"I love you." "Well, duh..."

All relationships are filled with subtle games and ongoing unconscious conversational tête-à-tête. For example: We all say things like "How was your day?" and "Did you sleep well?" without actually thinking about what they mean, or even awaiting an answer. In our family, one of the most frequently uttered is the "I love you—I love you, too" exchange.

I often take for granted those snippets of banter. But yesterday, as I was driving Ella to volleyball practice, something happened that made me think about it a little more.

Out of the blue, Ella says: "Dad, I love you."

"Of course you do!" I reply. "I'm awesome!!!"

"Uh," she says, with prototypical tween-dramatic-annoyance inflection, "not the response I was looking for but...okkaaayyy."

I laughed as she squirmed for a bit before reciprocating her sentiment, and also waited with breath held to see if I had really hurt her feelings. Thankfully, Ella is fully aware of my penchant for silliness and sarcasm, and is also quite adept at flinging it back to me. Nevertheless, I started thinking about what it might mean to a child to have his or her overt, unprompted volleys of love and affection returned in kind. Or not.

From what I've read and observed first hand with my own kids and others I have spent some time with, those little psyches can be fragile. Yes, it's important for them to become self-reliant and able to deal with adversity, but I think it's more important for them to first feel secure and develop a high level of self-worth. These values need to be constantly reinforced, at least until they start to navigate the world on their own.

I don't think that telling a kid we love them on a regular basis amounts to overly coddling or infantilizing them. On the contrary, it continually reinforces that Mom and/or Dad (or Mom and Mom, or Dad and Dad, whatever the case may be) thinks they are worthy of their place in the universe. Better to be loved too much—is that even possible?—than not enough. My parents did it to me and my sister, and while I admit that at the time I thought I HATED it, I realized once I hit my early 20s and then again once I had my own kids that all that annoyance and irritation was not only a genuine expression of love, but also might have been part of a carefully thought-out plan.

Of course, my little joke with Ella and her reaction brought to mind the possibility that their plan backfired, in the form of my absurdly overinflated sense of self-worth. (Inflategate, anyone?) But I doubt it. I'm probably just that awesome, and of course Ella would love me.

But I sure do love her, too, and she definitely knows it.

The Contract

I think I may have a future lawyer living in the Kensley house.

On our way home from camping this morning, the girls informed me that Ella had agreed to be Sophia's slave-slash-servant. As with most of their proclamations, I had no illusions that this grandiose situation would turn out to be any more than the usual short-lived play scenario.

Until Sophia insisted on a contract.

During our stop at Picnic Rock, a peaceful, popular play spot along the Poudre river as it snakes through the the tail end of the Poudre Canyon outside of Fort Collins, Sophia, who is 9, would have her older sister by 3 years, Ella, do something for her (get a towel, sunscreen her back, etc) and then turn to me with a toothy grin and mouth, "This is awesome!"

The 30-minute drive home was filled with discussion of contract terms, salary, and the like. I'm still not sure how this whole agreement came to be—other than the fact that Ella is happy to work for some extra cash—but I couldn't help being amazed at the ingenuity of it all. And so far, in the first couple of hours, they are taking it very seriously.

Once we got home, Sophia drew up a contract on Ella's laptop, complete with space for initials and signatures and a witness signature, and asked me to be the third party to ensure that the contract signing was legit and to help mediate so all parties were satisfied. Truly, this is the meat and potatoes of parenting that I LOVE.

Of course, Colorado Bar Association rules prohibit me from making this private arrangement public (and also, I think my kids might kill me if they knew about this blog post. If you see them, don't tell them you know...) but I would love to share a few of the stipulations, some of which are quite thoughtful:

• Ella gets a 30-45 minute lunch break and 2 15-minutes breaks, one each in the AM and PM (I helped tweak this one; the original draft didn't include lunch. I said that amounted to slave labor)
• Ella cannot be Sophia's servant while babysitting her
• If Mom or Dad ask Sophia to do something, she is not allowed to transfer responsibility to Ella
• And this is my favorite: "You can quit, but I can also fire you."

