14 September, 13
Parenting
Now I know that whatever I say on this subject is going to
get some Tsks! from somewhere. A guy wrote a book about parenting, called The
Ten Commandments of Parenting. Then he had a child. His next book was
called Ten Guidelines to Parenting. Then he had another child. His third
book was about yachting.
All I know about parenting is that it is not for sissies.
Having a teen and a tween, I am constantly giving thanks to God above that they
did not start life as teenagers. The world’s population would be significantly
lower, if that were the case. By all accounts, my two girls are well-behaved,
smart, beautiful and talented. They have the package, but it is those very attributes
that sometimes makes it impossible to do the right thing as a dad. How do you
convince your daughter that she does not NEED another shade of eyeliner? You
can withhold the eyeliner without convincing, but the desire will still be
there for that stinking eyeliner.
I have noticed some differences in styles between Spanish
and American parents. Let’s go ahead and say that we love our children equally,
to resolve any unnecessary border disputes. Defining love, however, is a
totally separate subject. What is the proper way to parent? I am focusing on
teenagers, as that is the stage of life for me and all my friends. The burning
issue for all of us is the degree of freedom that you give to your kid. Where
do they go? What do they do? Who are they with? When will they return? Do we
have DNA samples for all the boys, so we can do a quick cross-reference of all
the dead bodies, when I find out that some of those boys like my precious
little princess? (It is good to be prepared for all possibilities…)
The Spanish seem to have a more laissez-faire approach. The
night begins with, “We’re going to the park.” We don’t know which park. We
don’t know who will be there. They walk alone at night. No parents are there to
supervise. Boys AND girls will be there together. Alone. At night. In a
freaking park. Or maybe a hotel room, for all I know. Their kids walk to soccer practice. Alone. Kids
go together to the big state fair, without parents. They even ride bicycles
without helmets and drink from public water fountains. Nobody has wipes.
The only logical conclusion to all this obviously poor
parenting is that Spain must be rife with teenage pregnancy, drug use, gang
violence and all those other things that we don’t have in America. Two days
ago, a crime was committed in La Alberca. Somebody broke into a house at 10
A.M. and stole everything. How do I know this? Because it was the talk of the
town. Why? Because it never happens.
In retrospect, raising children in Spain looks a lot like my
childhood in Hartsville, SC. In the summertime, I left the house in the morning and came home at
night. My parents had no idea where I was, what I was doing or with whom I was
doing it. I climbed to the tops of the tallest trees. I walked on rooftops. I
rode my bike across busy streets. I swam in creeks without lifeguards. Somehow
I survived.
So what is the proper way to parent? I have absolutely no
idea. I can truthfully say that my heart drops into my bowels every time one of
my daughters walks out of the door to go somewhere, but they go. I am a knot of
nerves as school approaches, and they have to jump into the deep end of a
public school in Spain, where the teachers and students speak Spanish all day
long. Somehow they will survive, and one day they will be parents, too.
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