Short Thoughts. Big Ideas.

A Little Nucleus

2011-09-12T20:35:00.005-02:30

“Hey Norah. Where’s Thumper’s dad?”

We’re sitting on the living room floor a while back, and my wife and Norah are reading a Disney book about Thumper, his siblings and mother. I couldn’t help but notice that the father wasn't mentioned, and so I thought I’d get her take on the situation.

-“Do you think he’s at work?”

-“No Daddy.”

-“He must be gone to get some food…?”

-“No Daddy.”

-“Then where is he, Norah?”

-“Daddy, Thumper doesn’t have a daddy. It’s him and his mom and his brothers and sisters. That’s the family.”

Norah gives her mother a ‘can you believe this guy?’ glance, and they go back to their book.

I give myself credit for being a fairly ‘modern’ thinker, but in that moment, I’ll admit I felt a little 1955. In my mind, I automatically assumed that Thumper’s father was off somewhere, doing ‘fatherly’ things – gathering food, fixing the den, warning young deer of ominous forest fires…

In short, I assumed that Thumper must be from a nuclear family.

Working in an elementary school, I work with all types of families, and I'm always fascinated by the completely unique dynamic of each one. It amazes me that, somewhere in my head, I still automatically assumed that a fictional family of rabbits must be a nuclear family, even though there is no mention of the father.

I remember a meeting that I attended several years ago that taught me a pretty important lesson. Myself and the school guidance counselor were meeting with a young girl in an elementary school. The guidance counselor had been told by the child’s mother that she and the father had split up at the end of June, and the girl now spent alternating weeks with each of the parents. The counselor called the girl in, made small talk, and then broached the subject.

“So, I heard that things were a little tough this summer?”

A questioning look from the girl.

“Want to talk about it?”

The girl looks out the window, and shrugs her shoulders.

The counselor continues. “You know, when something bad happens, it’s-”

“But nothing bad happened,” the girl interjects.

“Honey, your mom told me that she and your dad split up.”

“Yeah, but that’s not bad,” smiles the girl. “Before, all they did was fight and scream. Now they live in different houses, and I get to be with both of them, and no one is angry anymore.”

The room was heavy with realization.

Immediately after the meeting, the counselor told me that she had ‘completely dropped the ball’ on that session. She, like so many, automatically assumed that the breakdown of a nuclear family must be a bad thing. In fact, quite the opposite was the case. The little girl was happier than she’d been in years.

I know of another young student who lives with his sibling in the care of an organization that helps children whose parents aren’t willing or able to do what’s required. The kids are cared for by a group of people, and any one of these people could pick the student up from school on any given day. The neat thing is that no student, to my knowledge, has ever said “Hey, where’s your mom?” or “Where’s your dad?” when one of the group arrives to pick the child up. They say something that always makes me smile. “Hey Tommy*, hurry up. Your friend is here!” Kids are completely accepting of the fact that today’s family structure is incredibly diverse, and I think that’s pretty cool.

Whether it’s a single-parent family, foster family, adoptive parent(s), common-law family, a child raised by grandparents, a couple without children, a blended or extended family, it doesn’t matter. The name is irrelevant.

The nuclear family was termed as such in reference to it being a central entity around which others could collect and connect. What kids see so easily and make abundantly clear is the fact that anyone who has the desire to care for and connect with another person can be a nucleus.

The boys from Liverpool said it best. All you need is love.

A Little Assumption

2011-08-18T21:34:00.005-02:30

“Hey Daddy! I need to sizz!!”

I stop what I’m doing and slowly turn to look at Norah, who is fidgeting in her chair. My head is tilted, my eyebrows raised. I look from her to the bathroom door, and back again, uncertain as to whether I’ve heard her correctly. Is she really telling me she needs to pee? Like that? At the time Norah was two, and though she had a good grasp of the English language, she made the occasional mistake, experimenting with a word she hadn’t mastered or trying out a new one she’d heard.

Mistakes are cool. Some would say that they are actually the best way to learn. So I encourage Norah to take risks, to make mistakes and learn from them. I appreciate mistakes.

What I can’t appreciate is the fact that it sounds like my daughter has begun using slang at age two, and not only slang, but urination slang.

“You need to what?!”

I sit next to her. She’s working away at her art table, drawing amazing pictures of things that no one but her could ever identify. She looks at me again.

“I need to sizz.”

“Sizz, Norah?”
She nods. “Can you help me, Daddy?”
“Norah, what are you talking about?”
“Come on, follow me.”

I stand and let her lead me. She stands up, takes her drawing from the table, and then leads me by the hand through the kitchen. She turns sharply as we pass the island, and reaching out, she pulls the centre drawer open. She extracts something, so slowly, cautiously and carefully that you’d swear she was holding a rattle snake. But she isn’t.

She’s holding scissors.

Of course. Mixers mix. Mowers mow. Scissors sizz.

I use this example to try to illustrate a point. When little kids make mistakes with language, it is easy to see that they are still learning, still trying valiantly to absorb the incredible amount of information and vocabulary that bombards them daily. However, now that Norah is almost four, I sometimes catch myself making assumptions about her knowledge and vocabulary, and subsequently I don’t explain things as I might have a couple of years ago.

