At Large : What's worked, what's not
By Doug Cabral
Published: April 10, 2008
Reform appears to be in order.
My oldest is now 31, my youngest 17. I am in my fourth decade of parenthood and breathing hard. It’s been nothing like I expected it to be, if I had any expectations at all before it began. Looking back, which I do only occasionally and always gingerly, I find that the most striking thing about my performance is that I have been unvarying in my approach to the work. What I did 31 years ago, I do today. What I said then, I say now. It may also be true that what my parents did 62 years ago, I also do, though I swore I never would.
I have recently concluded that what I have proudly called my parental consistency over time is not in fact evidence of superior accomplishment.
Here are some statements that are among the tools of my trade:
Yes to this. No to that. No middle ground. I don’t care what your friends do. You may not wear a hat at the dining table. You may not wear a wife-beater to school. Your curfew is 11 pm, and I don’t care when the dance ends. I will not listen to that music in my house.
No evening activities on a school night. Homework comes first. No chores, no dance. Don’t wear your socks outside. Don’t wear your shoes inside. Your room must be cleaned once a week, and you have to do it.
Call me anytime from anywhere if you need a ride home. Don’t get into a car with someone who has been drinking. What do you mean, you’re going to a party in the woods, on the beach, up-Island, in Edgartown, at the cliffs? - I need specifics. Who is hosting the party? Who are the adults who’ll be there? No adults, no party. What do you mean, in the woods? Who has a party in the woods? What do you do at night in the woods?
You’re calling from where, the police station? Will I come down to talk to them? You bet I will. Yes, I know I said to call, but I didn’t have the police station in mind.
And on, and on. The parental catechism. Consistency is sometimes admirable, but maybe, some of the time, it’s not.
What I have thought was the wise path of fatherhood on my part may not have been a widely shared opinion. Times have changed. Comments that loved ones have made from time to time over the years haunt me and lead to self-doubt about the accuracy of my parental self-portrait. That halo may have been a stretch.
For instance, years ago, before she went off to college 2,000 miles away (Should I read something into her choice of schools?) a daughter said, Dad, why do you give me the same lunch every day? I’ve told you over and over again that I won’t eat it?
Perhaps there was a better way.
Or a son, 13 years ago, dribbling, dribbling, dribbling beneath the basket. I ask, Did you do your English homework?
I can’t stand the teacher? he replied.
So, you’re not doing the homework because you don’t like the teacher. Who is that going to hurt? You don’t have to love her, but she’s the one with the marking pencil.
Maybe I missed something in that exchange too.
Then last week, another son, this one with a troublesome coach and a difficult teacher, opened one of those I-can’t-stand-so-and-so conversations. My reaction underwhelmed him.
He said, Dad, you’re no fun to complain to.
I’m thinking, maybe that’s the problem. He’s put his finger on it. It’s a matter of listening differently, sympathetically. Turn the complaining and the response into stand-up comedy.
All these years, I’ve taken satisfaction in what I was saying to them, when the key to - what’s it called nowadays? - parenting is listening to them. The sympathetic ear. The understanding look. The comforting, I’ve-been-there touch.
I said to my son, You are having a tough time, aren’t you? It’s more than a young person should have to bear to have a volunteer coach who doesn’t appreciate your skill and speed and a teacher who challenges every point you make. I don’t know how you stagger through each demanding day. Perhaps a stop at Dairy Queen will help.
Now, I’m not saying it was easy or fun, but I got the words all out, and he seemed pleased.
Wow, dad, he said. You do seem to understand.
Yeah, I said, I’m trying to do better. By the way, done your homework? Homework comes first.
