I became a coach the way—no doubt—many, many parents have before me. I checked the box on the soccer registration form that volunteered me to be an assistant coach for my son’s second grade soccer team. Then one evening in August 2002, I came home to a voice mail message asking me to be the Coach of my son’s soccer team. Apparently, not enough parents had volunteered to coach. After a few cajoling sessions on the telephone, I had made the commitment. And so began my first of many seasons coaching. And while the first year was a little tough, I do not have any regrets. I’ve now coached three seasons of boys’ soccer and two seasons of girls’ soccer. I was the assistant coach for my son’s first lacrosse team and am now the coach of my daughter’s first basketball team.
I am particularly looking forward to this coming basketball season. I’ve got seven eager third and fourth grade girls, including my daughter Chloe. At least half of the parents are willing to get involved. But it is more than that. The game of basketball is what really appeals to me as a kids’ recreational sports coach. Between rebounds and the small number of players on the court, basketball ensures every player touches the ball many times throughout the game. And while there is still the opportunity for a strong athlete to develop into a star player, a star player is unlikely to develop into a ball hog. The double dribble rule keeps even the star players passing the ball.
We’ve now had just two practices. It is the first basketball season for all but one player. Most of my players still need to look at the ball in order to dribble it. Everyone favors dribbling with their right hand over their left hand. About half the players cannot throw the ball high enough to reach the standard height net in the gymnasium where the first two practices have been held. Fortunately, they’ll have a 9-foot basket set up for actual games for at least the first part of the season. As I look at them, the team has all the trappings for the plot of a made-for-TV movie.
I’ve found that coaching puts me in an interesting place. Each season, I get to be there for a ten to twenty week window of life for a handful of kids who are not my own. I end up playing a role in their development unique from teachers, parents and other family. I remember my coaches and how they spoke. Somehow they could get away yelling in a way nobody else could. Words that have no business being funny somehow sound hilarious when the coach wants them to sound that way. Words that would sound clichéd in any other context somehow serve as the greatest source of inspiration.
I love watching kids’ sports much more than college or professional sports. There’s just more of a chance for a sudden breakthrough or an unexpected error. And if I know one or more of the players on the field then the game becomes personal to me. With kids’ recreational sports, players who had been on the same team one season end up being rivals playing for different teams in another season. And when I coach consecutive years, the players I once coached remember me and I remember them.
While I treasure each game, my favorite part of every season is the awards ceremony. Some coaches are satisfied to give their players the trophies or medals provided by the league. Not me. The awards ceremony gives me the unique opportunity to create a customized award certificate for each player. Each season I have a Most Valuable Player, Team Captain, Most Improved Player and however many other unique titles are needed to fill out the team. Each certificate contains a few words of unique praise - “for her unsinkable determination …” - to memorialize each player’s season. I dress the certificates in a frame with team colors, a team logo, a gold seal, my signature as head coach and at least one other official signature.
My hope is that the framed certificates will be something from childhood my former players will retain far into adulthood to fondly remember the ten to twenty week window we shared together during which they knew me as Coach.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Middle School Socials
Philip began sixth grade at Hermes Middle School in September of 2006. The following weekend on the sidelines of the soccer fields Saturday and after church Sunday, the parents were trading stories about the onset of Middle School life. Raul, one of Philip’s best friends had only the following to say to his father after his first day of Middle School, and it has stuck in my head ever since.
“Nobody DOES anything at lunch. Everybody just TALKS.”
Without realizing, Raul had observed a tectonic shift in the social dynamics of his peer group. They no longer wanted playmates. They wanted friends. And friends were going to mean everything—literally making or breaking one’s happiness—for the foreseeable future.
Philip went to his first Middle School Social in October 2006. It was held at Jocelyn’s house. I dropped Philip off to a scene of perhaps fifteen sixth through eighth graders mingling in the driveway and in the couch-filled garage. I could hear music playing in the garage, and I could see four adults chaperoning the scene. I watched Philip dissolve into the crowd and went home only to return less than two hours later to pick him up. He came to the car as I was parking and got in right away. “Are you done or do you want to stay longer?” I asked.
“It’s over. Everybody is leaving. I’m ready to go home.”
“So how was it?” I asked.
“It was great. We had a burping contest and they voted me the winner.”
And so it has continued: Burping contests, eating contests, scavenger hunts, etc. Last year their favorite activity was a game called Stupid Ninja. This October we found ourselves again dropping Philip off at Jocelyn’s house. Except this time there was no sign of Jocelyn. Jocelyn was now in High School and her younger sister Claire, a seventh-grader, had assumed the role of hostess. That evening I intentionally arrived early to get a glimpse of what to expect for the day when our home would be the Middle School frat house.
I parked down the street, walked up and stood behind a parked minivan in the driveway. One of the adults approached and asked me who I was picking up. I told her I was Philip’s dad but that I was in no hurry to pick him up. We chatted while the kids ran about tossing bean bags, or hanging out in small circles. An occasional exclamation or burst of laughter would force one of us to repeat something.
Another minivan pulled up and the automatic door opened. A girl who was probably in sixth grade ran past and leapt into the car. “Jamie, where are your shoes?”
With an “Oh - I forgot” to her mother, Jamie bounced back out of the minivan to get her shoes. Soon we heard her enlisting friends to help her find her shoes and that eventually grew into a flurry of activity to find Jamie’s shoes. But there was no success. Eventually her mother called. “Don’t worry about your shoes, Jamie. I’ll get them from Claire’s mother tomorrow.” Jamie returned to her mother’s minivan with a giddiness and elation that reminded me just a bit of Philip two years prior.
We hosted our first Middle School social earlier this month. We kept it a little tamer than Jocelyn and Claire’s parents did. We had just nine Middle School kids: six boys and three girls. I had two of the dads with me to chaperone. We had plenty of snack food and soda. We cooked them hamburgers, cheeseburgers and hot dogs for dinner and gave them chocolate chip cookies for dessert. We had an ice-breaker at the beginning to ensure all the kids met and then we showed them a movie.
But they effectively didn’t see the movie. One boy after another began heckling the movie for whatever reason popped into his head. Each boy was trying to outdo the other with a greater level of boldness and wit. The girls would selectively reward the boys with laughter which ensured the boys would continue their heckling. In the end, all they remembered of the movie were the scenes that were best heckled, along with the exact words and name of the boy who’d delivered the superlatively humorous comment.
Today, if you asked one of the kids about the evening at our home, the kid would probably say the movie stunk and his or her burger or hot dog was overcooked but otherwise the evening was a blast … even if they didn’t play Stupid Ninja.
“Nobody DOES anything at lunch. Everybody just TALKS.”
Without realizing, Raul had observed a tectonic shift in the social dynamics of his peer group. They no longer wanted playmates. They wanted friends. And friends were going to mean everything—literally making or breaking one’s happiness—for the foreseeable future.
Philip went to his first Middle School Social in October 2006. It was held at Jocelyn’s house. I dropped Philip off to a scene of perhaps fifteen sixth through eighth graders mingling in the driveway and in the couch-filled garage. I could hear music playing in the garage, and I could see four adults chaperoning the scene. I watched Philip dissolve into the crowd and went home only to return less than two hours later to pick him up. He came to the car as I was parking and got in right away. “Are you done or do you want to stay longer?” I asked.
“It’s over. Everybody is leaving. I’m ready to go home.”
“So how was it?” I asked.
“It was great. We had a burping contest and they voted me the winner.”
And so it has continued: Burping contests, eating contests, scavenger hunts, etc. Last year their favorite activity was a game called Stupid Ninja. This October we found ourselves again dropping Philip off at Jocelyn’s house. Except this time there was no sign of Jocelyn. Jocelyn was now in High School and her younger sister Claire, a seventh-grader, had assumed the role of hostess. That evening I intentionally arrived early to get a glimpse of what to expect for the day when our home would be the Middle School frat house.
I parked down the street, walked up and stood behind a parked minivan in the driveway. One of the adults approached and asked me who I was picking up. I told her I was Philip’s dad but that I was in no hurry to pick him up. We chatted while the kids ran about tossing bean bags, or hanging out in small circles. An occasional exclamation or burst of laughter would force one of us to repeat something.
Another minivan pulled up and the automatic door opened. A girl who was probably in sixth grade ran past and leapt into the car. “Jamie, where are your shoes?”
With an “Oh - I forgot” to her mother, Jamie bounced back out of the minivan to get her shoes. Soon we heard her enlisting friends to help her find her shoes and that eventually grew into a flurry of activity to find Jamie’s shoes. But there was no success. Eventually her mother called. “Don’t worry about your shoes, Jamie. I’ll get them from Claire’s mother tomorrow.” Jamie returned to her mother’s minivan with a giddiness and elation that reminded me just a bit of Philip two years prior.
We hosted our first Middle School social earlier this month. We kept it a little tamer than Jocelyn and Claire’s parents did. We had just nine Middle School kids: six boys and three girls. I had two of the dads with me to chaperone. We had plenty of snack food and soda. We cooked them hamburgers, cheeseburgers and hot dogs for dinner and gave them chocolate chip cookies for dessert. We had an ice-breaker at the beginning to ensure all the kids met and then we showed them a movie.
But they effectively didn’t see the movie. One boy after another began heckling the movie for whatever reason popped into his head. Each boy was trying to outdo the other with a greater level of boldness and wit. The girls would selectively reward the boys with laughter which ensured the boys would continue their heckling. In the end, all they remembered of the movie were the scenes that were best heckled, along with the exact words and name of the boy who’d delivered the superlatively humorous comment.
Today, if you asked one of the kids about the evening at our home, the kid would probably say the movie stunk and his or her burger or hot dog was overcooked but otherwise the evening was a blast … even if they didn’t play Stupid Ninja.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
His First Date Ever
Two months before his first formal dance, my son Philip was disappointed but not demoralized after his girl-peer Charlotte declined his invitation for her to join him. The awkward exchange between Charlotte and Philip had tested the boundaries of his social confidence and had failed to yield the desired result. But not long after, Philip was happy to extend the same invitation to another girl-peer: Ashley.
As was the case with the previous invitation, the parents spoke first. I had spoken with Charlotte’s dad. This time my wife spoke with Ashley’s mom, Emily. Unlike Charlotte’s dad, Emily had no interest in having Philip call her daughter on the telephone with an unexpected proposal at a time that was bound to be inconvenient. So after collecting all the details from my wife, Emily waited for a convenient and unhurried time to present the idea to Ashley. With all her questions answered and with full knowledge of her parents’ support, Ashley decided to accept.
