Happy Monday

At 8:20 am on a Monday a couple of weeks ago, Ella realized she had forgotten to do part of her homework. My normally unflappable fifth-grader freaked out. Every word that escaped her mouth was a scream as she panicked in a way I've never seen.

"I'm going to get in trouble!" she yelled. "I have to do my math facts! I don't know my 8's multiplication tables well enough yet! Mr. Hill is mean! This is too much pressure! I can't handle this pressure! That's why I didn't want to go to school today!"

The tears flowed like floodwaters and I literally had no idea what to say. I'd seen and heard outbursts before, but this was on a whole other level. Ella rushed to do what she could in the 10 minutes before school, but she was beside herself.

"Ella," I said, "at this point, you're better off just cutting your losses. It's only the second week of the school year. It's not going to be a big deal."

But in Ella's fifth grade class, kids start with a certain amount of "Cougar Cash" at the beginning of the year, and can earn and spend on a variety of other things. They get bonuses for certain jobs well done and fined for transgressions.

"I'm going to get fined like...two dollars!" she screamed. I sensed that Ella was riding the crest of a hormonal tsunami, the stuff of legends.

"Just take the fine and you'll do better next time," I said. "I'm sure you'll earn it back another way."

The Offending Math Homework

I walked with Ella to school. She had stopped crying by the time she hit the playground.

I sought out her math teacher, Mr. Hill. He informed me that the multiplication tables on that week's homework were merely for review, and were in no way meant to represent the kind of high pressure situation that precedes standardized testing or grad school exams. He certainly didn't want the kids to panic. When I asked him about Ella's claim that he assigned homework to be done on the weekend, Mr. Hill smiled and rolled his head back in disbelief.

"I rarely, if ever, give homework on the weekend," he said. "I gave them this assignment last Monday, to be completed by this Monday."

I'm hoping Ella will learn from this experience and be more prepared on the next go around. I also hope she learns to manage her emotions, at the very least to give my ear drums a reprieve.

Alas, time is not on my side. Adolescence is creeping up fast, and I'm bracing for the legendary estrogen-fueled eruptions that become lore. My friends have assured me of what to expect.

You have girls...oooohhh, get ready, man. It's going to get ugly.

Brace yourself. It's going to be a ride for a few years.

Girls are easier when they're young, but boys are waaaay easier when they're teenagers.

Thanks, everyone, for the encouragement. I feel so much better now.

Wee Wisdom: Rules vs Doritos

While I was walking with my kids after school last week, Ella pulled out a Ziploc bag of Doritos. Neither Tanya nor I had packed it in her lunch, so I asked where she got them.

“A friend gave them to me,” Ella replied nonchalantly.

“Who?” Sophia asked. “We’re not allowed to share food. That kid is NOT a good rule-follower!”

It was interesting to observe my kids’ different perspectives on the issue. Ella didn’t seem bothered by scoring a tasty snack she doesn’t normally get at home, nor by her straight-laced sister’s reaction.

I understand why school rules prohibit sharing food, from general health liabilities to perpetuating social inequities. But did Ella’s second-degree snacking symbolize more than simply transgressing an institutional policy? If I allowed my 10-year-old to get away with breaking the rules, was I tacitly condoning a future life of crime?

In this case, I’m pretty sure no harm was done in the exchange of chips on the playground. In fact — for all I know — Ella (and her friend) could have developed valuable negotiation skills in the transaction. Maybe they balanced out the supply and demand curve of the Northern Colorado snack market or were making a concerted effort to reduce waste. Regardless of the details, everyone seemed to have come out ahead.

Regulations, while well-intentioned, sometimes serve more as symbolic barriers than practical ones. Yes, they help keep us safe and happy for the most part, but perhaps it’s the fear of punishment — not the actual rule — that contributes most to that outcome.

Once rules are set, we each follow them as we see fit. Some people have no problem breaking them, and even don’t mind getting caught once in a while. Others might be more inclined to fear the possible punishment. But Sophia, in reprimanding her older sister, demonstrated one of civilized society’s built-in safety valves: peer pressure.

