Sunday, June 21, 2015

Dad's a Wonderful Guy

My Dad and I as Beetlejuice
for Halloween in the late 80's
"Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" "Dad's a Wonderful Guy!" That's what he would make us yell, his very own version of "Mercy!" during tickle fights, whisker burn, or my favorite, the "stop hitting yourself" game where he'd control our arms and make us bonk ourselves on the head, all in good fun. No amounts of "Stop! I'm going to pee my pants!" or "I think I'm going to puke!" shouted through fits of giggles would release us.

And it’s true, my Dad is a wonderful guy.  He’s also hilarious, a great storyteller, a hard worker, critical thinker and so much more, it only made sense to share a bit of my appreciation for my pop on Father’s Day.

My Dad was outnumbered from the start, having three girls to deal with before he finally got a boy.  But he didn’t let us be prissy girls and some of my fondest memories are of my Dad packing up all of us kids and taking us to fish off the shore on Bald Eagle Lake.  He taught us how to cast, bait our hooks, even dig a hook out of a fish’s gut.  And when we were old enough, about 11 or 12, he taught us how to clean them. Skills I don’t use often enough lately, but I’m still grateful for them.  

At about that age we got to cut down little trees with handsaws at our family’s tree farm, drag them to a brush pile and in the cleared areas, plant hundreds of little Black Walnut saplings. It was hard work, but pretty cool to see a forest that we planted.  He’d take us to the park to practice basketball in the small indoor court, which was usually occupied by a half dozen tall black guys playing full court, most under 6 foot white guys with 3 or 4 kids in tow would have been nervous about asking them to share the court, and they weren’t going to unless you pushed the issue, but not my Dad.  Us kids would spend the next hour or so practicing lay ups and free throws while my Dad impressed anyone watching by hitting three point and half court shots, we also learned you have to ask for what you want, and a confidence goes a long way.

My Dad was always serious about us trying and doing our best, when we played softball he’d be out in the yard playing catch with us, or the whole family would hit the park to bat and field.  In school A+’s were a must, and boy, we tried.  We all did well, even if it wasn’t all A+’s, but Dad never let us get too proud of ourselves, he was kind of our anti-ego.  He always thought we could do better, and because of that we always tried.  It may seem a bit harsh, but if you think you’re the best, you might use it as an excuse to stop learning and growing.

My Dad was in charge of teaching us about all things with wheels, I remember vividly trying to learn how to ride a bike.  We lived on a busy road in St. Paul and our backyard sloped down to our garage.  We spent many a terrified, tearful try rolling accelerating (without even having to pedal) toward the man door of the garage as we tried to learn to ride, I think that was called motivation.  Years later he taught me how to drive, the terror was all his this time, 20 years later he’ll still bring up our death-defying trip to my first drivers test, when I took a 25MPH clover leaf exit at 60MPH on two wheels.  Not sure what the big deal was…we made it just fine, didn’t quite pass my test though.

I inherited a lot from my Dad, I remember being 8 years old, standing the length of the kitchen from my parents trying to read a box of Raisin Bran and discovering I had my Dad’s bad eyesight. I spent the rest of my childhood wearing chunky, plastic framed glasses looking like an animated cartoon bug.

I also got his sense of fun and humor, from making up silly songs, to teasing the kids.  You haven’t heard “Tip toe through the tulips” until you’ve heard my Dad sing it.  He also has his own “special” (loud and crazy) way to sing Happy Birthday to the grand kids.  Every once in a while, a quiet afternoon would erupt into full blast “Black Magic Woman” by Santana and “Hair” by the Cowsills when my Dad decided to put his old records on, and us kids thought it was the coolest thing ever.

I also inherited my Dad’s ability to worry oneself sick, as evidenced by my acid reflux and TUMS soaring stock prices.  In the pre-cell phone era, my sister and I worked. I was at a grocery store and my sister at Kmart, just up the road.  My sister didn’t drive, so I was often her ride.  One night I got off at 9PM and because my sister wasn’t done until 10PM I just hung out for a bit.  My Dad, expecting us home shortly after 9PM went into panic mode and decided to go out looking for us. By the time he got to Kmart we were already on our way home, safe and sound.  He didn’t have to worry so much, we were good kids.  And we’d do anything to avoid a vein bulging, butt chewing from Dad. 

