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.

Roads Taken

Generational differences are usually defined by birthdates.  Millennials, Gen X, Baby Boomers, and The Greatest Generation are all labels that have been retroactively applied, yet somehow, all of us are supposed to fit into a neat box that disregards the individuality of our experiences.  Gen X are rebellious, Baby Boomers are hippie drug addicts, Millennials are lazy freeloaders with their hands out, and The Greatest Generation are our moral compass.  These labels are accurate on an anecdotal level at best, and perpetuate harmful stereotypes at worst.

While many of my peers were being raised by what George Carlin dubbed "The Human Potential Movement," an approach employed by many late Baby Boomer parents, I was being raised by someone born before the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor; himself raised by Depression Era parents.  There was no focus on potential with his approach.  There was only work to be done, because that's what Teddy Roosevelt would do.

Our friends and social development were not priorities.  Neither was our emotional well being.  Boys, in particular, needed to be "toughened up," especially if they were "soft."  Macho ruggedness was valued over all else, whatever the cost — even if the price of admission was your mental well-being.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm hardly advocating for the other approach.  George Carlin was calling out "The Human Potential Movement" for a reason.  The result of this approach is a person who is selfish, apathetic, and completely incapable of seeing the world from anyone's point of view but their own.  I should know, because they're my peers: parents of children who attend school with my children ... and they're raising another generation peppered with people incapable of empathy.  The future looks bright.

Comparing the two approaches wasn't hard for me as my lone friend during puberty was a product of said movement.  He had a two-parent home, a swimming pool, nice clothes, and every toy or video game he wanted, and I was openly jealous — especially over him having a loving, caring mother.  The irony is, much like me, he was really unhappy.  

Despite having access to every material possession he ever wanted, he was always focused on what he didn't have, and having me as a friend would never be good enough because I wasn't cool enough.  Having zero friends for multiple school years prior to befriending him, I valued his friendship and remained loyal to a fault for decades.  In reality, he was my part-time friend, with a permanent foot out, ready to depart for greener pastures at the first opportunity.

It wasn't until after becoming a father that I realized the thing we had in common: abusive, emotionally unavailable fathers.  His mother may have hugged him, but his father never did, and neither did mine.  It turns out, that was a deep void that no amount of material possessions could ever adequately fill, and my once-good friend is living proof.

I may have never consciously sought to hug my children, but I certainly never pushed them away or made them feel wrong for seeking comfort in my arms.  The part about fatherhood that was a conscious decision was to provide the emotional foundation I always wanted, but never received from my parents.

My wife and I hug our children when they wake up, and we hug them before bed.  We hug them when they're scared, or hurt, or happy.  We hug them when there's no reason to, other than we want to hug them, and they hug us back.  Somewhere along the line, we started saying "big hug" when hugging them before bed, and though they never repeated the line, there was something extra in their little embrace.

One night, when my son was two, he was emotionally distraught.  His speech was really limited, even for two, but he was beside himself with emotion.  Tears were streaming down his pained expression, and then he exclaimed, "CAN I HAVE A BIG HUG!!"

He spread his arms wide and threw himself into my lap, seeking the comfort he needed.  I held him close, allowing his sobs to subside.  Yes, you may have a big hug, and you may have one whenever you need one.  There is no limit. I am not embarrassed to hug my son, or let him cry on my shoulder, and I never will be.

The Monies

Fatherhood has enlightened me in ways I never expected.  I say this over and over, but it's worth repeating because I value the teaching moments more so now than I ever had prior to becoming a father.  And these teaching moments often come up at the most unexpected of times, like when we recently took our children to see a live production of Mary Poppins.  No, it wasn't the kind of big ticket show that draws national attention on morning talk shows, but it was an excellent version.  According to the program, it drew from the original works of P.L. Travers, as well as borrowing elements from the Disney film version.  Of course, my wife and I enjoyed it, but to our everlasting delight, so did both of our children — including my young son.

Within this production, there was an exchange between Mr. Banks (the children's father and Mary Poppins' employer) and Mr. Northbrook (a businessman seeking a loan) that was not in the Disney film.  Mr. Northbrook addresses the children directly, insisting it is never too soon to teach a child about the value of money.  Handing them each a coin, he asks if they know the value.

Michael responds, "I know the value of this: sixpence."