Pause and think for a moment because this is a big first in one’s life. What was your first “date” like? What do you wish it had been like? What are your hopes and dreams when it comes to your son or daughter’s first “date” experience? What do you wish your parents had done for you? What do you wish your parents had not done?
Proactive parents do their job well when they provide both aid and input, but not so much that their kids are too insolated from the risk of hurt, disappointment and failure that is a normal part of life. Among my parent-peers, those who are proactive typically do a very good job providing just the right amount of aid and input when it comes to sports and academics. But when it comes to their kids’ developing interest in romance the vast majority of parents appear to fall into one of two dominant camps.
The first dominant camp provides little to no aid or input, except to ensure their kids’ safety. Charlotte’s dad fell into this camp. While he appreciated my call, he was not going to take any steps to prepare his daughter for Philip’s invitation.
The second dominant camp puts significant effort into preventing anything resembling romance from happening in their kids’ lives—usually until a certain age. But once their kids hit that particular age, parents in this second camp usually take the same passive approach as the parents in the first camp.
A minority of parents fall into what I’ll call the Hollywood camp. These parents actively encourage their kids (or at least their boys) to pursue their developing interest in romance as if young adolescent romance were either a competitive sport or something purely recreational. One man I know summed up this attitude by saying to me, “There’s never a reason a boy would need to be able to say ‘no’ to a girl.” My response as you might imagine was to tell him that his statement would work well in stand-up comedy, but was otherwise absolutely foolish.
There is one final camp into which parents fall. It is where I, my wife and Ashley’s parents fall. We want to provide an appropriate level of aid and input in all aspects of our kids’ lives, including their developing interest in romance.
In many ways, the preparation for Philip and Ashley’s “date” to be successful was years in the making. The two had met when Philip was in Kindergarten and Ashley was still in preschool. Amelia and Emily had “clicked” and rapidly became best friends. The two women got together frequently, usually with kids in tow and often with spouses in tow. Our two families had even vacationed together. Over several years Philip and Ashley found ways to enjoy playing with one another and—consistent with their upbringing—always respected one another. By the summer of 2008 there was a firm foundation of trust between them.
While Philip had been to a few dances before, this was going to be Ashley’s first dance ever. She was understandably nervous. But it was a nervousness Philip as well as both sets of parents were prepared to address. We had checked out a youth ballroom dancing class in Santa Carla ahead of time. Philip was comfortable with the class and the instructor as were we. When Amelia and Emily spoke about Ashley’s nervousness, Amelia suggested the ballroom dancing class and Emily liked the idea. Again, she waited for a convenient time and presented the idea to Ashley, who immediately liked the idea as well.
And so we took the pair to two ballroom dancing classes ahead of the actual dance. Each time, our families went out to dinner afterward. Being in downtown Santa Carla after the second dance class and dinner, our families explored the various shops and made an important pause at a dress shop Amelia and Emily had discussed earlier that day. As the women expected, Ashley was interested in several of the dresses for the formal dance. Philip proved to be the perfect young gentleman sitting in a large wing chair on one side of the store while Ashley was in the dressing room with her mom trying on several different dresses. Whenever Ashley emerged, Philip would stand up to admire her latest attire. That evening Ashley selected her dress from among the dozen or so she had tried.
Throughout the process we took no shortage of photographs. We have pictures of the dance classes, the shopping experience and we arrived with camera ready at Ashley’s home just before the dance. Philip had selected a black tuxedo with a rust-colored vest and tie. Ashley’s dress was a shade somewhere between sky blue and aquamarine that was an excellent complement to her carrot red hair. The parents wanted a lot of pre-dance photographs. Philip and Ashley were reasonably cooperative for the cameras but were much more interested in playing with Ashley’s new puppy.
After about forty-five minutes at the house, we caravanned to the dance. Philip rode with Ashley and her parents in their minivan while Amelia and I rode over in my sedan. Both sets of parents had signed up to chaperone/observe/participate. The evening began with dinner, a short ballroom dancing performance and promotional words from the college who had sponsored the dance.
Eventually the dancing began. Ashley was still a little nervous. She danced mainly with Philip but also enjoyed several dances with her father while Philip either rested or asked someone else to dance. Amelia and I got several great pictures of the kids on the dance floor. Both sets of parents shared a few dances. At the half-way point, Philip and Ashley each got a slice of carrot cake from the dessert table and settled down in chairs along the wall to recharge. Over the course of the evening, Philip shed his jacket, then later his tie and then finally his vest. Ashley shed her high-healed shoes when Philip shed his jacket. At one point an older teen boy stepped back onto Ashley’s shoeless foot. We got Ashley an ice pack for her foot and Philip stayed with her and chatted until she was ready to dance again.
The pair tired out roughly an hour before the end of the dance. Ashley sat in her father’s lap while Philip went to get them some cookies from the dessert table. A nervous but well dressed boy within Ashley’s age window approached and asked her to dance. She was surprised and taken aback for just a moment. It had been the first time that evening she wasn’t either dancing or hovering close to Philip. Ashley recovered quickly. “Thank you for asking,” she said, “but I’m done dancing for the evening.” And she was. Philip and Ashley each enjoyed two cookies and one last plastic cup of punch, and then told us they were ready to go home. The six of us caravanned back to Ashley’s house. Again Philip rode with Ashley and her parents. Back in front of Ashley's house, the parents gave Philip and Ashley the semi-privacy to say goodnight to one another out of earshot, but not out of eyeshot. Ashley went inside and Philip slid into the back seat of my sedan, quickly kicked off his shoes and wrapped himself in the blanket I had prepared for him. Philip's first date ever, enjoyed with a girl-peer he trusted and respected, was over.
Some day, I will know whether the aid and input we gave to Philip was something he will appreciate over time. For now, I am content to know we gave him the aid and input I wish I had been given when I was Philip's age.
As was the case with the previous invitation, the parents spoke first. I had spoken with Charlotte’s dad. This time my wife spoke with Ashley’s mom, Emily. Unlike Charlotte’s dad, Emily had no interest in having Philip call her daughter on the telephone with an unexpected proposal at a time that was bound to be inconvenient. So after collecting all the details from my wife, Emily waited for a convenient and unhurried time to present the idea to Ashley. With all her questions answered and with full knowledge of her parents’ support, Ashley decided to accept.
Pause and think for a moment because this is a big first in one’s life. What was your first “date” like? What do you wish it had been like? What are your hopes and dreams when it comes to your son or daughter’s first “date” experience? What do you wish your parents had done for you? What do you wish your parents had not done?
Proactive parents do their job well when they provide both aid and input, but not so much that their kids are too insolated from the risk of hurt, disappointment and failure that is a normal part of life. Among my parent-peers, those who are proactive typically do a very good job providing just the right amount of aid and input when it comes to sports and academics. But when it comes to their kids’ developing interest in romance the vast majority of parents appear to fall into one of two dominant camps.
The first dominant camp provides little to no aid or input, except to ensure their kids’ safety. Charlotte’s dad fell into this camp. While he appreciated my call, he was not going to take any steps to prepare his daughter for Philip’s invitation.
The second dominant camp puts significant effort into preventing anything resembling romance from happening in their kids’ lives—usually until a certain age. But once their kids hit that particular age, parents in this second camp usually take the same passive approach as the parents in the first camp.
A minority of parents fall into what I’ll call the Hollywood camp. These parents actively encourage their kids (or at least their boys) to pursue their developing interest in romance as if young adolescent romance were either a competitive sport or something purely recreational. One man I know summed up this attitude by saying to me, “There’s never a reason a boy would need to be able to say ‘no’ to a girl.” My response as you might imagine was to tell him that his statement would work well in stand-up comedy, but was otherwise absolutely foolish.
There is one final camp into which parents fall. It is where I, my wife and Ashley’s parents fall. We want to provide an appropriate level of aid and input in all aspects of our kids’ lives, including their developing interest in romance.
In many ways, the preparation for Philip and Ashley’s “date” to be successful was years in the making. The two had met when Philip was in Kindergarten and Ashley was still in preschool. Amelia and Emily had “clicked” and rapidly became best friends. The two women got together frequently, usually with kids in tow and often with spouses in tow. Our two families had even vacationed together. Over several years Philip and Ashley found ways to enjoy playing with one another and—consistent with their upbringing—always respected one another. By the summer of 2008 there was a firm foundation of trust between them.
While Philip had been to a few dances before, this was going to be Ashley’s first dance ever. She was understandably nervous. But it was a nervousness Philip as well as both sets of parents were prepared to address. We had checked out a youth ballroom dancing class in Santa Carla ahead of time. Philip was comfortable with the class and the instructor as were we. When Amelia and Emily spoke about Ashley’s nervousness, Amelia suggested the ballroom dancing class and Emily liked the idea. Again, she waited for a convenient time and presented the idea to Ashley, who immediately liked the idea as well.
And so we took the pair to two ballroom dancing classes ahead of the actual dance. Each time, our families went out to dinner afterward. Being in downtown Santa Carla after the second dance class and dinner, our families explored the various shops and made an important pause at a dress shop Amelia and Emily had discussed earlier that day. As the women expected, Ashley was interested in several of the dresses for the formal dance. Philip proved to be the perfect young gentleman sitting in a large wing chair on one side of the store while Ashley was in the dressing room with her mom trying on several different dresses. Whenever Ashley emerged, Philip would stand up to admire her latest attire. That evening Ashley selected her dress from among the dozen or so she had tried.
Throughout the process we took no shortage of photographs. We have pictures of the dance classes, the shopping experience and we arrived with camera ready at Ashley’s home just before the dance. Philip had selected a black tuxedo with a rust-colored vest and tie. Ashley’s dress was a shade somewhere between sky blue and aquamarine that was an excellent complement to her carrot red hair. The parents wanted a lot of pre-dance photographs. Philip and Ashley were reasonably cooperative for the cameras but were much more interested in playing with Ashley’s new puppy.
After about forty-five minutes at the house, we caravanned to the dance. Philip rode with Ashley and her parents in their minivan while Amelia and I rode over in my sedan. Both sets of parents had signed up to chaperone/observe/participate. The evening began with dinner, a short ballroom dancing performance and promotional words from the college who had sponsored the dance.