While I don’t have a bulging forehead vein, I hope, I realized I had my Dad’s temperament the day I heard myself yelling about tiny scraps of paper, one of his biggest complaints. The paper was the kind that falls off the edge of a sheet of notebook paper when you pull it free from the wire.  Trying to keep the house clean with a pack of kids is nearly impossible, and I started to see scraps of paper everywhere.  They must be invisible to kids, I never noticed them when I was young and my kids sure don’t see them.  I had to laugh and call my dad to tell him I could finally see the little scraps of paper.

My Dad’s also the perspective behind my politics, although he’s never preached to us, he’d just point us in the direction of the information and let us come up with our own conclusions.  He still sends us articles to read, and if ever the subject comes up on the phone, the next hour and a half is always an impromptu “solve the world’s problems” brain storming session.

You know how they say “Work smart, not hard”?  My Dad works smart and hard, which rubbed off on all of us kids, we don’t make excuses when there is a job to be done.  He’s also a handyman; an electrician by trade, but a mechanic, plumber, and contractor when need be.  He added on to our childhood homes so each of us could have our own rooms, he made us all dressers, one of which is still used by my daughter today.  Now that he’s retired, he takes requests, making toy-sized wooden garages for my boys, a baby cradle for all the granddaughters, picnic tables for each of us and more.

As I see my husband try to balance work with time for the kids, I realize the struggle my Dad endured to make sure we had a great dad and role model, and that we were prepared for the world when it was time to take it on ourselves.

He even found a little fun in that preparation, when it was time to head off to college, my Dad did the “here’s how to check oil/fill washer fluid/change tire” refresher course. He also put a bucket in the trunk with supplies we may need: sand, tire gauge, air pump, rag, etc.  It was only after I had been gone awhile that I went to check the oil and found the rag was an old pair of his tighty whities, which were only made more hilarious with a big brown streak of oil on them.


You should meet my Dad, he’s a funny, smart, strong, wonderful guy. Thanks Dad, for all you do and all you’ve taught me over the years!

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Building Character One Crappy Parenting Moment at a Time.

I think most of us start out thinking we are going to really ace this parenting thing.  How hard could it be?  You just have to love them and teach them right from wrong and they'll turn out perfect, right? But that first sleepless night when your darling infant refuses to accept love, and pleading, and endless boob as a good enough reason to go to sleep, you may have realized this wasn't going to be a piece of cake.

The slow-learner parents might not realize this until a year and a half later when their angry toddler refuses to take "no" for an answer and an epic battle of wills follows, ending with a sobbing heap of parent and a giggling toddler flinging applesauce and eating those smelly fruit puff things, because... well, because the winner in a battle of wills is the one without the to-do list.

Over my past decade of parentdom, there have been many times when, my child(ren) refuse to accept my wise guidance, my incessant pleading, or loud - dare I say - yelled instructions, and I've said and done things that I wish I could take back or do-over.  Many of those times, the kids have deserved a do-over.  But there is no pause or rewind in parenting, and maybe in the minor ways that is for the best.

I was pondering this the other day, as I often ponder things.  After a not so "gold star" mom moment, I thought, wouldn't it be great if time could be returned, like the ill-fitting pair of jeans I impulsively pulled off the clearance rack and bought without trying on first?  You could just grab your receipt for a crappy parenting moment and Father Time would pony-up a few fresh minutes that you could use a little wiser, or a little nicer?

But nothing is so simple... here's where this blog turns into more of a story... [roll dream sequence footage here... everything is wavy, and there are chimes!]

An old man sits behind a simple counter with a small cash register.  His face is a web of wrinkles carved so deep into his flesh you wonder if they hurt.  A beard, frizzled and white, falls from his face, ending somewhere behind the counter, just barely revealing the ironic "Got Time?" logo on his standard issue customer service polo shirt.

As I approach the counter I can see that while time has left its mark on his skin, hair and stature, it has spared his eyes, which remain bright and wise and kind.

He watches as I place my purse on the counter, waiting.

I feel a bit nervous and stumble over my words as I dig through my purse.  "I'd like to return some time", I say, "Can I return some time?"

"Depends", replies the Old Man, "If it was truly poorly spent, I'd consider it, I suppose."

I pull out the first receipt, "Oh.." I say, "this was one of many times where I had to work and the kids were bored, If I had this time back, I'd spend it doing something they'd enjoy, or maybe something educational?"