Mr. Northbrook counters back with, "No, that's its worth.  It's value's in how you spend it.  Do good, and may you have good luck."

We all think we are good with money, but the truth of it is, most of us are not.  If everyone was as good as they claim to be with their money, there would be a lot more millionaires.

The value of a dollar, as I was taught, was to make an assessment of an item you have no clue about, yet somehow automatically know what a fair price would be despite not being able to venture a guess prior to hearing the actual cost.

For example, a plumber who grew up in a family of plumbers looking to buy a ballet dress for his daughter would be hard pressed to assess the true value of said dress if he has zero dance background.  He's probably the man to ask when wanting plumbing-related value assessments, as well as the values of commonly replaced items from his field.  Plumbing labor costs that are outrageous to the general public will seem perfectly reasonable to him.  In fact, he is probably dumbfounded when people react with indignation at his quoted labor costs.  Despite the irony of being able to see both sides of the coin in his own field, and despite having no clue what a ballet dress for his daughter is supposed to cost, somehow, he is supposed to know what market value is without any research or people may think he doesn't know anything about the value of a dollar.  He will need to react in outrage at how “expensive” the actual cost is, because he knows ballet dresses shouldn’t cost so much, much the same way a customer reacts when being charged for plumbing repairs.

So despite having no education on a matter or having anything other than superficial information at best, people somehow fashion themselves an "authority” on what constitutes fair or unfair pricing when in the marketplace.  Like many others who’s parents failed to teach them any money management, I was essentially taught the value of a dollar could be accurately guessed whenever facts were unavailable.  

The scariest aspect of this approach is the sheer number of people who live and die by it, like the man who taught me.  The older he got, the more exponentially expensive everything became from his perspective.  It seemed as though he couldn’t see value in anything.  T-shirts and jeans were so “expensive” that he would wear them with stains and holes for years before breaking down and replacing them.  His jeans were taken off the bottom shelf at The Evil Empire, and only replaced when they developed an issue that required repair.  You can imagine what he looked like the last half of one of these extended cycles, particularly in the final weeks.  I wouldn’t be surprised if someone mistook him for homeless.

Knowing how hard it was for both my wife and I to undo the flawed money management lessons from our youth, we have tried to impress upon our children the very important difference between worth, which is displayed on currency, and value, which is determined by how you spend it.  After one such lesson, my six-year-old son responded in the most matter-of-fact tone:

"That's why Daddy has to go to work ... so he can make the monies."

It's a work-in-progress.

Anticipation

Toy Story (1995) was the first feature length, computer animated film ever released.  Although the animation may appear dated when compared to current animation releases, it has aged surprisingly well thanks to the excellent filmmakers behind it.  Unfortunately for me, it was released to theaters right as I was scrambling to take care of my paperwork for my year on exchange, leaving me a short, six-week window to catch it in theaters.  Even in an era when movie releases in most countries were weeks, months, or even years behind release dates in the USA, my busy schedule as a new-arrival exchange student prevented any theater viewing until after it had already left theaters Down Under.

As the only working-class exchange-student (I won a scholarship to pay for my opportunity), I was constantly confronted with the reality of my limited means.  My father sent me a stipend that afforded me no luxuries, and often fell far short of necessities.  It was a fact that resulted in Toy Story being driven from my mind until returning home, where the movie was quoted to me endlessly.

The anticipation of the sequel by all of my friends in college prompted me to take the obligatory trip down to Blockbuster (yes, THAT Blockbuster) and rent the now-classic on VHS.  Of course I loved it, just like everyone else.  When the sequel was released, my friends and I were the only adults in attendance without children.  With belated apologies to anyone who had the misfortune to be in our theater, we were those guys in the back row, raucously laughing at all of the adult humor that went over the heads of the children.  Although a handful of fathers joined us, we drew the ire of the majority of mothers that day.

When Toy Story 3 was announced for a scheduled 2010 release, it was a sequel a decade in the making.  Most of the target audience wasn't alive for the release of the previous installment of the franchise, much less the original.  In short, Disney was clearly aware that its audience had never seen the first two movies in theaters, if at all.  So Disney did what Disney does: they re-released the first two movies in the theater in late 2009 in a money grab that paid off.

