How sweetly ironic it was to hear that the first Sunday in August is National Kids’ Day, when parents are supposed to make an extra effort to spend time with their children. Just minutes earlier, our eight year old son had told us he wasn’t interested in the camping trip to Nova Scotia my wife and I were planning for the three of us that weekend.
Shaun’s resistance to our three-day getaway did not come us a shock. He has so much quality time with his parents that he can take it or leave it. He usually chooses to leave it, in favor of almost any other activity with almost anybody else. His complacency about family time in general is also not surprising, as we were thoroughly prepared for such rejection by Shaun’s two older sisters, Meaghan and Allison. The girls had been letting us know for a half dozen years that they have little need to be with us.
“They’re so secure in your love that they feel totally free to look elsewhere for companionship and fun.” We’ve heard this from other parents, usually people who have young children still clinging to their leg. And we’ve heard it again from counselors, trying to reassure us that our feelings of rejection and sadness were actually a good thing. “It means you’ve done a great job!” My wife, Maria, has made peace with this cruel joke. I have not.
A close family is all I’ve ever wanted. When Maria and I married in 1993, we both already had daughters in our care, so it seemed an easy thing to create an instant family. With the girls just nine and eight at the time, we thought we could look forward to many years of togetherness. Then one night the Ghost of Adolescence swooped in and stole them from us. Disappointed, I cheered myself with the certainty that our son -- the beneficiary of our joint collection of family genes -- would cherish our presence forever. (Is there no limit to my stupidity?)
What all three kids did happily accept was our presents. They each had their own room. They each had their own telephone; the girls had their own numbers. We have satellite television, new computers, and a beautiful home. Shaun has a Playstation 2 and an XBox. Several years ago, he asked for pet rabbits; Maria and I have been taking care of them ever since, along with his cat. We have never missed a school play or concert, parent-teacher interview, baseball or soccer game, dance recital, graduation, or birthday. We have picked them up when they were sick, helped them study for exams, and fed their friends. We have smiled through our daughters’ endless parade of boyfriends, and when Meaghan told us she was pregnant, we were immediately supportive and positive. In short, we have tried always to be good parents.
This, I now know, was our biggest mistake. It is apparently human nature to want what we do not have. I have known this since I was a child, watching Christmas after Christmas go by without getting the snowcone machine I had asked for repeatedly. But there’s another side to this lesson, and it’s a little trickier: once we get what we want, we no longer want it. We’re on to something else. This truth applies to relationships as well as to possessions.
As an adult, how many movies have I had to endure in which the children are seen longing for their absent and neglectful father? Why are they longing? Because he’s not there. If he were there, they’d be off watching Scary Movie 26 or degrading their spelling skills on Instant Messenger or talking to the girl next door on their cell phone. More likely, they’d be complaining that they have nothing to do and describing how lucky Brandon is because he has nice parents who bought him a trampoline and a 10-gigabyte iPod, and how Jessica’s parents let her stay out as late as she wants, even on a school night. No matter what we do for our kids, Maria and I always have a Brandon or a Jessica thrown in our faces.
If I could do it all over, I’d say no a lot more. We’ve said yes so often that it’s become a formality, and on those rare occasions when we do say no, the kids treat us like we’re war criminals. If you always have food, you never experience the sweet joy that comes from relieving an intense hunger. If you always have a place to escape winter’s cold, you miss out on the delicious feeling of sudden warmth. If you always hear yes, if you’re never even close to the edge of no, you can’t enjoy being on this side of the line. In fact, the line isn’t even there.
If I really could start again, I’d deprive my kids. They’d be the only ones on the block without a roomful of toys and a closet full of new clothes. They’d be the only ones in their class using last year’s backpack and calculator. They’d be the only ones in their group with a curfew, and consequences to pay if they break it. In short, they’d be the only ones around who actually appreciated what they have, because they’d have less to appreciate.
If I could do it all over again, I’d be a bad parent.
Friday, May 11, 2007
A Personal Ad
MARRIED COUPLE, EARLY FIFTIES, SEEKS OTHER COUPLES
FOR CONVERSATION, COMPANIONSHIP, AND FUN.
No, really. We’re not into anything weird. We’re just tired of talking about the weather and the price of gas. And we’re hoping there are others out there who might be feeling the same way. Here’s a little about us.
We enjoy traveling, partly because it reminds us that we’re not the center of the universe, and partly because it allows us to see that other people have bad weather and expensive gas, too. We like collecting things, I think because it creates the illusion that we’re making progress toward something. We like good meals, good movies, and good ideas. We’re not sure why; they just seem preferable to bad ones.