Eventually the dancing began. Ashley was still a little nervous. She danced mainly with Philip but also enjoyed several dances with her father while Philip either rested or asked someone else to dance. Amelia and I got several great pictures of the kids on the dance floor. Both sets of parents shared a few dances. At the half-way point, Philip and Ashley each got a slice of carrot cake from the dessert table and settled down in chairs along the wall to recharge. Over the course of the evening, Philip shed his jacket, then later his tie and then finally his vest. Ashley shed her high-healed shoes when Philip shed his jacket. At one point an older teen boy stepped back onto Ashley’s shoeless foot. We got Ashley an ice pack for her foot and Philip stayed with her and chatted until she was ready to dance again.
The pair tired out roughly an hour before the end of the dance. Ashley sat in her father’s lap while Philip went to get them some cookies from the dessert table. A nervous but well dressed boy within Ashley’s age window approached and asked her to dance. She was surprised and taken aback for just a moment. It had been the first time that evening she wasn’t either dancing or hovering close to Philip. Ashley recovered quickly. “Thank you for asking,” she said, “but I’m done dancing for the evening.” And she was. Philip and Ashley each enjoyed two cookies and one last plastic cup of punch, and then told us they were ready to go home. The six of us caravanned back to Ashley’s house. Again Philip rode with Ashley and her parents. Back in front of Ashley's house, the parents gave Philip and Ashley the semi-privacy to say goodnight to one another out of earshot, but not out of eyeshot. Ashley went inside and Philip slid into the back seat of my sedan, quickly kicked off his shoes and wrapped himself in the blanket I had prepared for him. Philip's first date ever, enjoyed with a girl-peer he trusted and respected, was over.
Some day, I will know whether the aid and input we gave to Philip was something he will appreciate over time. For now, I am content to know we gave him the aid and input I wish I had been given when I was Philip's age.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Friend at Our Kitchen Table
When my wife Amelia went into the hospital for spinal surgery in January 2006, we discovered what a caring community we had here in Hermes. Between the neighborhood, our church and Amelia’s book club, Amelia enjoyed no shortage of friendly visits in her hospital room, and I barely noticed the fact that there was one less adult in our home. Depending on the day, my refrigerator was stocked with anywhere between two and four days worth of meals prepared and delivered by our community of friends. On top of that, Philip and Chloe had all the rides they needed to and from school, sports and other kid events and a nice family to stay with until I was able to pick them up.
The biggest contributor to the aid given our family was Rita. We knew Rita because she ran our community gardening club, but before Amelia’s surgery was scheduled we had considered Rita on the periphery of our community of friends. That changed rather quickly. Rita not only joined the ranks of the many who prepared a meal, she also became our kids’ primary ride to and from school, plus normally kept them at her home until I was able to pick them up. The evening right after Amelia’s surgery, she and her husband hosted me and my kids for dinner. Over the course of my wife’s hospital stay and recovery, we all became great friends. Then the awkward moment came.
The kids’ summer vacation had just begun and we had invited Rita’s kids to play with our kids that day. Amelia was out on one of her first post-surgery shopping trips when the doorbell rang and Rita was at the door with her kids. Within moments a flow of four kids moved from the front of our house to the back yard. Still standing at our front door with Rita, I began the usual chit-chat before working out the logistics of when and how she’d get her kids back, but then she changed the subject. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she began. “Last night my husband informed me that he no longer loved me, that he was leaving me, and that he would be filing for divorce shortly.”
I was stunned by the news. I took in and let out an audible deep breath. “I’m so sorry. Would you like to come in and chat for a while? I’ve just put on a fresh pot of coffee and Amelia should be back from grocery shopping any minute.”
“That sounds really nice right now.” So we closed the front door and she followed me back into the kitchen. Rita was and still is cute, smart, thin, sensitive, full of energy and always has interesting things to talk about. Admittedly, I felt a little tension being alone in my kitchen with a beautiful, distraught and technically no longer attached woman I’d come to care about. I did my best to relax and just let her just talk. Within ten minutes, Amelia was home. I let Rita tell Amelia everything I’d just heard while I brought the groceries in and put them away. I boiled water for Amelia to enjoy some tea. Rita’s second cup was tea as well. I sat down with what had been left in the coffee pot and the three of us talked for about two hours with Rita doing the bulk of the talking.
In the months that followed, we learned Rita’s husband executed every venomous act that can be tossed into the divorce process. He filed a restraining order. He demanded his wife take a psychological exam. He pursued full custody and made every effort to provide as little financial support as possible, though prior to separation, he had urged his wife not to pursue employment. According to Rita, there was one good thing. He had become much more active in the kids’ lives.
Fast forward two and a half years. Thanksgiving 2008 was just a few days ago. Our family was taking a long break between the turkey that had filled us and the pumpkin pie we didn’t want yet. I was upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was Rita. She had an opportunity to work the following day and was wondering if we could watch her two kids. Amelia had the day off and they had just worked out the details as I headed down the stairs. She looked up at me. “Do you have a good command of financial stuff?”
“No,” I said, not feeling comfortable discussing investment options.
“I need to refinance the house once it is mine,” she said.
“We just refinanced. That I can help you with. Do you want to sit down and chat with us in the kitchen while the kids play?”
The three of us were back together in the kitchen. Rita was distraught again. This time it was over her finances, instead of her marriage. It was awkward asking her questions about her income and debt situation. It was even more awkward hearing her answers and then speaking to her plainly about what her answers would mean to a financial institution. Divorce, as almost everyone knows, is a financial disaster.
Earlier that day we had promised to play a board game with Philip after dessert. We invited Rita and her kids to join us for dessert and the board game. They accepted, but Chloe and Rita’s daughter wanted to play upstairs. Two hours later Rita’s son had won the board game and her daughter didn’t want to go home to bed.
Having read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, I know the leading predictor of divorce is evidence of contempt. We’re teaching Philip and Chloe not to ever indulge the temptation to feel contempt. We’re also teaching them to have no tolerance toward those who exhibit contempt toward them or their friends. It is amazing how many young adolescent girls at Philip’s school have already developed the habit of freely exhibiting contempt toward their boy-peers.
Today, Rita can look back objectively and see the early warning signs. “Shortly after we started dating, he told me straight out, ‘Don’t you ever cross me. If you ever cross me, I will pay you back with double.’"
“You stayed with him after he said that?” was Amelia’s reply.
“I should have known better,” said Rita soberly.
Rita is cute, smart, thin, sensitive, full of energy and always has interesting things to talk about. If anyone can repair her finances, find an emotionally healthy romance and teach her kids to do likewise from the get-go, Rita can. Meanwhile, we’ll always remember Rita’s help when we were in need, and our kitchen table will always be available.
The biggest contributor to the aid given our family was Rita. We knew Rita because she ran our community gardening club, but before Amelia’s surgery was scheduled we had considered Rita on the periphery of our community of friends. That changed rather quickly. Rita not only joined the ranks of the many who prepared a meal, she also became our kids’ primary ride to and from school, plus normally kept them at her home until I was able to pick them up. The evening right after Amelia’s surgery, she and her husband hosted me and my kids for dinner. Over the course of my wife’s hospital stay and recovery, we all became great friends. Then the awkward moment came.
The kids’ summer vacation had just begun and we had invited Rita’s kids to play with our kids that day. Amelia was out on one of her first post-surgery shopping trips when the doorbell rang and Rita was at the door with her kids. Within moments a flow of four kids moved from the front of our house to the back yard. Still standing at our front door with Rita, I began the usual chit-chat before working out the logistics of when and how she’d get her kids back, but then she changed the subject. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she began. “Last night my husband informed me that he no longer loved me, that he was leaving me, and that he would be filing for divorce shortly.”
I was stunned by the news. I took in and let out an audible deep breath. “I’m so sorry. Would you like to come in and chat for a while? I’ve just put on a fresh pot of coffee and Amelia should be back from grocery shopping any minute.”
“That sounds really nice right now.” So we closed the front door and she followed me back into the kitchen. Rita was and still is cute, smart, thin, sensitive, full of energy and always has interesting things to talk about. Admittedly, I felt a little tension being alone in my kitchen with a beautiful, distraught and technically no longer attached woman I’d come to care about. I did my best to relax and just let her just talk. Within ten minutes, Amelia was home. I let Rita tell Amelia everything I’d just heard while I brought the groceries in and put them away. I boiled water for Amelia to enjoy some tea. Rita’s second cup was tea as well. I sat down with what had been left in the coffee pot and the three of us talked for about two hours with Rita doing the bulk of the talking.
In the months that followed, we learned Rita’s husband executed every venomous act that can be tossed into the divorce process. He filed a restraining order. He demanded his wife take a psychological exam. He pursued full custody and made every effort to provide as little financial support as possible, though prior to separation, he had urged his wife not to pursue employment. According to Rita, there was one good thing. He had become much more active in the kids’ lives.
Fast forward two and a half years. Thanksgiving 2008 was just a few days ago. Our family was taking a long break between the turkey that had filled us and the pumpkin pie we didn’t want yet. I was upstairs when the doorbell rang. It was Rita. She had an opportunity to work the following day and was wondering if we could watch her two kids. Amelia had the day off and they had just worked out the details as I headed down the stairs. She looked up at me. “Do you have a good command of financial stuff?”
“No,” I said, not feeling comfortable discussing investment options.
“I need to refinance the house once it is mine,” she said.
“We just refinanced. That I can help you with. Do you want to sit down and chat with us in the kitchen while the kids play?”
The three of us were back together in the kitchen. Rita was distraught again. This time it was over her finances, instead of her marriage. It was awkward asking her questions about her income and debt situation. It was even more awkward hearing her answers and then speaking to her plainly about what her answers would mean to a financial institution. Divorce, as almost everyone knows, is a financial disaster.
Earlier that day we had promised to play a board game with Philip after dessert. We invited Rita and her kids to join us for dessert and the board game. They accepted, but Chloe and Rita’s daughter wanted to play upstairs. Two hours later Rita’s son had won the board game and her daughter didn’t want to go home to bed.
Having read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell, I know the leading predictor of divorce is evidence of contempt. We’re teaching Philip and Chloe not to ever indulge the temptation to feel contempt. We’re also teaching them to have no tolerance toward those who exhibit contempt toward them or their friends. It is amazing how many young adolescent girls at Philip’s school have already developed the habit of freely exhibiting contempt toward their boy-peers.