The one thing worse than being the loud college kids in a theater is being the parent who brings a crying/screaming infant to a loud theater and refuses to leave, ruining the experience for all the other paying customers — at least us college kids were engaged with the movie.  Having owned high quality versions of both movies for years, I took one for the team as I stayed home with my infant son so my wife could enjoy mother/daughter time at the double feature.

My daughter had never been to a movie theater at that point.  She was only two at the time, so it should come as no surprise that she had zero theater etiquette.  Of course, she had seen both movies many times, and possessing the gift of nearly flawless recollection, she had essentially committed both films to memory without trying.  So, in a theater full of many first time viewers, my two-year-old daughter watched these familiar movies as though she were home.  

That would seem harmless enough until that scene just before something terrible happens to Buzz, when my daughter shouted at the top of her lungs (in a silent theater):  

"Oh no, Buzz!!"

Her tiny voice echoed off the walls, prompting the adults in the theater (including my wife) to erupt in laughter, completely ruining the reveal of whatever happened to Buzz next.  I may not have gotten to see Toy Story in the theater, but the story of my daughter bringing down the house was worth the price of admission.

Hitting the Spot

Having children is the ultimate roll of the dice.  Unless you are wealthy enough (and willing) to pay for a Gattica-like process, children are the results of gambling, pure and simple.  We may tell ourselves that we chose our partners wisely, and are comfortable with the variables, but the reality of the variables dwarfs what we actually control.  The size of their feet, the color of their eyes, their talents, their shortcomings, as well as their personalities, are all a result of the most random mixture of yourself and the tiniest part that you control: your choice of partner.  Neither of you gets to choose which traits you would prefer to contribute (making sure to withhold anything you're not proud of).  You get what you get and you make the best of it.

Making the best of your abilities is easier when they're functionally useful.  For example, cooking happens to be one of those talents I inherited.  I can trace it back to my paternal grandmother, who could make a gourmet, mouth-watering meal out of just about anything.  I am grateful for the gift and have always hoped to pass it onto my children as it has served me well throughout my life.  Growing up in a motherless home necessitated trial by fire in the kitchen because single fathers don't believe in snacks.  If I wanted to eat, I had to cook or I didn't eat.  It's no wonder I started cooking at age eight.

Knowing how to cook was an asset for me in college.  I didn't give it a second thought until I realized that all of my roommates were constantly eating take-out, and I was the only one who used the stove.  I was also the only one who knew how to shop for groceries, which is paramount if you're the one responsible for planning meals.  I once had a supervisor who made the distinction between those who prepare hot meals and those who cook.  She insisted she was the former and I was the latter.  

One of the benefits of knowing how to cook is the rewarding love affair with consuming the finished product.  While I have an extreme fondness for eating, I'm not one of those who prefers eating more than cooking — there's simply nothing better than cooking a meal for people you love and watching them enjoy it.  It should come as no surprise that my wife is my biggest fan, often bragging to her friends about how well she eats, and always agreeing when I declare that a meal "hit the spot."  Nobody knows where the spot is, per se, but everyone instinctively knows when a meal hits it.

It should come as no surprise that my children love food, and love consuming my cooking (so much for the randomness of genetics).  They often wander into the kitchen just to enthusiastically inhale the aroma, usually coupled with a comment along the lines of "that smells GOOD!"

One night, when my daughter was four, we had just finished a particularly good meal.  Before I could utter my standby pat on the back, my daughter declared, smiling broadly, "That hit the spot in my tummy!"

Of course it did ... and it seems my daughter knows exactly which spot was hit.

Doughnuts and Cookies

Star Wars has always ignited my imagination.  The epic space opera taking place a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away ...

To say it captivated me would be an understatement.  I remember shouting matches on the playground over which Luke Skywalker we would be: the light or the dark version.  Although we didn't realize it at the time, we were choosing between the bright light version (who knew only that he needed to be good), and the conflicted, Jedi version, on the verge of betraying everything as his father had done.  We all wanted to be the black-clad version, of course, clearly missing the intended message.