Essentially, rules are only necessary if we plan on living amongst others. Each person can either follow along or stray at their peril. We all do the latter once in a while, and even get caught. Most of the time, though, our hiccups are benign, and we are left to deal with only ourselves. Punishment or not, our consciences generally direct us accordingly.

We continued our walk, and Ella crunched away, seemingly unperturbed by her sibling’s tongue-lashing. Then Sophia asked her big sister very politely, “Aren’t you going to share?”

After some thought, Ella handed over a few crumbled chips, and I could feel the tension building.

Clearly, the illegal nature of the Doritos combined with the entrance of a third party raised the situation’s intrigue. Sophia, I noted, didn’t seem bothered by the criminality of it all when she was licking seasoning off her fingers.

A couple of days later, I spotted Ella munching on a chocolate about an hour after school.

Before I had a chance to say anything, she blurted, “Don’t worry, Dad, I got it after the bell.”

Sophia didn’t say a word.

The Offending Snack

Wee Wisdom: Race Toward Understanding

A couple of weeks ago, a friend suggested Tanya and I watch the movie “42: The Jackie Robinson Story” with our kids.

I was not sure about having my 7- and 10-year-olds hear the nasty things Robinson had to endure as the first black Major League Baseball player, regardless of how genuine the portrayal. So Tanya and I decided to watch it ourselves. And after seeing the ugliness of those who resisted the eventual Dodger hall of famer’s integration, I’m happy with our decision. Even I was uncomfortable.

A few days later, on the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington, I watched Martin Luther King Jr.’s legendary speech over breakfast with Sophia and Ella. Naturally, my daughters asked me about the event and why I was so interested in it.

I informed them that Dr. King was a great man because of how hard he championed for equality. As recently as 50 years ago, I explained, people of color weren’t allowed to use the same bathrooms or drink from the same water fountains or play on the same sports fields as white people. Dr. King helped change that.

Normally, I base this column on something my kids have said, but on that morning, the absurd notion of inequality was apparently enough to transport my daughters into a rare moment of speechlessness. Their silence spoke volumes.

I thought about how important it is to make our children understand the shameful realities of our not-so-distant past, to ensure these injustices cease to happen forever. But the education itself can be painful. How could I teach my kids about humanity’s painful history of bigotry?

I shiver when I hear the N-word or other examples of senseless vitriol. Maybe it’s because I understand context, or that I’m just overly sensitive. But if certain words and attitudes can make a 39-year-old cringe, I worry what they’ll do to my untainted kids.

Still, the only way to sidestep ignorance and hatred is by education. And I can’t help my kids if I pretend that discrimination arises from words alone. The root causes of oppression take time to develop, but can be hard to squash once they’re ingrained. Tanya likes to say that words only have as much power as we give to them. Maybe if my kids are disgusted like I am upon hearing hateful speech, then their aversions to it will be cemented early. Their path to whatever greatness for which they’re destined might start right then and there.

About 12 minutes into Dr. King’s rousing oratory, he started talking about his dreams. “This is important,” I said, leaning into the computer screen. "Let's listen."

Ella weaseled her way onto my lap. Sophia had already left the table, but I sensed her listening from the top of the stairs.

…I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character…

I’m glad those are the words they heard.

Thanks!

Thanks to everyone who continues to follow along with The Dad Life! (Or, #thedadlife, as it may be...).

My blog got 90 hits yesterday, which I think is a record since I started devoting myself to this creature in full force a few months ago. I appreciate your following along, and please continue to spread the word any way you can, via facebook, twitter, message and other discussion boards, blogs and websites you may visit that deal with parenting, families, kids, and anything in between. I love writing about our adventures and hope to continue expanding my horizons.

Writers, I'll remind you, are much happier with readers.

Generation Gap? Great!

Star Island, located in the Isles of Shoals, eight breezy miles off the coast of New Hampshire, is quite possibly the most perfect place I know. The Life On A Star (LOAS) I conference where Tanya has been going with her family for mid-August vacations since she was eight, is run by the most fun-loving and humanitarian group of people one could ever hope to meet: a giddy bunch of Unitarian Universalists who sing like nobody's watching, and love like they've never been hurt.

