struggling, or needs assistance because of the poor hand life dealt them, help them if you can.  Dismissing their struggles as a character flaw overlooks the reality that many people struggle because of circumstances beyond their control.  It's not like we get to choose parents with financial and emotional stability prior to birth.  That part is chosen for us.

When I was six, my family moved from the city to a rural community populated mostly by farming families and migrant worker families.  There was one school that, despite being kindergarten to eighth grade, barely had more than one hundred students, and many classrooms accommodated more than one grade level.  Needless to say, peers of the same age were at a minimum, so it should come as no surprise that the worst of the worst are easy to recall.

My first conversation with her is vivid.  I introduced myself in my clumsy, six-year-old way, and she looked down her nose at me, responding with condescension and disdain Simon Cowell would be proud of.  Even at six, I knew I would never win her over, and she would never treat me like a peer.  When a boy bullies another boy, we have the option to physically fight back.  When a girl bullies a boy, the options become far more limited, especially in a bootstraps world.

So she bullied me throughout elementary school, culminating at the end of sixth grade.  Our teacher was on maternity leave for the final month, leaving us in the incapable hands of our substitute.  He even created a new seating chart, placing said bully at my side.  She was openly disgusted at having to share such close quarters with me, making loud remarks at my expense that the teacher did not address.  Another enabler.

Shortly after this new seating arrangement had been established, I passed gas at my desk — a normal body function often found humorous in adolescence.  I expected to be laughed at and mocked a bit, but what I did not expect was for her to violently move her desk away from mine, and have the entire class follow suit, leaving me sitting alone at my desk, with the entire class encircling me, humiliating me.  Again, the teacher did not address the matter.  Thankfully, nobody knew about the autoimmune disease that affects my gut, and that I was actually trying desperately not to soil myself (and succeeding), which mercifully prevented any further deepening of my humiliation.  

When her family sent her to the private Catholic high school in another city, I was sure (and grateful) I had seen the last of her.  I did hear about her from time to time, which is the nature of a rural community.  She made the front page of the local paper when she survived a small plane crash.  Her face was badly scarred, but she survived.  The pilot wasn't so lucky. Perhaps now, she would have some empathy, knowing people would have to pretend not to notice her scars; pretend not to be staring.

Unfortunately for me, I found out first hand when she showed up to a house party at my friends' house in college in the city I lived in.  I attempted to be cordial, despite knowing she did not deserve it.  Rather than return my greeting, she made a show of how much contempt she still had for me, doing her best to humiliate me in front of my friends.  My reaction was visceral.  I wanted to point out how the scars on her face would never be concealed, no matter how thickly her makeup was applied, and how the ugliness of those scars were a more accurate reflection of the deplorable human being she is.  

Wrongly, I wanted nothing more than to inflict pain, because she deserved it.  While I wasn't happy at the time, my good friend grabbed me and pulled me to a back room, preventing my retaliation.  I used to believe he had robbed me of retribution, but in reality, he saved me from becoming as ugly as her, and it's a gift I am grateful for to this day.

The responsibility of fatherhood is not a weight that should be carried lightly.  The one who carries it lightly has children I pity.  Knowing first hand that people like my scar-faced tormenter exist, I have sought to ensure my children never become one of them, because I know that I am one of many left in the wake of her misery and unhappiness.

We didn't ignore this when they were young, because that's the best time to start.  For example, when my daughter was three, she was still adjusting to having a little brother.  He was one, and just getting to the point where he could play with her things and with her.  Unfortunately, she was not at all receptive.  It came to a head when she had resorted to snatching things from her brother — not to play with, but to keep him from playing with them.  I pulled her aside and spoke very calmly, but firmly with her.

"Why are you taking those things from your bother?"  I asked.  "You're not playing with them.  In fact, it looks as though you're taking them simply to keep toys out of his hands."  Dejectedly, she looked at the floor, shame etched on her little face.  "Is that what you're doing?"  I asked, prompting her for a response.

She nodded, not taking her eyes from the floor.

"Do you think that's the right way to treat your brother?"

She shook her head, still refusing to look up.

"This is disappointing, mija."  I told her more gently.  "I am very disappointed with how you're behaving, because I know you can do better."

This time she looked up, overcome with grief, tears streaming down her face.  "I don't want you to be dissen-appointed!"  She cried, immediately throwing her arms around my neck, hugging me firmly.

It's a good thing she hugged me when she did, because "dissen-appointed" blindsided me and I nearly broke character.  I did get to share a smile with her mother while my daughter hugged me, because neither of us ever wanted to be "dissen-appointed" with our daughter's lack of altruism ever again ... and we haven't.