We were in the backyard one morning last week. As we were playing, I noticed that there were grass and weeds coming up through the crushed stone path which leads to the shed. It’s irritating because I’d gone through the trouble of covering the path with rolls of weed barrier before laying the crushed stone. I starting digging around the weed, found even more weeds, and so I dug down deeper to see how it was getting through. Sure enough, the weeds were actually penetrating the barrier. I had an old bottle of Weed-B-Gon, or some such product tucked away in the shed, and being a little lazy that morning, I decided to forego ripping out the root and used the spray bottle. I dug up a few spots in the stone and gave the weeds a good squirt. (Note: the kids play in the backyard as often as our Newfoundland weather allows, and I only used the weed killer because I could immediately bury it under 6 inches of stone). At one point, James came over, intrigued by the squirting noise. When he reached for the bottle, I stopped and shook my head.

“No, buddy. Can’t have that. It’s poison.”

Norah, being her brother’s perpetual protector, rushes over.

“What did you say, Daddy?”

“I told James that this was poison.”

“Poison?”

“Yeah Norah, that means it’s really bad.”

Three hours later, we’re getting James up from his nap. Norah leads the way. She rushes into his room, notes his sour face, his scowl and his Mick Jagger pout. I’m waiting for him to start wailing about how he can’t get no satisfaction when Norah pipes up.

“Oh, buddy, did you have a poison nap?”

“A what, Norah?”

So she explains. I had told her earlier that day that poison meant ‘really bad’. It was obvious that James had not slept well, so the nap was a poison one. Obviously. And, it seems, she’d been waiting three hours for the opportunity to use the word in a sentence.

I realized in that moment that my three year old had questioned me on the meaning of poison, and I’d completely passed over the opportunity to explain it. I just assumed she knew. We’ve always pointed out that cleaning supplies and such are “dangerous, and could make her really, really sick.” She understands dangerous. Apparently, she didn’t fully understand poison.

The lesson was pretty important. Assumptions are a dangerous thing, especially when we’re talking about the things kids should really be aware of. Sometimes, we need to stop and remind ourselves that opportunities to help our kids better understand this world will pop up regularly, and we need to make the most of these teachable moments.

And sometimes, we need to take the time to dig a little deeper, because it really is necessary to see what’s getting through.

_________________________

Just a thought – I was talking to Norah just two days ago, pretty firmly, because she was coming up with any and every excuse not to pick up her stickers that were strewn across the living room. After 10 minutes, I’d had enough.

“Norah, this is ridiculous!!”

“It’s not funny, Daddy!”

“I didn’t say it was funny, I said it was ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but ridiculous means foolish, and foolish means funny, and this is not funny.”

After that comment, it actually was.

I think we need to give kids credit for mastering this English language of ours, because whether we notice it or not, they work damn hard to figure it out.

“Vocabulary needs constant fertilizing, or it will die.” – Evelyn Waugh

A Little Enthusiasm

2011-07-28T09:41:00.002-02:30

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning.

It was one of those mornings – I wake up and refuse to turn over, because I know that the alarm clock is staring at me, its digital eyes squinting through 6:59 until they finally pop open, wide eyed, 7:00. Those two round electronic eyes are not quite as red as mine, but are much more alert. Its speaker-mouth spews forth more information than I can process at that moment.

Rain, drizzle, fog, a high of 13 (insert requisite “Newfoundland summer” joke by radio personality). On a bright note, the capelin are rolling in Outer Cove. By the way, rain for the rest of the week. Topsail Road is completely backed up through Paradise. Another accident on the Outer Ring Road, followed by another debate on whether it’s the ruts in the road or the morons who skim back and forth over them at 150 km/h that’s to blame. The stage is set for Open Line...

I walk over and open the bedroom curtains. The world is damp, and very grey. I sigh, hold open the curtains and quietly curse the sun for not rising to brighten my day.

But then, it does.

It comes through the baby monitor on our dresser, in the form of a tiny voice that is undoubtedly being spoken through a huge smile.

“Mom! Daddun!!!! Hep! Up!!”

I break into a smile that would rival his, because I can picture him. Standing in his crib, holding the rails, staring at the door waiting for it to open. When it does, he’ll scream the name of whoever has entered in the highest pitch he can create, his arms will be in the air, hands shaking and feet stamping the mattress with anticipation.

As I turn off the monitor, Norah tears into our bedroom, the bed-head hair that falls over her face unable to hide the pure excitement she feels. “Little Dude is awake! I heard him! Come on, Dad!”

Such excitement, and for the simple reason that the day is starting. There’s nothing “special” planned for the day, but it doesn’t matter, because when you are 1 and 3 years old, every day is special. These kids greet every day with a smile, an excited scream, and they run into it, eager for it to begin.

It used to be that I'd be scratching my head, rubbing my eyes glumly at this early hour, silently asking why the kids wouldn't sleep in as I made my way to the Keurig, but recently (in truth, more so since I started writing these thoughts) I’ve been stopping myself, challenging myself.

The thought is this – imagine if we all greeted the day the same way these kids do. I’m sure that instantly, most are thinking that it’s not really possible to do this; the demands and challenges on adults are far greater than kids, who incidentally get much more sleep. I made these rationalizations myself. Then I stopped and asked myself a few pointed questions…

Did I really need to stay up late to watch Masterchef? Gordon Ramsey is pretty cool, but really?

Did I really need to have the third glass of Merlot while watching Gordon chastise an unfortunate young lady about a disastrous truffle dish?

And most importantly, is there anything really preventing me from adapting a positive attitude and making the morning – and entire day – as awesome as these two kids hope it’s going to be?

Truth be told, we do have a lot of demands placed on us as adults. But the lesson my kids have taught me is that if you take good care of yourself and, more importantly, approach each day with a great attitude, that day is going to be infinitely more enjoyable.

Another old adage, but a very true one; each day is what we make it.

