There are a few distinct differences in life that one should be fully aware. The difference between hot and cold. The difference between on and off. Obvious differences. You learn early on by scalding yourself or pulverizing your toes upon walking into a dark room. Then there are the differences between raising boys and girls. These differences are discovered entirely by trial-and-error and are completely independent experiences of one-another. For me as a father, it’s a comedy of errors that leads to a lot of hand-to-forehead welts and extended reflections of basic psychology.
Our son was our first born. He possesses that happy-go-lucky attitude and is always looking for a new thrill. For the most part, things just seem to roll off of his back. One minute, he’s enduring a red-faced tirade from yours truly. The next, all is forgotten and he’s back to his adventure-seeking agenda at hand. He has his moments, but even the major issues are eventually pushed aside in most cases.
Case in point, the knife debacle.
Back in the Fall, he discovered a “knife” that he wanted to buy for himself at Busch Gardens. My wife had some uneasiness with the idea, but I simply smiled and agreed to take a look at it. I figured that it was going to be some cheap souvenir. A blunt piece of tin with a handle, or something as equally benign. Something like the dull “butterfly” knives that I used to buy and play with as a kid. This was an amusement park after all. They wouldn’t sell anything inherently dangerous. Walking into the shop, however, what I found was a 12-inch dagger. A razor-sharp, double-edged dagger.
A quote from the 1980s movie Crocodile Dundee instantly popped into my subconscious. “That’s not a knife. THAT’S a knife.” And yes, my subconscious does have an Australian accent.
To say that he was destroyed by my unsettled laugh and the words “absolutely not” would be an understatement. As the reflection of his red, teary eyes bounced off of the polished steel blade, I concluded that this was not a souvenir. This was a weapon. My paternal instincts wanted to believe that he was mature enough not to be stupid with such a dangerous object. That he would have enough respect of its potential to not swing it around like a possessed samurai. However, there was just no shaking the mental images of him accidentally shanking himself, as William Wallace charged the Scottish hills of Falkirk with his trusty sword in hand.
“FREEDOM!”
Still, the boy inside me understood his fascination and the devastation that had followed my only responsible reply. Deep down, I felt horrible for providing him with that encouraging smile and enchanting, stainless steel glimmer of false hope. So, a compromise was struck…or maybe it was more guilt-ridden cop-out. Regardless… A pocket knife. The traditional rite of passage and symbolic gesture of maturity between a father and his son. A young man’s tool of the trade throughout the richest histories of Americana. Not a 12-inch dagger, the convicted felon’s tool of the trade throughout the violent throes of a maximum-security prison riot.
There was a lengthy man-to-man discussion on maturity, responsibility, and rules of use before presentation of said hallowed blade. It was made crystal clear that any indiscretions of my ground rules would warrant immediate seizure until his next birthday. The next symbolic stage of his supposed maturation.
The very next morning, however, I found him happily swinging his open knife around his room with his sisters playing nearby.
Well, that didn’t take long…
Although I expected a severe backlash, and much to my surprise, he hasn’t said a word about it since it was taken away. As is seemingly customary with the boy, it simply rolled right off of his back. So, in summary, good call on the dagger, bad call on the pocketknife. I guess we’ll try again in another six months for that nostalgic “Father-Son” Norman Rockwell illustration…
Although our son can manage to shake these types of things off, our oldest daughter is considerably more sensitive. Although just as happy in her day-to-day, her father’s amplified diatribes and fanatical hand-waving seem to cut a little deeper with her. I typically realize this about ten seconds too late. Well after my antics of lunacy have been set in motion. Well after her waterworks and the dramatic “flopping to the floor” have fully commenced.
While I’m painfully aware that I need to speed up my situational assessment of her feelings and tourniquet my blood let of unabashed sarcasm that seems to flow ever so freely, I just haven’t properly honed my sense of timing and awareness yet.
Of course, finding that happy medium can also prove difficult as well, as this sensitivity is not strictly limited to my role as paternal judge, jury, and executioner. Words of advice or encouragement must also be navigated with carefully chosen words in order to avoid being mistaken for a lecture.
And finally, there are those moments in everyday life that make you laugh at something that your kids do or say. Those unintended instances of comedy that also serve as grounds for embarrassment. Those moments that we, as parents, truly live for. They do, however, come with a price.
Case in point, the flute debacle.
Although we’re still unsure of the premise behind the desire, my daughter recently asked for a flute for Christmas. Now, I haven’t been playing any Jethro Tull songs around the house and I certainly don’t recall seeing any Zamfir – Master of the Pan Flute commercials in the last twenty years or so. But OK, Santa brought a flute.
Unfortunately though, it didn’t take her long to get frustrated by not being able to pick it up and play songs at will. Although I have the ability to play a few instruments with some semblance of musical ability, I certainly couldn’t help her with a flute. I am not a Master of the Plastic Starter Flute.
In expressing her frustrations to my parents, wife, and I in the kitchen one morning, we decided to offer her a bit of carefully-worded advice. A suggestion for her to ask her music teacher at school for a quick lesson and some practice pointers. My mom continued on, “I would say to him ‘I got a flute for Christmas and I want to learn how to play it’.”
Obviously digesting only the latter half of this guidance, her eyes suddenly lit up. “You got a flute for Christmas too?”
What we really need is a drummer in the family, because we could have used a rim-shot right about then.
Although we all knew the end result, it was impossible to hold it back. The room erupted with laughter. I nearly fell out of my chair. However, that amazing look of curiosity that had happily lit up our daughter’s face had suddenly changed to the deep red hue of embarrassment. Her eyes narrowed and lips pursed as the storm clouds gathered. Take cover.
Although we attempted to soften the mood and explain further, things deteriorated quickly. She furiously stomped out of the room. It was decided best to proceed cautiously, only after the floodwaters of humiliation had receded. Wisely, I started to make the joke about the eggshells from our breakfast casserole not being the only eggshells in the kitchen that morning, but thought better of it. Why pour napalm on that fire? In my defense though, it was one of the few times that I have been successful in muffling my cynical impulses.
Hey! Maybe my situational awareness was improving after all!
Eventually, things returned to normal and, on occasion, I still hear her persistent attempts of flute mastery…followed by the frustrated grunt or seven. However, I haven’t spoken of the flute since that day. Honestly, I’m still kind of afraid to make eye contact with it.
While it appears as though my personality management skills more closely resemble the successful navigation of a certain early 20th century passenger ship in the north Atlantic, I have learned a few things. First, Busch Gardens is an arms dealer. Someone needs to check their connections to the Mexican drug cartels. Second, Santa would be wise to throw in some complimentary lessons for those musical instruments that dad can’t play. Lastly, and most important… never, ever let them see you smile or laugh at their expense. In fact, do like I do. Cover your face with your hands and run in the opposite direction like a drunken zombie.
Short of that last pointer, you’re simply left playing roulette with your kids’ personalities. To be on the safe side though, I’m betting the house on “red” from here-on-out. Solely because that’s the consequential shade of embarrassment and teary-eyed disappointment.
