Hate the Smoke, Not the Smoker

While walking with my family in Old Town this summer, we passed a man who puffed a cloud of smoke from his mouth. Sophia asked me, “Why do people smoke?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they want to get lung cancer,” I answered sarcastically.

Sophia stopped in her tracks. “Why would someone WANT to get cancer?” she asked, her face contorted as only a 6-year-old’s can.

My answer was probably a bit harsh, and I’m not sure it helped Sophia, who normally avoids cigarette smoke like the plague, understand my point. But our exchange got me thinking. While it’s vital to teach our kids about the possible effects of certain choices, it’s equally important to separate the actor from the act. How can parents educate kids on making good choices without vilifying a person who already made a bad one?

With all the information made available over the past couple of decades — including large-type warnings on the outside of every package of cigarettes — it’s common knowledge that smoking is a health hazard. Today’s children are educated early on the consequences of lighting up: lung disease, cardiovascular problems, cancer and bad oral hygiene, to name a few. But for those who started many years ago, smoking can be hard to stop. Like alcohol and fast food, tobacco and nicotine are addictive.

It can also be challenging to convey to kids, who tend to be more black-and-white than adults, that just because a person has a bad habit doesn’t make him a bad person. I don’t want my children to grow up believing that we judge a person based only on certain actions instead of on the total package of personality. No one, after all, is without flaws. And smoking, while dangerous and irritating to the senses, is merely one of a number of life choices many people make every day.

Certainly, more egregious crimes can warrant a cautious approach to picking whom to associate with, but there is a huge gray area. We all know a smoker or two. Chances are, the vast majority of them are simply regular people who happen to have a bad habit. For the ones I know, smoking doesn’t detract from their otherwise high moral character.

The same can be said about those who drink alcohol and, for that matter, anyone with a few irritating personality traits. (My kids regularly point out that I am weirder than most parents, so I’m included.) We are all subject to the same occasional judgments on our less attractive qualities. And none of us is worse than another because of them.

Sophia still grimaces and pinches her nostrils when she passes someone smoking on the street. Words like “gross” and “disgusting” often escape her mouth, sometimes louder than Tanya and I would appreciate. I’m happy she has developed such a strong aversion to cigarette smoke; hopefully, she’ll be less likely to take up the habit when she’s older. But there is a big difference between a cigarette and a smoker.

Jobs: Money or Service?

Standing outside with my daughters and their friend Rachel a couple of weeks ago, the familiar summer sound of approaching chimes made us look to the street. As an ice cream truck drove by, Rachel remarked, “He doesn’t look so happy.”

“How can you not be happy,” asked Ella, my 9-year-old, “when you’re driving an ice cream truck?”

“Maybe he doesn’t like his job,” I replied.

Sophia, Ella’s 6-year-old sister, said, “How is that possible?”

The conversation got me thinking about a common issue that most adults have to deal with. When kids inquire about why we work and whether we enjoy our job, should we explain our true feelings?

In theory, driving a truck filled with ice cream and distributing sweet goodness to eager children everywhere seems like a rewarding job. The same goes for any career where a person truly enjoys what they’re doing, from treating the sick to managing finances to fixing a car. But let’s face it: Jobs give us the money we need to live, and doing what we really love doesn’t always pay the bills.

My daughters sometimes complain about Tanya and me having to work and not being able to hang out as a family. Sadly, my first instinct isn’t always to tell them that people are depending on me. I usually give the standard spiel about paying the mortgage or buying food or being able to take vacations.

I’d love to tell Ella and Sophia that the main reason I work is to contribute to society. But it’s not completely true. One of the most important lessons for children to learn is that having a steady job is important, as it translates to a steady stream of income. Quite often, that means doing something you might not enjoy or working when you’d rather be playing. We’ve all been there, whether it’s the part-time job as a teenager flipping burgers or the one you take until something better comes around.

I enjoy being a physical therapist. I help people, I have fun with my co-workers, and I make enough money to pay the bills. Writing also makes me happy, even though I’ll confess I don’t get paid for everything I publish. (Thankfully, I don’t have to depend on writing to make a living.) But on those days when I’d rather be at home or hiking a trail, I wonder if others notice my attitude like Rachel noticed the ice cream truck driver.

Tanya and I want our children to choose professions that make them happy. Otherwise, they’ll spend large parts of their lives being miserable, no matter how much money they make. The parent’s challenge is to demonstrate that going to work can be rewarding and enjoyable (most of the time) while still producing the necessary wage to live a comfortable life. It’s a tough middle ground.

I still wonder if the ice cream truck driver’s kids asked him if he had a good day at work. I’m even more curious if he answered honestly.

Step Away, Parent...

Ella, my 9-year-old, went to overnight camp this year for the first time. She was eager to spend a week in the mountains without Mom or Dad or anyone else from home. At the drop-off, Sophia, Ella’s 6-year-old sister, looked around intently, presumably taking in the sights, sounds and smells of freedom.

