The town of Hermes has a population of roughly twelve thousand, but over one thousand people converged on the local indoor skating rink this past Saturday evening to support and raise funds for a local family, the Bergins, whose three-year-old Robert developed a cancerous brain tumor that was caught by doctors in November. I’m so proud to be part of this community. But yet again, I am reminded of parenting’s gamble.
The Bergins have three kids: a son, Ryan, who has been on Philip’s soccer team for the past three seasons, a daughter, Rachel, who is in Chloe’s third grade class and of course Robert.
While Philip hit the video games and Chloe joined her friends skating, I secured a seat on the visiting roller hockey team bench and merely soaked in all of it. I’d brought a book, but I never cracked it. Classic rock was mixed with newer pop alternative music at a volume that allowed for talking at only a slightly raised voice. Announcements regarding the raffle and other festivities for the evening would sometimes preempt the music.
I hadn’t seen Robert since he’d gotten sick just after soccer season ended. Not long after I’d settled down, Sean Bergin, Robert’s father, paused at the edge of the skating rink to thank me for coming. Robert was in Sean’s arms dosing. Robert had a feeding tube and a hat to cover his chemo-balded head. Sean was wearing a backpack that managed the feeding process. “I’m so sorry all of you are going through this Sean,” I said, “but clearly you’re living in the right community.”
“That’s for sure,” he replied. “Thank you for coming.” And he moved along to thank other supporters.
Not long after, the announcer asked the guest skaters to move to the side of the rink to watch a semi-pro figure skater who grew up in Hermes perform. It was the peak of the evening. The speakers began piping in Spanish Guitar and I realized it was an unplugged version of Hotel California. The noise in the indoor rink quickly died down as everyone settled to watch the performance.
It was a beautiful and flawless performance. It gave me time to reflect. I had so many mixed feelings. I was so proud of my town and everyone who had taken part in the fund-raiser. I ached for the Bergin family and wished I could do more for them. I was thankful for my family’s health. And among those thoughts and feelings, I had concerns about our own family’s finances as my initial prospects for quickly returning to the workforce had either decided not to hire anyone, or had selected someone else.
I pushed those final thoughts and feelings to the back of my mind. They could return on Monday. This weekend belonged to the Bergins.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Parenting's Gamble
Last June, I started using an online social networking engine. In less than a year, I've connected with over one hundred people I'd love to chat with at a reunion but for whom I would otherwise not have gone out of my way to contact. The list includes peers from college, high school, overnight camp, middle school and elementary school. I've even connected with three women with whom I once shared an adolescent romance: My first kiss, my Senior Prom date, and one more: Lori. And before any of you get worried ... both Amelia and I are comfortable with such connections in the tame, non-invasive world of online social networking.
I have found a strong basis of friendship is shared experience. With most of the people with whom I connect online from my distant past, I share both a formative window of life from years ago, as well as the current experience of being a parent. Of course, parenting experiences vary widely. With Lori, her parenting experience has proven to be very, very different from mine. Like me, she's happily married to a spouse who adores her and she has two lovely children. However, both of my children are in near perfect health, whereas Lori's younger daughter Gretchen has the worst childhood illness I have ever learned about.
Since connecting with Lori online this past summer, I have been able to do a lot of reading about Gretchen's illness. It hasn't just been the descriptions on medical information websites. Lori journals online about Gretchen's ups and downs. The journaling keeps Lori's social network wide and well informed, and I am sure it also serves Lori as an outlet of relief to simply write. During the summer of 2008, I skimmed through roughly one thousand journal entries written over a five year span. It was like drinking from a fire hose. It was nearly impossible to conceive of Lori's day-to-day or month-to-month life.
Since then, I've been reading each of Lori's newly posted journal entries in near real time and the picture of Lori's life with a medically-fragile child has become more clear. But it is one of those situations in which the more I know, the more I realize I do not know. Lori's online peers want to give encouragement, but we don't always know how. Many people post short, kind notes as comments to Lori's journal entries to tell her they are praying or thinking kind thoughts. I send a medium-sized note about once every five or six weeks with the hopes I can deliver something unique enough to add value on top of what she is already receiving.
My 9-year-old daughter Chloe has developed an interest in Gretchen and her circumstances. Chloe looks over my shoulder when I read Lori's journal entries and asks me what is going on with Gretchen's health. Recently Gretchen's health took a difficult downward turn from which she is fortunately now recovering. But on the day of the first and second journal entry to report the downturn. things looked particularly stark. The following morning I woke up an hour before the alarm went off and wondered about Gretchen. I checked for a journal entry online and it woke Chloe. "Daddy, may I have a morning snuggle?" Chloe asked through her blurry mask of blond bed-head.