There is more, but I'm hesitant to share too much for fear of retribution from either party, even though I've clearly proven that I'm not above embarrassing either of them. And also, I'm worried they might really lawyer up and sue the shit out of me.

Oh, and as I finish typing this blog post, I hear Sophia from upstairs saying, "Ella, your break is over," right on time.

Move over Johnnie Cochran.

Life Isn't PG-13

While we were returning from lunch one day at work last week, a friend gathered all the parents around the office. "I need your opinions," she said.

Her 12-year-old daughter attended a sleepover birthday party where the invitation had promised going out for breakfast and then "watching movies." But when my friend's daughter got home, she informed her mom that the birthday girl's mother had taken the group to the theater to see "Pitch Perfect 2." You know the one: where the billboard slogan tastefully advertises "We're Back, Pitches." For a taste, click here for the trailer.

My friend was upset for two reasons. First, she was not comfortable with exposing her daughter to the crude and raunchy themes portrayed at various times in Pitch Perfect 2. But the more egregious issue was that her friend didn't bother to ask permission of her or any other parents to take their 12-year-olds to a PG-13 rated movie. "I watched the trailer," my friend said, "and I was like, what? You didn't even ask me?!"

My friend takes her role as a parent seriously and her angst was palpable. We all nodded in solidarity with her and agreed that the "responsible" parent should have cleared this decision with all the others prior to their little field trip into "Sophomoric Humor, Political Incorrectness and Oversexualized Culture 101." It's just basic protocol to ensure that plans are okayed by friends' parents before actually going. But for me, there was another issue:

Tanya and I took Ella—our 12-year-old—to see that very same movie the previous day.

The fact that I had seen the film allowed me to truly feel my friend's pain, knowing her daughter was watching numerous scenes obviously not geared for 12-year-olds, all without her consent. Some of the themes and lines even made me uncomfortable, knowing that my wholesome, innocent (so far, anyway) 6th grader was sitting right next to me while I nearly choked laughing. Yet aside from the movie-mom's lack of common sense, there's a greater discussion here.

Everyday we are forced to make choices for our kids, just as they are forced to make their own. Both parties rationalize and justify and hopefully learn from our experiences. Sometimes we get it right and sometimes we get it wrong, but one thing remains certain: we can't avoid making these choices. Our best weapons are to think them through and own our decisions, regardless of the result, and move forward.

Unlike the physical sciences, where facts and data can prove or disprove certain decisions and offer a high certainty that what we've done is reasonable, parenting avails itself of no such science. The results of our choices can take years to evince themselves, and even then, they've been blended with hundreds of other circumstances, so that determining cause and effect is like isolating sugar from the cake after it's been baked. In essence, though, I believe that one decision rarely makes or breaks a life. Still, we try our best, as if our every action determines the fate of the world.

Like it or not, sex and materialism and pathological consumerism are impossible—I REPEAT: IMPOSSIBLE—to avoid. Tanya has expressed many times—so very wisely—that there's only so much we can isolate our children from, so we might as well jump on board and take the wild ride with them. We can help navigate, educate, and explain so at least the discussion happens with people who understand and are willing to take the time to clarify challenging concepts. Hopefully, when the time comes for our youngsters to make their own decisions, our trust in them emboldens them with the confidence and wisdom to come out ahead most of the time.

For the record, I'm still peeved at the mom who didn't ask permission. I'd have been just as upset if another parent made a decision like that for me, and I respect my friend's conviction as a responsible, dedicated parent who's trying to do what she feels best.

But as I watch my kids grow up in a society where pop radio plays songs with lyrics that were banned by the FCC 20 years ago, and where the ubiquity of sex and overindulgence is the norm rather than the exception, I keep reminding myself that life doesn't carry a rating. But with some flexible PG, our kids might make it past 13 better equipped for the future. That might be as close to perfect as we can get.

A Soul-Binding Experience

Tanya and I caught Sophia in a couple of lies. Nothing major, but enough to warrant attention.

