Should I hope that my children struggle as much as I did?

The Atlantic recently ran a piece entitled Why Parents Need to Let Their Children Fail. Written by a teacher, it describes a recent study that examined overparenting, a phenomenon characterized by a parent’s "misguided attempt to improve their child's current and future personal and academic success."

According to the the authors, parents guilty of this kind of overparenting "take their child's perception as truth, regardless of the facts," and are "quick to believe their child over the adult and deny the possibility that their child was at fault or would even do something of that nature."

As a teacher, I have seen a steep rise in overparenting during my fifteen year career. I have seen it with even greater frequency in the ways in which my friends and relatives are now raising their children.

As parents, I am relatively certain that Elysha and I are not guilty of overparenting. Our experience as teachers has taught us the value of high standards, uncompromising expectations and the need for children to find their own way. Struggle and tears are necessary for a child to learn, and we are not afraid to allow our children to experience these things in the road to becoming an adult.

But the rise of overparenting highlights an issue I have been struggling with ever since my first child was born:

How much struggle should I want for my children?

Any success that I have enjoyed over the course of my lifetime is the direct result of a childhood of underparenting and a lifetime of struggle. So much of my character, work ethic, resilience, self confidence and desire to achieve is the result of a childhood of filled with parental inattention followed by a decade that was marred by poverty, an armed robbery, an arrest and trial for a crime I did not commit, a brief stint with homelessness and the complete and total lack of assistance from anyone in the world save myself. I put myself through college, double majoring in education and English while working 45 hours a week managing a McDonald’s restaurant and 15 hours a week in the school’s Writing Center. While it wasn’t the best way to receive an education, I learned more through the struggle to achieve my degree than I ever learned within the walls of the classroom. 

When someone asks my how I manage to accomplish so much, I often think back on the five years I spent in college and wonder why I am not doing more.  

I would not be standing here today as a teacher, an author, a husband and a father had I not experienced those struggles earlier in life. My pipedream to “write for a living and teach for pleasure” is closer to realization than than ever thought possible, primarily because of the adversity that I have faced and the struggles that I have overcome. 

While I often find myself envious of those who experienced idyllic childhoods and were not forced to scratch and claw their way through young adulthood, paying for college and wondering where their next meal might come from, I would not change a thing about my life if given the chance. I have seen the damage that overparenting can do to a person, and more importantly, I have experienced the value of intense struggle.

This leaves me wondering what I should do for my children. Despite our willingness to allow our children to struggle, I would never want Clara or Charlie to experience hardship to the degree that I did. I want to give my children the childhood that I never had. I want to offer them the support that they will need later on in life. I don’t want them to worry about paying for college. I don’t want them to experience homelessness or hunger. I never want them trapped in the maze of the criminal justice system, alone and confused and unsupported.

But these are the things that have allowed me to be successful. Take them away and I shudder to think what my life would be today.

My struggles and failures are my greatest assets. They have given me a perspective and a degree of self confidence that I cherish. They have made me the person I am today.

Knowing this, what is a father to do for his children?

While I understand the value of struggle and suffering, it’s crazy to wish the kind of struggles that I endured upon my children.

Right?

I want my children to grow up to be resilient, self confident, driven and grounded adults, but can this truly happen without facing truly mighty struggles and possible calamity?

I don’t know. This is my fear.

My daughter’s favorite library is not a library

My wife agreed to bring my daughter to her favorite library yesterday. “The one with the stage and the trains,” she said.

The main branch of the West Hartford public library has both a stage and a train set in its children’s section, so naturally they went there.

Upon arriving, Clara said, “We’re going to my favorite library. Right?”

“Yes,” Elysha said, pointing to the red brick building in front of them.

“No,” Clara said. “Not that one. That one.” Her finger turned left in the direction of the adjacent Barnes & Noble, which also happens to have trains and a stage in their children’s area.

My four year-old thinks that the bookstore is a library.

She also thinks that a town would place two libraries adjacent to each other, which seems even more bizarre to me, but she’s a kid, so I’ll let that go.

But I’m not sure how to feel about this. Obviously Clara has failed to differentiate between Mommy and Daddy borrowing books and buying books, which says something about her understanding of commerce and the transaction of money in order to procure goods and services, but is thinking of a bookstore and a library as one and the same a bad thing for libraries?

Or for bookstores?

Octopussy

I realize that it was based upon the Ian Fleming novel, but how does the movie Octopussy get made with its original title?