She quietly joined me in the "big bed" without waking Amelia. Chloe used my shoulder as a pillow, pressed her spine firmly against my side and held my wrist in both arms like it was a stuffed animal. Soon she was breathing as only a comfortably sleeping child breathes. Chloe's health was undeniable. I could smell it, feel it, hear it and see it. I rested there in the bed and wondered what it would be like for it to be my daughter whose life was hanging in the balance. Could Amelia and I endure as Lori and her spouse do day after day and month after month? There’s no way to know for certain, of course. But I believe the answer would be yes.
I continued lying there listening to Chloe’s sleepy breaths and chose to savor the moments. Who can know what the next day will bring? A new, breakthrough treatment could suddenly provide a huge improvement in Gretchen’s life. Likewise, a latent gene or some kind of accident could suddenly afflict Chloe or Philip. That is parenting’s gamble. And we all willingly take that gamble.
I briefly remembered back to a time long ago when it was Lori’s head resting peacefully on my shoulder, and thought about how completely unaware we were of what the future would hold. I silently wished the best for Lori and her Gretchen. Chloe stirred and turned to face me, draping her arm across my chest. “I love you, Daddy,” she said quietly as the sunlight working its way through our shades indicated the alarm would soon go off.
“I love you too, Chloe.” And I made sure I savored every last bit of the morning snuggle.
I have found a strong basis of friendship is shared experience. With most of the people with whom I connect online from my distant past, I share both a formative window of life from years ago, as well as the current experience of being a parent. Of course, parenting experiences vary widely. With Lori, her parenting experience has proven to be very, very different from mine. Like me, she's happily married to a spouse who adores her and she has two lovely children. However, both of my children are in near perfect health, whereas Lori's younger daughter Gretchen has the worst childhood illness I have ever learned about.
Since connecting with Lori online this past summer, I have been able to do a lot of reading about Gretchen's illness. It hasn't just been the descriptions on medical information websites. Lori journals online about Gretchen's ups and downs. The journaling keeps Lori's social network wide and well informed, and I am sure it also serves Lori as an outlet of relief to simply write. During the summer of 2008, I skimmed through roughly one thousand journal entries written over a five year span. It was like drinking from a fire hose. It was nearly impossible to conceive of Lori's day-to-day or month-to-month life.
Since then, I've been reading each of Lori's newly posted journal entries in near real time and the picture of Lori's life with a medically-fragile child has become more clear. But it is one of those situations in which the more I know, the more I realize I do not know. Lori's online peers want to give encouragement, but we don't always know how. Many people post short, kind notes as comments to Lori's journal entries to tell her they are praying or thinking kind thoughts. I send a medium-sized note about once every five or six weeks with the hopes I can deliver something unique enough to add value on top of what she is already receiving.
My 9-year-old daughter Chloe has developed an interest in Gretchen and her circumstances. Chloe looks over my shoulder when I read Lori's journal entries and asks me what is going on with Gretchen's health. Recently Gretchen's health took a difficult downward turn from which she is fortunately now recovering. But on the day of the first and second journal entry to report the downturn. things looked particularly stark. The following morning I woke up an hour before the alarm went off and wondered about Gretchen. I checked for a journal entry online and it woke Chloe. "Daddy, may I have a morning snuggle?" Chloe asked through her blurry mask of blond bed-head.
She quietly joined me in the "big bed" without waking Amelia. Chloe used my shoulder as a pillow, pressed her spine firmly against my side and held my wrist in both arms like it was a stuffed animal. Soon she was breathing as only a comfortably sleeping child breathes. Chloe's health was undeniable. I could smell it, feel it, hear it and see it. I rested there in the bed and wondered what it would be like for it to be my daughter whose life was hanging in the balance. Could Amelia and I endure as Lori and her spouse do day after day and month after month? There’s no way to know for certain, of course. But I believe the answer would be yes.
I continued lying there listening to Chloe’s sleepy breaths and chose to savor the moments. Who can know what the next day will bring? A new, breakthrough treatment could suddenly provide a huge improvement in Gretchen’s life. Likewise, a latent gene or some kind of accident could suddenly afflict Chloe or Philip. That is parenting’s gamble. And we all willingly take that gamble.
I briefly remembered back to a time long ago when it was Lori’s head resting peacefully on my shoulder, and thought about how completely unaware we were of what the future would hold. I silently wished the best for Lori and her Gretchen. Chloe stirred and turned to face me, draping her arm across my chest. “I love you, Daddy,” she said quietly as the sunlight working its way through our shades indicated the alarm would soon go off.
“I love you too, Chloe.” And I made sure I savored every last bit of the morning snuggle.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Nicknames and a Big Cheer
Winter break is over and basketball season has officially begun. This season I am coaching my third grade daughter Chloe's team, MONSOON. I picked up the girls' uniform tee-shirts at the Hermes Recreation Office and took them over with me to the first official practice of the year. Each girl wanted to be the first to pick her number—limited of course to the correct-sized tee-shirts. I used one of the practice drills as a contest to determine what order the girls would get to pick their numbers.
