I Survived

So my 11-year old son and I were driving together recently and we passed by some big, smelly industrial plant.  The plant’s two smoke stacks were spewing out God knows what, but there was a serious amount of stuff billowing out into the air.  My son looked at it and said, “Hey dad look, cloud makers.”

Now I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, and assume he was at least partially kidding as he’s in the sixth grade and should know that clouds do not come from industrial smoke stacks, but no question there was at the very least some innocence behind his comment.

Just a few days later my eight-year old son was watching TV when a commercial for the human society came on.  It was one of those commercials that tugs at your heart strings by showing pictures of sad looking dogs that have been abused and mistreated.  After the commercial was over my son said “Those were cute dogs, I liked that commercial.”  Once again there was a fair amount of innocence there. 

But those two comments by my sons left me to wonder whether that was youthful innocence talking, or sheltered existence?  It seems to me it maybe a little bit of both, which is fine (especially the innocence part), but maybe it’s time to ease up on the sheltering.

After all they are getting older, and maybe it’s time to be more honest with them and worry less about their feelings and their “fragile egos.”  My dad didn’t worry about my “fragile ego” when I was growing up.  When it came time to get me ready for baseball, he went out and bought a dozen hardballs and spent the afternoon throwing them at me.  I survived.  Of course I never played organized baseball again, but I’m fine.

When I expressed an interest in playing platform tennis he told me I wasn’t old enough (I was about 10).  When I persisted he brought me out onto the paddle court, had me stand at the net, and fired forehand drives at me.  When I failed to volley them back he told me to get off the court.  I survived.  Of course it took me 15 years before I got back on the court, but I’m fine.

When I brought my first girlfriend over to the house he sat her down and said, “What the hell are you doing with this asshole?”  I survived, and she and I dated for two years before she dumped me like a bag of rocks.  Of course, he asked the exact same question of my next girlfriend and I wound up marrying her.  So again, I survived.

When he dropped me off at college my freshman year, he shook my hand before departing and said, “Don’t come home without calling first.”  I survived.  I just didn’t go home a lot.

And when he gave me the “bird’s and bee’s” talk he said, “Whatever you do, don’t get a girl pregnant.  Of course I don’t know who would have sex with you, but assuming you can find someone to have sex with, don’t get them pregnant.”  Okay.  I survived. 

So maybe it’s time I stop sheltering or coddling the boys.  Maybe the next time they ask to do something or they ask me for an opinion on something I just lay it all out for them.

“Hey dad, what did you think of my little league game?” 

“Listen, it was awful.  You were awful, but don’t worry about it, you’re all awful.  It’s 11-year old little league baseball.  I’ve yet to see an inning where an error isn’t made or where someone doesn’t strike out or someone doesn’t throw a wild pitch.”  It’s little league.  It’s awful.”

“Hey dad, I’m going to dance assembly this weekend.” 

“Why?  I’ve seen you dance, and it’s embarrassing.  If I were you I wouldn’t go.” 

“Dad, I don’t like what we’re having for dinner tonight.”

“Me neither, but you have to eat it because you don’t have a car and your own money.  Have fun, I’m heading to McDonald’s.”

“Dad, what do you think about my grades?”

“Well you’re not a complete moron, but based on these grades you’re not particularly bright.”

I don’t know.  Maybe that’s not the answer.  Maybe just a little tough-love from time to time will suffice so they don’t turn out to be wimps.  Then again, I survived.  On the other hand, sheltering my kids from the cold, cruel world until they are better equipped to deal with it isn’t such a bad thing . . .