The Last Choice

Of all the things that can catch you unprepared in fatherhood, nothing quite matches the first day of school.  It can be such a zoo.  I'm not just talking about the insanity of an elementary school parking lot, peppered with ill-behaved parents in possession surprisingly little shame nor any self-awareness to speak of.  That qualifies as organized chaos compared to those first few mornings of your child going to school.

It may seem routine to us as we look back at our school years, thinking on how we always arrived at school, ready for lessons; dressed and showered, and in possession of tools for learning.  A lot of things are simple and easy with the benefit of hindsight.  Having been raised by a single father, we were always expected to fend for ourselves.  Nobody took care of anything for us.  If we did not accomplish a necessary task prior to school, it remained undone.  The very thought of having a mother to take care of us was incredibly foreign.

I cannot fully express how grateful I was to have my wife by my side on the first day of school, and pretty much every school day after that — words feel so inadequate.  I had no clue what I was doing (and largely still do not).  In stark contrast to me was my wife: bustling from room to room, delegating tasks, and holding it all together.  The only thing I could do was adult things like shower and make coffee and warm up the car.

Thankfully, my wife had planned for everything.  School clothes were washed and ready days in advance, as were the school bags.  Lunches were no problem for her as she had prepared them the night before.  I'd love to tell you every tiny detail she was responsible for, but I am unable to because I honestly do not know them.  That morning, we were a well oiled machine despite this being our maiden voyage, and it was all thanks to her.

What makes this even more remarkable is the fact that none of us are morning people.  As much as I admire Ben Franklin, I do not believe in rising with the sun.  Unfortunately, my children also share this difference of opinion with Ben Franklin, which can be problematic when you have a schedule to keep.  I've discussed The Magic of Motivation and the wand that is music in our household in a previous post, but prior to that discovery, we had some growing pains.  

One morning, when my son was five, his mother tried to motivate him with reverse psychology in the form of an empty threat:

"You either get dressed or you can go to school in your underwear," she warned him.

"No no no no!"  He exclaimed.  "Those are not my choices!  Those are my LAST choices!"

Of course they are.

Inviting

One night when my daughter was seven, she joined me at the table for dinner, passing out personalized "invitations" prior to taking her seat.  My son was napping late and my wife was busy so it was just the two of us.  I didn't read the note (invititation), but made a point to remind myself to read it later.  Shortly after sitting down and realizing it would just be the two of us, she exclaimed with unmistakable sadness, "oh no! You and I are the only ones who will be there!"

I assured her there would be no issue with attendance without really knowing what she meant, though I strongly suspected it had a lot to do with the aforementioned "invitations."

The thing about invitations that always struck me is how temporary they are.  The events to which we are invited will come and go, but once you miss an opportunity to accept or take advantage of an invitation, the moment is gone forever.  There may be another day where you can go to an amusement park or another year you can attend an annual festival, but there are no guarantees when you consider the unpredictability of things.  Even if you do go "next time," you still missed out by skipping "last time."  My children, like everyone else, will live each day once, and only once, and I cherish the thought of being invited to be a part of them, for however long that lasts.

My "invitation" as it was written:

"Please come to my sing show. Anyone can try out. I hope you can make it."

There's a joke in Cameron Crowe's wonderful film "Say Anything (1989)," during their high school graduation, clearly poking fun at all the recording of events by well-to-do families with their 1980s camcorders.  I never thought I'd be that guy: the father who is more interested in capturing a moment in time using cool tech than in experiencing that moment while truly in the moment, but I've been tempted.  While I still record endless hours of my children's lives (because I'll never be sorry I have those recordings), I make sure I am not doing so at the expense of the moment.  After all, I was invited.

The Magic of Motivation

Motivation can be the unicorn of parenthood; especially since motivating miniature versions of yourself can be much more challenging than advertised.  I am not sure what I envisioned prior to fatherhood, but I somehow always knew that I wouldn't be able to do much reasoning with my children while they were still in diapers.  Perhaps JK Rowling was onto something when she created the magical world of Harry Potter.  I may not know how to motivate a miniature version of myself, but I do know that the key to bridging that mythical gap of communication between parents and children is a magic wand.

Growing up as the youngest to a single father born to Depression Era parents, motivation was an afterthought.  "Because I said so" was typically followed by some severe form of corporal punishment.  We were motivated by a fear of punishment; never love.  We were motivated to do things that kept us from receiving the worst of it.  Perhaps this was the norm in the 20th Century, but it didn't have to be, and certainly shouldn't be in the 21st Century and beyond.

Music has always been a major part of our household dynamic.  Thanks to handy technology that is readily available, I can have my music playing throughout my home without turning up the volume to deafening levels.  Beyond the joy of being engrossed in music that we love, we also get to share that passion with our children.  Just as my older brother exposed me to the likes of Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd, my wife and I get to expose our children to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains, while also encouraging them to embrace the music they like beyond what we offer.

For all the planning my wife and I do, some of the most memorable moments happen completely by accident.  Toy Story 3 was released when my daughter was three, and my son was one, and was an instant hit for them.  What impacted them the most wasn't the great story or the brilliant animation, or the comic timing of the ensemble cast — it was The Gipsy Kings' Spanish language rendition of Randy Newman's "You've Got a Friend in Me," as well as the final dancing sequence of Buzz and Jessie during the credits.

