First Things
Brendan’s first week of Kindergarten came off without any problems to report. Lynn dropped him off and picked him up on Wednesday and Thursday; I dropped him off and picked him up Friday and yesterday. Each afternoon when we pick him up, we subject him to an intense inquisition on the ride home.
“How was your day?” “What did you learn in school?” “Did your teacher have to talk to you about your behavior today?” “What did you play on the playground?” “What do you do in gym?”
Already, even at age five, extracting information from him about his school day is about as easy as prying tree stumps from the ground. But from what we can gather, all is going well.
Apparently, his teacher has a system for maintaining discipline involving something called “gumballs.” Misbehavior results in a gumball being taken away, and once three gumballs are taken away the child gets a time out. Of course, Brendan assures us he has not had any gumballs taken away, but he is pleased to tell us about how his friend from Montessori has gumballs taken away every day.
“Drew got a gumball taken away today,” he said to me on the ride home on Friday.
“What for?” I asked.
“He licked the rug.”
“Why did he lick the rug?”
“I don’t know,” Brendan said. “But Leighton got double gumballs taken away.”
“Why?”
“He was looking at kids in the bathroom.”
“That was naughty,” I said. “Did he look at you?”
“Yeah, he looked at me and Drew, so he got double gumballs taken away.”
“Well, if he tries to look at you again, you need to tell him that going to the bathroom is private and he shouldn’t look. Or tell your teacher.”
“Okay,” Brendan says, probably not even hearing what I just said.
“What else happened today?”
“Lily gave me one of her chocolate chip cookies at lunch.”
“That was really nice. Is she a nice girl?”
“Yes.”
“What did you learn in school today?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you read a book?”
“No.”
“Did the teacher read a book to you?” I asked, rephrasing the question.
“No.”
“The teacher did not read a book to you at all today?”
“No.”
“So what did you learn in school?”
“We learned about the calendar.”
“Oh,” I said, “Well that’s important. What about gym? What exercises did you do today?”
“We played with the puffballs.”
“What’s that?”
“Puffballs are these red, yellow, and blue balls that we throw up into the air and catch. But you can’t try to throw them through the basketball nets because they get stuck.”
Our conversation continues in this vein all the way home. What can I conclude from what he tells me? Not much. Either he does very little all day at school, or he just doesn’t tell me what really happens. I believe the latter.
What I began learning two years ago, when Brendan started preschool, is that Brendan now has a life I know very little about (at least until the first parent-teacher conference, at which I expect we’ll learn a little more about Brendan’s school life). It can be disconcerting to go from near-omnipotence and omni-presence in regards to your child’s life to that uncertain place our own parents occupy, between knowledge and power and powerlessness and utter ignorance. Mostly, parents are truly ignorant in regards to their child’s life, it seems to me.
When I think about how little my own parents knew of my life, both inner and external, it frightens me a little to think what might really be going on in Brendan’s life. Of course, maybe my parents knew more about me than I am willing to allow today, but I don’t think so. Looking at my childhood and my parents in hindsight, I see them as intently preoccupied with their marriage and their own problems, needs, and desires, and I was just along for the ride. My problems, needs, and desires were my own to deal with, as best (or as poorly) as I could.
What really happens to Brendan when he’s away from us? What does he think of us, his parents, and our role in his life? Are we raising him properly, or are we fucking him up? Maybe no matter what we do, he’ll grow up to believe we fucked him up.
That may be the ultimate, unfortunate answer I don’t want to hear. Few people grow up to really appreciate their parents. Or maybe I am assuming that my own lack of appreciation for my parents is a universal symptom of mankind: based on my experience, I assume that all people grow up to resent their parents and regret their childhood.
One of my favorite poems, by one of my favorite poets, is This be the Verse, by Philip Larkin. My question to you, Dear Reader, is ‘Is this poem true?’ What do you think?
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
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I feel your pain, and share your concerns. Yet I don’t think that feeling towards parents is a universally shared sentiment. For example, my wife doesn’t feel that way. She had good parents, and really appreciates them.
I appreciate my “second” set of parents, though my first several years were a mess.
The biggest thing I take away from your story is to treasure and work with the time we have with them, now that they are in school. It’s hard work to remain interested in their life, especially when they’re not interested in sharing. But that’s something we have to try to teach them how to do right.
Yes, they’ll now learn a lot from others, but they still have a lot to learn from us whether we’re willing teachers or not. At least, that’s my hope and fear…
Comment by Step — Tuesday, 29 August 2006 @ 1:42 pm
I hope you’re right. Because I often catch myself in “bad parenting” mode, a style inherited from my parents, I often wonder if we don’t simply replicate the way we were raised (for good or ill) in how we raise our own children. I see my Mom and Dad in me and my reactions to my son, and I hate it. Will my son feel the same one day?
Comment by Matthew — Tuesday, 29 August 2006 @ 1:51 pm
It’s a continuous battle not to parent just like your parents did. I think that’s one of the things the Bible means by “the sins of the parents will be passed on to the children, and their children…”
The first step for me is catching myself in that “bad parenting mode” (daily) :(. The second, much harder, step is doing something about it.
Maybe the third step is to enjoy your kids for what they are, give them what you can, and let them become who they become?