Today, Rita can look back objectively and see the early warning signs. “Shortly after we started dating, he told me straight out, ‘Don’t you ever cross me. If you ever cross me, I will pay you back with double.’"
“You stayed with him after he said that?” was Amelia’s reply.
“I should have known better,” said Rita soberly.
Rita is cute, smart, thin, sensitive, full of energy and always has interesting things to talk about. If anyone can repair her finances, find an emotionally healthy romance and teach her kids to do likewise from the get-go, Rita can. Meanwhile, we’ll always remember Rita’s help when we were in need, and our kitchen table will always be available.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Passing Seasons
I tend to mark the passing of time with the start and end of something clearly defined: A school year, a college semester, a job, a travel vacation, a living situation or a kids' sports season. While experiencing those parts of life I have enjoyed the most, I would pause at times to concentrate deeply in an attempt to burn the memory in all its vividness upon my mind. I did this during overnight camp, college, and each of my coaching seasons. I also did it during the fall sports season of my eighth grade year.
Last weekend, both Philip and Chloe closed out their fall soccer seasons. On Saturday afternoon Philip’s team The Jokers was upstairs and Chloe’s team The Heartbreakers was downstairs at the same local pizzeria celebrating the end of a great season. With Philip being in the eighth grade, I have been thinking back to that time in my own life often. But when I reconnected with Ken online ten days ago, suddenly memories of my eighth grade fall football season came into greater focus.
Growing up with a single mom who was intimidated by most married parents, I spent my pre-adolescence uninvolved in kids’ sports. That ended abruptly when I went to a private school that required participation in after-school activities. I had a lot of catching up to do, but in the fall of eighth grade I heard words that meant more to me back at that time than perhaps anything.
“Great job, Scott! You’re our starting Left Tackle,” the coach pronounced with a shout during a practice before our first game. I’d just executed the fast pull behind the line and out in front of the ball carrying halfback on a quick pitch left to collide hard with the first defender to threaten our drive up field. With it, my coach was convinced he could count on me, and I wasn't going to let him down.
Starting was an honor that until then had eluded me. I was a below average athlete and it took significant effort both to gain my starting position and to keep it. Having my friend Ken as starting Right Tackle made the experience all the more enjoyable. I developed a deeper respect for each of my teammates and what it took for them to execute their various roles. That summer at my overnight sailing camp, I skippered a sailboat race for the first time and then went on to skipper in enough races to place in five. Stashed away somewhere, I still have my football trophies, five sailing pennants (a first, three seconds and a third) and virtually every scholastic award I ever earned.
For the kid who never plays, it is an achievement to play. For the kid who has never touched the ball, it is an achievement to touch the ball. For the kid who has never been on the first string, it is an achievement to make the first string. For the kid who has never scored, it is an achievement to score. And on it goes. Each new level of victory in life is enjoyed and celebrated. For nearly every kid, sports provide an especially good venue to experience victories worth remembering. But sports are not the only venue. Philip has a first place trophy from a chess tournament, and Chloe has DVDs from her ballet performances.
The 2008 fall soccer season is over. In a few weeks, I will begin coaching Chloe’s first season of basketball, and Philip will begin his fourth season of Lacrosse. My hope for the coming season is that Chloe and Philip will each enjoy at least one small victory, and that they and I will each enjoy at least one experience to mark the season with a great memory.
Last weekend, both Philip and Chloe closed out their fall soccer seasons. On Saturday afternoon Philip’s team The Jokers was upstairs and Chloe’s team The Heartbreakers was downstairs at the same local pizzeria celebrating the end of a great season. With Philip being in the eighth grade, I have been thinking back to that time in my own life often. But when I reconnected with Ken online ten days ago, suddenly memories of my eighth grade fall football season came into greater focus.
Growing up with a single mom who was intimidated by most married parents, I spent my pre-adolescence uninvolved in kids’ sports. That ended abruptly when I went to a private school that required participation in after-school activities. I had a lot of catching up to do, but in the fall of eighth grade I heard words that meant more to me back at that time than perhaps anything.
“Great job, Scott! You’re our starting Left Tackle,” the coach pronounced with a shout during a practice before our first game. I’d just executed the fast pull behind the line and out in front of the ball carrying halfback on a quick pitch left to collide hard with the first defender to threaten our drive up field. With it, my coach was convinced he could count on me, and I wasn't going to let him down.
Starting was an honor that until then had eluded me. I was a below average athlete and it took significant effort both to gain my starting position and to keep it. Having my friend Ken as starting Right Tackle made the experience all the more enjoyable. I developed a deeper respect for each of my teammates and what it took for them to execute their various roles. That summer at my overnight sailing camp, I skippered a sailboat race for the first time and then went on to skipper in enough races to place in five. Stashed away somewhere, I still have my football trophies, five sailing pennants (a first, three seconds and a third) and virtually every scholastic award I ever earned.
For the kid who never plays, it is an achievement to play. For the kid who has never touched the ball, it is an achievement to touch the ball. For the kid who has never been on the first string, it is an achievement to make the first string. For the kid who has never scored, it is an achievement to score. And on it goes. Each new level of victory in life is enjoyed and celebrated. For nearly every kid, sports provide an especially good venue to experience victories worth remembering. But sports are not the only venue. Philip has a first place trophy from a chess tournament, and Chloe has DVDs from her ballet performances.
The 2008 fall soccer season is over. In a few weeks, I will begin coaching Chloe’s first season of basketball, and Philip will begin his fourth season of Lacrosse. My hope for the coming season is that Chloe and Philip will each enjoy at least one small victory, and that they and I will each enjoy at least one experience to mark the season with a great memory.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
If You Wish Upon a Blog ...
It was less than five weeks earlier when I posted the following words of resignation.
I've lost touch with Ken and I never knew Marla well. There is so much I'd like to know about what their parents did to prepare them and to help them along.
But thanks to the postmodern wonder of social networking engines and perhaps a little blogging Karma, Marla emerged from her inactive online status at 7:49pm on November 13th not only to accept my request to connect, but also to connect with Ken. Within 48 hours the three of us had traded a storm of emails, photos, blogposts, comments, and chats. Suddenly I was no longer merely sitting in the front car seat with Ken’s mom in the spring of 1980, I was riding shotgun. The glass is now half full and rising. Are you curious? I’m still curious, but a lot of my curiosity has been satisfied.
MARLA: Much like you I remember the evening with great clarity. I could tell you about the white eyelet dress I wore that night and picking out the shoes.
KEN: I do recall the eyelet dress. You were quite impressively beautiful for a young girl.
From our email trades I learned much more about Marla’s medical condition. It was significantly worse than what I had naively come to infer from bits and pieces of information that would drift my way.
MARLA: I was born with my bad hips and consequently I didn't know any other life. To date I have had 12 surgeries, but when I met you I had had about 9, plus 7 braces and 4 body casts from my armpits to my toes. I always say "I didn't go to camp in the summer, I went to the hospital." … Uneven surfaces were my worst fear … If I didn't pay attention, down I went.
Both Ken and Marla confirmed their parents’ unique part in developing their respective social confidence.
KEN: If only it was really that easy for me. But you are right, I had a socially adept mother but it was more Marla and her confidence that allowed me to be at ease around her. But make no mistake the lesson learned that should be passed on is that confidence must be instilled in our daughters in an environment not conducive to it for girls or women … But I learned a lot from Marla as I did from you too.
MARLA: Certainly I knew I was not like other kids, I had limitations … I had a very, very happy childhood. I can only credit my confident outgoing personality to my family for it was them that gave me the security of knowing that I could always get past the stares and whispers if only I got to meet those who were doing it. I think ultimately more acknowledgement needs to go to Ken. I knew what to expect, after all I dealt with my hips, their limitations, the pain they caused and the reaction I got from them daily. For Ken, there was a much bigger unknown. But much like me, Ken knew who he was. He was not going to change for anyone's ignorance or insensitivity. (Probably never has) And because of that, I felt secure in the trust I had in him to go to that dance. I did have a great night!!
Ken’s bravado and Marla’s sweetness haven’t faded. They share a playful sense of humor, charisma and social confidence that puts them far ahead on the bell curve. In their youth, they were the true definition of popular; many of us enjoyed their company and their friendship. And we didn’t just like them; we liked ourselves better as a result of knowing them. Ken, the one I knew, brought out the best in me. He believed in and had faith in everything good about me.
KEN: I was conscious of you watching us out of the corner of your eye. And all I could think was that this was simply my turn, and that you would soon be the guy in the back seat. I had a good deal of respect for you then, with academic prowess and commitment and intensity in sports, a renaissance man of sorts. I knew your time would come.
Ken and Marla enjoyed a brief, early adolescent romance in the spring of 1980. And as Ken predicted, I had my own brief, early adolescent romance not long after during the summer of 1980; it also included a teen dance. All three of us could list a series of brief romances from our teen years. They include some happy memories. But those memories also include some deep sadness.
KEN: Christine was my version of the "little red-headed girl.” I was so infatuated, so enamored with her that I had trouble sitting next to her even though I wanted to so very much, because it was hard to breathe. When we dated, her kisses were more the firework variety than I had ever experienced before or since. But her mother had not prepared her as well, and she was convinced I was dating her to make her friend jealous. I could not convince her otherwise no matter how hard I tried. It was my first very real taste of a broken heart.
Leading up to adolescence, boys and girls drift apart into two distinct social worlds. Suddenly with adolescence the interest returns and with it an interest in romance. A whole social dynamic can develop out of that interest which rushes early adolescents into relationships they cannot maintain, coupled with feelings of inadequacy if they are not in a romantic relationship.
Most parents do not properly prepare their kids for this part of growing up. Marla’s three daughters are at or approaching that age. My son Philip is now that age. And my daughter Chloe (who is out front playing basketball with Jack as I write this) is coming of age rapidly. As a parent who takes his lead from research and common sense rather than popular culture, I know that if young adolescents develop emotionally healthy non-dating relationships with their opposite gender peers, their eventual dating relationships are much more likely to be emotionally healthy as well.
To date, my son Philip has been cautious with his heart. He’s already proven he doesn’t need a girlfriend to enjoy a nice evening with one of his girl-peers. That seems like a good thing to me. I want him to grow up and find that life partner with whom he more than clicks. If he can do that without the heartache of a series of failed relationships, that would be even better. But if he does experience such heartache along the way as most of us do, he’ll survive and be better for it.