By 9:30, me and the kids are at the playground. A few minutes later, I’m doing ‘underducks’, the old swing trick where you run under the swing as you’re pushing it. What came from the kids was more than laughter. It was pure joy, shrieked so loud I pitied the poor souls still asleep in bed. It was a joy that the kids created with their enthusiasm, because I woke up without it and they gave it to me. It’s contagious, and it’s perfect.

And sadly, we don’t use it nearly enough.

A great friend of mine, John, would have turned 36 last week. I thought of him continually while writing these thoughts, as he is one of the few, if not only adult I’ve known to approach each day with this type of enthusiasm. His world was complete optimism, even in the throes of his battle with cancer. I think that the reason he was able to do this (in addition to the love of a magnificent wife and incredible kids) is that he maintained the heart of a young boy. Like my kids, he approached each day with unbounded enthusiasm, eager to see what it would bring, eager to see what he could create.

He created great things.

_________________________

Just a thought – I’ve often gone through periods where it seemed I was completely pessimistic, completely cynical about many things. In my novel, I named a race of grotesque creatures the Nylacci (an anagram for Cynical) and I went to great pains to see these creatures defeated. They have been, to an extent, but they raise their horned heads occasionally and look me in the eye. During one of these periods a couple of years ago, myself and a colleague created a challenge for ourselves. It was a bit of a joke, but beneath it, there was a real attempt to look at ourselves a bit closer. Every time we caught ourselves speaking in a pessimistic, cynical, or complaining manner, we had to take our watch off and switch it to the other wrist. It was a physical reminder and physical representation of how much negativity we were potentially spewing into our staffroom, classrooms and homes.

It chafed our wrists. It opened our eyes.

“Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

A Little Sand

2011-07-05T21:45:00.006-02:30

There’s always been something about sand that's intrigued me.

In my fiction writing, it’s always present, often playing a role more important than many of the characters. I’ve done a short story and a children’s book that are set solely on a sandy beach. A novel I completed over a year ago begins and ends on the beach. Sand has got to be the most symbolic stuff in the world, so I use it liberally, in fiction and in sandboxes.

Kids love sand. Actually, I think just about everyone loves sand, but kids show how much they love it. Cool or warm, wet or dry, coarse or fine, it’s near impossible (at least for me) to not take off the sandals and walk through the stuff, or grab a few handfuls from a nearby sandbox and let it slip through the fingers.

We’ve got a sandbox on our patio. Actually, it’s more of a sand table. The kids sit in their chairs on either side of it and can play for hours. There might be a brief interlude when they want some bubbles blown, or want to shoot baskets on their little net, but in terms of captivation, the sand is hard to beat.

Myself, Norah and James were on the patio yesterday, enjoying a bit of afternoon sun. The kids were completely engulfed in the sand. Norah was playing with figurines of Dora and Dora’s very diverse friends. James was basically foiling all of Norah/Dora’s plans, uncovering any character who tried futilely to hide from his wrath within the fine grains.

James is rough. That’s perhaps the simplest way to put it. He can be sensitive like his sister at times, but he’s loves to tip things over, throw things, drop things, and move at full speed, often through anything that stands in his way.

So when James was digging for Dora, he was throwing the sand everywhere. It was all over the deck, the chairs, his clothes, his hair. He was using a little plastic shotglass to scoop the sand out of the sandtable, dumping it anywhere but back with the rest. I reminded him a few times to keep the sand in the box (reminded meaning I showed him how to dump the sand back in the sandtable while shaking my head and comically saying No No No while pointing at the sand on the deck.) For his part James seemed to listen and shook his head in unison with mine (though in retrospect, he could have been shaking his head in annoyance and disbelief as he watched me kneel by the sand and scoop it with a tiny cup, all the while saying No No No in my silly voice).

This went on for some time. The sand pile on the deck grew, while in the sandbox, it slowly decreased. As James took two fistfuls of sand and slowly let them run through his fingers to the deck boards, I turned a bit more stern, and abruptly told him, No. You gotta stop that buddy!

James looked at me, but it was Norah who answered. She didn’t even look up from the sand when she answered me, likely for fear that Swiper, that sneaky fox, would uncover Dora’s pinecone and steal it away.

“Dad, he’s just a baby. And it’s only sand.“

As if this answer was not enough to stop me in my tracks, I looked at James, whose tiny hands were still spilling a slow, thin line of sand. At that point, I didn’t see lost sand anymore. I saw lost time. It was just like the sand of an hourglass, counting down the moments, days, months that remained of James being a toddling baby. He was essentially doing the same thing I love to do – letting sand run from partly opened fingers. However, to him, where the sand ends up is irrelevant.

And now, it’s irrelevant to me too.

Time is ticking. Time is fleeting. Coincidentally, the title of the short story I alluded to earlier is Time and Tide. And the old adage is true…

It waits for no man.

________________________

Just a thought - How many childhood behaviors do we complain about and try to help children outgrow, only to turn around a year or two later and say I’d give anything to watch him do that one more time.

“Time is free, but it's priceless. You can't own it, but you can use it. You can't keep it, but you can spend it. And once you've lost it you can never get it back.” - Harvey MacCay

A Little Squeeze

2011-06-30T22:28:00.009-02:30

Powerful stuff, those hugs.

I’m guessing that not too many early-thirties males write a blog post on how cool hugs are. That being said, I’m sure there are quite a few early-thirties males who enjoy giving or receiving a good hug from time to time. Admit it. It’s pretty sweet. So why did I decide to write a hug blog? (I rewrote that previous sentence several times, and no, there’s no way to make it sound cool.)