I wonder if his children’s book is nearly as impenetrable as his adult fiction.

I’d purchase a copy to find out for myself, but it is sadly out of print. Amazon is offering it for as low as $98.97, but I don’t need to know that badly.

There is always a reason for an imaginary friend

Someone invented Manti Te’o’s imaginary girlfriend. Whether he was the victim of an elaborate hoax or the perpetrator of the scheme, the fact remains: Te’o professed to loving a woman who did not exist. He had never held her hand, kissed her on the lips, or assured her that she was the best looking woman in the room. How could he? He had never laid eyes on her. Yet Manti Te’o had called Lennay Kekua “the love of my life.” She was an imaginary girlfriend in an imaginary world.

Only in an imaginary world would Te’o’s grandmother and girlfriend die within five hours of each other at the onset of a possible Heisman Trophy winning season. Only in an imaginary world would a star football player skip his girlfriend’s funeral, defeat an arch rival, and dedicate the game ball to her memory. And only in an imaginary world would the captain of a football team use the death of his grandmother and girlfriend to lead his team to an undefeated season and a shot at the national title.

This is the stuff of fiction, the stuff of invention. But it doesn’t come out of nowhere. There is always a reason for an imaginary friend.

I had an imaginary friend as a child. His name was Johnson Johnson. A friend and confidant, Johnson Johnson spent hours riding on my back, whipping his cowboy hat into the air and firing his pistols at traitorous Indians, the Lone Ranger to my loyal Silver. When my parents fought (which happened a lot), Johnson Johnson hid in the basement with me, keeping me company, keeping me safe.

It wasn’t until I was ten that I discovered that he wasn’t real. My parents occasionally took in foster children and I had made what I considered to be a natural assumption—that Johnson Johnson was just another temporary sibling. My mind had created Johnson Johnson and conveniently bestowed upon him all of the attributes that my younger brothers and sisters were lacking. Johnson Johnson didn’t depend on me. He didn’t insist that I wear a house key around my neck every day or that I make sure my siblings boarded the school bus safely. Johnson Johnson was the one person in my life who gave me what I wanted: the opportunity to be a kid. I wanted to ignore my parents’ battles and my siblings’ needs and just think of myself. Johnson Johnson allowed me to be irresponsible, unkind and selfish, and I loved him for it.

There is always a reason for an imaginary friend.

Twenty years ago, I knew a woman I’ll call Nancy. Nancy was a small in stature, high energy, uncommonly tolerant woman who called everyone she met “Honey.” Nancy was also gay and very much in the closet. In order to avoid the inevitable questions about boyfriends and marriage, Nancy invented an imaginary fiancée who had died in a car accident years before. This imaginary, deceased fiancée silenced nosy aunts and well-meaning acquaintances, and gave her a graceful excuse when it came to occasional offers of set-ups and blind dates. Her tragic loss kept the curious at bay.

There is always a reason.

As an elementary school teacher, I’ve known many children with imaginary friends. Some children possess an overactive imagination that requires an outlet. Others have a difficult time making friends and require close companionship. Imaginary friends fit the bill Always present, always supportive, they are allies and accomplices, that safe person to whom a child can always turn.

Imaginary friends serve many needs and they take many forms: small animals, paper dolls, ghosts, spots on the wall. Real children, too. Some of kids have adult-sized imaginary friends. These imaginary adults typically fill the roles of absent fathers and mothers. They’re often dressed in formal wear and carry umbrellas, handbags and briefcases. They’re called Mr. Bruno and Mrs. May—names that suggest authority and a certain order.

Imaginary friend exist for a reason, and it’s often a good one. But not always.

In September of last year, American voters watched Clint Eastwood invent an imaginary version of President Obama in order to debate him at the Republican Convention. Speaking to a chair, Eastwood created a stir by posing questions that Imaginary Obama could not answer. Like any good imaginary friend, Imaginary Obama served his master well, refusing to refute any of Eastwood’s claims. He just sat there, invisible and agreeable.

Hardly surprising.

After all, imaginary friends serve their imaginers at all times. That’s their job. They fill the gaps in our lives. The spaces of discomfort. In Eastwood’s case, Imaginary Obama served as the mute prop that he required. Lacking the courage to debate the real President Obama. Eastwood chose a straw man over the real one.

An imaginary president.