MARLA: My oldest is a romantic like her mom. It worked out very well for me, I picked the right guy. … My husband is similar to Ken, in that he never seemed to see my gait. It never mattered. Similarly he also knows who he is and will probably never change. I hope he never does.
Ken and Marla’s romance didn’t last. But they’ll always have the memory of that eyelet dress and the enchanted evening for which it was purchased. And of course, so will I.
I've lost touch with Ken and I never knew Marla well. There is so much I'd like to know about what their parents did to prepare them and to help them along.
But thanks to the postmodern wonder of social networking engines and perhaps a little blogging Karma, Marla emerged from her inactive online status at 7:49pm on November 13th not only to accept my request to connect, but also to connect with Ken. Within 48 hours the three of us had traded a storm of emails, photos, blogposts, comments, and chats. Suddenly I was no longer merely sitting in the front car seat with Ken’s mom in the spring of 1980, I was riding shotgun. The glass is now half full and rising. Are you curious? I’m still curious, but a lot of my curiosity has been satisfied.
MARLA: Much like you I remember the evening with great clarity. I could tell you about the white eyelet dress I wore that night and picking out the shoes.
KEN: I do recall the eyelet dress. You were quite impressively beautiful for a young girl.
From our email trades I learned much more about Marla’s medical condition. It was significantly worse than what I had naively come to infer from bits and pieces of information that would drift my way.
MARLA: I was born with my bad hips and consequently I didn't know any other life. To date I have had 12 surgeries, but when I met you I had had about 9, plus 7 braces and 4 body casts from my armpits to my toes. I always say "I didn't go to camp in the summer, I went to the hospital." … Uneven surfaces were my worst fear … If I didn't pay attention, down I went.
Both Ken and Marla confirmed their parents’ unique part in developing their respective social confidence.
KEN: If only it was really that easy for me. But you are right, I had a socially adept mother but it was more Marla and her confidence that allowed me to be at ease around her. But make no mistake the lesson learned that should be passed on is that confidence must be instilled in our daughters in an environment not conducive to it for girls or women … But I learned a lot from Marla as I did from you too.
MARLA: Certainly I knew I was not like other kids, I had limitations … I had a very, very happy childhood. I can only credit my confident outgoing personality to my family for it was them that gave me the security of knowing that I could always get past the stares and whispers if only I got to meet those who were doing it. I think ultimately more acknowledgement needs to go to Ken. I knew what to expect, after all I dealt with my hips, their limitations, the pain they caused and the reaction I got from them daily. For Ken, there was a much bigger unknown. But much like me, Ken knew who he was. He was not going to change for anyone's ignorance or insensitivity. (Probably never has) And because of that, I felt secure in the trust I had in him to go to that dance. I did have a great night!!
Ken’s bravado and Marla’s sweetness haven’t faded. They share a playful sense of humor, charisma and social confidence that puts them far ahead on the bell curve. In their youth, they were the true definition of popular; many of us enjoyed their company and their friendship. And we didn’t just like them; we liked ourselves better as a result of knowing them. Ken, the one I knew, brought out the best in me. He believed in and had faith in everything good about me.
KEN: I was conscious of you watching us out of the corner of your eye. And all I could think was that this was simply my turn, and that you would soon be the guy in the back seat. I had a good deal of respect for you then, with academic prowess and commitment and intensity in sports, a renaissance man of sorts. I knew your time would come.
Ken and Marla enjoyed a brief, early adolescent romance in the spring of 1980. And as Ken predicted, I had my own brief, early adolescent romance not long after during the summer of 1980; it also included a teen dance. All three of us could list a series of brief romances from our teen years. They include some happy memories. But those memories also include some deep sadness.
KEN: Christine was my version of the "little red-headed girl.” I was so infatuated, so enamored with her that I had trouble sitting next to her even though I wanted to so very much, because it was hard to breathe. When we dated, her kisses were more the firework variety than I had ever experienced before or since. But her mother had not prepared her as well, and she was convinced I was dating her to make her friend jealous. I could not convince her otherwise no matter how hard I tried. It was my first very real taste of a broken heart.
Leading up to adolescence, boys and girls drift apart into two distinct social worlds. Suddenly with adolescence the interest returns and with it an interest in romance. A whole social dynamic can develop out of that interest which rushes early adolescents into relationships they cannot maintain, coupled with feelings of inadequacy if they are not in a romantic relationship.
Most parents do not properly prepare their kids for this part of growing up. Marla’s three daughters are at or approaching that age. My son Philip is now that age. And my daughter Chloe (who is out front playing basketball with Jack as I write this) is coming of age rapidly. As a parent who takes his lead from research and common sense rather than popular culture, I know that if young adolescents develop emotionally healthy non-dating relationships with their opposite gender peers, their eventual dating relationships are much more likely to be emotionally healthy as well.
To date, my son Philip has been cautious with his heart. He’s already proven he doesn’t need a girlfriend to enjoy a nice evening with one of his girl-peers. That seems like a good thing to me. I want him to grow up and find that life partner with whom he more than clicks. If he can do that without the heartache of a series of failed relationships, that would be even better. But if he does experience such heartache along the way as most of us do, he’ll survive and be better for it.
MARLA: My oldest is a romantic like her mom. It worked out very well for me, I picked the right guy. … My husband is similar to Ken, in that he never seemed to see my gait. It never mattered. Similarly he also knows who he is and will probably never change. I hope he never does.
Ken and Marla’s romance didn’t last. But they’ll always have the memory of that eyelet dress and the enchanted evening for which it was purchased. And of course, so will I.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Is Spanky Your Favorite Rascal?
Why do we love brazen young adolescents? Why do I love them? Why does part of me want to see the untamable side of my son and my daughter break forth, even off the ball field? I don't know. Maybe it is because I believe brazen young adolescents grow up to save the world.
My friend Ken was brazen. My son's friend Jocelyn is brazen. And then there is Jack.
At the time of this writing Jack is 11 years old. He moved into the house next door last summer and began attending Hermes Middle School as a 6th grader this fall. He loves skateboarding. He wears a baseball cap under his helmet. He's mildly overdeveloped for his age. So is his 14-year-old sister. Jack is not the least bit intimidated by the 15, 16 and 17-year-old boys who follow them back home from the skate park to flirt with his sister. Even my 9-year-old daughter Chloe likes Jack. So does the other 9-year-old girl in the neighborhood. I’ve heard her in my backyard whispering to Chloe, "You do the talking and I'll do the stalking," as they plot to find an excuse to log time with Jack. But sometimes they are preempted by an 11 or 12-year-old girl who has joined the caravan following Jack and his sister back from the skate park.
Our "kids and cul-de-sacs" neighborhood is an early adolescent drama unfolding. Across the street are three boys with a single mom. Jack logs a lot of time with them. Another boy and his sister live on the corner. The other 9-year-old girl has a 12-year-old sister. Four more boys are less than a thirty second walk away. And of course there’s my son Philip and my daughter Chloe at 13 and 9, respectively.
The other morning my wife got into the car and discovered something wrong when she looked into the rear view mirror. Upon further investigation a BB gun had put a pellet through her rear window. The dark shattered mess of pebbles was held together by the tinting and the heating element. My wife called the stay-at-home mom on the corner to ask if she had any idea who had a BB gun. The stay-at-home mom related that her son had come inside the previous afternoon claiming he was afraid to ride his bike on the street because the three boys in the house across from us were firing their BB gun out from the garage at targets on the street. She gave a short apology for not taking action.
My wife and I agreed I would take on the uncomfortable task of talking to the mom across the street. As I approached the porch, only the screen to the front door was closed. As I got closer, I could see Jack playing a video game with the oldest of the three boys while the younger two were looking on. “Knock-knock,” I said.
“Hi,” one of the boys answered.
I told him I wanted to speak with his mom. I had to wait for just a little while, since she was on the phone working from home. She eventually walked up to the screen door. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
I relaxed and looked her in the eye. “This is kind of awkward.” I paused to allow her to ready herself for something awkward. “Do your kids have a BB gun?”
“Yes.”
“This morning my wife discovered the rear window of her vehicle was shattered by a BB pellet. One of the neighbors claimed to have seen your boys shooting a BB gun from your garage at targets in the street yesterday afternoon.”
She was swift with her response. “That wasn’t my boys. I’m certain. They know the rules about the BB gun very well and I know they do not do anything like that.” It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. Either she was in denial, boldly lying or someone from outside the neighborhood was to blame. I was hoping for denial.
I paused, looked away, choose my words, their delivery and my body language very carefully, and then looked back. “Well. OK. I’ll take you at your word. I need to report this to the police then.”
“That sounds like what you should do.” The awkward dialog was over, and she closed the door behind the screen. I went back to my house, grabbed the telephone and was in the process of looking up the non-emergency police telephone number when the doorbell rang.
Jack stood alone on my front porch. “The BB gun damage yesterday … that had to be me. I was shooting down at targets on the street. One of the pellets must have bounced up and done the damage. I didn’t know I had broken something. Otherwise I would have told you yesterday. I’m really sorry, and I’ll definitely pay for the damage. Maybe I can do some yard work.”
His words and his attitude were perfect in every way. He was shouldering all responsibility, even though (as we learned later) one of the boys across the street had brought out his BB gun and was doing the shooting with Jack. George Washington’s father couldn’t have felt more pride in a young adolescent than I felt toward Jack.
The interaction between our three families that followed included no surprises. The full story came out. The neighbors were willing to make us whole financially and we were willing to cooperate with whatever process the neighbor parents felt would appropriately discipline the boys, provided it was dignifying rather than shaming to the boys. We learned Jack’s parents—especially his father—had very strong values against guns. Jack’s father delivered a very stern lecture to his son.
Not long afterward that same afternoon, Chloe came in from the back yard looking like she was on the edge of tears. When I inquired, she told me, “I don’t want to hear Jack crying,” and then her own tears and crying burst through as she flopped onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. I stepped outside into our back yard quietly and could make out the muffled sound of Jack sobbing from the upstairs of his house. I hoped they were cleansing sobs like those Aeneas let flow once he’d successfully sailed those under his care to a safe distance from Troy.
I came back inside and gently closed the sliding door. Then I turned to Chloe who was still crying quietly on our couch. “Jack made a big mistake playing with that gun out in the street. It is painful for somebody to admit making that kind of a mistake. Jack was a friend of our family before this happened and he proved he was a good friend by quickly taking responsibility for what he had done. We’ll make sure he knows we are still his friends.”