1. My ‘ride’ is a Pontiac Montana minivan. In said minivan, you’ll find several CD’s by the Fisher Price Little People. It used to be that Maggie, Eddie, Michael and Sonya-Lee’s melodies were almost enough to push me to the point of jumping out of the van on the Outer Ring Road at top speed, but I’ve come to tolerate their high-pitched warbling. So no, I don’t really have any ambitions of being super-cool. …Is it uncool to use the word super-cool?

2. I desperately wanted to title a blog post ‘A Little Squeeze’, and this was the only socially acceptable topic I could think of.

3. Norah gave me a hug recently that completely turned my day around, and I thought that her power to do that more than justified a relevant, if somewhat uncool, posting. She gives one mean hug.

We’ve all experienced different varieties, thousands of times I’m sure. From the somewhat awkward ‘end of the first date’ hug to the slightly (or not so slightly) inebriated ‘I love you, man!’ hug, it is something that we experience, or should experience, everyday.

Like so many things, hugs are one of those commonplace occurrences that kids make you experience in a completely different way. Hugs are important to kids. They’re huge. I’ve seen Norah stop abruptly while climbing the stairs on her way to bed, a look of horror on her face as she realizes that there’s someone in the house that she forgot to hug goodnight.

James’ first hug was as exciting to us as his first step. Up until that point, when asked to give someone a hug he would walk over to the person, stop about a foot or so away and bend at the waist, leaning toward the person. He’d put himself in a ‘huggable position’, but you were expected to do the work. He’d often keep his eyes locked on the TV as he bent toward you, eyebrows raised in a ‘take it or leave it’ expression. When he finally gave a real hug, Norah of course was the recipient. She put her arms out to her sides, he walked over to her, and wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed. The best part was the smile on both kids; smiles that wrinkled the eyes and exposed the teeth.

My kids have shown me that a little hug is a powerful thing. They’ve also shown me that a big hug is more than powerful, it’s perfect. That perfect feeling is hard to come by, but I’m fortunate enough to say it happens to me daily. I get home from work and have to drop to one knee to catch the flying little girl who has launched herself into my arms, often with enough force to knock me backwards to the floor. With James, the best one is the ‘rocking to sleep, head tucked into the nape of my neck’ hug. His hands grip my shoulders, and this particular hug is usually accompanied by a very contented, high pitched sigh (usually from him).

And then, there’s the ‘squwuzzer’.

I can’t remember if Norah gave it that name or not. Likely, she did. The squwuzzer is a hug that necessitates her being up in the arms of the recipient as she wraps both arms around the neck of the person, and squeezes. Tightly. She reserves this hug for family, or certain company who are about to leave after a visit. Her face, and the face of the recipient, are almost identical, but for different reasons. It’s reminiscent of a hold you’d see in the UFC, where escape is impossible. Only, in this case, you don’t want to escape. Invariably, Norah and the recipient are smiling deeply by the time Norah relinquishes her squwuzzer, and you can’t deny the effect it has had.

There is research that shows that levels of oxytocin are elevated by hugs. (My coolness is further enhanced by my propensity for research, and for using words like propensity). Oxytocin is thought to influence bonding, feelings of empathy, and the trust felt between people. This is evident in the research that shows the enhanced relationships of newborns with parents who provide plenty of skin-to-skin contact. I read another article by the spokesperson of the British Heart Foundation. This doctor stated that positive emotions, for example those created by bonding and hugs, are said to have beneficial effects for heart health and health in general. When we hug, we lower cortisol, a stress hormone responsible for high blood pressure and low metabolism. Again, powerful stuff.

Kids are awesome when it comes to hugs. But for some reason, we adults have a tendency to direct the majority of our hugs at kids, not really considering or perhaps appreciating the benefits of sharing them with the other people in our house; namely our significant others. Sure, we hug, but how often, and with how much intensity. When was the last time you hugged someone and they actually gasped and laughed because of the intensity of your grip? Norah and James have reminded me of something I’ve known, but definitely have not put into practice enough; that making someone feel better, and subsequently feeling better yourself, is as simple as a squeeze…. or a squwuzzer. Everyday.

“All you need is,

What you want is,

All you need is love.
Everyday.”

- Dave Matthews

______________________

Just a thought – Simply put, do it. Wrap your arms around one of the important people in your life and squeeze. Tightly. Deceptively powerful.

“Happiness is an unexpected hug.” -Author Unknown

A Little Break

2011-06-22T22:57:00.015-02:30

“The two best things about teaching are July and August.” It’s an expression you hear a lot this time of year. I’ve seen it on t-shirts, mugs, lame little plaques that someone must be foolish enough to buy, because they keep making them. I realize that this is only a ‘joke’, not to be taken too seriously, but I tend to take it seriously, and feel a little disgusted every time I hear it, for several reasons.

There are people who think, and have actually asked me, in all seriousness, if I became a teacher to get the summers off.

There are people with whom I went through university who actually did become a teacher for this reason.

It suggests that the best part of doing this awesome job is not having to do this job.

Let me stop here. I am not saying that I do not appreciate vacation time. In fact, this was one of the tougher years on me professionally and personally for several reasons; balancing three roles within my job and having cancer repeatedly show up in my family and steal one of the greatest friends I’ve ever known is quite trying. A break is good. And it's necessary for the students as well as the teachers. I am ready for the break and will enjoy it fully. However, the enjoyment is somewhat lessened on days when I’m forced to listen to the inane comments from the people in reason 1 mentioned above. “Sure you’re a teacher, you got it made. Doing nothing all summer and getting paid! I should have been a teacher.”