At least the Bible also encourages that the good habits and blessings of the parent can be passed on through generations also!
Comment by Step — Tuesday, 29 August 2006 @ 3:01 pm
Well, I hope I have some good qualities to pass on to my son. Unfortunately, I just don’t know what those would be. Speaking for myself, I remember mostly the bad parenting of my parents, not the good; and I see only their worst qualities in myself, not the good.
But maybe there’s help for me in therapy
Comment by Matthew — Tuesday, 29 August 2006 @ 3:07 pm
This is a set of questions that concerns me quite a bit too. I had terrible, dysfunctional, abusive parents. My wife had somewhat less-terrible parents, but who were (and are) still quite dysfunctional in lots of ways. But I do know people who claim to appreciate and love their parents, so I am more or less taking it on faith that it’s a possibility to have a healthy relationship with my kids.
I also know exactly what you mean about the difficulty of getting information about the school day out of them. I don’t think it’s that they are refusing to tell me: it seems to me that their memory and understanding is still such that they can’t provide the kind of coherent, insightful narrative we might want them to give us. Frankly, it sounds like from the conversation you repeat here that you are far more successful at getting information from Brendan than I have been at getting that info from Ella and Chloe. You say in a comment above that you are unsure what you have to offer: the fact that you are so actively listening to what he is able to tell us is a major thing that you shouldn’t discount so quickly. And that’s just to point to what you say in this one post, not even referencing the rest of your writing and what you don’t tell us in the blog!
The best I can figure out, it is our job to be our own best selves, as the best way to encourage our kids to be their best selves. I haven’t met you in person, and I probably miss some of your posts here and there, but it is abundantly clear from this space that you are actively engaged in developing your own understanding and awareness. That is a wonderful asset for you as a parent, let alone as a person.
Comment by Scrivener — Wednesday, 30 August 2006 @ 12:02 am
I guess to some extent faith is really all any of us have. Unfortunatey, as in religion, my faith is tinged with doubt and cynicism.
I like what you say about being our own best selves so that our kids grow up to be their own best selves. I feel like I fall down on the job far too often in that respect, however. One aspect of who I am does give me some hope, however, and you hit on it here: at least I talk to him and listen to what he has to say.
Comment by Matthew — Wednesday, 30 August 2006 @ 5:30 am
That’s why the thought of having children scares me so much. My parents started raising me with good intentions … I know some of the things they did for me as a child. I know they cared, but at some point, my family got fucked up and everyone stopped caring about me.
I’m watching my brother raise his kids and it makes me grind my teeth.
I admire that you’re such a concsientious parent, Matt, but you don’t have control over that part of the day, and bad things will happen.
I don’t want to fuck up the life of an innocent child, who may or may not grow up into an adult who loves me and can be friends with me.
I love my dad immeasurably, but there are some things I still resent the hell out of him for. I just bury it and think, yeah, because of him and my mom, that’s why I’m not having kids. I don’t want to be like them. Even if I wouldn’t have some of the underlying problems they did, I’m sure I’d still have some of them.
Comment by Mel B. — Thursday, 31 August 2006 @ 2:15 pm
So I take it you are in agreement with the Larkin poem? My great fear is that the poem is true. At the same time, having kids is deeply rewarding, if you can get past your fears. Part of my problem is that I can’t see past my own experience. I think about my childhood, my relationship with my parents, and what happened to me when I was at school or otherwise out of my parents’ sight, and it makes me very, very afraid for Brendan.
There are so many terrible things I never told my parents, and would never tell them to this day. I realize I was a more solitary, secretive boy than most, but my parents also taught me early on through their words and actions that there wasn’t any use talking to them. They could not help me.
Comment by Matthew — Thursday, 31 August 2006 @ 3:51 pm
“Trying is the first step toward failure.” So reads the Homer Simpson glass I found for Todd at a thrift store this week. But it’s potentially also the first step toward something really good, even where raising children are concerned. In the end, I’ve got to believe it’s worth trying, even when things get messed up (though hopefully not irrevocably so).
My parents were a mixed bag when it came to raising me, I suppose, but generally I have good feelings towards them and their efforts, particularly my mother. She was engaged, attentive, a listener (though there was plenty I never told her and never will, which makes me sad sometimes). And, yes, the problems of one generation’s parenting get passed on to another. But you’re aware, and I’m aware, of what was done to us that we don’t want to do, so we stop ourselves, or afterwards regret and re-evaluate such times and vow to do better.
You listen to Brendan. You want to hear that his friend licked the rug and got a gumball. You want to hear even more than that. It would be a different story if you wanted him to shut up or made light of what happens in his life.
Comment by Dawn — Saturday, 2 September 2006 @ 8:48 am
Just imagine if you had a girl; I think the paranoia, at least for me, would be doubled or tripled. I do think you are wrong to extrapolate out. I have had a good relationship with my mother (and I have never had a single disagreement with my father!). Having known you for so long, I’m pretty confident in your manner and able to relate to others. I guess I can’t see how you work with you family when I am not present, but you seem to have what it takes not to fuck anyone up.
Comment by Todd — Tuesday, 5 September 2006 @ 7:22 pm