It is raining. The confinement and the stuffiness inside have made me tired and short-tempered. I want sleep, but the inexorable natter of petulent children, teasing and arguing and crying, grinds away the soft drowsy edge. A door slams. They are short-tempered, too.
Wind-driven rain shears flakes of grey white paint from the window frames; they spiral downwards and then cling, sullenly inert, to the greasy pavement. The tree outside the window shivers and stretches sideways, its overturned leaves the same drained color as the ragged sky.
To break the monotony, we go out, a trip to the mall. In a place where it rains so much, it's surprising that there's so little for young children to do indoors. Television makes me hot and itchy. It makes my eyes hurt. It makes the children want things that they do not need. It steals our time.
The rain has slowed, it is now merely a wet dust. The drops dance in the wind and cling to my face and lashes like tears. This is not a falling rain, it is a settling one. A steel drum band plays grimly under a black canopy in the center of town. The children drop coins in the cases and dance until we are out of earshot. No one stops to listen.
The children splash in puddles with their boots, but even this is tedious to them. They want to go home. They want to be warm and dry. They want to watch television. So do I.
It is still raining.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
That's No Way to Run an Airline
Geez, has it been a month since the last post? I'm sorry...
I'd intended to tell you all about the Italy trip, but I couldn't find a way to write it so that it reflected the true beauty and warmth of the places we visited, or in a way that didn't come across as travelogue or worse, as self-serving. Suffice to say that if you haven't been to Italy, go now if you can. You'll not regret it.
Parenting is hard. This should come as no surprise to anyone with children. We all like to think of ourselves as good parents, but what does that mean, really? Does it mean never disappointing our kids? I certainly hope not, since I really disappointed Caroline today.
Last night, in a fit of annoyance at all things messy, I threw something of hers away. It was a trifling little thing - a shoe box lid that converts into a doll house, along with whatever doll stuff was in it at the time - because it happened to be on the living room floor, and I happened to be tired of picking up the kid's crap.
When I threw it away, I suppose I knew that she'd be upset, but it wasn't until this morning when, my face just lathered for a shave, the dreaded question came.
"Daddy," she asked sweetly, "where is my doll house lid?"
"What's a doll house lid?" I knew, of course, exactly what she was after, but I stalled as best I could, hoping she'd get distracted by a bit of lint or something.
"That I got with my new shoes."
"New shoes?" I repeated, feigning ignorance; the lather squeaking its accusation across my chin and cheeks.
When I had finally run out of questions, I had no choice but to admit that I'd thrown it away. At first she didn't react, and I thought maybe she hadn't heard, or didn't care. It seemed to take a minute for her face to bloom into full expression of anguish, an unpleasant mix of disappointment, betrayal and anger. I don't wish to see it again.
To add insult to injury, I tried to make it her fault. "Don't leave your toys laying around - I'm sick of picking them up!" This is true enough, but in actual fact, what drove me to it was the cumulative effect of the toys and of the generally apalling state of the kitchen floor, the children having recently completed a project involving something called 'glitter glue'. Curse the twisted mind which spawned this hellish combination of microscopic bits of shiny colored plastic in a thick sticky substance. The residue of this project will be with us for some time to come.
Caroline refused to say goodbye to me this morning. She who usually elbows Michael out of the way for the best position to blow kisses from the front window refused to even look at me as I left.
I've always had a deeply morbid streak, so it's a rare day that I leave the house without at least a fleeting recognition that, life being short and relatively fragile, mine might end at any moment; and that the final mental image the children would have of me after my untimely death would be through that pane of glass, streaked with paint and dust. What a horrible thought, then, was the one that occurred to me today: that my daughter's last memory of me would be of me as asshole.
Off and on, this thought haunted me through the day, and so I was grateful that Caroline was awake when I came home tonight. My reception was chilly at first, but after telling her that it was stupid of me and that I was sorry, she softened. It seems we're on the mend now, since I got her to smile, and even let her scam me into telling her another story.
I used to know a guy who insisted that parents should be never be seen to be wrong by their children. This seems to me an impossible standard to live up to, and, even if one could twist the facts in such a way as to appear to be right all the time (and this is relatively easy to accomplish with kids), the offspring would surely develop a warped view of the world. I'm human. I'm going to be wrong sometimes. I'm going to do stupid shit. I'm going to be an asshole now and again. It's the way life is, best to learn to deal with it young.
This doesn't excuse me being an asshole of course. I'll do my best not to be, but I think it's important for kids to realize that everyone, even their parents, can be wrong sometimes, and even more important for them to see their parents admit when they're wrong and try to make amends.
When British Airways recently began full-scale operations in the new state of the art Terminal 5 at Heathrow airport, there were, predictably, many problems. Baggage handling systems malfunctioned, causing massive delays and cancellations, escalators abruptly converted themselves into steps, employees were late because they hadn't been told where to park. Days of public outrage ensued, during which time, the president of BA more or less buried his head and denied that there was a problem.