I used to make the following arguments.

Yes, I do have it made

But, I made what I have, made good decisions, studied hard, and chose a profession I love.

I don’t get paid for the summer. My summer pay is taken from the 10 months I work.

I work hard for those 10 months, and my day doesn’t end when the students go home at 3:00.

And finally, though I never say this to Mr. or Mrs. Inane Comment, “It takes a certain type of person to be a teacher.” It’s like parenting. Just about anyone can be a parent. That does not make you a good parent. Lots of people who are not teachers could be. That doesn’t mean that they’d be able to do it effectively. Especially if you’re in it for the vacation. Is being a bitter, miserable person for 10 months worth 2 on vacation?

These days, I don't make the arguments. I figure as long as I know myself that the break is justified and well used, what difference does it make what others think.

The short thought. I was in a meeting recently – a year-end meeting for a student with academic and social challenges – and I said to the guardian, “So, I assume that Jane (not real name) is looking forward to summer holidays?” The guardian smiled, shook his head and said, “You know what? She’s not, really. She loves school. She loves everything about this place.”

I stopped, and instantly recalled a couple of students who’d felt the same way when I taught high school a couple of years ago. I remember talking to one teenager who told me she was absolutely dreading the thought of school ending. School was where she was happy, where she was accepted, where she was listened to. She did not want to leave.

It got me thinking. Yes, so many people count down the days until summer break. So many teachers and students live for the break, and rightfully enjoy it. But the big idea that these kids taught me is this; for many kids, the school year is the break.

School is where many kids actually get the attention they deserve. They go there knowing there is someone there who wants to help them, teach them, support them, listen to them. Someone who has high expectations for them, and will push them to achieve everything they possibly can. In some but not all cases, these kids had parents that were, for lack of a better word, ‘ineffective’ in their ability to parent. As I alluded to earlier, being a parent doesn’t make you a good one.

This big idea reminded me that what we do for those 10 months impacts lives. In some cases, the effect is profound. I think it’s really important to remember that many kids are going to greatly enjoy those 2 months of blissful summer freedom. But I can’t help but remember the kids who told me that they couldn’t wait to come back. When I’m enjoying my 2 months ‘off’ (‘off’ meaning landscaping, gardening, cooking, writing, and enjoying endless activities with the two most beautiful kids in the world), I’ll remind myself of two things; 1) the ‘break’ is very well deserved, and 2) there are kids whose lives become much richer when we reach the end of the “two best things about teaching”.

_________________________

Just a thought – Give some thought to how much you love your job. Taking into consideration the fact that we all have those bad days, do you work with enough passion, enjoyment and effectiveness to deserve the break, or are you just working for the break. If it’s the latter, ask yourself why.

Two quotes this time… one for July, one for August.

“Good teachers are costly, but bad teachers cost more.” -Bob Talbert

“The mediocre teacher tells. The good teacher explains. The superior teacher demonstrates. The great teacher inspires.” -William Arthur Ward

What Teachers Make - Taylor Mali

A Little Change

2011-06-16T20:32:00.010-02:30

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

I’m constantly reminded that my children live in a world much different than the one I grew up in. I can’t count the number of times James has come to myself or my wife because he mistakenly exited out of the ‘Animal Sounds’ app on the iPod. There has never been a time in recorded history that our world has undergone such dramatic changes.

A few poignant examples:

      - The top 10 in-demand jobs of 2010 did not even exist in 2004.

      - One-eighth of couples who married in the United States last year met on the Internet.

      And my personal favorite – It is estimated that 4 exabytes of unique information will be generated this year, which is more than the previous 5,000 years.

That being said, there are many things - toys, games, books, television shows and ideas - that have stood the test of time, and for good reason. Norah watches Sesame Street regularly, and I noticed recently that they often re-use old segments from my viewing days in the early 1980s. (Near… Far... Classic.) We also read a lot of books from my old library; Norah gets quite the kick out of seeing the sloppy way I wrote my name on the inside cover of my books 25 years ago. So do I. I think a little bit of nostalgia is good for the soul.

But some things have changed, some ideas have changed, and I think that in many cases, change is good.

Norah and I are playing on the floor with her Disney animals; namely The Aristocats. She takes the role of Marie, Madame and Duchess and I’m Toulouse, Berlioz and Thomas O’Malley (Note: each character has a distinctive voice, and children are amazingly adept at both distinguishing the differences and pointing out your deficiencies in imitating these voices). However, Norah gave me a break on this particular day because she had her hands full keeping her own voices straight.

We’re playing with these cats right next to an elaborate set of tracks from a Thomas the Train set, which is also next to a series of towers Norah’s made out of foam blocks. She’s talking amongst the cats, and then she draws herself into the conversation.

Norah, as Marie: “Hi Norah.” Voice slightly high-pitched and feline.

Norah, as herself: ‘Oh, hi Marie”
Norah, as Marie, looking around the room: “Hey Norah, why are you so good at building tracks and streets and cities?”
Norah, as herself: “Oh, that’s cause I’m a girl. Girls are great at that kind of stuff.”

When she said this, I instantly went to the other room (after giving her a big kiss on the forehead), found my notebook, and wrote down the dialogue, word for word. I watched her closely, equal parts admiration and wonder. Watching her, I realized that she will grow up truly believing…truly knowing that girls can do anything they want, even the jobs that the kids of my day (myself included) would have considered the ‘male’ jobs.

