Tag: father-son

Teenage Rebellion: Stage I

RilalyLeave a comment

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” Soren Kierkegaard 

I thought my teenage rebellion was so intense that it might give me some insight into the subject. I might not be not an expert on much, but I could probably give seminars on teenage rebellion. Now that teenage rebellion has done an about face, and it’s in my face, I’ve realized tis’ better to give than receive, and as with just about everything involving the complex human mind, teenage rebellion is so situational that we can only learn from it going forward. 

The circumstances that defined my teen years are so different than my rebellious teenager’s that I cannot use my model to understand his better. I was an angry young man, due to situations beyond anyone’s control. Those circumstances deprived me of a normal maturation process, and I was righteously indignant about it. Give me something to be righteously indignant about, back then, and I righteously indignanted it. It made me angry, and I didn’t care what it was. My son is not near as angry, because he does not have as much to be as angry about, so his rebellion isn’t as intense, but he does need to define himself, and I am his opposing force.  

“I actually worry about boys who don’t rebel,” I used to say to fathers who complained about their rebellious sons. “Rebellion is a boy’s way to develop his own distinct and individual personality, and they do so in direct contrast to their dad’s. Most men, I know now, who didn’t rebel against their dads when they were teenagers turned out to be relatively uninteresting adults.” I still think that observation holds, but my theoretical arguments recently met reality with my own kid. I realized that it doesn’t matter how we look at it, teen rebellion always hurts a little. I’m learning that I’m no longer his idol, his reason for being, or his joy in life. I knew this was coming, we all do, as some form of rebellion is almost an inevitability. Yet, it still hurts a little to learn that we’re now playing the bad guy in their production, and one of their goals in life is to find a way to destroy our Death Star. 

Rebellious Stages 

“I hate you!” they say, to kick off the first stage of their rebellion. I’ve heard other parents who were genuinely damaged by this coming-of-age comment, because their kid said it with such a mean face, like they actually meant it. “They’re sending a flare up to see how you react to it. I’m not saying they don’t mean it. They mean it, like we meant it, but they’re dumb kids, like we were. We didn’t know what we were talking about back then, and they’re as dumb and immature as we were.” 

In their ever-maturing mind that isn’t mature yet, they’ve discovered that we aren’t the greatest thing since sliced bread. “You’re dumb!” he says with and without using those words. It’s part of the process.

If we die before they hit their teen years, they’ll have our legacy preserved in amber, and they will spend their whole lives trying to live up to whatever idealized image they dreamed up about us. If we’re lucky enough to survive long enough to see them mature to their teen years, we’ll learn how many faults we have. They view their existence as that of a prisoner in a jail cell whose only mission in life is to escape. They’ll examine our fortress for the smallest chink, and they’ll use it once they find it. If we’re lucky enough to survive into their thirties and forties, we might eventually see them circle back to the idea that we’re not as dumb as they thought we were. If these progressions aren’t universal truths, they are close.  

“I have free will” he told me at the store to kick off the next stage of his rebellion. He said this after I questioned the item that he wanted me to purchase for him. I suggested he purchase another item, and he stubbornly refused. He considered this ‘free will’ line, a line he learned while studying The Constitution in class, the perfect comeback. I could see it on his face. 

“You do have free will,” I said, “but the force of your free will will be offset by another force, a fiduciary one that will arrive when we enter the checkout aisle. When fiduciary requirements limit your free will, that constraint will be met by a different and opposing force, mine.” 

His definition of rebellion has changed, progressed, and evolved, and my responses to it require an equal measure of progression. He, like most boys his age, is a robot. He doesn’t view the world emotionally. He doesn’t care if his statements hurt my feelings, as far as he’s concerned I’m as automated as he is, and it doesn’t do either of us any good if we become animated about it. His brain hasn’t matured enough to embrace empathy or sympathy yet. He requires logic, rational thinking, and a psychologically sound rationale from me. In these moments, he doesn’t like me, but he doesn’t dislike me as much as I disliked my father. Even if his revelations on the limitations of my intelligence and my horrible characteristics progress, I know I can’t let my desire to get him to like me get in the way of doing what I think is best for him.  

It’s all about the small stuff at this point, I don’t like the shirt he’s wearing, I don’t like his hairdo, and I don’t like the way he overreacts to silly, stupid things, but we’re just entering the first act of our production. He’s starting to make his own conscientious choices, and in that tiny arena, I know nothing, but I’ve heard genuine non-sarcastic admissions to his friends that they should go to me for answers, “Because he always seems to know things.”  

