Growing Up is Hard to Do

5 April, 2014

I once heard about a guy that wrote The Ten Commandments of Parenting. Then he had a child. His second edition was entitled, Ten Suggestions for Parenting. After his second child, he became a plumber. He just wanted to be able to fix something and walk away.

I am great with kids, of almost any age. Most of my acumen derives simply from a selfish attempt to make people like me. Kids are easier prey, because they react to less subtle attempts at humor. If you can break wind, you can make most boys squeal with delight. Easy. Thanks Dad.

Girls are usually pretty easy as well. They just need a little more time to adjust to the obvious breach in social decorum, not to mention air. Once you have them, though, they are yours forever.

Raising kids, however, is a totally different plane of existence from merely entertaining them. I am totally clueless. The baby stage wasn't too hard. That is more an issue of endurance than knowledge. An infant has some pretty basic needs and only cries when one of those needs isn't being met. That is exactly how men operate:

1. Acknowledge the existence of a problem.
2. Analyze the situation.
3. Determine the best course of action.
4. Instruct your wife.
   
5. Return to the ball game on TV.
6. Adjust volume if necessary.

As children get older, they begin to learn how to manipulate emotions to achieve desired results. This requires the parent to learn how to discern truth from reality, even down to shades of truth. Men are not designed for this type of work. We are the hammer, making every problem a nail to be driven. 

Women have more tools in their toolbox. I think it's because they were the second model off the assembly line. God added some pretty cool modifications to Eve, like subtlety and compassion. Man's dearth of so many good qualities leads him to seek out the One who possesses them. The abundance of good qualities in women leads them to search out the One that understands them. That's some really bad theology, but it is at least fun to think about.


Teenagers have overrun the castle walls in my house. Elizabeth is 15 and Katherine 12 9/12, so I give her full credit by virtue of rounding up to the nearest whole number.

When faced with an enemy with superior numbers and an iron will, it is best to seek terms of surrender and live in peace, rather than die quickly and go down in history as an ignominious despot. "Better a live dog, than a dead lion." (King Solomon, Ecc 9:4)

Fortunately for me, I am a good negotiator, and Elizabeth was my first born. She asks for relatively simple things, like staying up later than usual, eating ice cream and applying makeup. She is something like Mollie, the horse in Animal Farm, that chooses a life of servitude with the humans, in exchange for pretty bows in her hair. Done. One day she will realize her best qualities lie deep within. Elizabeth will refine her talents and use them to take over the world. Until then we just need to provide some guardrails to keep her from getting hurt.

Katherine is more like Napoleon, the ultimate victor in the Animal Farm rebellion. Snowball started it, but Napoleon sent him to the slaughterhouse. "All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others." I admire Katherine's style, even while I cower in fear. She raises the ante until you are forced to fold your hand. With Elizabeth, you can withhold phone or makeup. Katherine will give you her phone before you ask, as a way of saying, "I don't give a rip what you take away. Now whatcha got, punk?"

The interesting part to me is that we really don't ever need to punish Katherine. She does a pretty good job of that herself. We normally tell her to relax, don't worry about grades, go have fun. She responds with more drive, more anxiety over grades, more stress. The castle gates are open, but she seems to prefer scaling the walls instead. The only thing that we have learned so far is that she responds better to whispers than shouts. She expects bluster, but we respond, sometimes, with a gentle breeze. One day her anger will subside and she will channel her passion for creative, constructive endeavors. I have no doubt about that. Between now and then, we just need to hang on, until the storm abates. It will run its course, and we will repair the damage. 

Somebody once told me that children are like the moon, always moving into a different phase. I take great comfort in that, knowing that whatever our current situation, we can make it to the next phase in the cycle. It also scares me to wonder whether we are heading toward a full moon or have already passed it. 

The best consolation is knowing that we just need to follow the Light. 

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” (Jesus, John 8:12)

Talking with the Devil

4 March, 2014

This is an interesting day. It is the only day with a command. March "Forth". I know it's kind of corny, but I still like it. A pastor used it one time in our church, as a means to prod us to take action. It was his last sermon at the church, so I guess it worked.