In the days that have followed, we’ve had many opportunities to chat with Jack in a way that lets him know he’s forgiven and accepted. He acts beyond his years in his responses. Unfortunately the mom across the street has become withdrawn and does not make eye contact or pause to connect with us in any way when she is outdoors. It’s as if she’s the 11-year-old and Jack is the adult.
Today Jack came to the house carrying the checks that make us whole for the repairs. He looked my wife between the eyes and apologized once more. Why does our whole family love this rascal Jack so much? I don’t know. Perhaps we see the makings of someone who will grow up to save the world one day. In the meantime, perhaps I’ll start calling him Spanky.
My friend Ken was brazen. My son's friend Jocelyn is brazen. And then there is Jack.
At the time of this writing Jack is 11 years old. He moved into the house next door last summer and began attending Hermes Middle School as a 6th grader this fall. He loves skateboarding. He wears a baseball cap under his helmet. He's mildly overdeveloped for his age. So is his 14-year-old sister. Jack is not the least bit intimidated by the 15, 16 and 17-year-old boys who follow them back home from the skate park to flirt with his sister. Even my 9-year-old daughter Chloe likes Jack. So does the other 9-year-old girl in the neighborhood. I’ve heard her in my backyard whispering to Chloe, "You do the talking and I'll do the stalking," as they plot to find an excuse to log time with Jack. But sometimes they are preempted by an 11 or 12-year-old girl who has joined the caravan following Jack and his sister back from the skate park.
Our "kids and cul-de-sacs" neighborhood is an early adolescent drama unfolding. Across the street are three boys with a single mom. Jack logs a lot of time with them. Another boy and his sister live on the corner. The other 9-year-old girl has a 12-year-old sister. Four more boys are less than a thirty second walk away. And of course there’s my son Philip and my daughter Chloe at 13 and 9, respectively.
The other morning my wife got into the car and discovered something wrong when she looked into the rear view mirror. Upon further investigation a BB gun had put a pellet through her rear window. The dark shattered mess of pebbles was held together by the tinting and the heating element. My wife called the stay-at-home mom on the corner to ask if she had any idea who had a BB gun. The stay-at-home mom related that her son had come inside the previous afternoon claiming he was afraid to ride his bike on the street because the three boys in the house across from us were firing their BB gun out from the garage at targets on the street. She gave a short apology for not taking action.
My wife and I agreed I would take on the uncomfortable task of talking to the mom across the street. As I approached the porch, only the screen to the front door was closed. As I got closer, I could see Jack playing a video game with the oldest of the three boys while the younger two were looking on. “Knock-knock,” I said.
“Hi,” one of the boys answered.
I told him I wanted to speak with his mom. I had to wait for just a little while, since she was on the phone working from home. She eventually walked up to the screen door. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
I relaxed and looked her in the eye. “This is kind of awkward.” I paused to allow her to ready herself for something awkward. “Do your kids have a BB gun?”
“Yes.”
“This morning my wife discovered the rear window of her vehicle was shattered by a BB pellet. One of the neighbors claimed to have seen your boys shooting a BB gun from your garage at targets in the street yesterday afternoon.”
She was swift with her response. “That wasn’t my boys. I’m certain. They know the rules about the BB gun very well and I know they do not do anything like that.” It wasn’t the answer I wanted to hear. Either she was in denial, boldly lying or someone from outside the neighborhood was to blame. I was hoping for denial.
I paused, looked away, choose my words, their delivery and my body language very carefully, and then looked back. “Well. OK. I’ll take you at your word. I need to report this to the police then.”
“That sounds like what you should do.” The awkward dialog was over, and she closed the door behind the screen. I went back to my house, grabbed the telephone and was in the process of looking up the non-emergency police telephone number when the doorbell rang.
Jack stood alone on my front porch. “The BB gun damage yesterday … that had to be me. I was shooting down at targets on the street. One of the pellets must have bounced up and done the damage. I didn’t know I had broken something. Otherwise I would have told you yesterday. I’m really sorry, and I’ll definitely pay for the damage. Maybe I can do some yard work.”
His words and his attitude were perfect in every way. He was shouldering all responsibility, even though (as we learned later) one of the boys across the street had brought out his BB gun and was doing the shooting with Jack. George Washington’s father couldn’t have felt more pride in a young adolescent than I felt toward Jack.
The interaction between our three families that followed included no surprises. The full story came out. The neighbors were willing to make us whole financially and we were willing to cooperate with whatever process the neighbor parents felt would appropriately discipline the boys, provided it was dignifying rather than shaming to the boys. We learned Jack’s parents—especially his father—had very strong values against guns. Jack’s father delivered a very stern lecture to his son.
Not long afterward that same afternoon, Chloe came in from the back yard looking like she was on the edge of tears. When I inquired, she told me, “I don’t want to hear Jack crying,” and then her own tears and crying burst through as she flopped onto the couch and buried her face in her hands. I stepped outside into our back yard quietly and could make out the muffled sound of Jack sobbing from the upstairs of his house. I hoped they were cleansing sobs like those Aeneas let flow once he’d successfully sailed those under his care to a safe distance from Troy.
I came back inside and gently closed the sliding door. Then I turned to Chloe who was still crying quietly on our couch. “Jack made a big mistake playing with that gun out in the street. It is painful for somebody to admit making that kind of a mistake. Jack was a friend of our family before this happened and he proved he was a good friend by quickly taking responsibility for what he had done. We’ll make sure he knows we are still his friends.”
In the days that have followed, we’ve had many opportunities to chat with Jack in a way that lets him know he’s forgiven and accepted. He acts beyond his years in his responses. Unfortunately the mom across the street has become withdrawn and does not make eye contact or pause to connect with us in any way when she is outdoors. It’s as if she’s the 11-year-old and Jack is the adult.
Today Jack came to the house carrying the checks that make us whole for the repairs. He looked my wife between the eyes and apologized once more. Why does our whole family love this rascal Jack so much? I don’t know. Perhaps we see the makings of someone who will grow up to save the world one day. In the meantime, perhaps I’ll start calling him Spanky.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
The Most Awkward Teen Interaction
My son Philip had his first formal dance at the end of June 2008. He wanted to bring a girl-peer as his guest. No romance, but this would definitely be his first date. Nonetheless the prospect of making the date happen had Philip nervous and uncertain as any current or former teen can certainly relate. Adding to the difficulty was the fact that none of the girl-peers on his shortlist went to Oak Hills Charter School with him. Most were at Hermes Middle School where he’d been the previous year for sixth grade. The one exception was Ashley, the daughter of his mom’s best friend. (Ashley lived in San Geraldo where our family had lived prior to moving to Hermes.)
As my wife and I discussed the upcoming dance with our son that spring, I related the story of Ken and Marla from my own teen years and told Philip that if he wanted help securing a date for the dance, his mom and I would provide any reasonable help he needed. I remember his words well, “I definitely want help.” We also gave Philip a lesson in etiquette. He could only ask one girl-peer from Hermes Middle School. If that girl said no, another girl-peer from the same school could not be his second choice, especially since the four HMS girls on his shortlist were all good friends.
It is worth noting here that Philip did have some degree of encouragement from his HMS girl-peers. Each girl-peer on his shortlist had asked him to slow dance a year before at the second dance of his sixth grade year and each had accepted his invitation to slow dance a second time at the third and final dance that same year. Philip’s mom and I recommended he ask Jocelyn, whom we had observed was the most socially confident young lady on his shortlist. Jocelyn had been the first girl to ask Philip to slow dance the year before. Instead, Philip felt Charlotte, the second girl to ask Philip to slow dance, would be the one who would most enjoy a formal dance.
Television and movies normally have an older brother provide the guidance I gave to Philip, but that role was mine in our family, and it is my humble opinion more parents should play a role in assisting their rapidly maturing sons and daughters through this awkward process. With Philip’s agreement to the plan, I called Charlotte’s dad who I’d never met before. The goal of the call was to give Charlotte’s parents the opportunity to:
- ask any questions about the dance,
- give their veto before Philip even broached the idea with Charlotte,
- check to see if Charlotte had any schedule conflicts,
- impose their rules upon Philip from the very beginning, and
- speak with Charlotte beforehand about Philip’s dance.
One phone call and an email trade later, Charlotte’s parents were satisfied and had given their approval for Philip to ask and for Charlotte to be his date if she wanted to join him. But Charlotte’s parents had chosen not to give Charlotte any advance warning. They wanted Philip to call her on the telephone, explain why he was calling and officially ask her.
That evening, I helped Philip compose a script that included his introduction and intended answers to all the questions he and I could anticipate Charlotte asking. The following evening, Philip telephoned Charlotte behind closed doors. When Philip emerged from his room, he told us Charlotte had told him she would talk to her parents about the dance and call him back.
The several day wait that followed seemed endless. The morning of day seven, I emailed Charlotte’s dad. It being almost a week now, Philip is concerned Charlotte is either nervous, undecided or both. Are you OK with Philip retaking the initiative and calling again if Charlotte does not call back by tomorrow? Her dad wrote back confirming our suspicions.
I talked to Charlotte last night asking her if she has gotten back to Philip; she hasn't. I told her that she needed to get back to him soon because it is a "big deal" for a guy to get the nerve up to ask a girl to a dance. I am OK with Philip following up. Charlotte is nervous, undecided, and not sure how she will feel not knowing anyone else at the dance. In short Philip will have to pursue Charlotte. At this time I don't know what her decision will be.
Memories of my years at a mostly boys, recently coed private school came back. For me, many potential dates for my school dances attending other schools declined with the words, “I won’t know anyone there other than you.” Philip had one advantage I never had. His dance was not with Oak Hills Charter School, but was instead sponsored by an enterprising college offering dances targeting teens whose schools did not have their own dances. Anticipating the concern Charlotte’s dad had warned us was coming, we updated Philip’s script that evening. He would offer Charlotte the opportunity to bring friends along—up to one girl and one boy. He could also offer to have her parents come along as observers. I also sent a short reply to Charlotte’s dad relaying those same possible solutions.
Charlotte called just before 9:00 PM that evening. I picked up the phone and the Caller ID revealed her identity. Philip was engaged telling a funny story to his sister while she was brushing her teeth. I couldn’t get his attention to answer the phone himself, so I answered, “Hello.”
“Hi. Can I speak with Philip?” The voice was more coy and high-pitched than I had expected. She sounded roughly half her actual age.
