Monday, June 24, 2013
Wee Wisdom: It's All in the Mind
Ella and Sophia were drawing portraits of each other. Sophia got frustrated. “It’s hard to draw,” my 7-year-old said. “I don’t know how to do it,”
Ella remained calm. “Just draw what you see. And if you still don’t know, draw what you know of me.”
Beside giving logical advice that was sage beyond her years, Ella touched on an abstraction that I could not ignore. How well, I wondered, do we truly know our children? And by extension, how well can we ever really know them?
I’d like to think that at this early stage of the parenting game, Tanya and I have a decent understanding of the personalities of our 10-year-old and 7-year-old daughters. They express themselves honestly and without the weighty emotional undertones that are sure to creep up in the near future. Generally, what you see is what you get.
Yet certain things about them remain veiled. They don’t always listen to what we ask of them, and I’m not sure why. They keep their rooms organized a certain way, and they gravitate toward specific activities and friends and eschew others. With each passing day, I become more intrigued with their tendencies and less inclined to ask why.
Things change almost daily, and it’s hard to keep up. They are becoming more eloquent and abstract. I see Ella and Sophia sneaking up to their rooms, planning and scheming and gradually reducing the amount of time they request of Mom and Dad. They tell each other secrets and occasionally lie to us, or at least try.
Most intriguing to me are the looks of contemplation and frustration when things don’t go their way, like they’re working feverishly trying to make sense of the absurd realities of adult behavior. I can’t begin to fathom what goes on in those little heads, but I do know that the struggle to comprehend the world around them is a necessary catalyst for growth. And growth is inherently personal.
It can be maddening to ask my kids to clean their rooms a dozen times or remind them endlessly to finish their chores.
But it’s also fun to think that inside those little heads, driven by egocentrism and fueled by unlimited learning potential, they are figuring out how to function at their own pace and in the only way suits them.
Do I want to know how that works? No way. During the coming maelstrom of adolescence, Tanya and I will surely be cast as villains, at least for a short while (it’s already started, by the way). But the emotional and psychological changes that are necessary for growth and grip them will also help our daughters become the amazing women they are destined to be. There is something intriguing for me about the mystery of how we become who are.
I never did see the portraits they drew, and I wish I had. Those drawings might end up being the closest I ever get to what’s truly going on in their amazing little minds.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
...A Note on Borrowing Dogs
There's a video on this that subscribers might not have been able to see. Just click on this link to get to the actual blog site and check out the video. I think it's worth it.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
The Best Therapy for Losing a Pet? Borrow One!
On Memorial Day, Tanya, Ella, Sophia and I drove up the Poudre Canyon about 30 minutes from our home in Fort Collins, Colorado, to the winding and always enjoyable Greyrock trail. We brought with us a box containing the cremated remains of our dog, Scooby Doo, who passed away in March. We intended to release him back into nature, where he belonged, one final time.
Greyrock was one of his favorites. He would take off after rabbits and whatever else he smelled in the bushes and trees. He'd lap up water in the various streams and tributaries. He always came back when I called him. He was the perfect hiking buddy.
The day began warm and pleasant with a bit of cloud cover. I had been feeling a bit off from the time I woke up. When we parked at the trailhead, I finally realized that Scooby Doo had been weighing on my mind all morning, and I hadn't even known it.
I remained reserved as we hiked up about a mile to a spot with a bench, overlooking the pine-covered valley and green meadows, lush from recent rains. The bench was located near the confluence of Greyrock's Meadows and Summit trails, overlooking an open grassy area that would be perfect for our goal. We planned on distributing Scooby's remains to nourish the existing vegetation, and let the circle of life work its magic.
We took turns saying our final goodbyes. Tanya was sanguine about the whole experience; she'd been through something like this before. Ella, Sophia and I had not, so we had a rougher time, each in our own way.
My turn came. I lost it.
Scooby was my first dog. He'll always be my first dog.
We took turns releasing Scooby's ashes into the wild. We cried and remembered and sat and hugged. And through it all, I think, we celebrated. Our final tribute was sad, emotional, cathartic, inspiring for all of us and certainly an experience we'll never forget.
As a bit of therapy to recover from our loss, we've taken to "borrowing" dogs for a few days at a time. We take every opportunity to pet dogs we see on the street and let them lick our faces. On Memorial Day weekend, before our hike final hike with Scooby, our friend Tara let us take care of her Golden retriever Sally.
It was soothing to be greeted by an emphatic tail-wagging, or licked in the face, or be able to pet soft fur. We played ball and tug of war. Sophia even taught Sally how to give a high five. We took her for walks around the neighborhood and picked up poop. It's a thrill I never thought I'd miss.
We're dogless now and will stay that way for a while; it's still too soon. But at least our boy is out where he belongs. We're still a bit sad, but I'm sure he's happy.
Greyrock was one of his favorites. He would take off after rabbits and whatever else he smelled in the bushes and trees. He'd lap up water in the various streams and tributaries. He always came back when I called him. He was the perfect hiking buddy.
The day began warm and pleasant with a bit of cloud cover. I had been feeling a bit off from the time I woke up. When we parked at the trailhead, I finally realized that Scooby Doo had been weighing on my mind all morning, and I hadn't even known it.
I remained reserved as we hiked up about a mile to a spot with a bench, overlooking the pine-covered valley and green meadows, lush from recent rains. The bench was located near the confluence of Greyrock's Meadows and Summit trails, overlooking an open grassy area that would be perfect for our goal. We planned on distributing Scooby's remains to nourish the existing vegetation, and let the circle of life work its magic.
We took turns saying our final goodbyes. Tanya was sanguine about the whole experience; she'd been through something like this before. Ella, Sophia and I had not, so we had a rougher time, each in our own way.
My turn came. I lost it.
Scooby was my first dog. He'll always be my first dog.
We took turns releasing Scooby's ashes into the wild. We cried and remembered and sat and hugged. And through it all, I think, we celebrated. Our final tribute was sad, emotional, cathartic, inspiring for all of us and certainly an experience we'll never forget.
 |
| Sophia and Tanya at Greyrock |
As a bit of therapy to recover from our loss, we've taken to "borrowing" dogs for a few days at a time. We take every opportunity to pet dogs we see on the street and let them lick our faces. On Memorial Day weekend, before our hike final hike with Scooby, our friend Tara let us take care of her Golden retriever Sally.
 |
| Sophia and Ella loving Sally |
We're dogless now and will stay that way for a while; it's still too soon. But at least our boy is out where he belongs. We're still a bit sad, but I'm sure he's happy.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
The Uniqueness of Grandparents
Some grandparents live across the street, provide regular daycare, and in some cases, act as secondary parents. Others live a long plane ride or car ride away, and only see their precious grandkids a few times a year. Then there are the few who rarely or never connect with their grandkids, for whatever reason.
Thankfully, Ella and Sophia have four living grandparents, all of whom are unique, both as individuals and in the framework of their relationships with their grandchildren. Parenting philosophies are bound to differ (let's just say we all have our quirks) and maybe even clash once in a while, but one thing remains clear: our kids love each one of them in a special way.
I've always known my dad to be loving, genuine, and wholly devoted to his family. But this past week, I figured out where he fits on the "special" spectrum.
He loves to listen to music and make sounds that resemble the words and notes being played in the background. He also enjoys moving around in a quasi-rhythmic fashion, flailing his limbs in various unrelated syncopating meters. But as far as singing and dancing go...let's just say he's a great pharmacist.
And to my kids, he's downright hysterical.
On his and my mother's first night here last week, we introduced my dad to the Wii. He has a penchant for silliness, and an active video game was a perfect opportunity for unexpected laughs.
He liked the Sports game, especially baseball, and delivered his best Satchel Paige windup impersonation on every pitch. Thankfully, he didn't tear his rotator cuff or pull a hammy. To everyone's surprise, except maybe his own, he asked to play Just Dance.
Tanya, my mom and I were cleaning up after dinner when Ella raced up the stairs from the basement. "Zaidy won!" she yelled.
We all stood there mouths agape, waiting for her to follow up her proclamation with a qualifier. "Won what?" I asked.
"Zaidy won at Just Dance! He beat Sophia at 'You don't know you're beautiful!'"
(Warning: this video may be painful to watch. Parental—and grandparental—guidance suggested. And, for the record, I think my dad is a great sport for letting me post it.)
The next morning at breakfast, I said, "Dad, I didn't know you could do that."
"There are a lot of things you don't know about the Old Guy," he replied.
Yikes. I wasn't sure how deep I wanted to dig into that cave.
"Zaidy is weird. But he's fun," the kids told me later, and reiterated many times during the week.
Spending time with the grandparents is fun and important and interesting and tiring and, like everything else, has its limitations. Clearly none of us is perfect. The sooner we all come to understand that, the better. Because the relationship between grandparent and child will always stand on its own, independent of any emotions between adults.
My dad and I share some traits (we are, after all, father and son) but we're very different in many ways. We sometimes argue, and I'm pretty sure neither of us is on the cusp of adopting the other's point of view. Nevertheless, when my kids tell my dad he's weird, I smile inside. They often tell me the same thing.
For Ella and Sophia, time with their grandparents is infrequent. Consequently, when it happens, it's memorable. As for now, they don't know how beautiful this relationship really is. But someday they will.
 |
| Arthur and Donna (my parents), and Ella and Sophia on a hike |
I've always known my dad to be loving, genuine, and wholly devoted to his family. But this past week, I figured out where he fits on the "special" spectrum.
He loves to listen to music and make sounds that resemble the words and notes being played in the background. He also enjoys moving around in a quasi-rhythmic fashion, flailing his limbs in various unrelated syncopating meters. But as far as singing and dancing go...let's just say he's a great pharmacist.
And to my kids, he's downright hysterical.
On his and my mother's first night here last week, we introduced my dad to the Wii. He has a penchant for silliness, and an active video game was a perfect opportunity for unexpected laughs.
He liked the Sports game, especially baseball, and delivered his best Satchel Paige windup impersonation on every pitch. Thankfully, he didn't tear his rotator cuff or pull a hammy. To everyone's surprise, except maybe his own, he asked to play Just Dance.
Tanya, my mom and I were cleaning up after dinner when Ella raced up the stairs from the basement. "Zaidy won!" she yelled.
We all stood there mouths agape, waiting for her to follow up her proclamation with a qualifier. "Won what?" I asked.
"Zaidy won at Just Dance! He beat Sophia at 'You don't know you're beautiful!'"
(Warning: this video may be painful to watch. Parental—and grandparental—guidance suggested. And, for the record, I think my dad is a great sport for letting me post it.)
The next morning at breakfast, I said, "Dad, I didn't know you could do that."
"There are a lot of things you don't know about the Old Guy," he replied.
Yikes. I wasn't sure how deep I wanted to dig into that cave.
"Zaidy is weird. But he's fun," the kids told me later, and reiterated many times during the week.
Spending time with the grandparents is fun and important and interesting and tiring and, like everything else, has its limitations. Clearly none of us is perfect. The sooner we all come to understand that, the better. Because the relationship between grandparent and child will always stand on its own, independent of any emotions between adults.
 |
| My father Arthur, and Tanya |
For Ella and Sophia, time with their grandparents is infrequent. Consequently, when it happens, it's memorable. As for now, they don't know how beautiful this relationship really is. But someday they will.
 |
| Ella, Zaidy and Sophia |
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Wee Wisdom: I Am
As part of the last-week-of-school festivities, my daughter Ella and her fourth-grade classmates held an Authors Tea to showcase their writing from the school year. Each student compiled an autobiographical information card and a book containing poems, stories, letters, biographies and various other assignments, all designed to help them learn the art of the written word. Along with many other parents, I was lucky enough to attend.
While I was obviously proud of Ella’s work, I was overcome by the creations of the class as a whole. One specific exercise affected me more than the others: a poem called “I Am.”
In “I Am,” the students had to fill in the blanks after lines like, “I wonder,” “I worry” and “I dream,” and they were given loose guidelines to get started. Some made me laugh. At others, I fought back tears.
With Ella’s permission, here are a few that reinforced my already firm feelings that kids are smarter and more intuitive than we can ever know:
“I hear … my family laughing.”
“I cry … when animals die.”
“I am … smart and kind.” This one was repeated all four instances “I am” came up.
“I understand … you don’t live forever.”
“I dream … I have a dog.”
I learned some things from reading Ella’s entries. First, it’s obvious Ella still pines for our dog Scooby Doo, who passed away in March. It also buoyed my spirit to know that of all the things Ella hears in our house, laughter is the one she thought fit to write down. And she clearly is aware of her most salient attributes.
Having perused most of the presentations, I know Ella wasn’t alone in her assertions of self-confidence. For that, I’m immeasurably grateful. Self-esteem is, after all, crucial to healthy development. And while the writing itself wasn’t always flawless, the Authors Tea’s enduring image for me has more to do with hope than sentence structure.
Elaine Rankin’s fourth-grade authors at Kruse Elementary demonstrated that a group of 10-year-olds should never be taken for granted. As with every class in every grade in every school, these kids spanned a wide spectrum of socioeconomic backgrounds, academic achievement levels and behavioral tendencies. Still, each one bared his or her young soul for all to see and took pride in what mattered to them. When they were encouraged to express their creativity, they obliged. That kind of symbiosis may be all we can really hope for when raising our children.
The ability to compose a sentence will inevitably serve our youths well in the future. But the true benefits of creativity stretch beyond words. People need only opportunities to be heard, supported and challenged in order to discover their own greatness. This goes double for children, and it starts at a young age.
“I tried to let them make it as authentic as possible,” Rankin told me afterward. “It was hard.” No doubt. Ten-year-olds can be uncomfortably honest. And that’s precisely the point of pursuing creativity.
I hope more schools will do this.
I am so very fortunate.
While I was obviously proud of Ella’s work, I was overcome by the creations of the class as a whole. One specific exercise affected me more than the others: a poem called “I Am.”
In “I Am,” the students had to fill in the blanks after lines like, “I wonder,” “I worry” and “I dream,” and they were given loose guidelines to get started. Some made me laugh. At others, I fought back tears.
With Ella’s permission, here are a few that reinforced my already firm feelings that kids are smarter and more intuitive than we can ever know:
“I hear … my family laughing.”
“I cry … when animals die.”
“I am … smart and kind.” This one was repeated all four instances “I am” came up.
“I understand … you don’t live forever.”
“I dream … I have a dog.”
I learned some things from reading Ella’s entries. First, it’s obvious Ella still pines for our dog Scooby Doo, who passed away in March. It also buoyed my spirit to know that of all the things Ella hears in our house, laughter is the one she thought fit to write down. And she clearly is aware of her most salient attributes.
Having perused most of the presentations, I know Ella wasn’t alone in her assertions of self-confidence. For that, I’m immeasurably grateful. Self-esteem is, after all, crucial to healthy development. And while the writing itself wasn’t always flawless, the Authors Tea’s enduring image for me has more to do with hope than sentence structure.
Elaine Rankin’s fourth-grade authors at Kruse Elementary demonstrated that a group of 10-year-olds should never be taken for granted. As with every class in every grade in every school, these kids spanned a wide spectrum of socioeconomic backgrounds, academic achievement levels and behavioral tendencies. Still, each one bared his or her young soul for all to see and took pride in what mattered to them. When they were encouraged to express their creativity, they obliged. That kind of symbiosis may be all we can really hope for when raising our children.
The ability to compose a sentence will inevitably serve our youths well in the future. But the true benefits of creativity stretch beyond words. People need only opportunities to be heard, supported and challenged in order to discover their own greatness. This goes double for children, and it starts at a young age.
“I tried to let them make it as authentic as possible,” Rankin told me afterward. “It was hard.” No doubt. Ten-year-olds can be uncomfortably honest. And that’s precisely the point of pursuing creativity.
I hope more schools will do this.
I am so very fortunate.
 |
| Ella's Authors Tea Book |
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Summer Vacation...in the ER
Friday, May 31st, was the last day of school for Ella and Sophia. Party time!