The "Christian Army" is a strange beast. We have a general, who left the field, in physical form, 2000 years ago. It was like Douglas McArthur in the Philippines. "I shall return." Only Dougie didn't leave behind our General's secret weapon, the Holy Spirit. So we don't have a physical general, but we do have a spiritual Master Sergeant, who leads us in battle, gives us direction and occasionally relegates us to KP duty. (For all my current Army buddies, that means Kitchen Patrol. You can see examples of it in old John Wayne movies about WWII, along with Jeeps and Tommy guns.)

Sometimes I feel like I'm taking the wrong hill. The mission is somewhere "over there", but I am running in the wrong direction. Not to worry, because we're making good time getting there. So how do you know if the war you're waging is the right fight? Let me know when you have the correct answer, so you can tell me.

We have two polar opposites in Elizabeth and Katherine, when it comes to school performance. Elizabeth wants a gold star for showing up to class. Katherine turns down the gold star for getting straight A's, because she should have gotten all A+'s. Applying that to our Spanish situation is doubly hard for her. Katherine is absolutely mortified with failing a test. We told both of them to expect to fail for at least the first semester, while they made all the requisite adjustments, like learning a new language in a new school in a new country. Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat, and she promptly set about doing nothing, in an effort to pass the bar as low as possible. Katherine went straight to defib at the prospect of failure.

The other day, Katherine had another meltdown. In airline parlance, she is experiencing some turbulence. Hormones are surging within her like the Mighty Mississippi, and her mood changes direction quicker than a fat rabbit eluding a skinny fox. Most of her anxiety stems from being a perfectionist, which is nothing new. What is new is the level of rage, despair and hopelessness to which she will fall. This is followed by soaring heights of happiness, affection and playfulness. I feel like I am watching an elephant on a bungee cord, in an awesome display of Newton's Law of equal and opposite reactions. Sometimes I feel like the cord.

Katherine related to us yesterday how the French teacher had singled her out in class to say that Katherine wasn't paying attention and that she needed to do better. That sent me to the moon. The Redneck in Europe was about to pull out a can of whupass on somebody; the economy-sized version with the easy pour spout.

I better preface this with a little note to the reader. My mama was a teacher for 30 years. I have the utmost respect for teachers, and I have always taken the teacher's side, when my children or other parents have complained about a particular educator. This time, however, I have previously met and spoken to Anti-Christ. I have seen her expression, when she asked if my daughter did any work at home. I have witnessed the condescending look in her beady little Hell-stained eyes. The can is open and ready to pour.

My first attack was an email, which I am proud to say was written entirely in Spanish. A good letter or email should contain just the right gas/air mixture to combust without causing damage to the engine. Just spewing out a bunch of expletives is sophomoric and belies a lack of vocabulary. I wanted to tell her that if she was on fire, I wouldn't pee on her, but it is much more effective to paint word pictures that lead the recipient to the inevitable conclusion that she is Wormwood, who needs nothing less than a rectal exorcism and a one way ticket back to Hell, without actually saying that. My daddy gained some notoriety on his way to becoming chairman of the Darlington County School Board for his letters to the editor of the Hartsville Messenger. If I can see far down the road, it is because I stand on the shoulders of giants.

Being something of a perfectionist myself, I first sent the email to Julio for proofreading. The worst thing in the world is a poorly written beatdown letter, especially one that is going to a teacher.  Julio dutifully returned the missive with the appropriate corrections and added, "Are you sure you want to include the last paragraph?" Well, duh, of course I want to send the last paragraph. That's the one that says she is a shame to her profession and qualifies her for water boarding. A good friend will make bail. A best friend will punch you on the shoulder and ask, "Who are we gonna call to make bail?"

In the meantime, I had also requested a meeting with the principal, who is our friend. I had told him I wanted to discuss Katherine's French teacher, so he would know precisely how I wanted to direct fire. I waited to send the email, until after my meeting with the principal, and Mephistopheles. Susan rode shotgun, in case I ran into linguistic barricades. I laced up my roach-stompin', tail-kickin', sphincter-insertin' size 13EEE boots and waited patiently in the outer offices. If you mess with my family, you will pull back a nub.