Myself and my wife try to make sure that we don’t inadvertently push the stereotypes onto our children. When we updated Norah’s room a couple of years ago, we painted it blue. (NOTE: since then, that room has become James’ room, and Norah’s room is now bright pink – but it was her choice, not ours). When it’s time to play, the kids aren't concerned about which toys would be considered the 'traditional' male and female toys. Norah could be practicing her tee-ball or playing with a Fisher Price tool kit while James plays with (undresses) the Barbies and the Disney Princesses.

I know of parents who would never let their son touch a Barbie. I know of parents who absolutely refused to let their son wear pink on a national Anti-Bullying Wear Pink Day at school, even though hundreds of our students and all our teachers, male included, proudly wore our pink shirts.

Many adults, consciously or subconsciously, make the decision that their child should fit into the gender roles that are part of an increasingly outdated paradigm. This unfortunately has a more detrimental effect on females than males in most cases. But luckily, kids sometimes show us that in the traditional game of life, some rules are made to be broken.

At the tender age of three, my daughter understands that gender should in no way impact the career you seek, the activities you enjoy, or the passions you hold dear. However, there is no way to guarantee that the glass ceiling will have been shattered by the time she’s old enough to realize what it is.

…That’s why I’m also teaching her how to throw a baseball. Hard.

"Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'."
-Bob Dylan
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Just a thought – Next time you’re talking with a kid and have an opportunity to talk about their ambitions and ‘dream jobs’, bring up some ‘non-traditional’ options. See what they think. See what you think.

“How good does a female athlete have to be before we just call her an athlete?”
-Author Unknown

A Little Judgment

2011-05-31T20:29:00.004-02:30

Saturday morning. Norah and I are driving through town, headed for swimming lessons.

As we drive, she punctuates her monologue of how she and a mermaid are alike with questions about the things she sees through her window. It’s an admirable quality. She can tell a story or carry on a conversation while analyzing everything we drive past. Interspersed through the aforementioned monologue were the following observations and questions:

“Is that building a dance school Daddy? Will it be my dance school someday?”

“Do you think there’s a path to walk around that pond? Do you think rabbits use that path?”

“Why is there a yellow light between stop and go?”

But on this particular Saturday, she asked me a question that taught me a little something about myself. It was the best type of question. It was a question that made me question myself.

We stop at a red light, both of us bopping our heads to “The Wheels On The Bus”, when Norah looks out her window.

“Where do you think that man is going, Daddy?”

“Who?”

“That guy.” She points.

“Oh,” I reply. "I think he’s headed up the road.”

“No,” Norah returns. “I think he’s going to his house. That one.” She points again.

I look in the direction her finger indicates and smile broadly. “No, Norah honey. That’s not his house.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

I open my mouth, and then shut it. I don’t know how to answer. The reason I “knew” the house didn’t belong to the man was, in fact, the way he looked. The house was a nice one, a big one, and he didn’t look like he could own a nice, big house. In three seconds, I determined that this man’s physical appearance precluded his owning that particular home. Three seconds, and I deemed him unworthy of that home. Why?

Because it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days? I look in the mirror. I haven’t shaved in six.

Because his clothing has a rough, dirty look? When I fertilized the lawn last week, I wore jeans ripped to shreds and a stained shirt.

Because he was looking at the sidewalk as he walked, as if looking for loose change? Perhaps he was looking for a hair buckle his daughter lost, or a dinky belonged to his son.

I look in the mirror again, but this time it’s not to check out my unkempt appearance. It’s simply to take a look in the mirror.

“Well, I think it’s his house”, Norah says as the light turns green.

“You know what, Hun. I think you’re right."

We drive off, though I go slowly. I’m looking in the rear view mirror still. I’m trying to see if he’ll turn up the walkway to the nice looking home. Unfortunately, we go around a turn first, and I lose sight of him. Perhaps it’s better that I never know. It makes the lesson all the more meaningful.

I take a final look in the mirror. Not at myself, but at the little girl in the backseat. A little girl, playing with plastic binoculars who has no idea how much more clearly I see the world because of her.

____________

Just a thought – Steven Covey, author of The 7 Habits of Highly Effectively People, once confronted a man on a subway because the guy sat unnoticing as his kids ran wildly around the train, annoying and pestering all the passengers. His impression was that this man was an ineffective, useless parent. The man replied with an apology to Steven, saying that he’d just come from the hospital where his wife had just died of cancer.

We are quick to judge. It’s so much easier than taking the time to look deeper. In the next week, try to catch yourself in one of these judgmental moments, and take a look in the rear view mirror…

“Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.” - Bob Packwood

A Little Faith

2011-04-14T21:37:00.001-02:30

I don’t understand God.

In the recent past, I made a conscious decision to stop trying to understand anything that was most assuredly beyond my cognitive abilities; the extensive list includes such things as (a) how to fold fitted sheets, (b) why we need to fold fitted sheets properly in the first place, and (c) God.

Short Thought – Norah’s tucked in, and I’m lying down with her, talking about what we’ll do tomorrow. She says that she hopes it doesn’t rain. She then asks me why it rains. I give her the whole ‘thirsty trees and grass’ explanation, but she persists. “But who makes it rain?” she asks. “God,” I reply. I figured that she’s at the point where God talks are going to inevitably come up, so I throw it out there for her consideration. She thinks about it, and seems to accept it pretty readily. She asks the standard questions about where heaven is located, why he'd want to make it rain, and if he can hear us. I tell her that she’ll have to ask him to make a sunny day for her. (NOTE: we’ve since explained the water cycle to Norah; she likes the word evaporation.) As her questions wind down, the phone rings, and my wife calls out to say that it’s for me. I tell Norah I’ll be back in a minute and I go take the call. I return after a minute or so, and cuddle up next to her.