Like any normal kid, my 9-year-old played the Bill Clinton/Mark McGwire denial card for a while, but eventually caved when there was no more room to skate. Tanya explained very clearly, calmly and compassionately that lying will not be tolerated in our house. As one would expect, Sophia was embarrassed. There were some tears shed, some frowning, some running away, and some time taken to get over it all. Eventually hugs were exchanged to wash the incident away. We felt good.

While I was cuddling in bed with her afterward, she was still clearly shaken by the fallout. "It seems like you and Mom never do anything wrong," she said. "It seems like you guys always do everything perfect."

In nearly 12 years of parenting, including writing a regular newspaper column in the Fort Collins Coloradoan for four years chronicling the things my kids have said, nothing had punched a hole in my heart more than that line. Truly, I felt like an absolute failure.

I paused for a few seconds to gather my thoughts, and got started mending this fence. I explained to Sophia that she, like me and Tanya and Ella, is like every human being on the planet: she has made mistakes and will make plenty more, and the only negative would be not learning from them. I told her it's better to admit the mistake early and be done with it, rather than try to perpetuate it. We talked about how Tanya and I love her no matter what she does or says to us or anyone else, no matter how she behaves. There is nothing she could do to make us not love her.

I dug deep into the archives to tell her about forging my mother's signature on a detention slip in third grade (she found out and I got in some serious shit); throwing a baseball through a window at school in 5th grade; spending every penny in my piggy bank on hockey cards in the 6th grade without telling my mom; dating a girl my parents hated for a year and a half (I hated her too...not sure what I was thinking) and being significantly less than polite on many occasions when they called me on it; making mistakes at work, having to rewrite articles I submitted because they were terrible; saying thoughtless things to my friends over the years...the list goes on and on.

I found myself hugging Sophia tighter and tighter as I told her how I felt a true kinship with her. We both set our personal expectations too high, then tend to worry and internalize our feelings and get stressed out when things don't turn out as perfectly as we want them to. I've intuitively felt this way for quite some time, I told her, but only started realizing it in my thirties, and she was lucky to begin to understand it now. We are both sensitive to how others see us and depend too much on positive feedback. We're both a bit silly and don't shy from the center of attention, and we both need to be physically active to keep our minds sane. She doubted my sincerity initially, but I think she got the picture.

The whole experience—stroking her head and holding her tightly and listing all the ways we are connected—was mind-blowing. We do quite a bit of expressing our feelings in our house, and we're not shy to get emotional. But this was different. This was a soul-binding moment that I had never felt before with anyone but Tanya, the moment I realized I was mind-meltingly in love with her.

It's the rare moments like these that make me realize that no feeling on Earth could ever compare to being a parent.

But really...who's counting?

Sophia signed up for basketball this winter. Aside from making her hoops-crazy dad very happy, the benefits are numerous: regular physical activity with two hour-long practices and one game every week for six weeks, learning the fundamentals at a young age, and being introduced to the essence of sportsmanship and competition.

Uh, hold on a second for that last one.

At the last practice before their first game, Sophia's coach informed the team that per City of Fort Collins youth sports program rules, they would not be keeping score during the games. Before you go all Fox-News-The-World-is-Ending on me, keep in mind that this rule only applies to 2nd and 3rd grade games. The goals of this measure are, presumably, to encourage in the youngest cadre of prospective Lebrons and Durants the importance of skill development, sportsmanship, and having fun, not to turn us into a nation of soft-serve ice cream cones.

Behold the double-edged sword of competition and sportsmanship in youth sports in today's America.

I'm on board with focusing on skill development and getting the rules down, especially when getting on SportsCenter with windmill dunks and long-distance 3s isn't an option (yet). But isn't a large part of sports the fact that one team wins and another loses?

For the sake of this post, please disregard soccer.

In general, I'm not a fan of the "everybody-gets-a-ribbon" thing. I will say, however, having witnessed the stress created in young kids by the constant pressure to win at all costs (from coaches and parents alike), I am not in favor of promoting that ethos, either. The outcome matters, but physical and emotional health should always be the most important goals. Most people don't end up making a living at athletics so winning a game in elementary school doesn't affect our lives that much.

