Wee Wisdom: Generation I Am Not Afraid

On the evening of April 15, Sophia heard the television coming from our bedroom and asked Tanya what happened in Boston. Tanya explained the situation.

“But that’s where Jodi lives!” our curious 7-year-old said. The panic in her voice indicated what parents everywhere dread for their children: fear.

Thankfully, my sister and her family were away on vacation. But the unpleasant emotions of yet another violent act against unsuspecting civilians were unavoidable. As a parent, I couldn’t help wondering if the current generation of school-age children will ultimately be known not by an alliterative label like “Baby Boomer” or a cool-sounding letter like X or Y, but rather something more morbid.

Are my kids and their peers destined to become Generation Don’t Go Outside?

The Olympics. Office buildings. Airplanes. Movie theaters. Schools. They’ve all been targeted successfully, and we’ve answered with more vigilance and protection. But the last frontier of Western democracy, and the very essence of personal freedom — to roam where one pleases — has been breached. City streets, absent of explicit entry or exit points and with constantly recycling crowds, are hard to defend. We can’t create security checkpoints everywhere or search everyone’s backpacks — nor should we.

I can deal with lines at the airport. Metal detectors and armed guards in office buildings don’t bother me. I would even, against my inclination, consider the suggestion of Wayne LaPierre, the executive vice president of the NRA, to staff security guards in schools. But I draw the line at turning our free society into a police state to protect public spaces such as marathon courses and outdoor malls and parks.

As long as the majority continues to be peaceful, we will be at the mercy of those who are not. By practicing kindness and encouraging the same of others, we leave ourselves vulnerable to those who spend their days brainstorming novel ways to inflict terror. And it will always be so. For the disenfranchised, angry and unloved (Timothy McVeigh, Mohamed Atta, James Holmes, Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, etc.) exercising a misguided sense of power is the only way to level the metaphorical playing field.

Ironically, it is the very nature of playing fields — bordered only by painted lines, soft grass cushioning our every step under boundless blue skies and joyous cheers animating the air — that will make us forever immune to what people like the Tsarnaevs tried to do. We’ll run, but we won’t run away.

I will be angry with the cowards who tarnish celebrations of joy and accomplishment. I will mourn the deaths of innocent victims. I will celebrate the brave men and women who provided first aid and support to those at the finish line, and those who apprehended the at-large criminal. I will even rejoice when a terrorist is caught or killed, though it still feels hollow to revel in another’s misery.

But I refuse to let fear decide whether I cheer on a friend in his first triathlon or watch my kids play in a soccer tournament.

How does “Generation I Am Not Afraid” sound?

Volunteering is a Gamble

One of the benefits of my work schedule (Friday-Sunday as a physical therapist at the hospital, the rest of the week to write at home), is that I get to volunteer in Sophia's first-grade class every week. For about 45 minutes, I help this group of energetic and distractible 6- and 7-year olds learn the foundations of math—from basic arithmetic, to counting by 5's and 10's, to money, to geometry, and even fractions. The teacher splits up the class into four groups, and assigns specific tasks for the students to do at the "parent table," of which I am in charge.

Sophia's class spans a wide spectrum as far as aptitude and behavior goes, which is normal for first grade, I'm told. Some kids get it fairly easily, some pay attention half the time, some kids never get it, some kids need to be constantly redirected to stay on task and respect adults. I try hard to be patient but it's challenging.

I'm only there for 45 minutes once a week, so I shouldn't complain. Their teacher is nothing less than a saint. But still, I'm not going to lie. I sometimes come home needing a nap. Or a shot of scotch.

Imagine my joy, then, when last month I walked into class and saw that I was going to be guiding the students through an activity where they rolled dice and charted the frequency of which numbers came up.

Uh, hello? Did someone say, Craps?

Without going into detail (though I sooooo want to), this task was essentially the basis for craps and why people lose tons of money in Vegas (except me, of course). The casinos bank on the fact that 7 has the most combinations out of the 36 possible rolls of two dice, and people bet on all the other numbers to come up first. If they do, a lot of money is up for the taking. It's happened to me a few times and trust me, it's exciting when it does.

Following my affinity for Las Vegas and the incomparable excitement of casino gambling, I dove headfirst into my job. I was involved, engaged, excited, absorbed. The time flew by. In my head, I couldn't help thinking: "Seven will definitely come up the most times. It has to, right?" The fears of the anti-gambling lobby would surely be justified. The house always wins. Don't waste your hard-earned money. 