Our week was filled with the usual variety of stimulating and relaxing activities, family time, and a refreshing dearth of technology. The weather was the best I can remember it being since I became a Star Island regular in 2002. Sunshine, warm mild Atlantic breezes and an absence of rain (in a northeast U.S. summer characterized by heaps of it) amplified the calls of cruising seagulls, the repetitive yet soothing lighthouse bell from neighboring White Island, and the joyful cries of LOAS I's conferees.

T and Fee

New friend Julia and Sophia doing some research

Tanya pulling a bow

As usual, I reveled in the unlimited feeding frenzy that comes with healthy family-style meals, consumed in a loud dining room with 300 friends of all stripes, shapes, and sizes. I satisfied my need to perform in front of a crowd by hosting the 2013 LOAS I talent show, and even busted out some homespun hip-hop, with a new friend who happened to be a 12-year-old kid named Jamie who could beat box like Matisyahu. I took an improv theater class with Tanya, which amounted to some of the most fun I've ever had (and Tanya, by the way, is AMAZING at it!). I attended daily theme talks by Anna Sale, a charismatic and engaging NPR political reporter, about listening and empathy, topics that could benefit every last one of us. It was nourishing in so many ways.

Every time I go to Star Island, I return home having learned something new. The one aspect of this year's experience that struck me most was the seamless melding of generations that happens in our tiny island microcosm of what is, to me, a veritable utopia.

Babies bond with baby boomers; septuagenarians sing with school-agers; toddlers tie-dye with teenagers, all with the ease of long-lost relatives connected by a fluid even thicker than blood. From before we boarded the Thomas Laighton ferry in Portsmouth harbor, and extending until the very last tearful goodbyes seven days later, young and old mixed as smoothly as salt and, er, water.

The genesis of The Wheelers

Ella and Dawn Elane...plucky ladies

Dave and Ella jamming on the porch

In a world too often filled with arbitrary, unnecessary and hurtful borders between ages, races, sexes and just about any other attribute one decides to isolate, Star Island offers a soul-cleansing experience consisting of the exact opposite. From polar dipping in 52 degree water at 7 am until the final note of a serenade to the setting sun 13 hours later, and back round to being woken up by singers outside your room the following day—for breakfast this morning...cheesy omelettes!—everyone is invited. Yes, kids spend a few hours a day with their own age groups, and adults have a late afternoon "social hour" which includes a beverage or two and grown-up conversation. But for the most part, the Star Island community is a team of humans who don't pay attention to the artificial boundaries that shackle us during the other 51 weeks of the year, generation gaps included.

The most glaring example for me was watching my 10-year-old literally form a band. Ella had intended to sing and play a song on her guitar for the talent show, and would have been content to do it alone. But within minutes of boarding the boat, she had recruited our old friend and fiddle-aficionado David Whitford to her gig. Within hours and then days, the Wheelers were created, with the finished product including Ella on lead vocals and playing rhythm guitar, David and his fiddle, two mandolins, a ukelele, a banjo, a drum box, and three backup singers (including Sophia, Ella's 7-year-old sister, and a teenage girl named Fiona who never seemed as annoyed as teenagers typically do when forced to spend a week trapped on an island with their mother).

(Note for the video below: Even though the music stand is in the way, the singer/guitar player is in fact Ella, I promise. And the toe-tapping, fiddling dude on the right is David. Trust me. Spielberg, we're not.)

The music was great, and the talent show number was a resounding hit. But the proud papa in me was less impressed with Ella's guitar or singing skills than with my fifth-grader's self-assurance, her ability to bring a group together, and the amazing harmony produced in its wake. Just watching the Wheelers rehearse, my eyes welled up. Ella took polite direction from people over five times her age that she had just met; she gave her opinion, asked questions, and accepted the answers. She practiced very hard, but she also expressed herself when she needed a break. The entire exercise amounted to a balletic and circular display of respect that, like a wagon wheel, neither began or ended.

It just...was.

Perfect.