“What did he say Daddy?”

“Who, Honey?”

“God. What did he say?”

So, when you’re three, you assume that God is more than capable of picking up the phone to fill you in on his Divine Forecast. I laughed a little, and told her it wasn’t God on the phone. 'Oh', she replies indifferently, sleep starting to take over.

I laughed because the three year old idea of God calling me up shows the innocent, childlike understanding that is inherent in little kids. But, an idea later played on my mind. How can I laugh at Norah for her misunderstanding of God when there’s nothing to show that any of us understand the concept any more fully. Maybe if I told Norah that the majority of society views God as a very old man with a long white beard and a white robe, she’d laugh and say we’ve confused him with Santa Claus. The notion is a bit preposterous – if God is the image we so often see, the old man with flowing white hair, does this suggest he was once a little boy. What color was his hair before it turned white? Who did he play with as a kid? The point is, we create a God that fits the image we want to see. We do the same with Jesus. If you saw Jesus way back in Jerusalem, he would not be the same handsome gentleman you see with the pristine white skin in Catholic Churches. He would look very Middle Eastern. However, Westerners prefer to see Jesus as just like themselves. We do the same with God, but we age him. A lot.

I am by no means a religious person. I consider myself somewhat spiritual, moral, ethical and open minded. I am bothered not so much by people who feel they know God on a personal level, but by people who look scornfully (or worse, pitifully) at those of us who admit we just don’t understand the Big Guy…or Girl.

On Saturday, I met a woman who ‘truly’ knows God. The lovely Jehovah’s Witness came to the door, which I answered with James in my arms (it’s a strategy I use, suggesting Can’t you see I’m busy with child?) “What a sweet little girl,” she astutely remarked. James eyebrows furrowed. He was not going to be an easy sell. Anyway, we listened for a few moments, took the pamphlet she gave us, and we were most polite. In the living room, James took the pamphlet, the cover of which was a picture of Jesus, arms extended in invitation. In fact, it was quite similar to the posture I take when I ask James if he wants to come uppa. He looked at the pamphlet, at me, at the pamphlet, at me, at Jesus' beard, at my beard. I’m pretty sure he thought I was the Savior. But again, that’s a child’s understanding…

I think we need to be okay with the fact that we don’t understand God. Kids don’t understand God, and, according to The Who, the kids are alright…

______________

Just a thought - Listen to what a kid has to say about these 'divine' ideas. Listen without judgement. Ask questions. Answer questions. Be honest. ...And don't be afraid to say 'I don't know'.

"God is not what you imagine or what you think you understand. If you understand, you have failed." Saint Augustine

A Little Connection

2011-04-05T21:40:00.001-02:30

Can you hear me now? A phrase that has annoyed me since its first utterance. Society jokes about how annoying these loud cell phone users and rude texters can be. I’ve often pulled up to drive-thrus to find the industrious worker flicking away on their iPhone. If employers could develop an app that allowed their employees to take orders this way, efficiency would be through the roof.

I’ll leave the rant inherent in this topic to those much more capable of doing it justice. I’m not anti-technology by any means. The Netbook I’m now using is connected wirelessly, as is the laptop that my wife is currently using downstairs, the iPod Touch I use to download music and the Blackberry that incessantly buzzes somewhere in the house, like the midsummer mosquito that drones through each room, robbing you of sleep and sanity.

My wife recently suggested I get an iPhone. I’ve never texted, I rarely use my cell, but I would enjoy the convenience of accessing digital books from anywhere – perhaps while patiently waiting in line at the coffee shop drive-thru while Trainee’s fingers blur across the keys to form nonsensical acronyms that I hope I never understand.

The short thought - We’re sitting on the couch after supper a little while back. I’m checking my email. My wife is doing the same on her Blackberry. The kids are playing, laughing, falling down, laughing harder. At one point, our son James goes over to my wife and puts his arms out, asking to be picked up. She sits him on her lap as she finishes her email. “A da do” he says, as she completes her message. He looks around, and then looks back at her. “A da do”. A little louder. No response. Finally, he reaches out his little one-year-old hand, takes my wife by the chin, and pulls her face roughly around to look him square in the face. “A DA DO!” Her eyes, finally, are locked on his. A wireless connection has been established.

Sunday was the 38^th anniversary of the first cell phone call. Martin Cooper of Motorola used the 2.5 lb phone to call his chief competitor at Bell, no doubt to rub it in. It could be said then that the very first cell phone user was rude and undoubtedly annoying, at least to his competition. But it’s not the rudeness that worries me so much. It’s the ironic disconnect.

The Big Idea – When my son turned my wife’s face to his, wanting that personal eye contact, he reminded us of the most important connection there can be. Don’t get me wrong; I know of no child that gets more love, attention and nurturing than our kids, but this little example speaks to a larger issue. Especially with adults.

The old saying is that the eyes are the windows to the soul. How often do we seek out that soul, that connection? And how often are we content to have the blinds drawn, rarely seeing the world that lies within?

Can you hear me now?
_________

Just a thought - Put aside your electronic appendages for a while. Now, the debate begins over what constitutes 'a while'. Try it for a day. Give up the use of all electronics that are not essential to work or school, and focus on the people around you. I was at a conference a while back, and the facilitator challenged everyone to engage in 60 seconds of silent, uninterrupted eye contact with a stranger seated next to you. No talking, no laughing, no goofy awkward smiles, no looking away for a moment. Of the 150 or so people there, not one couple completed the 60 seconds. We've become disconnected. So, turn off all the electronics, and for one day, see if you can connect...