By the time he finally fessed up and tried to rectify the problems, it was too late. BA's reputation was damaged, and the airline will have a hard time recovering. I avoid it for business travel when I can (Virgin's sooo much better...). I recall an editorial on the subject, which with profound wisdom pointed out that customers are remarkably forgiving of you making a complete cockup of things, provided you react appropriately, acknowledge the problem, and be seen trying to fix it. The object lesson here is that if you're the president of an airline, a few hours spent helping to sort your customer's bags will do more than any amount of well-placed PR material. And the object lesson for me is that this forgiveness principle applies equally to many things beyond running airlines.
I just hope it applies to parenting.
I'd intended to tell you all about the Italy trip, but I couldn't find a way to write it so that it reflected the true beauty and warmth of the places we visited, or in a way that didn't come across as travelogue or worse, as self-serving. Suffice to say that if you haven't been to Italy, go now if you can. You'll not regret it.
Parenting is hard. This should come as no surprise to anyone with children. We all like to think of ourselves as good parents, but what does that mean, really? Does it mean never disappointing our kids? I certainly hope not, since I really disappointed Caroline today.
Last night, in a fit of annoyance at all things messy, I threw something of hers away. It was a trifling little thing - a shoe box lid that converts into a doll house, along with whatever doll stuff was in it at the time - because it happened to be on the living room floor, and I happened to be tired of picking up the kid's crap.
When I threw it away, I suppose I knew that she'd be upset, but it wasn't until this morning when, my face just lathered for a shave, the dreaded question came.
"Daddy," she asked sweetly, "where is my doll house lid?"
"What's a doll house lid?" I knew, of course, exactly what she was after, but I stalled as best I could, hoping she'd get distracted by a bit of lint or something.
"That I got with my new shoes."
"New shoes?" I repeated, feigning ignorance; the lather squeaking its accusation across my chin and cheeks.
When I had finally run out of questions, I had no choice but to admit that I'd thrown it away. At first she didn't react, and I thought maybe she hadn't heard, or didn't care. It seemed to take a minute for her face to bloom into full expression of anguish, an unpleasant mix of disappointment, betrayal and anger. I don't wish to see it again.
To add insult to injury, I tried to make it her fault. "Don't leave your toys laying around - I'm sick of picking them up!" This is true enough, but in actual fact, what drove me to it was the cumulative effect of the toys and of the generally apalling state of the kitchen floor, the children having recently completed a project involving something called 'glitter glue'. Curse the twisted mind which spawned this hellish combination of microscopic bits of shiny colored plastic in a thick sticky substance. The residue of this project will be with us for some time to come.
Caroline refused to say goodbye to me this morning. She who usually elbows Michael out of the way for the best position to blow kisses from the front window refused to even look at me as I left.
I've always had a deeply morbid streak, so it's a rare day that I leave the house without at least a fleeting recognition that, life being short and relatively fragile, mine might end at any moment; and that the final mental image the children would have of me after my untimely death would be through that pane of glass, streaked with paint and dust. What a horrible thought, then, was the one that occurred to me today: that my daughter's last memory of me would be of me as asshole.
Off and on, this thought haunted me through the day, and so I was grateful that Caroline was awake when I came home tonight. My reception was chilly at first, but after telling her that it was stupid of me and that I was sorry, she softened. It seems we're on the mend now, since I got her to smile, and even let her scam me into telling her another story.
I used to know a guy who insisted that parents should be never be seen to be wrong by their children. This seems to me an impossible standard to live up to, and, even if one could twist the facts in such a way as to appear to be right all the time (and this is relatively easy to accomplish with kids), the offspring would surely develop a warped view of the world. I'm human. I'm going to be wrong sometimes. I'm going to do stupid shit. I'm going to be an asshole now and again. It's the way life is, best to learn to deal with it young.
This doesn't excuse me being an asshole of course. I'll do my best not to be, but I think it's important for kids to realize that everyone, even their parents, can be wrong sometimes, and even more important for them to see their parents admit when they're wrong and try to make amends.
When British Airways recently began full-scale operations in the new state of the art Terminal 5 at Heathrow airport, there were, predictably, many problems. Baggage handling systems malfunctioned, causing massive delays and cancellations, escalators abruptly converted themselves into steps, employees were late because they hadn't been told where to park. Days of public outrage ensued, during which time, the president of BA more or less buried his head and denied that there was a problem.
By the time he finally fessed up and tried to rectify the problems, it was too late. BA's reputation was damaged, and the airline will have a hard time recovering. I avoid it for business travel when I can (Virgin's sooo much better...). I recall an editorial on the subject, which with profound wisdom pointed out that customers are remarkably forgiving of you making a complete cockup of things, provided you react appropriately, acknowledge the problem, and be seen trying to fix it. The object lesson here is that if you're the president of an airline, a few hours spent helping to sort your customer's bags will do more than any amount of well-placed PR material. And the object lesson for me is that this forgiveness principle applies equally to many things beyond running airlines.
I just hope it applies to parenting.
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