Talking to Your Child About Courage

Man, with a title like that you'd hope I have some answers.  I don't, sorry.

Over at The Heat Lightning, newly-anointed senior editor John Spain and I have been talking about the Boys Scouts of America.  If you don't feel like clicking the link, here's the boiled-down version:

1) As a teen, Spain got a lecture from a scout master for saying goddamn and quit because the other boy scouts were a bunch of pot heads and he felt the scout master's lecture was ill-founded and hypocritical.  On THL, he questions the relevance of an organization with such an outdated moral code.

2) Curtis has a seven-year-old son named Dylan who joined the Cub Scouts this year.  Curtis claims the Boys Scouts are an excuse to start conversations which otherwise barely come up - things like character, loyalty, trustworthiness, etc. - and that the national tenets don't filter down to the local packs.


Over breakfast, we took a shot at Cub Scout Wolf Achievement 12, "Complete the Character Connection for Courage."  Discuss what courage is with your family?  No problem.  Give some examples of when it is hard to do the right thing?  You've got it; and thanks for the examples.   Discuss times it might take courage to be honest and kind?  I think you just re-phrased the last one, but sure.  


Tell about a time in your life when you needed to be brave or courageous to do the right thing.

And here's where I run into the same brick wall I always run into with Dylan; how do you talk to a seven-year-old?  I was a born-again Christian for a couple of years.  A few years after I quit the church, one of my best friends started the born-again thing.  I could've been supportive, as we usually are with our friends, by telling her how happy I was that she'd found something she'd enjoyed, that she was looking for answers, etc.  Or I could do what I did, which was question everything.  I brought up inconsistencies between what they taught and what the bible says.  I told her she'd bring my concerns to her fellow parishioners and her pastor and they would tell her exactly how to feel about it, rather than letting her think for herself.  I planted the seeds which led to her eventually leaving the church.  She's an out, proud lesbian now.  The world won that round; we need more lesbians and less born-agains.  In fact, make that my campaign slogan.

Having that conversation was scary.  My stomach was in my chest most of the time, but I wanted to tell her exactly how I felt. Unfortunately, our relationship was strained after that night.  We remained friends, but were never as close as we'd once been.


Without thinking too hard, I can come up with at least three examples like that from my past.  Sometimes truth kills.  And you can argue that if someone can't take the truth then he / she was never your friend, but bullshit like that doesn't salve the pain of losing a friend, of seeing that guarded look in someone's eye, like you're a haunted house filled with truth ghosts.

I'm weaker than I used to be.  There have been a few times in recent years when I've balked at telling how I really feel, in service of not making waves, or ruining a mood, or hurting feelings.  I've been afraid to risk confrontation so I've kept schtum.  Does this make me a better friend, or worse?

I don't know myself.  And explaining all this to a seven-year-old is impossible.  I love you and I want you to be strong, but sometimes being strong means being lonely. . . I don't want you to encourage hate and prejudice by being silent, but speaking out against it will likely open you up to ridicule. . .

Wait, I've got it.


Dylan, pink is your favorite color.  It shouldn't just be your favorite color at home.  You should have the courage to tell your classmates that pink is your favorite color.  You should never be afraid to be yourself.  You'll feel happier with honesty than trying to make others happy by choosing things you don't really love.  And if someone makes fun of you, then they weren't your friend anyway.

What do you mean bullshit like that doesn't help?

It's Funny Because It's True

As read by Samuel L. Motherfucking Jackson

You get frustrated with children because you make the mistake of thinking they’re miniature adults.  

Now that it’s summer, Dylan won’t sleep.  It’s suddenly months ago and he doesn’t want to sleep alone.  Putting him down is a chore, an horrific, horrible chore.  He cries fake tears but the confusion is real.  It’s easy to meet his churlishness with your own, to be another child, to get just as angry as he is.  

You get frustrated because you make the mistake of thinking he’s a miniature adult, choosing to behave a certain way instead of just lashing out, reacting to his fear, acting out because he's exhausted.  But you have a choice.  You can be the adult.

He reaches for you and you pick him up, rock him gently as you carry him around his room.  You tell him you’re right next door.  You tell him you love him very much.  You tell him you’ll be there in minute if he gets scared in the middle of the night.

He drops off like a feather falling from a nest.  You are father of the year.

Then there are those nights.  Those terrible, terrible nights when nothing works.  Usually because you're too exhausted yourself to reach inside, find your gushy center, and rock him to sleep on it.    

It was after one such night that I read a PDF of Go the Fuck to Sleep and laughed until I cried.  The book was originally slated for a November release, but the PDF leaked and pre-sales made it the #1 book on Amazon.  Akashic, one of the coolest little publishers on the planet, got them into stores as soon as they could.  May GtFtS sales keep Akashic publishing Punk Planet and Kaylie Jones for years to come.  

Of course the book has detractors who read too much into it, most famously Karen Spears Zacharias, and less famously but more accurately Amy Sohn.  