As soon as she found out that a cabin could be shared by girls ages 7 to 10, Sophia said, “I want to go to camp next year.”

“You might not be in Ella’s cabin,” I said, knowing how much she adores her big sister.

“I want to go,” she shot back.

“We’ll talk about it next spring, OK?”

“I’m going.”

My immediate concern was that Sophia might not be ready for a week away from her parents. She’s more sensitive than Ella and tends to be less comfortable doing things on her own. But her insistence on going to camp next year — and my hesitance — got me thinking: Was I trying to protect Sophia or myself?

Tanya and I both attended overnight summer camps as children; she was 7 her first time, I was 11. Even as kids, we were both social people with a taste for new experiences, so it’s not surprising that we continued to go back year after year. No question, the time away from my parents was nice but less enticing than the prospect of meeting new friends and trying new activities.

Looking back now, the best part was living with teenage counselors who forced me and my peers to work things out on our own. We couldn’t depend on our parents, most of whom tend to forget what it’s like to be a kid. I learned a variety of new skills, had a ton of fun, and developed a sense of autonomy that helped form who I am today.

I wonder how different things would have been had my parents been afraid to let me go. What if they were worried I couldn’t handle it? I might never have gotten the chance to prove myself.

Every summer, there were a few kids who had a tough time, but most of them worked through it. Like everyone, I had my share of conflicts and awkward moments, and I surely behaved differently (not necessarily better) when my folks weren’t around. But that’s the point of leaving home. Sometimes separation is the best thing parents can offer their kids. Think full days at school and weeklong vacations at Grandma’s house.

Ten years ago, before Ella was born, a pediatrician told Tanya and me something I’ll never forget. He talked about the dangers of parents micromanaging situations to the point of actually creating problems. He advised us to get in the habit of asking ourselves: “Is it bothering me, or is it bothering my kid?”

Now, as I find myself fearing an issue that might not even exist, I’m reminded of his wisdom. There are times when I’m more useful if I just step away.

Same Sex Parents...a nonissue?

Last week, Sophia asked, “Can a mom get a baby without a dad?”

Tanya explained to our 6-year-old the basics of how babies are created. By basics, I mean she omitted details about artificial insemination or in vitro fertilization. 

“But,” she clarified, “any two people can raise a child, not just a mom and a dad.”

“That’s good,” Sophia said. “A girl at school has two moms.”

Tanya and I have already done the first “where do babies come from” talk with Ella, our 9-year-old. But we haven’t yet broached the more contemporary (and potentially divisive) topic of same-sex parenting. Watching Sophia shrug off an issue that can easily polarized an entire country, I wondered: are families with same-sex parents any different from traditional families.

Nine years into my parenting career, I’ve learned how hard it is to be responsible for another human. I’ve also learned the indescribable feeling of loving a child, and being loved in return. Those emotions are common to parents from all races, nationalities and political pursuasions. That’s because parenting calls upon the most innate, basic instincts there are: guiding a helpless creature to a capable existence.

Biology tells us that only a male and female are capable of creating an embryo. But science doesn’t address situations like one individual’s ability and desire to love and nurture another human, or the right to raise a family as he or she sees fit, regardless of sexual preference. And with the many ways at our disposal to have a child—biologically, adoption, in vitro—the only true criteria anymore is one’s willingness to do the work. And let’s face it, raising a child is much more challenging than conceiving one.

When children are too young to understand sexual orientation (and, frankly, couldn’t care less), the measures of successful parenting are meeting a child’s physical and emotional requirements, keeping them safe, and having a little fun. Those early years set the foundation for positive values. And if two loving parents happen to be of the same sex, I’m confident that the crying baby, who’s just happy to have a snuggle, isn’t concerned.

I would imagine that as adolescence approaches, the logistics could become complicated. But regardless of the composition of one’s parents, no teen is immune to the trials of homework, peer pressure and puberty. And surely no parent—gay, straight, man or woman—slides by without stress either. 

The reality of family life is that all parties are constantly learning, and none of us is in a position to judge what happens in someone else’s home. In this way, sexual orientation is no different from ethnicity or someone’s job.  

Children benefit from the different strengths of fathers and mothers, and for that matter, males and females. And yes, according to biology, having one parent of each is preferable. But when the girl with two mothers in Sophia’s class hurts herself and calls “Mommy,” she’d probably say that two are most certainly better than one. 

Country or City?

A few months ago, driving with my daughters in the back seat, 9-year-old Ella remarked, “You know, Dad, dinosaurs once roamed around Colorado. Even before there were Wendy’s and banks.”