The first two selected their tee-shirts quickly: 11 and 7. As I worked to get the tee-shirts to the rest of the team, the first two began chattering feverishly within my hearing, but not my attention. Suddenly number 11 spoke up. "Coach! Coach! I'm HOT DOG and she's BIG GULP! Get it? Seven-Eleven!"
Immediately the energy level and enthusiasm spiked to a new level. The remaining players all wanted a team nickname to match HOT DOG and BIG GULP. Chloe quickly claimed STARBURST and the whole team agreed by cheering her on by that name. So I gathered them up and gave them three simple rules for nicknames.
Rule #1: The player must want the nickname enthusiastically.
Rule #2: Her teammates must likewise enthusiastically accept her having that nickname.
Rule #3: I, the coach, must approve the nickname.
Throughout the rest of that day's practice nicknames were all the girls could talk about. I vetoed SHOOTER because it sounded too much like labeling one player as the star of the team. A talented but rather melancholic third grader requested CRANKY. I reluctantly approved only after her mother told me that it was the nickname her daughter had embraced in the previous soccer season. The rest struggled and I promised to help them all pick nicknames at the next practice.
I'd also promised we'd have a Team Cheer and many of the girls were ready with ideas. One girl presented some lines with a hip-hop beat. Another suggested making a howling wind sound while saying "Mooooooo-onsoon!" Others asked for references to their nicknames. Chloe wanted the cheer to end with "Let's go!" It was a little overwhelming to get all their ideas, but I promised to compile them and have a draft of the cheer ready for the next practice.
That was my homework the following evening. I compiled a list of pre-approved nicknames to help the girls who hadn't settled. The cheer was a little tougher to arrange. I went to bed still thinking about the cheer and woke up with it in an orderly enough state to put it in writing before the rest of the family was awake. On the same sheet of paper, I put the roster and the game schedule and printed seven copies for the afternoon's practice.
Practice was mainly about getting them ready for their first game, but I made certain to deal with the nicknames and cheer effectively. JAGUAR, ROCKET and PINTO were what the remaining players wanted for themselves from my list of recommendations and their teammates rapidly approved. I had to fend off several unwanted nicknames directed toward me, including HUBBA-BUBBA and DIESEL. In the end, AQUAMAN is what stuck. Finally, the cheer came together with a hip-hop beat to the full satisfaction of these third and fourth grade girls.
One, two, three!
We got names; we got names; we got names that strut our games!
We're loud; we're proud, like a storm from the Swelling Blue Deep!
We play, every day, and here's what we have to say!
Mooooooo-onsoon! Let's go!
Years from now HOT DOG, BIG GULP, STARBURST, CRANKY, JAGUAR, ROCKET and PINTO probably won't remember many details from their games and even less from their practices. But they'll almost certainly remember their nicknames and the MONSOON Team Cheer for the rest of their lives. I know AQUAMAN will.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Kids and Their Parents' Finances
I was roughly the age Philip is today. I was home from school when my mother came home early from work. “There’s something I need to tell you,” she said. “I’ve lost my job.”
We were a single parent family: Just me and my mother. We lived in a small apartment in an upscale East Coast town. The recession at the beginning of the Reagan administration had begun and the economic fallout had forced my mother’s employer to cut staff. We had fixed financial support from my father and his family, but our income had just been cut in half. Savings? Yeah, right. And with the market being down, things looked grim.
I’m certain my mother felt all kinds of pressure in that down economy. Who wouldn’t? But somehow I never felt it. As a child and as an adolescent, my happiness did not depend upon how big the paycheck was. When I speak with peers who had bad experiences as a result of their parents' finances, it was never about the lack of money. The bad experiences were the anger and rage and/or the withdrawal and depression.
Today there is a new recession looming. I'm giving myself a fifty percent chance I'll be among the unemployed before the week is out. With that, our family will take a 75% hit to our income. And we're still recovering financially from the post 9-11 recession. We're hardly alone. The parents of Chloe's friend Samantha were over the other evening. We'd always considered them wealthier than us, given their vehicles and their clothes. But all of it was at least four years old. We learned Samantha's father's business had earned close to nothing these past four years. Their savings were completely drained. Their recent move from an upscale development in Hermes was not to a bigger home, but instead to the home of an elderly relative where they are now renting space. Samantha's father was particularly demoralized that evening. And her mom was feeling the weight too. We told them about our looming situation — which truly doesn't come close to theirs. We talked about our concern for the kids. And that is when Samantha's mom and dad set us straight.