But as the kids rolled the dice, I noticed something that buoyed my heart to no end: on many of the papers I scanned, 6 and 8 came up as I would have expected, but also 4, 5, 9, 10 and 11—numbers that pay out high odds at a craps table—came up more frequently than 7.  "This is a sign," I reassured myself, "that the house doesn't always win!"

I left that volunteering session with the lofty hopes of making this year's Vegas guys trip—I leave on Friday, May 3—the most successful one yet.

And, oh yeah, I think the kids might have learned a thing or two about math.

Dining at Hooters. Seriously.

Over the last week or so, Ella and Sophia have been playing "Waitress" at dinnertime. Yes, it's exactly what it sounds like. And it's a pretty awesome gig. I highly recommend you introduce this game to your children as well. Everyone wins.

They set the table, serve the food, and clear the table (nice). Like all five-star restaurant wait staff, they refill our wine glasses at no extra charge (very nice).

They make up names, too. Sophia, our 7-year-old, has been partial to Osha; Ella, her 9-year-old sister, likes Iris. Another day Ella was Tasha and Sophia was Tess. I must confess, with all the activity and constant questioning—"Are you folks doing okay?" "Can I get you something else?" "Would you like more water? Dessert? The check?"—I have trouble remembering their names, even though they remind us about fifty times during the meal. The free adult-beverage refills probably don't help matters.

Oh, and they do dance shows before, during and after dinner. Chez Kensley is one high-class eatery, let me tell you. And you never know quite what will be said.

For instance, during one meal they dressed up and wore aprons. Under her apron, Sophia wore a sports bra and her fire-red dance shorts. And when I say shorts, I mean it. In other words, if she were five years older, she wouldn't be allowed to leave the house wearing them. While Tanya and I were enjoying hors d'oeuvres and a pre-dinner cocktail in the living room, Sophia posed and asked: "Do you think I could wear this if I were a real waitress in a real restaurant?"

Tanya replied, without hesitation: "Sure, if you worked at Hooters."

After I picked myself up off the floor, I heard Ella ask, "What's Hooters?"

Tanya explained the whole "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" ethos of that classy, time-tested establishment with the admirable eloquence of a liberated, twenty-first century mother. The kids left it at that, and called us to the table for dinner. Tanya and I shared a silent chuckle, satisfied that we dodged a bullet.

But with Tasha and Osha and whoever they might be tomorrow, I know we can count on more coming our way.

Snow Day...No Way!

Some news...I got a response back from the agent who requested the first three chapters of Seeking Blue. They're going to pass. I guess I'm now officially a member of an exclusive club of authors. I now have something in common with no-names as Ernest Hemingway, Stephen King, John Steinbeck and anyone else who's ever submitted a query or part of a manuscript to a literary agent.

I feel better now.

The backyard

More importantly, yesterday was a snow day for my daughters' school. We got, I don't know, something in the area of 12-15 inches total over the past few days, and the roads were slushy and icy and generally tough to navigate. Even Tanya—who is from New Hampshire and no stranger to being blanketed in snow for months at a time, and a proponent of the "tough-it-out" generation of Northeasterners who believe school goes on unless we're under nuclear attack—said, "I think this might have been a good call. The roads are pretty bad. I would hate for a bus to skid off the road or something."
 

Ella...huh?

We've gone mad! Weekdays are for school, snow or not! These kids need to learn something, dammit! This is America! We're tough, resilient, resolute...we don't back down from terrorists, let alone snow! Are we going to let a little (okay, a lot) snooooow get in the way of an education for our most precious resource?

Sophia...aaahhh!

(Deep breath.)

I love my kids, and I enjoy spending full days with them...mostly in the summer, when bike riding and swimming and hiking under the hot, mood-elevating sunshine are mutually pleasurable activities, and we're not cooped up indoors. I've been battling a sinus infection so rolling around in the accumulating snow didn't seem like a good idea. And it was cold. And frankly, we're so over the winter.

Snow feet

Anyway, I took Ella and Sophia to the gym, made up some kind of cross-fit course where each of us got to pick three different exercises, and did three separate circuits. It was actually fun, and I broke a sweat. Then I played hoops for about 45 minutes, we picked up Sophia's friend Erin, came home, had lunch, and the girls screamed in the basement for about two hours while I did some writing and Tanya read a book. After Erin left, the girls and I played Wii baseball, boxing (I knocked out Sophia with a wicked left hook. She cried.) and guitar hero. While Tanya made dinner, the girls helped me shovel our driveway...well, they helped our neighbor, Erica, a bit more.

All in all, a pretty good day. Snow or not.  I "stand" corrected.

Standing Corrected

Excitement...a bite!!!