My dad was a serious man, introverted unless he was drinking, religious on Sundays, and a narcissist. I tried, in every way I could think up, to be the exact opposite of all that. He wanted me to get good grades, because he didn’t want to get in trouble with the in-laws. I like to think I’m more concerned with his well-being, his happiness, and his ultimate successes in life. I celebrate his momentary successes, and I criticize him for his failings, but I’m not so old, or so far removed from the situations he faces, to know how hard it is to succeed academically and athletically. I tell him that I can advise him and steer him in the right direction, but at some point, he’s going to be on the field or behind a desk by himself. One of the biggest differences between my dad and me is that I’m in the stands, literally and figuratively, cheering him on. I tell him this when he rebels. I tell him that we’re on the same team, but it doesn’t make a dent, literally or figuratively.  

My advice to anyone experiencing such a dilemma is that if your son is between the ages of thirteen and twenty-six, he is not fully formed yet. As painful as their rebellion can be, at times, they’re trying to discover their individuality, and that definition will be formed at our expense. No matter how unlikable, unreliable I am as an intellectual, or how inconsistent I can be, by his definition, I will continue to try to be a strong, consistent beacon in the darkness for him when matters become too complicated and chaotic for him. I also know that as we travel down this road together, I should probably grab onto something for stability, as this is only stage one.

Those of us who have never been the Death Star before wonder if they’ll ever appreciate what we’re doing for them? I know I didn’t appreciate what my dad did for me for a long, LONG time. As I raise my son, I reflect on one of the mistakes/lessons my dad taught me. My dad made the mistake of expecting praise, appreciation, and/or personal rewards for everything he did for me. It’s human nature to expect that, right? As my dad learned the hard way, they might arrive, but we’ll have to eat right, exercise regularly, and be one of the lucky ones who lives long enough to hear it.  

At the Check Out with Child

RilalyLeave a comment

“Oh shoot!” I said in a checkout aisle at a store. 

“What’s the matter?” my son asked.

“I just realized, I don’t have enough money to pay for these items,” I lied. I double-check my wallet, and I added a theatrical check of my pockets. Three customers stood between the Promised Land and us. I write Promised Land to characterize how much my son hates going to stores of any kind. Most people accept the fact of life that when we need goods, we need to enter a store. My son is not there yet. Entering stores is the great inconvenience of his life. When we mention that we must go to the store, he throws a fit that lasts until we enter the store. He indulges us, while in the store by behaving, but throughout our brief stay, he is looking for anything and everything that might cut short our stay and take him to his personal vision of the Promised Land, the store’s exit.

Back before debit cards, and back before we went and got all growed up, we had incidents like this one,“You still need twenty-seven cents,” a checker told me in the most dismissive manner imaginable. I remember that transaction every time I pass this convenience store. I remember standing there with insufficient funds thinking that I wasn’t ready for the rigors involved in completing adult transactions. I was in no position to question this sentry at the gate of maturity, but this transaction occurred before we all went digital. We could question analog, or manual, cash registers back then, because they required manual entries that could fall prey to human error. I told the cashier that I carefully added the total, and that I couldn’t see how I could be wrong. I showed the cashier my addition. “You forgot the sales tax kid,” the guy said. He was right. I heard about sales tax, but I didn’t know how to add it to a total yet. I was so humiliated and embarrassed that I walked away with my tail between my legs, vowing that this would never happen to me again. Remnants of that anxiety remain with me to this day. I over prepare in the aisles of the store. I check and double-check the price of my items, I project a total, and I allow abundant room for any errors in my calculations. Some of the times, I put much-wanted items back just in case I added the percentage of sales tax incorrectly. It’s still such a deep seeded anxiety that I would rather not have some items than risk the prospect of that embarrassment and humiliation I experienced as a young kid. As a result of that transaction, I became so hyper-vigilant that I made the mistake of believing that everyone knows about it on some level.  

I turned to my seven-year-old son at the checkout stand, “Do you have any money?” He had money in his pockets one time at a store, when we took him there to spend his birthday money. So, I thought this was such a ludicrous question that we might share a laugh. What I didn’t realize was that by insinuating that it was ludicrous that he should have any money, I was calling him ludicrous to his mind. He didn’t think it was ludicrous that he should have money. He had money, in fact, and he told me so.

“Yes,” he said. “I do have money.” Through some back and forth, we realized that he meant he had money in his piggy bank in his bedroom.

“No, I’m asking you if have any money on you right now,” I said, “I need you to help me pay for all this?”

“I don’t have any,”my son said. He was a little disappointed, but it dawned on me that he wasn’t disappointed in himself, or his role in this, because why should he be? Plus, he was rarely disappointed in himself, as he rarely cared about such situations. Thus, whenever he exhibits any disappointment in himself, it’s based on the idea that I might be disappointed in him.

If I ask him, “Did you score any goals in your last soccer match?” and he has to say no, he does so in a way that suggests to me that he never thought about it, until I asked. “Did you get 100% on your last spelling test?” He knows when he didn’t, of course, but he forgot about it soon after he received his test back. He doesn’t care about any of these things in the manner I do, just like he didn’t care that we didn’t have enough money to help pay for all the items we have in our shopping cart, but he doesn’t want to disappoint me by saying so. He’s no more ambivalent to such matters than any other normal seven-year-old boy, and just like every other normal boy his age, he knows that his happiness is based on the parameters that his authority figures set for him. He cares what I care about, in other words, and he knows that I’m trying to teach him to care. He also doesn’t want to disappoint me by revealing the truth of the matter that both of us know.

