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.