In the coming days and weeks, the reason behind the creation of Manti Te’o’s imaginary friend will likely be revealed. For Te’o’s sake, and for the sake of an American public that does not need another sports villain, I am hoping that Manti Te’o was naïve and gullible rather than nefarious and calculating. As tragic and mystifying as it may seem to fall in love with an imaginary girlfriend, at least there is innocence behind this idea. An understanding that we all want to believe in something. Perhaps Manti Te’o simply needed this more than most of us. Perhaps he needed something else.

There is always a reason.

The most baffling part about the North Korean government is their inability to lie well.

The North Korean government is obviously unlike any other governing body in the world, but what I cannot understand is why they are such bad liars. While there may be good reasons to enhance the reputation of their country and their dictator around the world, the propaganda that they promote is so  ridiculous and ultimately damaging to the nation’s image that they would be better off saying nothing.   

For example, while he was still alive, their official news agency claimed that former North Korean dictator, Kim Jong II, had invented the hamburger, composed six operas and written more than 1,500 books in three years while at university.

His birth was reportedly heralded by a swallow and caused winter to change to spring, a star to illuminate the sky and rainbows to spontaneously appear.

According to his official biography, he did not defecate, despite this book’s insistence that this could not be true. 

Best of all (at least to a golfer), he reportedly shot eleven holes-in-one the first time he played golf (a feat verified by his army of bodyguards).

Is the North Korean government so backward as to think that these claims would be received by anything but amused smirks by the rest of the world?

I honestly don’t get it.

The Flogsta Scream: Creepy and bizarre but I kind of love it.

Every night at 10:00 PM,  the "Flogsta scream" can be heard in Flogsta, a neighborhood in the western outskirts of the Swedish city of Uppsala.

At precisely this time, students throughout the region scream collectively from windows, balconies and roof tops.

How the Flogsta scream first began is a matter of debate.

Some residents claim that it was initially a stress reliever that students engaged in during exams and then became a daily occurrence.

Others say it started in remembrance of an unidentified  student who committed suicide in the 1970s.

Either way, it can’t be helping property values in the neighborhood.

Overdressed or underdressed?

A podcast that I listen to discussed this question:

Do you prefer to be overdressed or underdressed?

Not surprising to many, I always prefer to be underdressed (even ahead of appropriately dressed), for three reasons:

1. It’s always more comfortable to be underdressed (at least for me), and as a human being and a grown man, I have a right to value personal comfort over the judgmental eye of others.

2. Being underdressed is a more approximate physical reflection of the person I am. By nature, I tend to be a person who rejects tradition and challenges norms, and in almost all things, I tend to lean toward the disentanglement and destruction of staid society.

I am the teacher who would prefer that his students call him by his first name.

I am the person who thinks that a verbal thank you mitigates the need for a formal thank you note.

I am the writer who tends to avoid profanity in his work but thinks the restrictions on profanity in television are ridiculous and unnecessary.

Being perpetually underdressed is just another way that I lean away from tradition and societal expectations. 

3. It is exceedingly rare that someone cares if you are underdressed.

Case in point: I attended a wedding last week of a friend. I wore pants, a shirt and a blazer. No tie, of course, because I ceased wearing ties years ago. I was aware that I would almost certainly be in the minority in this regard, and I knew that my wife thought I would look better with a tie, but I simply cannot strap that noose to my neck any longer.

Surprisingly, it turns out that I was the only man at this fairly large wedding not wearing a tie.

Did anyone notice this except me? I don’t think so.

Did anyone care? Certainly not.

In the unlikely event that someone did notice or care, do they even remember the absence of my tie two weeks later? Not likely.    

In fact, I have found that when I dress more formally than my instincts tell me that I should, there is almost always someone dressed similarly to the way I would have preferred.

Years ago I attended an engagement party at a country club, and after some cajoling on my wife’s part, I agreed to wear a suit despite the heat of the day. It turned out that the only two people wearing a suit were my father-in-law and me. We were both sweaty and uncomfortable for the duration of the affair.

At a recent family gathering, my wife asked me to replace the tee-shirt that I planned on wearing with a sweater or buttoned-down shirt. She almost never asks me to change something I’m wearing (a credit to her), and in truth, I thought it was probably a good idea, too. But when I arrived at the party, I found the host wearing not only a tee-shirt but sweat pants as well. It turned out that my original plans for jeans and a tee-shirt would have been fine.

