Being Cool

Last month over breakfast, the topic of conversation between my daughters and me turned to who was “cool” at school.

Ella blurted: “I don’t want to be cool. It means Constipated Overweighted Out-of-style Loser.” She was quite proud of herself, in the manner of 9-year-olds who think they’ve said something, well, cool.

Sophia, Ella’s 7-year-old sister, didn’t get the fourth-grade humor. “I’m cool, so there!” she replied. “And by the way, you just called me a loser.”

All this twisting of definitions and labeling got me thinking about the basic idea of popularity. Is it wrong to want your kids to be “cool?"

Times change, technology develops, and styles get recycled. But humans, on a behavioral level, really haven’t evolved that much. Every kid in history has gone through the same social challenges and pressures. Choosing friends, fitting in and getting left out: the reality is, growing up can be tough.

But kids, by definition, don’t understand that. School-age children want to feel accepted by classmates, friends and other peers. Every now and then, we encounter a kid who dares to be different. While that counterculture ethos is admirable, it’s hard to pull off, though not impossible. Even adults have trouble standing up for beliefs they know are in the minority. (Quick test: name one openly gay male athlete or politician.)

We hope our kids will live happy, comfortable lives, free of major conflict and hardships.

We also say we encourage individuality, and that we want our children to be true to themselves. But in real life, kids get picked on for being different. Most of the time, the distractions amount to little more than benign name-calling, maybe some quick-drying tears and everything is forgotten before the next recess.

But playground dynamics can get nasty and lead to poor performance in school, or worse. Some kids withdraw from the most basic of juvenile taunts and are strongly affected by less than what most of us would define as bullying. Every child reacts in his or her own way, and our experiences may not be enough to help our children cope. Kids need to figure things out for themselves.

That’s easy to say, but what if your kid is the different one?

It’s normal to feel relieved when your kids end up being mentally and physically comparable to everyone else in their class, learning and playing and laughing like kids are supposed to do. It’s certainly a whole lot easier.

And if childhood were supposed to be a constant string of disappointments, failed relationships and self-esteem busting situations, we wouldn’t be trying to eliminate child abuse, neglect and poverty; we’d be rewarding it.

I’m not saying I want my daughters to conform just to be considered popular. And I certainly would expect Ella or Sophia to stand up for themselves or others if they felt strongly enough about an issue. But I’ll admit it: I want my children to be socially adept, and I’m not ashamed to say it, whether it’s cool or not.

Dreams

I've been thinking a lot about dreams lately: about how important it is to have them, but also doing what it takes to make them come true.

When I started writing more over the past few years—short stories, Wee Wisdom in the Coloradoan, Mind+Body Magazine, UC Health Insider, this blog, my novel—my own dreams have become reality. I've always enjoyed expressing myself creatively, and becoming a writer has given me that outlet. I'm thankful to have been given a chance by people in the field who believed (and continue to believe) in me and my abilities, and the support of my fantastic wife and kids. The catalyst in making it all happen, I realize, was having the dream in the first place. But it takes a lot of work to make them happen.

Most of my waking hours are spent thinking about writing in some way, from fiction to articles to journaling and beyond. I know my kids see it. When they see me running to scribble something they just said, they know it'll probably appear in a column. They watch me take every spare moment to work on some project I've got going on, and I know they see my passion.

My writing has been rejected way more times than it has been accepted. I continue to receive "thanks but no thanks" letters for short stories I've submitted to literary journals, probably totaling somewhere in the 40-50 neighborhood. I have a file of about 25 rejections from the first time I queried literary agents on my novel (I now understand the rationale, four years later) and I will certainly receive more on this go around. I read countless essays and blogs from those in the literary field outlining just how hard it is to get anything published. A project I'm working on now—a non-fiction book proposal—is, while fun, sucking the energy out of me with how much is involved, and how unlikely those in the industry will tell me it is for someone to buy into it. I can see why people give up.

But to quote MLK, I have a dream. And despite the rejections and unbelievable challenges associated with getting published, I am living it, everyday. Of that, I need to keep reminding myself. Because it's easy to forget.

Like Father Like Daughter

Over the last few months, I've been getting up early to get some quality, fresh-brain writing in before the kids get up and all hell breaks loose. (Okay, it's not really that bad.) Generally, I'm up between six and 6:30, Tanya's already gone to the gym, and the girls are asleep for at least another hour. This morning, Ella made me happy.

I was sitting on the couch, working on a book proposal (more on that at a later date...I like intrigue), when Ella appeared at the top of the stairs. She was quiet—almost reverently so—and had a blanket wrapped around her. I said hi and waved her down to sit next to me. She obliged.

We sat on the couch together, me tapping away at my laptop and Ella cuddled under her blanket.  I felt her watching me for a few seconds. She got up. "I'm going to write, too, Daddy," she said, and fetched her fuzzy pink journal. Apparently, the ability to write for young girls is directly proportional to how cute the journal is.

She scratched away, and I returned to my work, both of us silent. She read me some of what she'd written—more about our beloved, late dog, Scooby Doo. "It's really good. I'll read it to you and you can tell me if you think it's really good. Okay, Daddy?"

I smiled and nodded, the safe course of action when asked a loaded question by  9-year-old, I've learned.