I chuckled at the thought of a T-Rex running up the A-trail and then turned serious. Sixty-five million years is a hard enough concept to grasp, but with technology and population growth expanding uncontrollably, even relatively recent frontier times seem like ancient history. Our little Front Range escape is no longer the quaint, undeveloped town of old, and isn’t getting any smaller. As Fort Collins swells and development surges, I wonder: Does city size matter when raising children?

When we moved to Fort Collins in 2004, the population was 125,000. Today, it’s closer to 150,000. The development is obvious, from new neighborhoods south on Timberline Road to more traffic on College Avenue to the explosion of retailers at Front Range Village. Yet it’s essence has remained the same: friendly people, active lifestyle and great weather. I’m definitely hooked.

I was born and raised in the cosmopolitan city of Montreal, home to 2.5 million people. The street on which I grew up was home to more ethnicities than exist in Fort Collins. My friends and I took the subway and the city bus alone before junior high school. We functioned in two languages and developed the confidence that comes from living in a fast-paced atmosphere. After seven years in South Florida, also fast-paced and diverse, the speed finally got to me.

Once Ella was born in 2003, Tanya and I were ready to move. We sacrificed the financial opportunities and stimulation of urban living for the intimacy and amiability of a small town. We still love the sophisticated cultural and culinary opportunities of big cities (not the prices, mind you), but smaller and closer to nature were priorities.

There are many reasons to raise families in populous places like Chicago or New York or Atlanta. Proximity to higher education and extensive travel opportunities come to mind. I also suspect that a high percentage of kids who grow up in big cities develop an appreciation for multiculturalism and the confidence necessary to thrive in a competitive marketplace.

Some of my close friends and family are raising children in places such as Montreal, Toronto and Boston. While my kids and theirs might eventually think differently about issues like politics, business and the environment, I’m pretty sure the truly important aspects of their personalities will be similar. That’s because basic human kindness, generosity and respect are learned on the inside of the home.

Successful, happy people come from all pockets of the world: urban, rural and everything in between. And while external factors in a person’s development are innumerable, the ultimate product has nothing to do with whether you ride the train or a bike to school. Or, for that matter, a dinosaur.

Quitting the Family? Good Luck

A few weeks ago Ella asked me if she could play at the park after dinner. It was already 6:30 after a long day at school, and she and her 6-year-old sister, Sophia, had yet to have a bath. “Sorry,” I answered. “There’s too much to do before bed.”

Ella stomped up the stairs and yelled, “Sometimes I wish I could just quit the family and do whatever I want!”

Ella’s only 9, so I wasn’t concerned that she would follow through on her threat. I did, however, see her point. Like most parents, Tanya and I tell our kids what to do all the time, mostly because they don’t listen until something is repeated 10 times. I wondered: In the interest of showing my kids how much they really need my bossing around, should I consider actually letting them do whatever they want?

This wasn’t the first time I heard Ella voice her displeasure with the family hierarchy. I appreciate that from her perspective, it must be hard to only occasionally taste the freedom that parents seem to exercise all the time. Even from a young age, we all know how good it feels to make decisions, from what to eat for breakfast to whom to invite to our birthday party. We crave autonomy.

The catch is that young children don’t have enough experience to understand what they need and how to make sound long-term decisions. I consider Ella to be emotionally mature for a 9-year-old. But left to her own devices, I wouldn’t be surprised if she bathed once a week, ordered pizza for dinner every night, and watched television until her eyes glazed over. Of course, I could be wrong.

It would be quite the social experiment (and probably criminal) to give Ella and Sophia, say, three days to police themselves. I wouldn’t leave the house, just leave them alone. My instructions might go something like this:

“Be careful using the stove.”

“Wear clean underwear.”

“If you shower, don’t flood the basement.”

To be clear, I would never go through with it. But if I did, Sophia probably would raid the candy drawer, then beg us to come back within a day. Ella, I fear, might actually consider it a vacation. She’d scramble up some eggs in the morning, wear the same clothes every day, and watch a lot of movies. In other words, she’d be fine, but only until she wasn’t.

That time would come eventually, because it has to. Children can’t grasp how dependent they are on being told what to do. Even if they don’t freely admit it, they crave guidance and examples of how to navigate the world. If kids were meant to do whatever they wanted all the time, parents would have been phased out a long time ago.

As my own mother told me when I was finally old enough to understand: When your kids tell you to back off, listen closely. They’re telling you the exact opposite.

Getting Paid???

Just got an offer to write a couple of articles for a local magazine...and get paid for it. I will most certainly make this opportunity count. I'm excited and a little nervous but I've never been one to back down from a new experience. The more I write, the more I enjoy it, and the more I want to improve my craft. And the best part? Who knows what the future will hold.

After giving a talk to Ella's third grade class about writing, I realized for myself that patience is so important when it comes to devoting oneself to a new endeavor. If I'm preaching it to a bunch of 9-year-olds, I better have some myself. And when you're patient, good things happen.

Well, I'm off to research women's beauty products.

Yes, you read it right.