Basketball, being a team game, can be quite nuanced. It's not enough to learn the basics and think one will be successful in game situations. Keeping score is crucial in learning offensive and defensive strategy, and in grasping the concept of "team" first. It can take kids a long time to learn that your teammates' points are also your points, and that playing defense, sacrificing yourself to get the ball, pulling down a rebound to secure possession, or making an assist are just as important to success as hitting a long jumper. Score is important because it reflects the triumph of the team over the individual. If you don't believe me, watch highlights of the 2014 San Antonio Spurs or the 1986 Boston Celtics.

Competitive also sports teach us the ability to learn how to deal with success and failure gracefully, knowing that the outcome of a singular event should not define a life's value. When I was a young basketball player, our team was terrible and I barely played the entire season (because I, too, was terrible). I was forced to practice more. It worked because in the following four years I became a much better player and earned my way off of splinterville. Losing, on a personal and team level, drove me to do what was necessary to feel good about my game and, by extension, myself. Hard work is the only way to get better, and that's a lesson I learned as much from sports as anywhere else in life. Therein lies the key element of the zero-sum arena of competitive sports: keeping score incentivizes bettering oneself. And who doesn't want to do that?

At the 2nd and 3rd grade level, I guess it's not really a big deal. But I found it interesting that in immediate response to the coach's announcement, the team—remember, 7- and 8-year old girls wearing fluorescent shorts and pink t-shirts with flowers and cats on them—groaned uniformly and said, "Then how will we know who wins?"

Maybe the league should have asked the kids first.

The Emperor of Euphony

Last Friday, Sophia participated in her school spelling bee. The top two spellers in each third, fourth and fifth grade class were invited to participate in the competition that crowns the top speller from each school, presumably to be anointed as the Head Honcho of Homonyms, the Emperor of Euphony, the Overlord of Orthography.

The champion goes on to district, then state, then all the way to Washington, D.C., for the Scripps National Spelling Bee. You know the one, where a bunch of awkward, anxious elementary schoolers fidget and obsess and recite calming mantras before the immense pressure to spell synecdoche and pusillanimous and spondylitis. And then we get to watch them cry when they say "i" instead of "e" or commit some other egregious spelling mishap in front of thousands, maybe more.

Sophia Beeing cool

I went in late to work so I could witness my 8-year-old's certain victory in the contest pitting her against the rest of the mere mortals with mussed up hair, ketchup-stained shirts and untied shoelaces that attend her school. "This is in the bag," I said to myself. I am, after all, a speller of considerable noteworthiness. And we practiced. Hard. Like, 10 minutes a day over breakfast, with the Sugarhill Gang channel blasting on Pandora, and in between sick dance moves across the kitchen floor. (Me, not her.)

Sophia breezes through the first two rounds with patio and sitcom. She's on a roll, strutting to the mike like a gangsta with sagging pants and spitting letters (in the correct order, suckaz!) like Eminem in a rap battle. Quite a few of the 24 competitors go out in the first two rounds, and I truly feel bad for them. I mean, those words were, like, so easy to spell. Maybe they should have studied more.

After the first round, Mr. Lynch, the fifth grade teacher and emcee looks at Sophia, resplendent in her purple leggings and fluorescent yellow sweater that screams, Look at me, losers, I'm all that and a bag of chizz-aps! He wipes his brow and says, "Man, I am getting nervous!" He looks at Sophia and says, "Kensley, you nervous?" And my kid, arm resting on the table next to her like Don Corleone after a successful hit, smiles and says, "Nope."

She is John Elway on The Drive. Pre-fire hydrant Tiger Woods on the 18th tee on Sunday at Augusta.

No pressure

Third round, less than half the kids remaining. You could cut the tension with a plastic butter knife from the school lunch room.

Your word is "Knead." This word is a homonym, it is a verb, and its definition is to work or mix something using the hands.

We practiced this one, I remember, over eggs and toast, Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock in the background. My palms and feet are sweaty. I hear my heart beating inside my ears. You got this, kid. K. K. Remember the K.