We’re not wealthy, or brilliant. We certainly don’t know everything, and don’t enjoy being with people who think they do. In fact, the older we get, the more we realize how much we don’t know. Wondering about things we don’t understand seems more interesting anyway.
We’re not big drinkers, although we made some red wine this year, and it came out surprisingly good, considering we’re amateurs. We also don’t smoke, don’t go to church, don’t have regular jobs, and don’t belong to any clubs. That’s probably why we needed to go looking for friends in the first place.
We’re Americans, and have been living in Canada for the past seven years. In some ways, it’s been the best of both worlds. In other ways, it hasn’t. The truth is, there’s a line separating the two countries. It isn’t an imaginary line. It’s real. What is imaginary is the idea that people on one side of the line are inherently different from those on the other. They’re not.
We’d like to meet a few people who don’t care where we were born, or at least wouldn’t base a relationship on it. Who’d like to get to know us as much as we want to know them. Who enjoy listening as much as talking, and learning as much as teaching. Just a few people who aren’t out to impress us. We’re not easily impressed. Nor are we that impressive ourselves.
In short, we’re looking for friendship. Not the fake kind you see on television. People are too busy for that. (And besides, the thought of spending every waking moment with our friends doesn’t seem all that appealing.) But a real-life connection, an authentic and comfortable relationship, now that seems very appealing. It also seems to be getting harder to find.
Maybe it will find us, somehow.
FOR CONVERSATION, COMPANIONSHIP, AND FUN.
No, really. We’re not into anything weird. We’re just tired of talking about the weather and the price of gas. And we’re hoping there are others out there who might be feeling the same way. Here’s a little about us.
We enjoy traveling, partly because it reminds us that we’re not the center of the universe, and partly because it allows us to see that other people have bad weather and expensive gas, too. We like collecting things, I think because it creates the illusion that we’re making progress toward something. We like good meals, good movies, and good ideas. We’re not sure why; they just seem preferable to bad ones.
We’re not wealthy, or brilliant. We certainly don’t know everything, and don’t enjoy being with people who think they do. In fact, the older we get, the more we realize how much we don’t know. Wondering about things we don’t understand seems more interesting anyway.
We’re not big drinkers, although we made some red wine this year, and it came out surprisingly good, considering we’re amateurs. We also don’t smoke, don’t go to church, don’t have regular jobs, and don’t belong to any clubs. That’s probably why we needed to go looking for friends in the first place.
We’re Americans, and have been living in Canada for the past seven years. In some ways, it’s been the best of both worlds. In other ways, it hasn’t. The truth is, there’s a line separating the two countries. It isn’t an imaginary line. It’s real. What is imaginary is the idea that people on one side of the line are inherently different from those on the other. They’re not.
We’d like to meet a few people who don’t care where we were born, or at least wouldn’t base a relationship on it. Who’d like to get to know us as much as we want to know them. Who enjoy listening as much as talking, and learning as much as teaching. Just a few people who aren’t out to impress us. We’re not easily impressed. Nor are we that impressive ourselves.
In short, we’re looking for friendship. Not the fake kind you see on television. People are too busy for that. (And besides, the thought of spending every waking moment with our friends doesn’t seem all that appealing.) But a real-life connection, an authentic and comfortable relationship, now that seems very appealing. It also seems to be getting harder to find.
Maybe it will find us, somehow.
Overbearing Christians, and Why I Wish They Would Go Away
“We don’t want to sound preachy or pushy. We’re afraid of offending. But we are also obligated as Christians to spread the word of God.”
These are the comments I find most startling of all. Afraid of offending? Are they so completely unaware of themselves? Do they not hear the smugness in their own voices? The condescension in their attitudes? The unspoken monopoly on the truth underlying their every pronouncement?
I find few people more offensive than those who assume the role of uninvited teacher. Worst of this group are the uninvited preachers, those privileged holders of wisdom who can’t mail a birthday card, send an email, or record an outgoing voicemail message without quoting scripture. Who can’t keep themselves from shoving their recipe for forgiveness and eternal love down my unwilling throat.
For me, the most telling trait of these word-spreaders is the fact that they never, ever ask sincere questions. If they want to get into a real discussion about beliefs, ideas, opinions, and theories, then shouldn’t they do some listening? Some? Why don’t they ever ask me what I think? How I get through the day? How I’ve managed to survive the crises and burdens of my life? I’m still here and I’m functioning fairly well, so I must have figured out something by now. But apparently my knowledge and experience hold no value, because they were not derived from religious dogma.