"Western society has accepted as unquestionable a technological imperative that is quite as arbitrary as the most primitive taboo: not merely the duty to foster invention and constantly to create technological novelties, but equally the duty to surrender to these novelties unconditionally, just because they are offered, without respect to their human consequences." Lewis Mumford

A Little Ambition

2011-03-29T21:42:00.001-02:30

“Hey Norah, what’s that building?” We are driving past the university, and my wife wants to see if she remembers its name.
“Where?” Norah looks in the opposite direction.

“Out your window.”

“Where?”

“There.”

“Oh… the una-versity. That’s where Daddy learned to be a teacher.”

“Right.” A pause. “Hey Norah, what are you going to be when you grow up?”

A longer pause. “Maybe…a fairy! ...Or a dentist. Or a doctor or a butterfly…”

“Good choices.”

And they are.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be an astronaut. Actually, when you’re a kid, there’s no wanting to be something; you are going to be something. I was going to be an astronaut.

Then, I was going to be an Olympic medal-winning swimmer… a farmer, a scientist, a writer, or one of those guys who climb the telephone poles. As far as I know, I never wanted to be an imaginary creature or a magnificent winged insect. But then, maybe I didn’t have Norah’s imagination. Or ambition…

The tendency is for an adult to chuckle, rub the head of the kid and say with a smile, “Honey, you can’t be a fairy.” I almost did this. Then, I recalled how many times myself and my wife have told Norah that she can be anything she wants to be. If you start imposing limitations on the imagination and ambition of a three year old, what effect will this have by the time they reach their teens? So yes, if she wants to be a fairy, she’ll be a fairy. If she wants to be a butterfly, she’ll be a butterfly.

The average person entering the workforce now will change careers at least 5 times. Not jobs within a career, but careers. I preached this idea to my Career Development class a couple of years ago; the idea of positive uncertainty. You do not know what the future holds, nor do you need to. You just need to know what you want to do with it. What are you passionate about? To demonstrate this, I had them do an assignment whereby they wrote their own eulogy. I did the same. I wrote the words someone would speak of me when I passed away, hopefully many years from now. It was powerful, to say the least. And revealing. I had kids tell me that their eulogies included personal accomplishments that they’d never dreamed of attaining or even considering. Sometimes, we don’t let ourselves consider them.

Sometimes, we don’t let our kids consider them.

I now let myself consider everything. I love being a counsellor. I would love to be a chef. I would love to be a woodworker. And I’d give anything to be a writer.

My kids’ limitless imaginations and unknowable potential remind me daily of one big idea – we can be what we want to be.

If, some day, I sit in the front row and watch the world-class dancer that is my daughter spin with the magic of the fairy she portrays, or if I stand in an art gallery and lose myself in her self-portrait (the one where she’s painted herself with wings more breathtaking than any Monarch), I’ll know why she was able to achieve these things.

Her mom and dad said that she could…
_________

Just a thought - Stop and ask yourself if there's a dream you've given up on. Seriously. Take a minute and think about it. If you were to live to be 100, what would that 100 year old person say to the 'present' you? Would any excuse you now offer for not pursuing that dream satisfy the 100 year old who missed that opportunity?

"The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of the dream..." William Shakespeare

A Little Trash

2011-03-27T21:40:00.002-02:30

It really is quite small. I mean, in the grand scheme of the universe and what exists within and beyond, what difference will one juice box make?

Firstly, I’m not an extreme recycler, composter, paper towel reuser, or anything of the sort. I do recycle, I plan to set up a compost bin when the snow melts, and I turned off most lights for Earth Hour, but I don’t attack people who don’t live by Green principles and ideals. I try to suggest the importance for recycling and such, and generally I hope people draw their own conclusions about the concerning state of our world. An example of this concerning state: the amount of garbage produced in the United States in 1 year alone could fill enough garbage trucks to reach the moon if lined up bumper to bumper. Problem is, it’s not going to the moon. It’s staying here. Actually, I’m pretty sure that if it were going to the moon, that would be a big problem too. Garbage truck tracks erasing Neil Armstrong's immortal footprint; one giant leap for mankind.

I’ve been spending a bit of time in the kindergarten class of the school where I’m a teacher and counselor, and while most of these posts will deal with ideas my own kids evoke, there will undoubtedly be others that will come from the other short people in my life. I’m sitting in the classroom at recess break, and a kid comes over to me and starts tugging on my sleeve. When I ask him what’s wrong (because the look on his face suggests the world is about to end), he tells me, “There’s a juice box in the garbage! Not in the recycling container! Now, it’s going to be garbage and it will never be another juice box!” The horror on his face was overwhelming, if not a little amusing. But the idea was huge - Imagine if everyone in the world (especially the Western Hemisphere) considered a trashed recyclable to be as abhorrent as this kid considered it to be. He actually couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

What if we all thought like this? What kind of difference could we make, and how many trucks full of garbage could we remove from the assembly line to the stars?

Actually, I lied earlier when I said I wasn’t a paper towel reuser – me and the kid used mine to put the juice box in the right container.

One small step for man...
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Just a thought - How hard do we really try? We don't have to single-handedly change the world, but ask yourself, Am I really making an effort? A good one? It's easy to become complacent. It's even easier to be lazy. It's hard to answer the tough questions you ask yourself.

"Human nature. Nobody does anything until it's too late..." Michael Crichton