This is not to say that underdressed is the right answer to this question. I know a guy whose wife teases him because he spends his evenings at home dressed in a button-down shirt, sweater and dress pants at all times. For reasons that I don’t understand but respect, he prefers a more formal look to tee-shirts and jeans, even while relaxing.

The right answer to “Overdressed or underdressed?” is not what everyone expects you to wear. The right answer is what you want to wear.

My most useless super power

In addition to my fairly useful super powers is one that is no less extraordinary but useless. Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night, for whatever reason, I can accurately state the time within fifteen minutes of the actual time, and oftentimes much more accurately than that.

Every time, without exception.

How I manage this is a mystery to me.

But an even bigger mystery:

How am I ever going to use this super power to defeat evil?

Woodstock’s quandary

Is Woodstock a figure of adoration or a bird in a hell of a lot of trouble?

My daughter refused to explain.

   

Not a fan of Santa Claus

Clara spent most of the evening demanding that I play a game called Christmas, in which I would be Santa Claus and she would be a kid.

Unfortunately, I was eating dinner at the time so the game never happened, but she had elaborate plans that included such things as, “You go upstairs, Daddy. There’s a lot of room for Santa upstairs” and “You have to say, ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’ a lot!”

I’m sure I’ll get another chance to play soon. But I ask you:

Does this look like a girl who likes Santa Claus? 

What should I think about this?

My wife has grown fond of pointing out the similarities in personality and disposition between my daughter and me. She recently stated:

“After being Clara’s mom, I realize how glad I am that I was not your teacher or mother.”

At a holiday party on Saturday night, I walked across the room to ask if she needed something to drink. She was speaking to someone I did not know.

“Oh,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. “This must be your noncompliant husband.”

I’m beginning to wonder how I should feel about her newfound awareness.

 

The smell of breakfast whilst you shave

I’m not sure which I like better: The product or the ad copy.

The product is bacon shaving cream. While plain old soap typically does the job for me, I could get behind this idea.

But the ad copy might be even better. Every paragraph contains a sincerely selling point wrapped in a joke that will at least make you smile.

Nothing is more powerful or captivating than the smell of bacon. It is truly the smell of victory (and breakfast). Now you can work yourself into a rich, bacon lather with J&D's Bacon Shaving Cream.

J&D's Bacon Shaving Cream is a high end, luxurious bacon-scented shaving cream for all skin types. It is best used after a hot shower or before an important date with someone you may want to spend the rest of your life with.

With just one use of J&Ds Bacon Shaving Cream, you will smell and feel like a champion. We image that this is what Vikings would have used this to mow down their impenetrable forest of man-beard.

Our rich moisturizers and essential oils ensure a high-performance, smooth shaving experience. Advanced heat-activated aromatic technology lasts for hours and delivers maximum bacon scent when you need it most.

With J&Ds Bacon Shaving Cream, prepare to be loved, admired and possibly be eaten by bears.

That is some damn good writing.

Tell me everything? I’d rather you stick a fork in my eye.

Is this a difference between men and women or just a difference between me and my wife?

Elysha gets on the phone with a pregnant friend who is living out of state and says, “Okay, tell me everything.”

I consider these to be three of the most frightening words in the English language.

Conversely, my phone rings. I look to see who is calling. It is my nearest and dearest friend. Someone I genuinely enjoy taking to. Someone who I have not seen in a month. Someone who I actually need to speak with. 

And at the moment I have absolutely nothing to do. I am sitting on a blanket in the middle of a field with twenty minutes to kill. No book. No computer. Not even a pad and pen.  

Nevertheless, I let the call go to voicemail and hope that if my friend chooses to leave me a message (and I hope he doesn’t), it is 15 seconds or less.

Is this a man thing, or is it just me?

I have no idea where I bought this sweater, and I have no idea why you even care.

I know that my sneakers were purchased at Dick’s Sporting Goods.

I know that my Ask A Ninja tee-shirt was purchased online from the Ask A Ninja online store.

These are the only two items in my wardrobe that I can definitively identify their origin. I could guess at the origin of others. but I can’t be certain where anything else was purchased.

This is partly the result of my wife doing much of my clothing shopping.

It is also partly the result of my refusal to wear any clothing item that features a brand name or a stupid little alligator.

Still, I am always baffled when someone asks me where a particular sweater or shirt or pair of jeans originated.

“Nice sweater? Did you get it at Banana Republic?”

“Is that jacket J. Crew?”

