14 September, 2013

Parenting

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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