"Pick up your toys and put them back where they go.  It's time to get ready for bed."  It's simple and direct and doesn't work at all.  My children couldn't see the payoff.  Not only did they not want to go to bed, they didn't have the slightest inclination to work before being punished with a trip to bed when they were already having so much fun.  That's when my wife stepped up to the plate and crushed one out of the park.  She used our household love of music to create The Cleanup Game, which combined elements of musical chairs as well as other start/stop musings, being sure to incorporate a song close to their hearts.  The rules were simple: put toys away as "Hay Un Amigo En Mi" plays, and freeze when the music stops.

The music of The Gipsy Kings (as well as its ties to Toy Story 3) made the work fun for them.  They were laughing and dancing and cleaning up with haste that defied logic.  Whenever we had guests over, their children would greet us enthusiastically, requesting that we play "The Cleanup Game" before the night was done.  We had found our magic wand: music.  I cannot tell anyone what their wand is, because it's probably something different than what works for us.  What I can tell you is that once you discover your wand ... that's when the magic happens.

Shutting Breakfast Down

People are creatures of habit.  It's a cliché for a reason.  There's something comforting about the familiar that the unknown simply cannot compete with.  Take coffee, for example.  I prefer black coffee.  It's not that I haven't tried coffee with cream and sugar, but I don't have a sweet tooth.  From my perspective, if coffee needs cream and sugar to be drinkable, there's something wrong with the coffee.  While that clearly does not work for everyone, it's what works for me.

Whether we are discussing the simple, familiar comfort of how one prefers coffee or even how to order a sandwich, we all have our opinions.  In both of these examples, a cynic will say you are stuck in a rut if these orders are always identical, which is a massive oversimplification.  If black coffee is your thing, are you ever going to add sugar just to prove (to nobody in particular) that you aren't stuck in a rut?  Are you the type to adjust how you prepare coffee or how you order a sandwich just to please others?  Or are you the type that refuses to try new things for fear of not liking it as much?  Both sound like variations of buyer's remorse that have nothing to do with happiness.

In our attempt to ensure our children do not fall victim to either of these approaches, my wife and I empower our children to try new things, while simultaneously allowing them to express what they prefer.  Despite our best efforts (and our best intentions), there are times when these paths end up crossing rather than running parallel.  In these moments, we encourage our children to roll with the punches rather than digging in their heels — it doesn't always go according to plan.

One morning during a break from school, my wife decided to make french toast for our children as a surprise treat for breakfast.  My daughter, who loves french toast, was all in.  My five year old son, who had never indicated a dislike for french toast, left the table when his mother's back was turned.  This prompted his mother to pursue him to his room once plates were served, only to discover he had returned to bed and covered his entire body with his blanket.

"Why did you go back to bed?"  She asked him gently.  "It's breakfast time."

"NO!"  He exclaimed emphatically from beneath his blankets.  "I'M SHUTTING BREAKFAST DOWN!"  Before my wife could so much as process this declaration, he added, "I DON'T WANT FRENCH TOAST!  I WANT GRAHAM CRACKERS WITH PEANUT BUTTER!"

Of course you do.

The Tyranny of Buckets

It's more than a bit of a cliché to point out the unpredictability of raising children — especially considering how predictable things can be (reasonably speaking).  The proof, as they say, is in the pudding.  For example, there are milestones we can expect as they reach certain ages, both physical and cognitive, ranging from sitting upright and feeding themselves to walking and attending school, and with some good fortune, reaching adulthood and entering society.  We can also reasonably predict that illnesses will be part of the journey, especially considering our children are being exposed to all sorts of wonderful viruses and infections while attending daycare or school.  Although we can reasonably predict things like this will happen, the exact moment is where unpredictability comes into play.  I may know my child will walk someday, but that doesn't mean I'll be ready for it.  

One of the most challenging experiences as a parent is when illness strikes.  Just because I was aware that children get sick doesn't mean I was prepared for it when my daughter experienced her first significant illness.  At twenty months old, she caught her first stomach flu just before Christmas.  It was winter, and she had never been to daycare, but that didn't stop her from catching whatever was going around from trips to the supermarket or wherever else we had taken her.

It was a devastating experience for us as parents.  We had never felt so powerless to help her.  Her pediatrician advised us that viral infections simply had to run their course.  Unfortunately for us, this illness happened at a time when Zofran wasn't as readily available as it is today.  All we could do was keep her hydrated, and hope she could keep food down, which was challenging.  We learned the hard way that all trips to the doctor required a puke bucket, and at the apex of the virus running its course, the puke bucket became mandatory at home as she did not always make it to the bathroom in time.  I have vivid recollections of her being completely exhausted in my arms as her tiny body fought off this tenacious virus.  Did I mention how powerless we felt?

My daughter had puked multiple times into that puke bucket, only to have it cleaned by her mother and returned to her side so she could use it again, only my daughter didn't want it anymore.  It was at this point that my wife's defiance bubbled to the surface of my daughter's personality.  My daughter had simply had enough of being sick and she wasn't going to take it anymore.  She was going to fight this off with her entire being, and the only tangible item she associated with her illness was that BLASTED BUCKET!  She kicked it with all her might, and did not want it anywhere near her.  She wasn't sick because of a viral infection!  She was sick because of that bucket!  It was simultaneously adorable, heartbreaking, and admirable, and despite our best efforts to convince her otherwise, she wouldn't allow that bucket to come anywhere near her, and you know what?  She got better.

She had overcome The Tyranny of Buckets.