“Sure. Let me get him for you,” and I put the phone down gently. In hindsight, I should have asked her if Philip could call her right back. Philip was now even more animated relating his funny story to his adoring and giggling younger sister. I took hold of his shoulders from behind to secure his attention.
“Charlotte is on the phone.” It took more than a second to register.
“Oh … uh … where’s the phone?” I brought him the phone. “Hello.” Pause. “Hi Charlotte!” There was long pause during which we later confirmed she expressed her concerns about not knowing anyone at the dance other than Philip. “So you’re saying no.” So much for the script, I thought. There was an even longer pause. “So you’re saying no.” Yes. He forgot his script. But next time, he’ll be more experienced and better prepared. The next pause was shorter. “OK … well … bye.”
Philip did not take Charlotte to his dance. Instead he took Ashley. No romance, but it was definitely his first date. And it is a story that deserves its own post.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Sensitive Topics
Do you trust your 13-year-old’s ability to judge for himself or herself the content of a book that discusses one or more sensitive topics like teen sex? Many parents of 13-year-olds do not. I’m pleased to say I trust my 13-year-old son in that regard. The other day I gave my son the library copy of The Teenage Guy’s Survival Guide by Jeremy Daldry.
Does that mean I would give him any book that covers such topics to read? No. If I hand my young teenage son a book covering one or more sensitive topics, I communicate a degree of implicit agreement and approval.
Does that mean I would only give him books with which I am in substantial agreement when it comes to sensitive topics? No it doesn’t. The best way to communicate my values to my son is to talk to him about those values myself. And the content of a book can be what launches that discussion. But I still want to be careful about what I give him. Below is my “selection criteria” for such books.
Most parents have a strong opinion on most if not all of these issues. In each case, Daldry discusses teens engaging in such activities in a way that sounds non-judgmental, but often contains valid warnings. With pornography for example, he gives the following warnings.
At some point, my son is going to discover his parents cannot constantly police him or control his choices. I’ve chosen to tell him that fact before he discovers it for himself. At this stage in his life, I want him to develop his own values while I still can be a strong influence
Is that scary? Of course it is scary. But as I stated at the beginning, I trust my son. Do you trust your young teen?
Does that mean I would give him any book that covers such topics to read? No. If I hand my young teenage son a book covering one or more sensitive topics, I communicate a degree of implicit agreement and approval.
Does that mean I would only give him books with which I am in substantial agreement when it comes to sensitive topics? No it doesn’t. The best way to communicate my values to my son is to talk to him about those values myself. And the content of a book can be what launches that discussion. But I still want to be careful about what I give him. Below is my “selection criteria” for such books.
- The subject matter is maturity appropriate. Some 13-year-olds show no evidence of entering puberty, walk around the house with toys in their hands and still think the opposite gender is boring at best. For those 13-year-olds, there is no point in giving them a book like The Teenage Guy’s Survival Guide.
- The content is mainstream. In other words, my son is going to hear these perspectives that differ from mine anyway—unless I keep him in a bubble all his life. Better to let his exposure to these ideas come at the time and venue of my choosing, rather than someone else’s.
- Arguments are non-manipulative. The controversy over the legality of abortion is a case in point. Too many works either accuse members of the pro-life camp of wanting to strip women of their freedom and equality, or accuse members of the pro-choice camp of wanting as many abortions as possible. While in a world of billions I’m sure there are at least a few people who think these ways, I’ve certainly never met any. Instead the true debate is a tension between differing and strongly-held values regarding what constitutes civil rights and human dignity. I have no interest in letting anyone—whether I agree with them or not—try to shame or bully my son into agreement.
Most parents have a strong opinion on most if not all of these issues. In each case, Daldry discusses teens engaging in such activities in a way that sounds non-judgmental, but often contains valid warnings. With pornography for example, he gives the following warnings.
- It is illegal for teens to purchase pornography.
- Most women (especially moms) will react negatively if they discover a teen boy engages pornography.
- Many people consider pornography exploitive.
- Pornographic images are generally taller, thinner, more developed, enhanced by makeup, unhealthy practices and sometimes even surgery, rather than being representative of a normal healthy woman’s (or man’s) body.
- While it is easy to open the pages of a pornographic magazine, it is a lot better to form a real relationship with a real person--even if it takes more time and more work.
At some point, my son is going to discover his parents cannot constantly police him or control his choices. I’ve chosen to tell him that fact before he discovers it for himself. At this stage in his life, I want him to develop his own values while I still can be a strong influence
Is that scary? Of course it is scary. But as I stated at the beginning, I trust my son. Do you trust your young teen?
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Apprentice Helmsman’s Test
As a young teen I had the privilege of attending an overnight sailing camp. The camp had all the trappings of traditional summer camp: swimming, archery, tennis, wood shop, pottery, a trampoline, etc. But the main focus of the camp was sailing.
Over the years the camp had developed a sophisticated sailing program that even included training kids (who got to that level) how to steer a sailboat without a rudder. The training system was broken up into two sections: core skills and advanced skills.
To successfully complete the first of the five levels within the advanced skills section, one had to pass what was called The Apprentice Helmsman’s Test (AHT). The AHT was unlike any test I’d ever taken before because it was not a skills test. Anyone taking the AHT had already firmly proven his or her command of the skills required to pass the AHT by completing the core skills program. Instead, the AHT was a character test. Briefly, the AHT required the initiate to single-handedly sail a small two-sailed (main & jib) craft in heavy winds—defined by the frequent white caps that appear on the top of waves at wind speeds of 17 knots or more. The goal was for the initiate to demonstrate his or her confidence and presence of mind to execute the core skills alone and in adverse conditions.
My moment arrived late one July evening in 1980 and it was spiced up with particularly gusty, shifting winds. The test was an adventure. And when I had completed all the maneuvers required of me, the senior counselor and I took the opportunity to spend another fifteen minutes enjoying the thrill of an upwind ride in heavy weather. I arrived after lights out to a cabin full of my peers eager to hear me recount the evening’s exploits.
But the best moment of all came at breakfast. Before dismissal from breakfast, the campers were given the day’s announcements. The final announcement came from the senior sailing counselor. “Last night I took Scott Askins out for his Apprentice Helmsman’s Test and … He passed!” The dining hall erupted with cheers and applause. It was one of the most dignifying moments of my life.
Fast forward almost exactly twenty-eight years. My son was called back for the final try-out round for the Santa Carla Division III Soccer team for his age group. But on the day of the final try-out the left side of my son’s neck had seized up into a painful cramp. Having never made it onto a Division III team before, my son quickly became demoralized over his situation thinking he had no chance to make the team. I arrived home early to take him to the try-out and found him in his demoralized state.
I sat down across the table from my son and told him to look me in the eye. “OK Philip, here’s the deal. Coach Ralph is an extremely experienced soccer coach. He knows these things happen to kids from time to time. Coach Ralph has already seen your skill level and was satisfied with what he saw to bring you back for the final round. What he hasn’t seen is how you handle situations like the one you are in now.
“For you, today’s test is not going to be a skills test. It is going to be a character test. Do you know what I mean by a character test?” He said he didn’t. And that gave me the opportunity to tell him my story of the Apprentice Helmsman’s Test. That was enough to calm Philip down and allow him to plan out how he would conduct himself during the tryout.
In my humble father’s opinion Philip conducted himself brilliantly. We met Coach Ralph before the try-out and explained Philip’s situation. Philip joined the other candidates for the warm-up and stretches. Otherwise, he stood by the coach and thoughtfully watched the other candidates perform the various drills. We stayed until the final try-out drill was complete.
Later that week, the team parent called to inform us that Coach Ralph had not selected Philip for the team. Obviously, Philip was disappointed. I was a little disappointed too. But as far as I was concerned, Philip had accomplished something greater than getting onto a Division III soccer team. He had passed my Apprentice Helmsman’s Test.
Over the years the camp had developed a sophisticated sailing program that even included training kids (who got to that level) how to steer a sailboat without a rudder. The training system was broken up into two sections: core skills and advanced skills.
To successfully complete the first of the five levels within the advanced skills section, one had to pass what was called The Apprentice Helmsman’s Test (AHT). The AHT was unlike any test I’d ever taken before because it was not a skills test. Anyone taking the AHT had already firmly proven his or her command of the skills required to pass the AHT by completing the core skills program. Instead, the AHT was a character test. Briefly, the AHT required the initiate to single-handedly sail a small two-sailed (main & jib) craft in heavy winds—defined by the frequent white caps that appear on the top of waves at wind speeds of 17 knots or more. The goal was for the initiate to demonstrate his or her confidence and presence of mind to execute the core skills alone and in adverse conditions.
My moment arrived late one July evening in 1980 and it was spiced up with particularly gusty, shifting winds. The test was an adventure. And when I had completed all the maneuvers required of me, the senior counselor and I took the opportunity to spend another fifteen minutes enjoying the thrill of an upwind ride in heavy weather. I arrived after lights out to a cabin full of my peers eager to hear me recount the evening’s exploits.
But the best moment of all came at breakfast. Before dismissal from breakfast, the campers were given the day’s announcements. The final announcement came from the senior sailing counselor. “Last night I took Scott Askins out for his Apprentice Helmsman’s Test and … He passed!” The dining hall erupted with cheers and applause. It was one of the most dignifying moments of my life.
Fast forward almost exactly twenty-eight years. My son was called back for the final try-out round for the Santa Carla Division III Soccer team for his age group. But on the day of the final try-out the left side of my son’s neck had seized up into a painful cramp. Having never made it onto a Division III team before, my son quickly became demoralized over his situation thinking he had no chance to make the team. I arrived home early to take him to the try-out and found him in his demoralized state.
I sat down across the table from my son and told him to look me in the eye. “OK Philip, here’s the deal. Coach Ralph is an extremely experienced soccer coach. He knows these things happen to kids from time to time. Coach Ralph has already seen your skill level and was satisfied with what he saw to bring you back for the final round. What he hasn’t seen is how you handle situations like the one you are in now.
“For you, today’s test is not going to be a skills test. It is going to be a character test. Do you know what I mean by a character test?” He said he didn’t. And that gave me the opportunity to tell him my story of the Apprentice Helmsman’s Test. That was enough to calm Philip down and allow him to plan out how he would conduct himself during the tryout.
In my humble father’s opinion Philip conducted himself brilliantly. We met Coach Ralph before the try-out and explained Philip’s situation. Philip joined the other candidates for the warm-up and stretches. Otherwise, he stood by the coach and thoughtfully watched the other candidates perform the various drills. We stayed until the final try-out drill was complete.