"N-E-I-D."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Nooooo!!!!! Damn that friggin K!!!

That is incorrect.

I breathe for the first time in a few seconds. Sophia lopes back to her seat, removes the number from around her neck and sits calmly through the rest of the affair. I watch for signs of disappointment, maybe some nerves, shame, embarrassment, trembling, tears, fear of reprisal, severe depression.... But there's nothing. That's because she's a cold-blooded competitor, the Black Mamba of the miniature circuit, ready to learn from failure and train harder—HARDER!!!—to become the greatest speller of all time. You can bet I'll be taking a page from the Tiger Mom and Tiger Woods' dad and setting some serious guidelines for the next few years. No playtime, no sports, no vacations. Just spelling all day and night. Winning is all that matters now.

Later Sophia tells me she was proud to have made it into the competition at all. I tell her second place is the first loser. (No, I didn't...but I could have.)

As a bit of consolation, our neighbor, Lily, and one of Sophia's best friends, won it on "meager." At least the trophy lives on our street.

We'll be making bread everyday for the next week as a punishment.

Ewe Goh Gurl!!!

Theatrics

Over the past month, Ella and Sophia took their first foray into show business. Along with their three neighbor friends from down the street, Lilly, Lucy and Sally, they wrote, directed, produced, and starred in their first play. Yup, a real, live, actual play, complete with scene changes, sound effects, costumes, props, songs, and even audience participation. The show, called SWANG (the main character's name was Celia, but her nickname was Swang, because of her love for swang dancing), had two performances, put on at the park behind our house. I'm not sure they got an entertainment permit from the City of Fort Collins, but, whatever.

The Promo flier

Every day after school and on most of their free weekend days, the five girls collaborated on putting together the performance. They posted fliers around the neighborhood mailboxes and told everyone they knew about it. They charged admission (parents of the performers were, graciously, allowed in free) and a small fee for other items, and each of my kids ended up making $7.50 each.

The first show began at 4:30 pm on Saturday, November 8, and the second one was scheduled for the same time on November 9 but the producers smartly moved it to 3:00 to avoid the twin plagues of darkness and cold. The production team, however, was prepared: they provided chairs, blankets, flashlights and snacks. The kids ate most of the food, chips, fruit punch and mints—purchased with their own money at the dollar store—but there was plenty for everyone.

In addition to Tanya and me and the neighbor girls' parents, a few other neighbors and friends came to the performance, having seen the signs and heard the chatter within the local arts scene (aka, our street). Even a high school junior who lives four houses down came by for the second showing. Tanya's mom attended on Sunday, and stayed for the post-production party in our kitchen, which got a tad rowdy. To my knowledge, nobody arranged for bottle service, got drunk on Cristal or tweeted racy photos. And I have no idea if TMZ was hiding in our pantry.

Had there been media there, I'm sure this would be a likely sampler their reviews:

"A five-star performance! I wanted to SWANG from the rafters!" —the Fort Collins Coloradoan.

"A breathtaking, wonderful and heartwarming debut performance! I laughed, cried...and shivered." —the Denver Post.

"Jump up and applaud for SWANG! Bravo!" —the Colorado Spring Gazette.

SWANG was part musical, part comedy, and part tragedy. Ella described it as, "An Adventure in Magical-ness," which seemed about right. The actors were both serious and improvisational, and when they messed up their lines, they didn't panic. They were, at times, hilarious, especially when they didn't mean to be. Each of the five actors had significant roles, including "backstage" jobs. I was also particularly impressed with the singing voices (especially Lucy's) in addition to a distinct lack of fear in the spotlight from all five of the players.

As one would expect of 5- to 11-year-olds, the plot was a bit hard to follow at times (something about fairies in the woods, dancing and a lurking evil something-or-other). But that really wasn't important. What impressed me most was the organization and dedication it took to make the show happen. They devoted themselves to a creative task and saw it through to completion. Each one of them branched out, put aside fear of embarrassment or failure, and surely discovered something about themselves they never knew, while having a lot of fun doing it.

That alone deserves rave reviews.