The best thing about that ten minute span was that we were both able to do what we enjoyed without being disturbed or bothered. The second best thing? That we did it together.

It Was Only a Matter of Time...

Not sure I could put this in Wee Wisdom in the newspaper, so here you go, blog readers.

Last week Sophia, out of nowhere, comes into the kitchen, barely able to control herself. "Dad," she says, "this is going to sound funny, but you had sex with mom so you could have kids! That's hysterical, right?!"

If only she knew how badly I wanted to say, "Well, sort of." So instead, I just laughed and agreed with her.

The fact that Sophia's only seven and was cracking herself up limited my ability to verbalize the jokes that swirled in my head. I thought back to those days when (Mom, fast forward to the next paragraph please...PLEASE!), well, let's just say sex was more about practice than actual game situations. And while there are times when I long for the quiet nights after work, when the couch was fair game in the middle of the afternoon (furtive cough, ahem), and when Tanya's and my responsibilities were strictly limited to ourselves, I realize that having kids has still been the best decision T and I have made together.

At least, I remind myself frequently, we're done with diapers, breastfeeding (more Tanya than me on that one), potty training, most of the crying, waking up in the middle of the night, and an overall need for round the clock care. And it has happened so damn fast.

Ella's almost done with fourth grade, and after next year, will be in middle school. That's MIDDLE SCHOOL, as in, Junior high, as in...post-pubescent, pre-driving, seconds-away-from-"Mom, Dad: Meet Biff. He's an MMA fighter. Like, isn't he cute?"

And Sophia is already two years into elementary school, reading at a middle-of-second-grade level, and showing me dance moves I'd rather not see just yet. Or ever.

Everyone says the early days of parenting go fast, and no one believes it until it actually happens. And it's all so very true. The minutes are precious. Cherish them.

And I recommend sex every now and then, even if you're done having kids.

Visibility

New to this cross-marketing thing (is that even what it's called?!). Anyway, got myself a twitter account, @amkbean, where I can sit around and tweet all day, you know, when I'm not actually writing something or being active or spending time with my wife and kids. Kind of fun, right? Honestly, I need to build an audience if I'm going to make the writing thing work. Will take all advice, and many followers. Let's get this party started!

The Sad Scooby Storie, By Sophia Kensley

Sophia is my seven-year-old daughter. She loved Scooby very much, and wanted to post a tribute to our dog as well. Here it is:

the sad scooby storie. by sophia kensley

well one day my mom tanya picked up my dog scooby with some friends of hers named jenny and her friend Debby and he was scared to come home and he was rolling around in the car. and when she got home she showed my dad named Andrew and Scooby chewed my moms bras and underwar and me, sophia, my mom my dad and my sister ella all loved him. but one day he got sick and did not eat one day. and it was sad so we had to put him to sleep.

Good Bye Scooby Doo

March 13, 2013, was the worst day of my life.

The previous week had consisted of a whirlwind of speculation, worry, physical exams and blood tests as we tried to figure out what was wrong with our 12-year-old dog. Finally, after our veterinarian told Tanya that Scooby Doo’s kidney failure was beyond treatment, we made the agonizing decision to ensure that he wouldn’t suffer any more.

The day and night before we put Scooby down, Tanya, Ella, Sophia and I spent hours huddled around our furry buddy, who had become a shadow of his normal animated self. We endlessly stroked him from head to tail and told him how much we loved him. We reminisced and laughed about his rambunctious puppy days and went through boxes of Kleenex.

Ella, who has known Scooby for the nine-plus years she’s been alive, petted his head and said: “Scooby, you’ll always be in my heart forever.”

Sophia, Ella’s 7-year-old sister, told him, “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

A friend of mine who had recently lost his dog told me to make sure we “managed the kids on this one,” as their immaturity might make the grieving process an onerous one. So we did. Through our own torrent of tears, Tanya and I lie on the floor with our kids and our ailing dog and reassured Ella and Sophia that heaven would be a wonderful place for Scooby Doo after he died. Trying to fulfill our roles as responsible parents, we consoled and cuddled without limits.

Then something strange happened.

Me, Sophia, and Scooby Doo

As Tanya and I continued to weep our way through the pain, Ella and Sophia became our helpers. I broke down while looking at old photos, while making dinner, and while updating family and friends about Scooby’s condition, and Sophia gave me just what I needed. “It’ll be OK, Dad,” she said.

When Tanya sat on the couch and sobbed, Ella crawled into whatever space she could find next to her mom, and they cried together.

I learned several things from my amazing kids during our tough time. Compassion has no age boundary. Family dynamics work best when the threads come from multiple directions. Love and support can surprise you with their power, especially when they come from unexpected places.

Later that night, in a rare dry-eye interlude, I sat at the computer typing a Facebook post. I watched Sophia creep up to Scooby and gently rub his back. Then, fully composed, she said, “Dad, I don’t want to get another dog for a while. I’m going to need some time to remember Scooby.”

My emotions poured forth yet again, but it wasn’t only from grief. I felt proud that my daughters had summoned the courage to help their parents, and not the other way around. I realized I needed them as much as they needed me, and together our entire family was able to endure the loss of a loved one.

There will always be a hole in my heart, but because of my kids, each day gets a little better.