Suckers: Part 2 of that other thing

Late start today.  It's okay.  As I profess to the kids, it's about turning it around.  When they go batshit over a red versus blue sucker, I let them be until they can steer their guano boat in a different direction.  I'd never be one to say "right" direction because I have no idea what that is.  But when they're screaming and crying in a puddle of drool on their alphabet mat, different is good.

That's the thing that is so striking: kids are these little fallible humans, and all their behavior comes with a backdrop of bright colors, pretty landscapes and gallant cartoons.  We hope to subdue them with dancing creatures and warbling fuzzies, and they do all they can to shatter the sparkly goodness of our desired outcome.  I guess that's good, or at least better than breaking them with a whip.  It is indeed, however, a breaking.  Slow and to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. 

I love that we say, "If they don't figure out how to behave at home, then peer pressure will certainly get to them."  But that's the thing that scares me: What if it doesn't?  Or what if they have crappy peers?  For as much as I want my kids to be independent and strong, I really don't want them to be so free that living under a bridge isn't a bad thing.  What if they listen to us and be whatever they want to be, and end up hopping trains and robbing banks?

The good news is that we have great prison movies and many of today's schools are like a Scared Straight program every day. 

"Little Jimmy get shot outside of study hall!" 

"Well, you should probably stay in class."

Back to something less glib: the child on our stage, all prettified by our hopes and dreams and Oprah.

It's hard to say if you can ever even slightly escape the grasp of your parent's influence, so now we wryly say that it's our chance to haunt our kids right up to the end. The trick now becomes taking a gander at yourself and making sure you're living right. And it's easy to point at your job and your minivan and assume it's so, but just how many little ticks are you dropping in the open vessels that scamper around your house?

Otto seems way too comfortable pretend bludgeoning his brother.

Early on, I mean way early on, I saw Quin do things that I don't like about myself.  When he plays with his toy laptop computer he shouts, "Come on!" at it just like I do mine.  And it's really sad because he's not waiting for his laptop to do anything.  He's just doing what daddy does and yelling at the inanimate object on his lap.  He does the same with the remote control, and I've heard the same whiny demands while he's in the bathroom.  That might make the most sense. 

It has me watching myself as carefully as a I can.  And then, whilst wading in introspection, I see my boys watching me and wondering what in the hell I'm doing. 

"Oh," says Quin's developing brain, "I guess we should be very deliberate about everything we do." 

"Otto, look at dad.  He hasn't moved in ten minutes and he's taped his fingers together so he doesn't pick his nose.  That's who I want to be.  Otto, are you with me?  OTTO!  Come on!"

So I let go, yet with the new, unfortunate nuance of loudly scolding myself whenever I say or do something I don't want them to repeat.  That should make for a real crazy fucker under a bridge. 

If I could translate anything, it would be that I so want them to be successful (whatever that is) and content that I'm combing over myself like a hungry monkey.  It's an honor that anything fluttering so close to innocence looks up to me.  As a matter of fact that's something I need break them from doing.