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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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.
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