Do our kids worry about scoring goals in soccer matches? Do they even think about it? Do they care about winning? Parents on the sideline do, and we show it by building ourselves into a lather as the game progresses. We hoot, holler, and scream anytime they make a halfway decent move on their field. Kids enjoy hearing that, and they want more of it. Yet, nine times out of ten when an opposing player has the ball, our kids watch them dribble the ball along with the rest of us, until a parent or coach yells their name out, “There you go Freidrich. That’s yours.” We parents now say such things, because we’ve learned from our parents. We remember the pain and humiliation our parents induced when they screamed, “Wake the hell up and go get the ball!” in front of everyone. We use better, less inoffensive ways to encourage our children to wake the hell up now. When we now yell these inoffensive things, we awake them out of whatever momentary stupor they’re in, and they try to take the ball away from the other kid.

“Why didn’t you take the ball away from the kid before I said something?” we want to ask them.

“I don’t know,” they say. If they were more reflective and analytical, they might say, “The thought didn’t even cross my mind. I thought it was that feller’s ball at the time, and I thought he was doing just fine with it.” They might not be able to express themselves at the time, but we can see it on their face, as they watch the other kid dribbling. When they watch the opponent, along with the rest of the spectators, some of them even smile. We don’t know if they’re daydreaming in the moment, or if they’re appreciating the other kid’s ability, imagining what their parents might think of them if they were that skilled. When we instruct them to take the ball away, their expression flips, as if by a switch, from the daydreaming smile to one of determination, as they attempt to take the ball away from the opponent.

“You don’t just let the opponent dribble the ball in front of you,” we say with some exasperation after the game is over. We think they should understand that fundamental element of sports by now. “When the opponent has the ball, you need to steal it from him. That’s the key to most sports.”

If he was able to articulate the complex inconsistencies in the worldview I try to pass to him, he might say, “Well, doesn’t that fly in the face of everything you, and all my teachers, have taught me about sharing?”    

Other than “I don’t know” my son didn’t say any of these things, because he knows it would disappoint me that he hasn’t learned all of these complex concepts at age seven. He also isn’t able to articulate my inconsistencies on matters of large and small. Even though we enter our children into various sports, they’re brains are still so young that it’s tough for them to make quick connections. Even though we’ve logged hundreds of hours playing sports with them in the backyard, coaching them up with our philosophy on sports, they’re still so young that they have a tough time grasping difficult concepts. Their whole world is about having fun, laughing, and not caring about things. How many of us wish we spent our early, elementary years being more serious? They focus their mind on the simple, enjoyable aspects of life, and they know that the key to living that good life is to do everything they can to avoid disappointing the authority figures in their life.

After spending some time in theatrical deliberation, in the checkout line at the store, I looked at my son, “I think we might have to put some of these items back.” I affected this with grave disappointment that I hoped might transfer to him. He didn’t appear to be the least bit moved by it. He looked at the items, and he looked back at me.

“Well what are we doing standing around here then?” he said. “Let’s put these things back and get the heck out of here.”

His response suggested a certain level of ambivalence that threw me a little, but the full scope of his ambivalence didn’t dawn on me, until I said, “I’m just kidding. I have the money.” I don’t know how I expected him to respond, but I thought it might come somewhere close to relief. What I received instead was:

“Well what are we doing standing around here then? Let’s pay for these things and get the heck out of here.”

The prospect of the embarrassment and humiliation involved in putting things back obviously didn’t hit him yet. The embarrassment derives from not having enough money, not being able to add correctly, and being called out in front of a group of people. He hasn’t yet grasped the concept of money, and how others could view one with insufficient funds as not earning enough to buy something at a convenience store. He thinks we just go to the ATM to get the money necessary the complete a transaction. He doesn’t understand that we put money in there for later withdrawal. He’s seven years old, he doesn’t understand the complex emotions of embarrassment, shame, and humiliation on the level we do. 

If we spend enough time with our child, we will overestimate them as often as we underestimate them. We will also assign our complex emotions and values to them, and even though we teach them they’re young, unformed brains cannot grasp them yet. 

Even though I knew that my son had no experience with such situations, I incorrectly assumed that most people came equipped with that inherent sense of doing everything they could to avoid them. He, of course, didn’t know enough to know he should be embarrassed. We think we know them, but more often than not our experiences in life are not theirs, and they don’t understand how experiences, good and bad, shape the life we lead in various instances. If we spend enough time with them, however, we think they should naturally do what we want them to do, even without us telling them one way or another.