“Where did you get those jeans?”

Did people really keep track of where each item in  their wardrobe originated?

More importantly, why do they care where I got mine?

I say this is a clever verbal strategy for identifying stupidity. My wife says I’m mean and wrong. Settle the debate.

My wife says this is mean.

I think it was brilliant.

I was speaking to a person whose intelligence, at least in regards to the nature of our discussion, was questionable at best. On a whim, I decided to test his knowledge of the subject matter and his overall intelligence by inserting an invented word into a sentence at a critical juncture to see how he would react.

I said, “The problem with that education policy is that it’s fiscally unsound and pelepanatic.

Pelepanatic was the invented word, and please note that it’s meaning is critical in understanding the nature of my argument. It was not an arbitrary word that had not meaning in terms of the sentence. 

The person to whom I was speaking pressed on without asking about the  invented word, confirming to me that he was an idiot.

Thus I thought I had stumbled upon a remarkable effective strategy for weeding out the morons of the world, but my wife says not so fast.

While ignoring the invented word may suggest certain characteristics of the person, intelligence or general knowledge is not one of them.

Perhaps the person was too embarrassed by his ignorance of the word to  ask for a definition.

Maybe the person used context clues to make an assumption about the definition of the word.

It’s possible that the person took a mental note to find the meaning of the word at another time.

Maybe the person opted not to display weakness in the midst of a debate even if that meant letting the word go undefined.

My wife claims that this newfound strategy is mean and does not serve the purpose intended.

I’m not so sure. I kind of like it. I think it has potential.

Thoughts?

Introduction conundrum

There a line in the rock opera, Rent, in which a character introduces herself by saying, “They call me Mimi.”

I kind of like that. Do you think I could get away with introducing myself in the same way?

“They call me Matt.”

Yes?

Sexist? I initially thought so, but now I am not so sure.

A parking lot decorated in pink has been designated for women only at a shopping center in Shijiazhuang, capital city of Hebei Province, China.

The lot offers wider parking spaces especially designed for female drivers, who tend to cause twice as many collisions in parking lots than in other places, according to Chinese insurance company data.

The shopping center parking lot also provides three lights in every parking space to improve visibility for female drivers.

Bright colors, such as pink and light purple, and cute cartoon pictures decorate the parking lot.

At first, I thought that this was sexist and wrong, and while I might still feel that way, consider the facts:

Provided that the Chinese insurance data is correct (and I assume it is, because why else waste valuable real estate on larger parking spaces), what is wrong with expanding parking spaces for women? From a financial and safety standpoint, it only makes sense.

And while the use of the color pink at first struck me as condescending and sexist, pink is without doubt the color most closely associated with women. The ratio of women to men wearing pink is incredibly lopsided. The mere existence of tee-shirts that read “Real men wear pink” is proof enough that the number of men who wear pink is miniscule. In fact, is there any other color that slants more in the direction of a single sex or gender than pink? Why not use a color that women seem especially attracted to?

The additional lighting in these parking lots also makes perfect sense. I can’t tell you how many times I have escorted a woman to her car on a dark night, but no woman has ever offered to walk me to my car under similar circumstances, nor I ever have I felt that I required an escort. What woman hasn’t wished that parking lots or parking garages be better lit?

As for the “cute cartoon pictures” decorating the lot, I’ll reserve judgment. I haven’t seen the pictures, nor do I fully understand the role that cartoons play in Chinese culture. From an American standpoint, they sound sexist, but I just don’t know.

So I am left wondering:

Is there really anything sexist about this parking lot?

Would American woman complain if a parking area was designated for their use only at the local mall and designed for their specific needs and tastes?

I’m sure many would, but should they?

An old friend returns

Last night I signed a copy of my second novel, UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO, which the reader purchased at a garage sale in California.

The book had originally been purchased for the Denver public library but is now stamped with the words NO LONGER PROPERT F DENVER PUBLIC LIBRARY.

 

What I want to know is this:

Does the Denver public library still have a copy of this book on their shelves, and if not, what the hell? It’s a good book.

More importantly, why bother stamping the first page with that message?

It’s akin to dumping your boyfriend and tattooing “This guy was just dumped by his girlfriend” on his forehead.

Not nice.

Should children be permitted to attend funerals?

Earlier this week, I joined a panel on the Huffington Post’s online television network to discuss the appropriateness of children attending funerals for deceased friends and relatives.

Here is the video of our discussion: