TMI
Maggie has one of those parenting moments:
It's times like this the burden of this kind of love feels too heavy. Like the weight of it will crush me before I learn to carry from the core.
Those many of you (un)fortunate enough to see me shirtless may have noticed that my left nipple points a bit unnaturally downward, like a pouting lip. It's not sad, it just does that because of my own experience akin to Eva & Maggie's.
I was a little older than Eva, so my Dad was letting me run around a little bit on my own at some neighborhood festival, and I was cutting through some bushes to meet up with him again when I met some BIG kids (maybe 8 or 9 years old; I was probably 5 or 6). There wasn't much room on this path through the bushes so they pushed me out of the way. As I tumbled, a branch poked a hole in my shirt and underneath it, a smallish cut under the Nipple-Soon-To-Be-Named-Droopy. I did what any self-respecting youngster would do; I started crying and looking for Dad.
We found each other, he comforted me, then left me under the supervision of friends while he searched for the marauding gang of youths.
I'm a dad now myself, and my son is a little younger than I was then, so I can imagine the emotions that must have been coursing through my Dad's - and Maggie's - worlds at those times. I'm gonna guess that a lot of people have wound up dead or crippled as the result of similar instances.
Then too, I remember my Mom, visiting us when the boy had been walking for a few months, but not yet talking. Some object frustrated him and in response, he whacked at it. "Tch," mom said, "He must be learning to hit like that somewhere!" In my mind, of course, I was certain she was pointing the finger of parental failure at me. Still sort of am, truth to tell you.
Now, a little less than four decades after Droopy entered my life, and watching the boy interact with his younger sister, I realize that it's really unlikely that there is or was dangerous malice in the actions of those boys in the bushes or Eva's agressors or my boy's rudely grabbing his sister's toys - they just really don't know any better. Does it indicate truly evil spawn or atrocious parenting?
I don't know. I started to make an unequivocal negative answer but then I got caught up in a kind of solipsistic cul-de-sac of arguments pro and con. I think I'll have to ask Dr. John, my philosophy professor pal. But until then, you decide.
The upshot for me, though, is that I think immediately responding in protect and retaliate mode - as my dad and Maggie did and as I'm sure I will - is justified and understandable. Worrying about it afterwards isn't really necessary, unless there's literally blood on your hands.
Maggie has one of those parenting moments:
It's times like this the burden of this kind of love feels too heavy. Like the weight of it will crush me before I learn to carry from the core.
Those many of you (un)fortunate enough to see me shirtless may have noticed that my left nipple points a bit unnaturally downward, like a pouting lip. It's not sad, it just does that because of my own experience akin to Eva & Maggie's.
I was a little older than Eva, so my Dad was letting me run around a little bit on my own at some neighborhood festival, and I was cutting through some bushes to meet up with him again when I met some BIG kids (maybe 8 or 9 years old; I was probably 5 or 6). There wasn't much room on this path through the bushes so they pushed me out of the way. As I tumbled, a branch poked a hole in my shirt and underneath it, a smallish cut under the Nipple-Soon-To-Be-Named-Droopy. I did what any self-respecting youngster would do; I started crying and looking for Dad.
We found each other, he comforted me, then left me under the supervision of friends while he searched for the marauding gang of youths.
I'm a dad now myself, and my son is a little younger than I was then, so I can imagine the emotions that must have been coursing through my Dad's - and Maggie's - worlds at those times. I'm gonna guess that a lot of people have wound up dead or crippled as the result of similar instances.
Then too, I remember my Mom, visiting us when the boy had been walking for a few months, but not yet talking. Some object frustrated him and in response, he whacked at it. "Tch," mom said, "He must be learning to hit like that somewhere!" In my mind, of course, I was certain she was pointing the finger of parental failure at me. Still sort of am, truth to tell you.
Now, a little less than four decades after Droopy entered my life, and watching the boy interact with his younger sister, I realize that it's really unlikely that there is or was dangerous malice in the actions of those boys in the bushes or Eva's agressors or my boy's rudely grabbing his sister's toys - they just really don't know any better. Does it indicate truly evil spawn or atrocious parenting?
I don't know. I started to make an unequivocal negative answer but then I got caught up in a kind of solipsistic cul-de-sac of arguments pro and con. I think I'll have to ask Dr. John, my philosophy professor pal. But until then, you decide.
The upshot for me, though, is that I think immediately responding in protect and retaliate mode - as my dad and Maggie did and as I'm sure I will - is justified and understandable. Worrying about it afterwards isn't really necessary, unless there's literally blood on your hands.
Protect? Absolutely!
Retaliate? Well, I know what that adrenaline rush feels like, and the urge for vengeance, but what does retaliation teach the offenders (or to put it another way, what are they capable of learning from that retaliation)? That the biggest person can do whatever they want, and those who are smaller are at their mercy? Seems almost like reinforcement. Understandable, as you say, but justified? I'm not so sure on that one.
A couple houses over the grandkids often come over on the weekends - three brothers, maybe 4, 6, and 8. I imagine they don't get a lot of active parenting. Real aggressive. We've seen some pretty callous behavior when they didn't know anyone was watching. Sebbe isn't allowed to play with them unless I'm there. And when I am, I make it a point to be part of the fun, and a controlling influence (not to mention I'm always there to see what's going on).
And fun it is. I'm often at the bottom of a pile of boys, but I let them know where the limits are (no hitting or kicking, etc.), and rein them in immediately when they cross the lines - then the fun continues. And I've found that they're hungry to learn. They were full of questions when I pointed out the neighborhood's white squirrel, and told them what albinism was.
I think you really hit it on the head (so to speak) about that lack of malice. In my experience, kids want to learn, and in the absence of immediate supervision, they will often conduct experiments on their own, some of the most compelling and exciting of which involve the exercise of power. Especially for boys - testosterone really does make a difference. I think the whole McDonald's playground concept was invented by someone who didn't understand kids very deeply.
I truly wish that all parents had the understanding and the time and the desire and the energy and the patience to do their kids' potential justice. I often feel like Misha and I fall short here and there - though I think that feeling makes us strive to be better parents. Not that that will necessarily keep Sebbe out of therapy down the road.
But the thing is, when he grows up, he'll have to deal with the kind of people that the neighbor kids are going to grow up to be. So if I really have his best long-term interests at heart, I need to do my reasonable best by those other kids, too.
Anyway, the real point of this is that this is why I never respond to your e-mails. It's not that I'm disgruntled or anything, it's just that I'm not that good at writing those short, keeping-in-touch messages. And the spare hour is a precious, precious commodity around here - though it should get better when the dust has settled after the solstice party.
that's hot.
...and cold (buddhistic deferral)
talkin' 'bout yr nips
It reminds me of the rules of trashball (invented by Neil, or maybe Darin--who can tell) The ball has to go into the bucket. Other than that there are no rules. Except that bigger kids cannot hurt smaller kids and adults are fair game.
Last weekend I realized that I'm too old for trashball. Or maybe the kids are...
I think it might be both. I think some kids are prone to aggression, and then, in the proper environment, the switch is flipped on.
I saw the looks on those boys' faces. I saw how swiftly and surely they acted. Like I said, they were not unfamiliar with violence. Not even a little bit.
The comments on that post were all over the place, and somehow I found myself agreeing with all of them. Which is impossible, logically. But I did anyway.
All I know is the whole thing sucked. And I know it won't be the last time we feel this. And that's why it's all so fucking bittersweet, to love this fiercely.
Sorry about your nipple, dude. But who knows, maybe it made you a better dad.
;)