I understand the role religion plays in the world. I really do. Before scientific insight, people were terrified. Scary things happened and most people didn’t know what was going on. Religious stories and rituals gave them something to latch onto, some sliver of control, real or not. And over the centuries, our collective need for religion has apparently held steady. But we should have outgrown this total surrender of the mind by now. If there is a creator, he gave us brains, and I assume he expected us to actually use them. True, we all arrive in a state of helplessness, innocence, and confusion. But gradually we learn how to organize some of our experiences into patterns. We examine and compare what our senses are telling us, and what we remember from the past. We sift through the words of our parents, teachers, colleagues, and clergy, and if we work at it with enough diligence, we arrive at a basic set of beliefs that help us get through most of what life throws back at us. Not to say that we stop growing, or thinking. I’m fifty-one and I seem to know less all the time. Which, I suppose, makes me a prime target for those around me who know everything.
The religious fanatic knows there is a personal God. The atheist knows there isn’t. I am not somewhere in between. I am outside of the spectrum. I can feel that my mind is too small and flat and feeble to ever arrive at the answer. I can no more be sure about the existence and nature of a creator than I can be sure about the texture, color, and taste of the rocks on a moon orbiting an unseen planet in another star system. You can put a gun to my head and demand that I decide one way or the other, but you’ll have to shoot. I just don’t know. I’d like to know. I’ve read dozens of books on why there has to be a God, or why I must accept Jesus as my savior. I’ve read dozens more on evolution, religious skepticism, big bang cosmology, and godless physics. I’ve hit the wall. Any new article or book I read immediately seems familiar. There are no more fresh arguments, and I still don’t have an answer. To me, all possible explanations are incomprehensible. I plead ignorance – and agnosticism.
Now that’s today. I don’t know what I’ll think next year or even next Tuesday. My beliefs shape my behavior, and my experiences shape my beliefs. But nobody decides what to believe. It arrives unannounced, maybe through the subtle application of thin layers over time, or maybe like a bolt of lightning. In either case, belief isn’t a willful decision. And so the word-spreaders can talk to me from now until the imagined rapture, and well into the next day, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it.
That’s troubling for them, I know, because they need to be surrounded by others who share their beliefs. That’s one of the reasons they attend church, where everyone walks around parroting the same ideas. It helps them hide from their own inner doubts. If they had any guts, it seems to me, they would go to a synagogue or mosque or shrine and preach to the people in those places of worship. They’d have a much larger audience, thereby increasing their chances of effecting some result (although maybe not the one they were looking for).
A few of the preachers do travel to other parts of the world to save the souls of those living in “less developed” cultures. Typically, they reach out to these people with food, medicine, and clean water in one hand, and a Bible in the other. And when their help is accepted, they think they have saved souls. In fact, they’ve saved bodies, at least for a little while. This is a law of nature: life will do almost anything to keep living. Had the preacher been born on the other side of some political boundary, he would be the one taking the supplies along with the preaching, and maybe equating the goodness of the help with the goodness of the scripture. Or maybe not. But that isn’t the situation. He was lucky to be born and raised in relative affluence. Most North Americans live in a society of abundance. That doesn’t make us better, by the way, just better off.
Equally troubling for the word-spreaders is the ethical nature of my life. I make a lot of mistakes, of course, but I try to be the best person I can be. Not out of fear of eternal punishment, but because it feels like the right way to live. My wife and I have raised three children. We’ve often used threats and bribery to change their behavior. It’s not the correct method according to the experts, but it seems to be the only one that works. A one-year-old wants to create chaos. The parents know that chaos is intolerable for any length of time, and so they teach, using a variety of methods. (“Just wait until your father gets home,” my mother frequently warned.) Sooner or later, the child comes around, and the methods can be discarded, replaced by reason and rational adult interaction. If our grown children obey us out of fear, they haven’t grown up. If we obey the supposed word of God for the same reason, I’m afraid we also have not yet grown up. Which is one of so many reasons I find it unbearable to have to listen to another word about any Christian’s beliefs concerning the future of the world, the human race, or my eternal soul.
Sorry. I don’t mean to sound preachy or pushy, and I certainly don’t want to offend. I’d just like to get a word in myself once in a while.
These are the comments I find most startling of all. Afraid of offending? Are they so completely unaware of themselves? Do they not hear the smugness in their own voices? The condescension in their attitudes? The unspoken monopoly on the truth underlying their every pronouncement?
I find few people more offensive than those who assume the role of uninvited teacher. Worst of this group are the uninvited preachers, those privileged holders of wisdom who can’t mail a birthday card, send an email, or record an outgoing voicemail message without quoting scripture. Who can’t keep themselves from shoving their recipe for forgiveness and eternal love down my unwilling throat.