My son is no different.  He loves Star Wars, and is just as intrigued by the darker-clad versions of characters.  Thanks to the popularity of cosplay, my son met Darth Vader, prompting him to completely geek out, knowing Darth Vader was once Anakin Skywalker, his favorite character.  He also loves the prequels, despite the harsh critique coming from some of the more myopic members of the (supposedly hardcore) fanbase.  When Mark Hamill — Luke Skywalker — tells the fanbase to lay off the prequels, it should count for something.  Regardless of how the often fickle fanbase feels about the prequels, we love them.  They're Star Wars movies, after all, and we frequently watch them as a family.  

On one such evening after watching one of the Star Wars prequels, my wife decided to ask our six-year-old son if he would like to be a Jedi or a Sith.

"I want to be a Jedi!"  He proclaimed, posing with his dinner fork as a stand-in for a lightsaber, "like Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi!"

"Are you sure you don't want to be a Sith, like Darth Vader?"  My wife countered, knowing how much my son loves Anakin.  "The Dark side is really cool."

"No."  He insisted.  "I like the Light side.  I want to be a good guy."

"Are you sure?"  My wife asked him playfully.  "The Dark Side has cookies!"

"No!"  He proclaimed angrily.  "The Light Side has doughnuts AND cookies!"

Of course they do.

A few months later, my wife found a meme online that showed an office on Star Wars Day, depicting a storm trooper delivering cookies to cubicles, with the caption, "and you thought we were lying."  During dinner, my wife decided to show my son this indisputable, photographic evidence.  My son gasped audibly and remained speechless for the remainder of dinner, clearly full of thought at this revelation.

They clearly do have cookies!

Covered

When my wife and I found out we were going to be parents for the first time, we prepared ourselves for everything (or so we thought).  We stocked up on all the usual stuff like diapers, car carriers, furniture, and much, much more.  One of the areas we figured we would get ahead of the game on were safety items.  Namely, the plastic electric outlet covers for every outlet within the potential reach of a toddler.  In short, we were planning ahead, and may have even patted ourselves on the back a few times as a result.

While none of these things were really "out of the box" solutions, they were practical and easy for first time parents to implement.  Those plastic covers for outlets were perfect for my daughter, who's curiosity was no match for her inability to do anything about those pesky outlet covers.  I really shouldn't have been surprised at their effectiveness, considering my wife needed a screwdriver to remove them, and I needed a good deal of effort if I was going to forgo the use of hand-tools.

When my son came along, we were seasoned professionals.  We had done the parenting thing for someone his age, so this really was just an opportunity for a victory lap of sorts.  Other parents respected us more, and had largely dropped the condescending tone most first-time parents are bombarded with.  No, we aren't first-timers; we're experienced.  Enough said, right?

Well, no, that's not right, because my son is not one to follow norms.  He may not have bothered to crawl until well after most of his peers had started, but once he had established a viable means of transport he was always underfoot in a hurry.  Even worse than that was when he'd disappear, as most parents can relate.  Unseen and silent usually resulted in something troublesome.  

One of the first times my son performed his disappearing act on his mother, she found him in a corner in his room, playing with a pile of what turned out to be every plastic outlet cover he could reach.  He was scolded, and warned not to play with the covers, since they were safety items, and certainly not toys.  Dismissing this incident as a one-off fluke, my wife proceeded to replace all of the outlet covers, only to discover our son back in the same corner, less than an hour later, playing with the same pile of outlet covers.  

"How is he getting those out?"  She asked herself, bewildered.  "Are they loose?  Is he using tools?!"

My wife decided to find out.  She replaced the outlet covers a second time (nothing loose about the fit), then sat down on the couch in the living room.  Within a few minutes our son crawled out and handed his mother two handfuls of outlet covers.  He was very proud of himself.  

"Let's try this again," thought my wife.  

This time, she only replaced the covers to one outlet and remained in the room.  As if waiting for his turn in a game, my son crawled to the electric outlet and yanked out the outlet covers, one at a time, with his tiny, surprisingly strong hands.  Knowing how ridiculous the story sounded, my wife attempted to take a photo.  Seeing this, my son held one in each hand, presenting them to his mother, and smiled for the photo.  His pride was unmistakeable.

We had clearly not accounted for all variables, so we never bothered with outlet covers after that.  Our daughter was old enough to know not to play with electric outlets, and those covers proved to be a larger obstacle for adults than for my son.  Although we always knew a lack of covers could come back to haunt us, it never did ... well, that is until my son decided to build The Flux Capacitor, but that, as they say, is another story.