Uh, until about 6:00 pm, anyway.
In her yearly ritual, Tanya's mom Gloria (aka GG) picked up Ella and Sophia from school at noon and brought them to her house for what normally amounts to a fun afternoon and a sleepover.
For lunch they ate some of their favorites: hot dogs, grapes, chips, juice boxes, and some extra grandmother-sponsored treats thrown in as well. They played outside for a few hours and had steak for dinner. Then things went south. Literally.
While chasing a ball, Sophia fell and cut her head on some rocks. She didn't lose consciousness but suffered a pretty deep cut on the right side of her forehead. Gloria, a retired pediatric nurse and experienced mother and grandmother, called us right away. "Sophia's going to need stitches," she told Tanya calmly.
"Are you taking her to urgent care?" Tanya replied from her perch atop a barstool where we had been enjoying a date night.
"She's okay right now. But I think you better come down here as soon as you can."
We know our 7-year-old, and she loves her GG, but she needed her Mom and Dad. We bolted down to Gloria's house, about 20 minutes away.
In spite of her bloody head and various other minor cuts, it appeared that Sophia was calm. Almost too calm. We assumed she had already dispensed with most of the heavy crying that would logically accompany such a ghastly injury. Until she found out she'd need stitches.
At the hospital, the CT scan revealed that Sophia's brain and head were okay, in spite of the continued pain. The imaging test itself wasn't painful, and could almost have been considered fun—lying in a tube, head supported, under a pile of warm blankets and moving slowly up and down under blinking lights and beeps—but it didn't make up for the fear of someone threading a needle through her head before the night was over. Even if you're not seven, it's something to dread.
"I'm scared of the stitches," Sophia expressed many times through a new batch of tears. "I'm scared. It's going to hurt! I'm really scared!"
We assured her this was the only option and tried to help her through this awful experience the best we could. But even after tylenol with codeine, topical anesthetic and a couple of shots of local (imagine, if you will, someone shoving a needle into your head and telling you it will make you feel better), Sophia was still in agony. It was hard to watch.
Tanya and I empathized with our poor girl, as did the kindly Dr. Olsen and his assistant while they did their best to get Sophia stitched up and out of there. We cuddled her and tried to get her to breathe and reassured her, but quite honestly, it's hard to tell if it helped. Getting stitches simply isn't fun.
Nevertheless, I was amazed at Sophia's expressions of honesty and bravery throughout the process. Fear. Anxiety. Hatred. Lots of fear. She let it out for everyone to see, pouring through every fiber of her being. How many of us can truly say we are honest like that, ever?
"How many stitches are in there, like 40?" she yelled. She breathed as fast as if she had finished running a 100-meter sprint.
While Tanya hugged Sophia's lower half (and averted her gaze from the doctor's handiwork), I let Sophia squeeze my hands and hovered directly over her. "Fee, look at my eyes and breathe with me," I said.
"How is looking at you going to help? How many more stitches are there? You said it was almost over! I hate this place! I want to get out of here!"
"Me too," I said.
While he was stitching her up, Dr. Olsen said, "That's one smart kid you've got there. Most kids just scream and cry."
His assistant said, "I don't think I've ever heard kids her age talk like that during a procedure."
When we got in the car to go home, Tanya stroked Sophia's tired head and said, "I know it's not fun to get hurt. But if you have to go anywhere to get better, this hospital is a good place."
"Yeah," Sophia agreed, "It's a good place to come."
Then she fell asleep within a minute. After sleeping with Tanya in our bed that night, she had a bath and even helped Tanya out with the previously scheduled yard sale. We went on a hike on Monday. The tylenol's working fine and the stitches are healing nicely. But most of all, everyone is just happy to be home and finally enjoying summer vacation.
Uh, until about 6:00 pm, anyway.
In her yearly ritual, Tanya's mom Gloria (aka GG) picked up Ella and Sophia from school at noon and brought them to her house for what normally amounts to a fun afternoon and a sleepover.