Sometimes a book is just a book.  But when it can turn your frustration - which has nowhere healthy to go because the last thing you want is for your child to see it - into tears of laughter, it's also a gift.

A Breather

A few things before I move on from the last week of posts.

1 - Blogger has been spotty since Tuesday.  I had no intention of leaving that misery up for an extra week, unbuffered by book reviews, navel gazing, and cooking tips, but I couldn't log on.  Watcha gonna do?

2 - I went out on a weekday this week and it didn't even involve my book club.  I stayed up past eleven, because I'm a rock star.

3 - Becky and I are impressively happy, I promise.  I offer this link to our wedding website as proof, 90% of which was created post-Fester.

Mothers Day, 2011

I see that "Long Time No Post" has creeped up to #2 on my all-time most-read list.  That's almost enough to make me remove the "Popular Posts" feature from my blog, the fact that some meh about why I haven't posted in a while is the second-most read item I've ever written.  It doesn't even have a picture.  Still, I've watched its steady climb from #6 to #2.  Again, watcha gonna do?

On the writing front, our fledgling Writers Group missed a month, but we've set a date in stone.  Going forward, this should be a great opportunity to talk shop.  I've promised myself I'll continue my homework by submitting stories to two publications this week.

On the reading front, TC Boyle's The Inner Circle, Tina Fey's Bossypants, Glen Duncan's The Last Werewolf, and Frederick Exley's A Fan's Notes (still) all have been or currently are treating me very well.  I've got an Advanced Readers Copy of Diana Abu-Jaber's Birds of Paradise that I'm very excited about. I think I'll also start writing about my book club here.  Page Against the Machine is awesome, and it's another excuse to talk about books.

On the biking front, my tires are flat.  Or rather, the tires on the bike I borrowed from Mitchell are flat, a situation I hope to remedy with my next paycheck.

On the home front...

The truth can always be questioned.   Religious beliefs, moral convictions, love, it's all worth examining.  It's important to examine these things because we live our lives by them.  If they can't stand the scrutiny, if defensiveness and hostility meet these questions, than the answers are damn shaky.

I taught a six-year-old to tie his own shoes on Friday.  The first knots he's ever tied, one for each foot.  After a few frustrating evenings of trying to teach him how to tie his bathrobe, I was surprised it finally happened for him.  The satisfaction, love, and fear (yes, fear, because he's listening, and what if he inherits my bad along with my good?) flooding me made it almost impossible to function, but I managed to get our lunches together and get us out the door.

In the days after Uncle Fester, Becky and I have found our love is even stronger.  We were being ourselves before, but now we're relaxing into our relationship, into each-other.  There's a playfulness that can only come from confidence.  More than trust, which is a necessity in a building a relationship, confidence only comes from sharing your days.  The more you share, the stronger it becomes.  The trick is not letting that confidence become cockiness.

We faced dark days and came out better for them.  I didn't think it was possible to love Becky more than I already did, but there you go.  

As always, thanks for reading.

Three Flu Over the Cuckoo's Nest

As I child, I never quite woke until the vomit left my throat.  Like getting up to pee in the middle of the night, a trick a child needs to learn if he wants to sleep in a dry bed, nausea pulled me from fitful dreams and sweaty tossing to stand bleary-eyed in front of the toilet, but it didn’t cleared away the gluey spiderweb threads of sleep.

Throat burning, eyes watering, coughing, I wondered what I could have done to deserve such a fate.  When I opened the bathroom door, both my parents stood there.  Both of them, every time.  Even if this first bout was the beginning of a long night of sickness, seeing them both blinking against the bathroom light, faces contorted in lines of concern, it blew my loneliness away.  

Somehow it’s become a fond memory.  I don’t remember the worst part of those nights; I remember mom and dad, standing in the hallway.

Now I know what it’s like to wear the expression I saw on their faces. 

Watching a child vomit is the worst feeling in the world.  I’ve watched my ex-wife in the throes of peritonitus, pain so intense she cursed God, vomiting until nothing came out but foam.  As far gone as she was, she knew the terrible truth - there was nothing to be done but ride it out and wait for the meds to kick in.

“I don’t feel good,” Dylan repeated, over and over, breaking my heart a little bit each time.  He still sort of believes a kiss will make it better.  He’s saying he doesn’t feel good because he thinks you can fix him.  

What do you say?  Poor thing, sweetie, it’s okay, we’ve all been there, it will pass, just try to get it all out and get some sleep, we’ll get you a cold washcloth and some Sprite, blah blah blah.  Rub his back, don’t admit your helpless feeling is complicated by guilt because you kept telling him to quit talking go to sleep.    

Dylan is not always a whiner, but it’s something he needs to be called on often.  He tries pulling the “tummy hurts” card to get his way.  If he’s finished the part of dinner he feels like eating, he’ll say his tummy hurts to try and get out of eating the rest (and it’s not a veggie thing- he’ll devour Brussels sprouts one night and decide he doesn’t like them two days later, or he’ll eat the top of a mini-muffin and forgo the rest).   It’s also one of his favorite reasons for not going to sleep once he’s put to bed. 

