Because I Said So

Kids ask questions.  Lots of them.  Hopefully.  If you are lucky and they are curious and inquisitive and sometimes just to see if you are listening:

“Can I have ice cream for breakfast?”

“Can I play X-box for three hours?”

“Can I print out 100 pictures of the cute kitties I found on the internet?”

And the answers, they usually go something like this:

1.) Ice cream is not the breakfast of champions – way too much sugar to start off your day . . . you’ll crash before you can spell “moderation“ on your test during second period.

2.) Too much X-box (or TV or media period) makes you not-so-smart; let’s find other ways to stimulate that big ole brain muscle for a bit.

3.)  You’ll use up all our ink (and four trees in the process) on pictures we will recycle in a week . . .

To these answers, sometimes more questions.  Some good (“How does it waste trees?”), some redundant with a twist (“How about strawberry ice cream? It’s got fruit in it” . . .good try, I have to admit!), some that require you to have to think more than you’d like to (If I play X box for an hour and then walk the dog, unload the dishwasher and fold the laundry, can I play one more hour?).  On good days, I tackle each question as it comes, trying to answer each to the best of my ability so that I am modeling and teaching patience, respect, wisdom, good judgment.  Other days, I am tired and my answers are less charitable and inspired.  And there’s much less tolerance for the piggyback questions!  I take a deep breath and pause before giving my thoughtful answer.  But, if I have to do this more than three times when I am at my exhausted and frustrated threshold? Out comes the age-old, dreaded parental stand-by: “Because I said so!” 

There - you did it.  Exactly what you promised yourself you wouldn’t do.  Because your parents did it.  And it drove you crazy.  And now you are driving your kids crazy.  Because you’ve become your parents.  And you don’t know how or when or what has come over you but you are standing there and you realize you have more in common with your parents than you ever thought you would.  You “get” it.  They were smart (so are you – if only your stinkin’ kids would “get” it!).  They had answers.  Sometimes you could hear them.  Other times you couldn’t or wouldn’t.  We’ve all been there right? Both asking the questions and giving the answers (or the “because I said so”).

It’s all part and parcel of this crazy thing called life.  This carousel of lessons we get to learn from both sides.  That God, she’s pretty crafty!  Giving us similar experiences at different life points so that we can see things from every angle. 

Take this week, for instance. All week long I’ve been doing this dance with Taggart around school assignments.  He doesn’t stay on top of his due dates – they sneak up fast.  It’s the night before some big art project is due and he's only just told me about it the night before . . . (driving this recovering perfectionist mad, I tell you!).  This has happened, not once, but twice this week.  And the craziest thing, it’s never his fault.  The teacher didn’t remind him.  It wasn’t listed on the homework website. They just assigned it last Friday.  All to which I respond, “What responsibility do you have in all of this?”  and “Now that you’ve waited until the very last minute, how do you want to handle this?”

I’m ticked off, don’t get me wrong.  But I know the full force of my wrath and frustration will only dig us a deeper hole.  It certainly won’t get us where we need to be getting.  I say, “Taggart I am frustrated that you leave this until the last minute.  And then, you want me to help you.  There’s a saying I think about in situations like this:  A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine.”  And still, he has excuses.  Won’t take any responsibility (whose kid is this, I wonder??).

So, I try and pace him.  Enough to get him going but not trying to take this on for him.  I say, “Well, as a teacher, I would expect a student to talk to me about this beforehand.  Could you try and talk to your teacher.  Perhaps, ask for an extra day and take a late penalty, if need be?”  Tears, hair pulling, pencils being thrown.  No, no, no, he says. I can’t do that.  Alrighty then, what do you want to do?

He’s headstrong and, according to him, I know absolutely nothing.  Which really makes me feel even more magnanimous toward him – sure hope he gets this problem solved!  I’m counting and doing deep breathing.  He’s full of attitude and treating me like an idiot.  I calmly say, “No iPad for the rest of the day” to which he puffs up, scowls at me, and says, “That’s bull crap.”  To which I reply, “No iPad for tomorrow either – care to keep going?”  (This parenting thing? It’s a blast at times like this.)

But as I’m watching Taggart - beyond the problematic issue of his procrastination - I see a bent for perfectionism that I wholeheartedly recognize and fear I’ve bequeathed him. (Shit. Shit. Shit.)  So, yeah, my empathy’s got me holding it together and thinking, “Teachable moment. Teachable moment. Teachable moment.”  All the while wondering if I really can help him navigate around this vise-like need for perfection and all-or-nothing thinking at this juncture. Or, if I’ve already drawn irreversible, perfectionistic tattoos on this sweet boy’s psyche. 

My need to help him and show him support has less to do with any due date and everything to do with seeing myself in him and striving to give him the support and unconditional love he needs to feel safe and whole – despite his imperfections, fears, and self-doubts.  So, we got down to work.  His assignment was to do a pencil drawing of an African American leader.  He said he was terrible at art, couldn’t draw, had never been taught.  Oh well.  If any of that is true, you have to still do the assignment. Come on already.

He wasn’t prepared. Didn’t have the pencils or paper or eraser he needed.  We made do.  We’re not only doing Drawing 101 here. I’m teaching resourcefulness, patience, trust in the process, being kind to yourself . . . this is Life 101.  I see myself and my best friend Terri back in Mr. LaFreniere’s art class in 9^th grade.  Terri hated art class; I loved it.  We did the same assignment Taggart is doing – minus the African American leader.  I remember wanting my drawing to look just like the picture. I remember having to erase one whole eye and start over.  I remember it taking way longer than I ever thought a drawing should take.  I pull from this memory and use it as I work with Taggart.  As I tell him, this won’t be done in an hour. Just work each square and the picture will emerge. No, that right eye is off.  Sometimes you have to start a section over. No worries, we got this, just keep at it. (He did too – 4 and a half hours later and a little help from me – but his sense of pride and accomplishment: priceless!)

My job – same as any parent’s – is to guard and to guide him.  Just like my parents did for me through my questions, assignments, and life lessons.  Just like Taggart will do for his kids someday.  We think our story is unique and in lots of ways it is; and in lots of ways it isn’t.  We are all human. We are all here to learn and to grow.  We are mirrors for each other. We are each individual reflections of God. May we learn – and teach – our lessons well.