Luis, the principal, is a wise man. He had assembled a few people for our meeting, including the guidance counselor and Katherine's adviser. We first met without Beelzebub. That took a little starch out of my collar. Even when I'm mad, I don't like to talk about somebody behind her back. I prefer to face the enemy and spew venom, rather than take a chance on somebody else diluting it. During this meeting I maintained decorum and only made slight references to French class, preferring to keep a professional demeanor. Luis related to me that Lucifer had actually told Luis that morning how proud she was of Katherine's performance on her last exam. Well, that didn't fit my image of the Beast. What this a clever deception? Then she walked in the door.

Southern grace dictates a warm salutation, even for the enemy. I kissed both of Judas' cheeks, as is the Spanish custom. We sat down and discussed Katherine's plight. Apollyon related how her own daughter (aka demon in training), who sits beside Katherine in French class and refuses to help Katherine, is having back trouble and requires physical therapy, due to stress-induced cramping. She also related how this entire class seems to be abnormally preoccupied with good grades and performance. Great. That's just great. Not only is my daughter nesting with a bed of perfectionists, but now the Beast is becoming more human-like. She even appears to care a little bit. The scales were retracting from her face. That is not fair. Then she pulled out her ace in the hole.

On Katherine's most recent French exam, she had written in big red letters, "Tres bien!!!" Katherine scored a 5.5, which was higher than many of the Spanish students. Maria related how happy she was with Katherine's progress. She even got emotional with Luis, and told him the other classes should have more modifications to help Katherine learn the material easier.

The pus began draining out of my heart. I don't know what happened to her, but she definitely changed from the last time we met. Perhaps it was her own daughter's plight. Maybe it was the fact that we involved her boss. Whatever the reason, for now we have an ally where we previously had an enemy. When we showed Katherine the test, you could see that she was having trouble reconciling this new truth with her old paradigm.

I did not send the email, and I am glad I didn't. I learned a lot of things, all over again:

• Julio is my friend.
• Katherine is tough, but fragile.
• Luis is wise.
• Teachers are people too.
• I can write a nasty, almost grammatically correct hate letter in Spanish.
• God forgives, even before I ask.

The right hill to take is the one called Calvary. The battle is already over. We just need to occupy the ground. Onward, Christian Soldiers.

Futbol Sala

6 October, 13

Katherine plays Futbol Sala, or indoor soccer, in Spain. This was her first foray into Spanish immersion, and I am so proud of her for it. None of the girls on her team speak more English than, "Hello." One of her coaches, Pedro, speaks pretty good English, and actually tutors my girls in Spanish. Kilian doesn't even know, "Hello."

This is an Under-14 team, so most of the girls are actually Elizabeth's age, which creates quite a gap in size. As you may be aware, girls in this age range can vary dramatically in body shapes and sizes. Katherine is Lilliputian compared to these giants, but she has worked very hard and earned their respect. The girls are all very nice and have welcomed Katherine as much as a mascot as a player.

Sunday was Katherine's first match. She is a portera, or goalie, which is the same position she played in the USA. The girls here are toting cannons for legs, however, so I was a little nervous for my little daughter. Katherine sat out the first half, while Miriam, the other portera, played. We were ahead 4-1 at halftime, so Katherine had a nice lead to start off.

We ended up losing 8-5. Not a great beginning to Katherine's futsal career. It wasn't pretty, but Katherine played hard, making several good stops. I cringed at every goal, expecting to hear THAT parent say something under her breath about how, "Maybe they should give her a little breather, bless her heart." I'm sorry, but it's almost always the mama that does that. The daddy is too busy dog-cussing the ref to be worried about the players. It's a nice division of labor, actually. That's the closest they probably get to teamwork all week long.

It helped not being able to speak the language, but I don't think the parents were really being that bad. They were actually encouraging the girls and the team, even Katherine. That was nice. Coming here is hard enough without having to make Susan post bail for me, after I knock out somebody for talking bad about my baby girl. I am a Redneck after all and civility only goes so far.