Later that week, the team parent called to inform us that Coach Ralph had not selected Philip for the team. Obviously, Philip was disappointed. I was a little disappointed too. But as far as I was concerned, Philip had accomplished something greater than getting onto a Division III soccer team. He had passed my Apprentice Helmsman’s Test.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
I Sat in Front with His Mom
Put yourselves in the shoes I was wearing in eighth grade for a moment. I went to a private school that had only recently gone coed. There were six boys for every girl. The school still had dances, but there was no "sister school" invited to participate jointly any more. My lone effort to get a "date" for the dance from another school was preempted by a scheduling conflict before the young lady in question even needed to think about whether to turn me down gently or use the opportunity to humiliate me into never calling again.
My friend Ken's mother was my ride to and from the dance. When she pulled up, she and Ken were not alone in the car. Ken was sitting in the back seat with Marla. I had not met Marla before, but I knew her by reputation. Marla was uniquely adored by eighth grade boys at the local public middle school. She was kind, emotionally healthy, socially confident, and (of course) beautiful ... very, very beautiful. And that evening her beauty was highlighted by the dress, light makeup and other personal grooming that her mother (no doubt) put into making her evening with Ken enchanted and the pre-event photos a treasured family memory.
Riding in the front passenger seat next to Ken's mom, I felt like I was wearing a dunce cap. For me, the dance proved humiliatingly uneventful. One guy brought his sister along and I got to dance with her once: To Private Idaho, I think. Otherwise I chit-chatted with my friends and enjoyed the music. Ken spent the evening introducing Marla to his friends and teachers like he was a brave, handsome, well-liked fighter pilot in a 1950s WWII movie making the rounds at the officers club to introduce his fiancé. Ken's road show was interrupted only to enjoy the slow dances with Marla's arms wrapped around his neck. During the ride home, things got quiet in the back seat. I turned to look and saw Marla sleeping (or at least pretending to sleep) leaning against Ken who had his eyes closed and his head tilted in Marla's direction. Ken's mom whispered we should be quiet and to let them sleep. I was happy for them. But I also felt the weight of the disparity between my evening and Ken's evening.
At the time I simply thought Ken was cooler than I was. I now believe with a high degree of certainty that (i) Ken had help from his parents, (ii) Marla had help from her parents, and (iii) even today most teens do not get the kind of help and training in social skills that Ken and Marla got from their parents. While proactive parents invest in developing the academic and athletic skills of their children, most have done nothing to give either a son or daughter the skills to pull off the wonderful evening Ken and Marla enjoyed.
There is one thing I haven't told you yet. Marla suffered from a chronic joint problem that made walking awkward. Dancing to Private Idaho was not even an option for Marla. That is why Ken and Marla only danced during the slow dances. That's right. The girl with the awkward walk was uniquely adored at her middle school. The girl effectively unable to dance had the social confidence to go to a dance at a school where she only knew her date. And she was able to carry it off like royalty. Likewise, my friend Ken had the empathy and social skills to have earned Marla's trust and to make his dance work for her. No whining. No bickering. No foolish bravado. No anxiety attack. Ken and Marla enjoyed the school dance and each other's company for the entire evening—until they perhaps literally fell asleep at one another’s side.
As a parent, I'd like both my son and my daughter to develop the skills to enjoy school dances and other events as well as make those events enjoyable for others. More importantly, those same social skills come into play in the most important adult interactions: Finding a spouse, finding a job, developing new friendships, making important professional connections, etc.
The story of Ken and Marla is now a family legend I tell and retell to my son and daughter. Unfortunately, I've lost touch with Ken and I never knew Marla well. There is so much I'd like to know about what their parents did to prepare them and to help them along. With or without that knowledge, I am doing what I can to ensure that my son and daughter each develop and know how to apply social skills and social confidence. After all, whenever it can be avoided, I do not want them ever feeling like they're wearing a dunce cap.
My friend Ken's mother was my ride to and from the dance. When she pulled up, she and Ken were not alone in the car. Ken was sitting in the back seat with Marla. I had not met Marla before, but I knew her by reputation. Marla was uniquely adored by eighth grade boys at the local public middle school. She was kind, emotionally healthy, socially confident, and (of course) beautiful ... very, very beautiful. And that evening her beauty was highlighted by the dress, light makeup and other personal grooming that her mother (no doubt) put into making her evening with Ken enchanted and the pre-event photos a treasured family memory.
Riding in the front passenger seat next to Ken's mom, I felt like I was wearing a dunce cap. For me, the dance proved humiliatingly uneventful. One guy brought his sister along and I got to dance with her once: To Private Idaho, I think. Otherwise I chit-chatted with my friends and enjoyed the music. Ken spent the evening introducing Marla to his friends and teachers like he was a brave, handsome, well-liked fighter pilot in a 1950s WWII movie making the rounds at the officers club to introduce his fiancé. Ken's road show was interrupted only to enjoy the slow dances with Marla's arms wrapped around his neck. During the ride home, things got quiet in the back seat. I turned to look and saw Marla sleeping (or at least pretending to sleep) leaning against Ken who had his eyes closed and his head tilted in Marla's direction. Ken's mom whispered we should be quiet and to let them sleep. I was happy for them. But I also felt the weight of the disparity between my evening and Ken's evening.
At the time I simply thought Ken was cooler than I was. I now believe with a high degree of certainty that (i) Ken had help from his parents, (ii) Marla had help from her parents, and (iii) even today most teens do not get the kind of help and training in social skills that Ken and Marla got from their parents. While proactive parents invest in developing the academic and athletic skills of their children, most have done nothing to give either a son or daughter the skills to pull off the wonderful evening Ken and Marla enjoyed.
There is one thing I haven't told you yet. Marla suffered from a chronic joint problem that made walking awkward. Dancing to Private Idaho was not even an option for Marla. That is why Ken and Marla only danced during the slow dances. That's right. The girl with the awkward walk was uniquely adored at her middle school. The girl effectively unable to dance had the social confidence to go to a dance at a school where she only knew her date. And she was able to carry it off like royalty. Likewise, my friend Ken had the empathy and social skills to have earned Marla's trust and to make his dance work for her. No whining. No bickering. No foolish bravado. No anxiety attack. Ken and Marla enjoyed the school dance and each other's company for the entire evening—until they perhaps literally fell asleep at one another’s side.
As a parent, I'd like both my son and my daughter to develop the skills to enjoy school dances and other events as well as make those events enjoyable for others. More importantly, those same social skills come into play in the most important adult interactions: Finding a spouse, finding a job, developing new friendships, making important professional connections, etc.
The story of Ken and Marla is now a family legend I tell and retell to my son and daughter. Unfortunately, I've lost touch with Ken and I never knew Marla well. There is so much I'd like to know about what their parents did to prepare them and to help them along. With or without that knowledge, I am doing what I can to ensure that my son and daughter each develop and know how to apply social skills and social confidence. After all, whenever it can be avoided, I do not want them ever feeling like they're wearing a dunce cap.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Beach Ball
My generation of parents and educators raised in the “progressive” 70s and 80s have introduced something those raised in the “repressive” 40s and 50s did not impose when I was in my early teens: The beach ball.
What is the beach ball? It is an imaginary object between one dance partner and the other. In my day, hearing Stairway to Heaven or Freebird at a dance meant I would enjoy an extended, sleepy (alright, dreamy) embrace on the dance floor. But the experience of today’s young teens during a song such as Nickelback’s Far Away is subject to the “intimacy police” wandering around the dance floor equipped with flashlights to enforce the non-negotiable policy.
While I do not agree with all the heavy-handed rules imposed on my son and daughter’s generation, I’d have to say that on the balance I am pleased with the proactive stance my generation of parents is taking. The courtship that preceded my marriage of over seventeen years began after a five year non-dating friendship. I cannot think of any more preferable scenario for my son or daughter to establish the foundation of the most important relationship in life.
In contrast, the fits and starts of intimacy that characterized my early teens (while admittedly quite enjoyable in the moment) typically ended painfully. And truthfully, they are the source of nearly all the regret I have carried into adulthood. If anything, the skills of “love and affection” I developed in those early relationships had to be unlearned.
My hope for my early teen son is the same hope I will have for my daughter in a few years. I want him to have the emotional health and social confidence to develop great friendships with his peers: Both boys and girls.
I’m already seeing the interest in girls developing. And I’m pleased to see his interests and active fraternizing are directed toward the most emotionally healthy young teen girls he knows. One day, we’ll learn there is someone with the title of girlfriend. While I cannot predict everything, my take is she will be someone with whom he has already logged scores of hours over a number of months simply talking (or at least text messaging) without any premeditated agenda. And perhaps they will have even enjoyed a few spins on the dance floor with the beach ball between them.
What is the beach ball? It is an imaginary object between one dance partner and the other. In my day, hearing Stairway to Heaven or Freebird at a dance meant I would enjoy an extended, sleepy (alright, dreamy) embrace on the dance floor. But the experience of today’s young teens during a song such as Nickelback’s Far Away is subject to the “intimacy police” wandering around the dance floor equipped with flashlights to enforce the non-negotiable policy.
While I do not agree with all the heavy-handed rules imposed on my son and daughter’s generation, I’d have to say that on the balance I am pleased with the proactive stance my generation of parents is taking. The courtship that preceded my marriage of over seventeen years began after a five year non-dating friendship. I cannot think of any more preferable scenario for my son or daughter to establish the foundation of the most important relationship in life.
In contrast, the fits and starts of intimacy that characterized my early teens (while admittedly quite enjoyable in the moment) typically ended painfully. And truthfully, they are the source of nearly all the regret I have carried into adulthood. If anything, the skills of “love and affection” I developed in those early relationships had to be unlearned.
My hope for my early teen son is the same hope I will have for my daughter in a few years. I want him to have the emotional health and social confidence to develop great friendships with his peers: Both boys and girls.
I’m already seeing the interest in girls developing. And I’m pleased to see his interests and active fraternizing are directed toward the most emotionally healthy young teen girls he knows. One day, we’ll learn there is someone with the title of girlfriend. While I cannot predict everything, my take is she will be someone with whom he has already logged scores of hours over a number of months simply talking (or at least text messaging) without any premeditated agenda. And perhaps they will have even enjoyed a few spins on the dance floor with the beach ball between them.
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