Samantha and her siblings have been fine. It is just the parents who are suffering. They are suffering quietly. When they left the upscale home for shared space in an older, smaller home away from neighbors with whom the kids could play, all the kids could say was, "Mom! This house has a tire swing!" When the elderly relative got sick, their high-school-age daughter spent several hours a week taking care of him. Not only did that save the family the cost of a home health aid, but it also allowed the teenage daughter more quality time with the elderly man than the rest of her life beforehand. The kids — Samantha's parents report — are just as happy as they were before the finances collapsed. Their grades in school are just as good as they had been. And they enjoy their friends just as much as ever.
At the time of this writing, I do not know what this week will bring. But Samantha's parents have helped me to be ready for the worst. Back during Reagan's presidency, my mother quickly found a better job. And admittedly, there is one company with which I have already been interviewing that may have a better job for me. But nothing is certain. I could find myself employed at the end of the week, or I could be among the unemployed. The company with the better job might extend me an offer. Or it might not. This recession could prove uneventful for us. Or it could be a long difficult road. Like Samantha's family, we have options. Houses don't sell in this recession, but they do rent. We could rent out our spare room. Or we could rent out our whole house and move into a small apartment. My wife could increase her hours at her part time job, and I've had some success before getting short term consulting assignments while between jobs.
I'm choosing to be optimistic. It keeps me at my best with the kids. And as long as I stay that way, the kids will never care whether or not I'm gainfully employed. Either way, I plan to spend a lot more time with Samantha's dad. Some day his business will recover. And some day (hopefully for the rest of 2009 or at least most of it) I’ll be gainfully employed.
As for the kids, my goal is they won’t need to recover from anything. I didn’t when I was that age.
We were a single parent family: Just me and my mother. We lived in a small apartment in an upscale East Coast town. The recession at the beginning of the Reagan administration had begun and the economic fallout had forced my mother’s employer to cut staff. We had fixed financial support from my father and his family, but our income had just been cut in half. Savings? Yeah, right. And with the market being down, things looked grim.
I’m certain my mother felt all kinds of pressure in that down economy. Who wouldn’t? But somehow I never felt it. As a child and as an adolescent, my happiness did not depend upon how big the paycheck was. When I speak with peers who had bad experiences as a result of their parents' finances, it was never about the lack of money. The bad experiences were the anger and rage and/or the withdrawal and depression.
Today there is a new recession looming. I'm giving myself a fifty percent chance I'll be among the unemployed before the week is out. With that, our family will take a 75% hit to our income. And we're still recovering financially from the post 9-11 recession. We're hardly alone. The parents of Chloe's friend Samantha were over the other evening. We'd always considered them wealthier than us, given their vehicles and their clothes. But all of it was at least four years old. We learned Samantha's father's business had earned close to nothing these past four years. Their savings were completely drained. Their recent move from an upscale development in Hermes was not to a bigger home, but instead to the home of an elderly relative where they are now renting space. Samantha's father was particularly demoralized that evening. And her mom was feeling the weight too. We told them about our looming situation — which truly doesn't come close to theirs. We talked about our concern for the kids. And that is when Samantha's mom and dad set us straight.
Samantha and her siblings have been fine. It is just the parents who are suffering. They are suffering quietly. When they left the upscale home for shared space in an older, smaller home away from neighbors with whom the kids could play, all the kids could say was, "Mom! This house has a tire swing!" When the elderly relative got sick, their high-school-age daughter spent several hours a week taking care of him. Not only did that save the family the cost of a home health aid, but it also allowed the teenage daughter more quality time with the elderly man than the rest of her life beforehand. The kids — Samantha's parents report — are just as happy as they were before the finances collapsed. Their grades in school are just as good as they had been. And they enjoy their friends just as much as ever.
At the time of this writing, I do not know what this week will bring. But Samantha's parents have helped me to be ready for the worst. Back during Reagan's presidency, my mother quickly found a better job. And admittedly, there is one company with which I have already been interviewing that may have a better job for me. But nothing is certain. I could find myself employed at the end of the week, or I could be among the unemployed. The company with the better job might extend me an offer. Or it might not. This recession could prove uneventful for us. Or it could be a long difficult road. Like Samantha's family, we have options. Houses don't sell in this recession, but they do rent. We could rent out our spare room. Or we could rent out our whole house and move into a small apartment. My wife could increase her hours at her part time job, and I've had some success before getting short term consulting assignments while between jobs.
I'm choosing to be optimistic. It keeps me at my best with the kids. And as long as I stay that way, the kids will never care whether or not I'm gainfully employed. Either way, I plan to spend a lot more time with Samantha's dad. Some day his business will recover. And some day (hopefully for the rest of 2009 or at least most of it) I’ll be gainfully employed.
As for the kids, my goal is they won’t need to recover from anything. I didn’t when I was that age.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The Joy of Coaching
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.
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.
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.
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