For me, the most telling trait of these word-spreaders is the fact that they never, ever ask sincere questions. If they want to get into a real discussion about beliefs, ideas, opinions, and theories, then shouldn’t they do some listening? Some? Why don’t they ever ask me what I think? How I get through the day? How I’ve managed to survive the crises and burdens of my life? I’m still here and I’m functioning fairly well, so I must have figured out something by now. But apparently my knowledge and experience hold no value, because they were not derived from religious dogma.
I understand the role religion plays in the world. I really do. Before scientific insight, people were terrified. Scary things happened and most people didn’t know what was going on. Religious stories and rituals gave them something to latch onto, some sliver of control, real or not. And over the centuries, our collective need for religion has apparently held steady. But we should have outgrown this total surrender of the mind by now. If there is a creator, he gave us brains, and I assume he expected us to actually use them. True, we all arrive in a state of helplessness, innocence, and confusion. But gradually we learn how to organize some of our experiences into patterns. We examine and compare what our senses are telling us, and what we remember from the past. We sift through the words of our parents, teachers, colleagues, and clergy, and if we work at it with enough diligence, we arrive at a basic set of beliefs that help us get through most of what life throws back at us. Not to say that we stop growing, or thinking. I’m fifty-one and I seem to know less all the time. Which, I suppose, makes me a prime target for those around me who know everything.
The religious fanatic knows there is a personal God. The atheist knows there isn’t. I am not somewhere in between. I am outside of the spectrum. I can feel that my mind is too small and flat and feeble to ever arrive at the answer. I can no more be sure about the existence and nature of a creator than I can be sure about the texture, color, and taste of the rocks on a moon orbiting an unseen planet in another star system. You can put a gun to my head and demand that I decide one way or the other, but you’ll have to shoot. I just don’t know. I’d like to know. I’ve read dozens of books on why there has to be a God, or why I must accept Jesus as my savior. I’ve read dozens more on evolution, religious skepticism, big bang cosmology, and godless physics. I’ve hit the wall. Any new article or book I read immediately seems familiar. There are no more fresh arguments, and I still don’t have an answer. To me, all possible explanations are incomprehensible. I plead ignorance – and agnosticism.
Now that’s today. I don’t know what I’ll think next year or even next Tuesday. My beliefs shape my behavior, and my experiences shape my beliefs. But nobody decides what to believe. It arrives unannounced, maybe through the subtle application of thin layers over time, or maybe like a bolt of lightning. In either case, belief isn’t a willful decision. And so the word-spreaders can talk to me from now until the imagined rapture, and well into the next day, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it.
That’s troubling for them, I know, because they need to be surrounded by others who share their beliefs. That’s one of the reasons they attend church, where everyone walks around parroting the same ideas. It helps them hide from their own inner doubts. If they had any guts, it seems to me, they would go to a synagogue or mosque or shrine and preach to the people in those places of worship. They’d have a much larger audience, thereby increasing their chances of effecting some result (although maybe not the one they were looking for).
A few of the preachers do travel to other parts of the world to save the souls of those living in “less developed” cultures. Typically, they reach out to these people with food, medicine, and clean water in one hand, and a Bible in the other. And when their help is accepted, they think they have saved souls. In fact, they’ve saved bodies, at least for a little while. This is a law of nature: life will do almost anything to keep living. Had the preacher been born on the other side of some political boundary, he would be the one taking the supplies along with the preaching, and maybe equating the goodness of the help with the goodness of the scripture. Or maybe not. But that isn’t the situation. He was lucky to be born and raised in relative affluence. Most North Americans live in a society of abundance. That doesn’t make us better, by the way, just better off.
Equally troubling for the word-spreaders is the ethical nature of my life. I make a lot of mistakes, of course, but I try to be the best person I can be. Not out of fear of eternal punishment, but because it feels like the right way to live. My wife and I have raised three children. We’ve often used threats and bribery to change their behavior. It’s not the correct method according to the experts, but it seems to be the only one that works. A one-year-old wants to create chaos. The parents know that chaos is intolerable for any length of time, and so they teach, using a variety of methods. (“Just wait until your father gets home,” my mother frequently warned.) Sooner or later, the child comes around, and the methods can be discarded, replaced by reason and rational adult interaction. If our grown children obey us out of fear, they haven’t grown up. If we obey the supposed word of God for the same reason, I’m afraid we also have not yet grown up. Which is one of so many reasons I find it unbearable to have to listen to another word about any Christian’s beliefs concerning the future of the world, the human race, or my eternal soul.
Sorry. I don’t mean to sound preachy or pushy, and I certainly don’t want to offend. I’d just like to get a word in myself once in a while.
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