Saying his tummy hurts is suspect behavior on a good night.  When his Tia Nicky and her boyfriend Jose are staying over, both of whom Dylan loves to pieces, then he meets especially skeptical parents. 

In the morning, I tried to explain that that was exactly why I told him the story of the boy who cries wolf.  The boy lies so much that no one believes him when there’s really a problem.  I must be telling it wrong, because all he remembers are hungry wolves eating sheep.

We fed Dylan a breakfast which didn’t stay down, so he stayed home.  Then the next day, Becky was laid low.  Then the next day, it was my turn.  My first full weekend off since January and I spent it ill, not exactly the weekend in bed with the woman I love which I’ve been missing.  We had Dylan, six-year-old sweetheart who recovered first, bringing us Aleve and Gatorade.

That’s something I never did for my folks.

Beautiful Boy

     Part of Kevin Brockmeier’s Illumination revolves around a sensitive boy, the kind of boy I was, the kind of boy Dylan is.  His parents argue over how to raise this boy:

"You're saying he'll cry whenever he doesn't get his way."

"I'm saying what harm does it do to humor him?"

"The world will eat him alive when he grows up."

"That doesn't mean that we should eat him alive, too."

I’ve had moments with Dylan when I can’t believe the first response which bubbles up to my lips; Stop being such a crybaby.

Stop being such a crybaby is how we teach boys to suppress their emotions, how we turn them from communication and understanding, pushing them toward stoicism and silence, it’s how we make boys into “men”. 

I might have heard it from my cousins a time or two, but it wasn’t a family motto.  Where does stupid shit like that come from?  My worry that he’ll have a tough time in school, like I did?  Shame at seeing my crybaby behavior mirrored back to me?  Wherever it comes from, I’m thankful I’ve kept it inside.  

As a momma’s boy, his social life might be hard.  I say “might” because maybe things are changing from when I was a child.  But if he’s like me, it will be tough for him to relate to other boys, who have so much to prove with physical and emotional violence.  When they speak in locker rooms about girls they supposedly like in graphic and derogatory terms, loneliness will whistle through him as he realizes how different he is from these boys.  It will take him time, maybe decades, to find people his gender who share his sensibilities, to look past “men” and find men.     

However tough his life might be, it’s not for me to make it harder.

"You're saying he'll cry whenever he doesn't get his way."

"I'm saying what harm does it do to humor him?"

"The world will eat him alive when he grows up."

"That doesn't mean that we should eat him alive, too."

Monkey Business

  I get it now.  It’s taken a year-and-a-half of knowing Dylan and six months of living with him, but I finally understand.  

Dylan is Becky’s son from her first marriage, and she shares joint custody with Dylan’s father.  We drop Dylan off at his dad’s on Saturday and we pick him up from after-school care on Tuesday (Dylan, not his dad; pronouns are tricky).  Becky and her ex have talked about doing one week on, one week off, but with all the changes in Dylan’s life - his parent’s separation, moving to Miami to split time in different houses, then moving to the Gables to live with this big doofus his mom seems smitten with - it would be cruel to change the one routine he’s gotten used to.  

I can’t say my parenting muscles were flabby from lack of use; I had never used them.  Baby-sitting is not parenting, and taking your nephews out for dinner and movies is not the same as raising them.  

Four days of trying to mold this boy into the best version of himself he can be, dealing with food issues, presenting yourself at your best, working with this moods, keeping him clean and happy, checking his rambunctiousness and attitude, trying to instill values you’ve taken for granted in your own life, and being patient when it’s the last thing in the world you think you’re capable of being, it’s all so exhausting. 

“Kids are easy,” a friend of mine said a few months back.  “Just give them lots of love, that’s all they need.”

This man obviously has no children.  

I said that exact thing when I had no children in my life.  It’s true, but it’s like saying, “Building pyramids is easy.  You just keep piling rocks up until they're 500 feet tall, then you stick a Pharaoh inside.” 

FYI, he picks his own outfits.

I used to anticipate Saturday the way you look forward to getting away for a three-day weekend.  I needed those breaks to keep from going crazy, to relax the muscles which had gone unused my entire life, muscles which suddenly needed to hold the world up.  When Becky got quiet after we dropped Dylan off, I figured it was a mom thing, something I’d never understand.

Now I get it.  We don’t drop Dylan off for us; we drop Dylan off because he loves his father and wants to see him.   

I still enjoy sharing time alone with Becky, but I miss Dylan when he’s not here.  I celebrate those weekends his father has plans he's unable or unwilling to change and we get more time with Dylan.  Wishing him goodbye has gone from bittersweet to just bitter.  

You’re obligated to do it, but there’s no way to enjoy it.