Our Children Need Bad Parents

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.