On Monday morning, I started out the day as I've started every day for the past week and a half. I sent out another couple of query letters to agents for my novel, Seeking Blue. I had already sent 11 others  and hadn't received any responses, so I wasn't expecting much.

The kids were still in their pajamas (they were off school) and flitting about the house, dancing or singing or doing some other activity to which I was clearly not paying attention. My mother called and I chatted with her for our weekly check-in, and informed her (as usual) that nothing very exciting had happened lately, just status quo in little old Fort Collins. A mid-April snow fall; Tanya's at work; I'm hanging with the kids and Ella's friend today; everything's fine at work; kids are good, you know the drill. I offered the phone to Ella.

It hadn't been an hour since sending my query. I scanned my gmail account and saw that I had a new email, with "Novel Submission" in the subject line.

Dear Andrew Kensley,

Thank you so much for your query.  Please could you send me the first three chapters of SEEKING BLUE as an email attachment in DOUBLE SPACING with the word REQUESTED as the subject line.

all best wishes

Caroline 

I nearly fell off my chair. Then I screamed at the top of my lungs. "I got a bite! I got a bite! Ella, give me the phone!" 

I told my mother the good news, but I'm not sure she heard what was really going on over my blubbering and panting. I gave the phone back to Ella and she chatted a few more minutes with my mom.

After Ella hung up, she and Sophia rejoiced with me, giving me lots of hugs and wishing me congratulations, which made me feel so proud, I can't even describe it. They shared in my joy, as Tanya and I strive to share in theirs. 

After we calmed down (slightly), Sophia asked, "What does it mean?"

I explained to her with details that a 7-year-old could understand, about the spirit-breaking, resolve-testing, thankless process of trying to get an agent to read your book, and then represent it. Without using phrases like "impossible," or "painstakingly difficult," or "energy-sucking," I told her and Ella that you send an agent (multiple agents) a letter with the basic plot of your book, a little about yourself, maybe a sample chapter and a synopsis (depending on their submission guidelines on their websites), and then...wait. If you're lucky, they ask you for some sample chapters, and more if they like what they've read. If you're like 99.9999% or writers in the world, you get a polite form rejection letter that begins with "Dear Author...," or nothing. Ever.

Honestly, I was thrilled that someone even read my letter. I got to work with an email reply, pasted the first 3 chapters onto a separate document an attached them, checked every bloody word about 15 times, and sent it off. I've been checking my email about every two minutes since then for another response from the agency.

Nothing yet, but I did receive my first rejection email from an agent to whom I submitted a query last week. In a polite, professional and personal response (they're not all chain-smoking, caffeine-sucking grouches, as I've read), he praised my writing's "poise and polish" but said he wasn't "connecting wholeheartedly" to it, whatever that means. 

I'm still excited that my query letter didn't suck, at least to those particular agents. 

The saga continues.

What Makes a Parenting Blog?

I've been doing some research on parenting blog and columns, trying to figure out how to break into the game and build my visibility. Search Engine Optimization is a tough gig, for sure, especially if you would like to spend some time doing other things. So I think the route I'll shoot for now will involve more networking, reading other blogs, and communicating with other bloggers and writers who have something interesting to say. Maybe someone with an ample following will be kind and throw me a bone. And, as I tell Ella and Sophia, you'll never get anywhere if you don't try.

It seems that to make a parenting blog or column worthwhile reading, it must relate to a large percentage of readers. By that I mean, the experiences that trigger the discussions should be everyday occurrences. Personal experience is a great gateway toward making people feel included in what you're trying to say. Also, it lets readers know that you are just a regular person like them, trying to live the best life you can. In the end, that's all we really want for ourselves and for our kids.

Personally, with Wee Wisdom, I use direct quotations, and I try not to doctor them in any way. When kids talk, we tend to gloss over much of what they say. But by listening beyond the words—the backstory, the "between-the-lines" meanings, the nuance—we become stimulated to laugh, cry, and initiate serious discussions about a host of issues. Hearing our little ones, whether they know we're listening or not, lets us into their heads, which is often hard to do. When we hear what they say, and even further, acknowledge them, they become more than "kids." They become an equal part of the discussion.

They become relevant, which is exactly what any of us want at any age.

I came across this blog recently, and I think it's smart, interesting and, well, relevant. Short, sweet, meaningful bursts of "hmmm, interesting. I hadn't thought of that...". Check it out: Motherlode by KJ Dell'Antonia. She also tweets (who doesn't, right?).

If you like it, email her with the link to The Dad Life and urge her to take a look. Every bit helps, faithful readers!

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.