The Old Man studies the receipt and passes it back to me.  "I can't return this." He explains, "this was educational.  Your children learned that life isn't always fun and games but it takes work and dedication.  That's a valuable lesson they're learning."

"Okay." I say skeptically, "I understand, but what about this..." I pull out another receipt, a long one. "This is all the times my children have hurt themselves in some minor way, and I told them to "walk it off" or "you'll live".  Surely I should have been more of a doting mother, tending to every paper cut and scratch, right?"

The Old Man laughed, "Did they live?"

"Yes."

"Then they learned that they can pick themselves up when they fall. You can't always be there for them.  You don't really want to return that do you?" he asks.

"No, I suppose not."  I agree.  I dig through my purse determined to find some time he'd return.

"Oh! This one!  You've got to agree this one is bad, I burdened the kids with a problem that was above their age range." I explain, "Money, house, car, people issues, I've probably given them too much information regarding all of them!"

The Old Man thinks for a moment, I thought I had finally got one, until he slid the receipt back across the counter.  "No." he says, "Of course it's not ideal to make kids worry about grown up things, but none of these are out of their realm of understanding, and a little reality when they are little will make a lot of reality easier for them to handle when they are grown."

I frown. Man this old guy is tough! Frustrated, I start lining up my remaining receipts, "What about this one?  The time I didn't take time to admire their art work?  Or this one, my poor kid had a nervous breakdown at the table when I made him eat his peas?  Or this - when I didn't let my daughter go to a party and it broke her heart?  You've got to admit these are..."

"Not returnable." He interrupts, pointing at each receipt he explains, "When you didn't have time to look, he had time to be proud of himself without others approval, and this one, well... peas are good for you..."

"That's what I said!"

"And this one? There are other parties right?"

I nod.

"And she learned that missing out on a little fun here and there isn't the end of the world."

"Right, Okay..." I say, "but, I saved the worst for last...."

"Alright." says the Old Man, "Let's see it."

I gingerly pull the last receipt from my bag and slide it across the counter. "This happens more than I'd like to admit."  Feeling ashamed I explain.  "I often can't shake a bad mood and it effects the way I treat people, including my kids.  If the work is piling up, or I have an annoying client hounding me, or nothing is getting done around the house, I get short tempered and snappy and have literally  no patience for what is really normal kid behavior.  No amount of taking deep breaths seems to help and I feel terrible for my tone and attitude when they deserve better."

"I see." says the man looking at the receipt.  He opens a drawer behind the counter and takes out a pen.  Finally! I think. At least I'll get a second chance to right this wrong.

Taking his time he scribbles something on the receipt and slides it back to me.  Before he removes his hand he asks "Do your children know you love them?"

I nod.  He releases the receipt and I read what he's written.  In shaky old man handwriting I see "No Returns. All Time is Final."

I look up at him confused and a little annoyed.

"Every day I sit at this desk and decline those who want to turn back the clocks, my clocks." he says.

"But... but why do you have a return desk?"

"Because," he explains.  "its important to review your life's moments, especially the ones you're not proud of, so that you can learn from them and decide how you'll react when you encounter those situations again in the future."

I nod.

"And," he continues, "most often the moments you feel you're failing as a parent are the moments your kids are learning the most valuable lessons.  They can learn their ABCs and 123s from anyone, but they need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love."

They need to learn the hardest lessons in the safety of love.


"Their trust and belief in your unconditional love lets them see past the tone that comes with your bad mood.  It teaches them empathy... and," he says with a chuckle "when to run their little butts to their room and quickly clean it before mom really blows her top."

I smile.

"The best parents not only worry about their mistakes, but they own them.  Take time after the moment has passed to explain or apologize and in return teach your children the most important lesson, that being perfect is not possible, but being accountable is."

As I stand there wrapping my mind around his wisdom, the old man starts to fade away, before he's gone he says "Your flaws build their character."

[Insert wavy coming out of a dream sequence and chimes here]

Our flaws build their character.

Imagine how little the child of a perfect parent would know.

Trying to be the best parent is still the goal, of course, but when I inevitably mess up, I don't need to save the receipt in hopes that I can get a re-do on that moment someday.  I can own it. I can explain it and I can apologize when necessary.  Saying "sorry" doesn't fix mistakes, but explaining them builds a base of understanding.  With that base, my kids will learn compassion, empathy and a way to understand people, not by what their actions are, but why they do those actions. And hopefully, this knowledge will help them to grow up to be better parents, and people, than we are.