For lunch they ate some of their favorites: hot dogs, grapes, chips, juice boxes, and some extra grandmother-sponsored treats thrown in as well. They played outside for a few hours and had steak for dinner. Then things went south. Literally.
While chasing a ball, Sophia fell and cut her head on some rocks. She didn't lose consciousness but suffered a pretty deep cut on the right side of her forehead. Gloria, a retired pediatric nurse and experienced mother and grandmother, called us right away. "Sophia's going to need stitches," she told Tanya calmly.
"Are you taking her to urgent care?" Tanya replied from her perch atop a barstool where we had been enjoying a date night.
"She's okay right now. But I think you better come down here as soon as you can."
We know our 7-year-old, and she loves her GG, but she needed her Mom and Dad. We bolted down to Gloria's house, about 20 minutes away.
In spite of her bloody head and various other minor cuts, it appeared that Sophia was calm. Almost too calm. We assumed she had already dispensed with most of the heavy crying that would logically accompany such a ghastly injury. Until she found out she'd need stitches.
At the hospital, the CT scan revealed that Sophia's brain and head were okay, in spite of the continued pain. The imaging test itself wasn't painful, and could almost have been considered fun—lying in a tube, head supported, under a pile of warm blankets and moving slowly up and down under blinking lights and beeps—but it didn't make up for the fear of someone threading a needle through her head before the night was over. Even if you're not seven, it's something to dread.
"I'm scared of the stitches," Sophia expressed many times through a new batch of tears. "I'm scared. It's going to hurt! I'm really scared!"
We assured her this was the only option and tried to help her through this awful experience the best we could. But even after tylenol with codeine, topical anesthetic and a couple of shots of local (imagine, if you will, someone shoving a needle into your head and telling you it will make you feel better), Sophia was still in agony. It was hard to watch.
Tanya and I empathized with our poor girl, as did the kindly Dr. Olsen and his assistant while they did their best to get Sophia stitched up and out of there. We cuddled her and tried to get her to breathe and reassured her, but quite honestly, it's hard to tell if it helped. Getting stitches simply isn't fun.
Nevertheless, I was amazed at Sophia's expressions of honesty and bravery throughout the process. Fear. Anxiety. Hatred. Lots of fear. She let it out for everyone to see, pouring through every fiber of her being. How many of us can truly say we are honest like that, ever?
"How many stitches are in there, like 40?" she yelled. She breathed as fast as if she had finished running a 100-meter sprint.
While Tanya hugged Sophia's lower half (and averted her gaze from the doctor's handiwork), I let Sophia squeeze my hands and hovered directly over her. "Fee, look at my eyes and breathe with me," I said.
"How is looking at you going to help? How many more stitches are there? You said it was almost over! I hate this place! I want to get out of here!"
"Me too," I said.
While he was stitching her up, Dr. Olsen said, "That's one smart kid you've got there. Most kids just scream and cry."
His assistant said, "I don't think I've ever heard kids her age talk like that during a procedure."
When we got in the car to go home, Tanya stroked Sophia's tired head and said, "I know it's not fun to get hurt. But if you have to go anywhere to get better, this hospital is a good place."
"Yeah," Sophia agreed, "It's a good place to come."
Then she fell asleep within a minute. After sleeping with Tanya in our bed that night, she had a bath and even helped Tanya out with the previously scheduled yard sale. We went on a hike on Monday. The tylenol's working fine and the stitches are healing nicely. But most of all, everyone is just happy to be home and finally enjoying summer vacation.
 |
| Sophia...almost smiling. |
 |
| Thanks for hair... |
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Wee Wisdom: Parent vs Teacher
I informed Ella and Sophia that I signed them up for summer swimming lessons.
Ella said, “You’re a good swimmer, Dad. Why don’t you teach us?”
“Because knowing how to swim and teaching swimming are different,” I said. “And you only listen to real teachers.”
My 10-year-old thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, that’s true. I don’t listen to you very much.”
I deserved that.
Kids clamor for us to share our infinite wisdom. But adults understand that this is far from a simple proposition. It’s one thing for me to be mindful of our strengths and shortcomings, and quite another to convince our kids of the same. Ella’s suggestion that I do double duty made me wonder: Is it possible for parents to also “teach” their own children?
Tanya and I, like most parents, spend most of our time providing some kind of education our little animals, either consciously or subconsciously. But I have no illusions: I am by no means a teacher.
I volunteered in Sophia’s first-grade class this year, helping to instruct 20 adorable but attention-deprived 6- and 7-year-olds in basic arithmetic and geometry. My first-grade math skills are top notch, so it should have been a piece of cake, right?
Wrong. I gave it my all every week, but my experience taught me two valuable lessons. First, elementary school teachers are saints. Second, it’s important to know one’s limitations.
Ella and Sophia respect my authority as a parent, which is in a constant state of development as the years go by. Yet any time I’ve tried to teach them some kind of specialized skill, they only listen about half the time, and we all end up frustrated. I’ve tried being hands-on, backing off and everything in between, but the lesson invariably loses traction within a few minutes.
Maybe it’s because they see me as Dad, not Coach Kensley or Mr. Kensley. Or perhaps Ella and Sophia sense my tension when I step outside of my usual job description. It might just be that I’m good at bossing them around in parent-type situations, not in the context of instructing specifics.
Whatever the reason, when it comes to learning how to swing a golf club or conjugate a French verb, my kids are savvy enough to only listen to people who know what they’re talking about.
There is a fine art to quality instruction, especially when dealing with young minds that come from a wide range of social and cultural situations. Teaching well requires a combination of knowledge, patience, personality and an understanding of behavioral psychology. I now know that trying to maintain six hours worth of engagement from a group that is, by its very nature, not inclined to sit still is nearly impossible for most of us. There’s a reason it takes a college education to be a teacher.
That’s fine with me. Even when I don’t feel comfortable being the teacher, I can trust that my daughters are willing and capable of listening to the experts.
Ella said, “You’re a good swimmer, Dad. Why don’t you teach us?”
“Because knowing how to swim and teaching swimming are different,” I said. “And you only listen to real teachers.”
My 10-year-old thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, that’s true. I don’t listen to you very much.”
I deserved that.
Kids clamor for us to share our infinite wisdom. But adults understand that this is far from a simple proposition. It’s one thing for me to be mindful of our strengths and shortcomings, and quite another to convince our kids of the same. Ella’s suggestion that I do double duty made me wonder: Is it possible for parents to also “teach” their own children?
Tanya and I, like most parents, spend most of our time providing some kind of education our little animals, either consciously or subconsciously. But I have no illusions: I am by no means a teacher.
I volunteered in Sophia’s first-grade class this year, helping to instruct 20 adorable but attention-deprived 6- and 7-year-olds in basic arithmetic and geometry. My first-grade math skills are top notch, so it should have been a piece of cake, right?
Wrong. I gave it my all every week, but my experience taught me two valuable lessons. First, elementary school teachers are saints. Second, it’s important to know one’s limitations.
Ella and Sophia respect my authority as a parent, which is in a constant state of development as the years go by. Yet any time I’ve tried to teach them some kind of specialized skill, they only listen about half the time, and we all end up frustrated. I’ve tried being hands-on, backing off and everything in between, but the lesson invariably loses traction within a few minutes.
Maybe it’s because they see me as Dad, not Coach Kensley or Mr. Kensley. Or perhaps Ella and Sophia sense my tension when I step outside of my usual job description. It might just be that I’m good at bossing them around in parent-type situations, not in the context of instructing specifics.
Whatever the reason, when it comes to learning how to swing a golf club or conjugate a French verb, my kids are savvy enough to only listen to people who know what they’re talking about.
There is a fine art to quality instruction, especially when dealing with young minds that come from a wide range of social and cultural situations. Teaching well requires a combination of knowledge, patience, personality and an understanding of behavioral psychology. I now know that trying to maintain six hours worth of engagement from a group that is, by its very nature, not inclined to sit still is nearly impossible for most of us. There’s a reason it takes a college education to be a teacher.
That’s fine with me. Even when I don’t feel comfortable being the teacher, I can trust that my daughters are willing and capable of listening to the experts.
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