The boxing chicken
"It felt," LJ admitted, knees pulled up to her chest, "like I had that boxing chicken inside my head. You know, the one from the Warner Brothers cartoons? He's got the boxing gloves on and, when the bell rings, he goes out punching regardless of who or what's in front of him. That's how it felt when you were talking to me. Part of me wanted to listen because, well, you're Daddy and you give me all sorts of good advice. But the other part was fighting-mad like that little chicken, just wanting you to... honestly, wanting you to shut up."
I had to grin at that. I'd figured things were uneasy within LJ's skull; we'd been discussing schoolyard romances and politics on the way home and she'd been very... defensive. Unwilling to listen. I'd pierced her self-erected wall of ignorance with a curt "you're nine years old and you don't know everything, kid". That allowed us to sort everything out, get to the bottom of her problems and talk them through, but I could tell the rebuke had left her off-balance. So we talked a little more as we waited for her bathtub to fill.
"Welcome to the wonderful world of hormones," I replied, then conducted a potted tour of our friends the psycho-chemicals. "You know all those times you've sat me down and, earnestly and beautifully, told me that I'm perfect, that I'm wonderful, that I'll always be the greatest man in the world and your best source of advice? Yeah, you're going to feel that way less and less, and more and more like the boxing chicken. Sometimes you'll just think I'm wrong and other times you'll feel like using much stronger words to express my supposed failing and errors."
Hinting at swear words - LJ's favourite "forbidden fruit" - brought a smile back to her face.
"You and I are lucky," I continued. "We have a very special relationship few fathers and daughters share. We're also lucky because that's come naturally to us; we're similar, we share a brain and nigh-on identical tempers. Here's the thing: from now on, you and I are going to have to work at keeping that special relationship. We're going to disagree, sometimes loudly and angrily, and that's fine because it's a normal part of growing up. But think of this: we're still the same people beneath the disagreements, and I don't want us to look back in 10 years' time and think 'aw, we wasted a decade complaining about each other, only to discover we're both still cool once the hormones subside'."
"That'd be a waste," LJ agreed.
"So here's what we'll do," I suggested. "When you hear the bell sound and feel that boxing chicken wind up for a bout, tell me. Tell me that you disagree, that you feel I'm wrong or being unfair, whatever it is. Try to tell me politely. Meanwhile I'll try to listen without getting annoyed and respond while remembering you're not a little-little girl anymore. It's not always going to work - most likely it'll rarely work - but if we go into this with the intention of keeping our heads, maybe over time we'll get good at it and be more like it than Mom and her dad than your Pa and I were."
"Teamwork," LJ nodded. "It's always worked for us before." And then she hugged me.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF
I had to grin at that. I'd figured things were uneasy within LJ's skull; we'd been discussing schoolyard romances and politics on the way home and she'd been very... defensive. Unwilling to listen. I'd pierced her self-erected wall of ignorance with a curt "you're nine years old and you don't know everything, kid". That allowed us to sort everything out, get to the bottom of her problems and talk them through, but I could tell the rebuke had left her off-balance. So we talked a little more as we waited for her bathtub to fill.
"Welcome to the wonderful world of hormones," I replied, then conducted a potted tour of our friends the psycho-chemicals. "You know all those times you've sat me down and, earnestly and beautifully, told me that I'm perfect, that I'm wonderful, that I'll always be the greatest man in the world and your best source of advice? Yeah, you're going to feel that way less and less, and more and more like the boxing chicken. Sometimes you'll just think I'm wrong and other times you'll feel like using much stronger words to express my supposed failing and errors."
Hinting at swear words - LJ's favourite "forbidden fruit" - brought a smile back to her face.
"You and I are lucky," I continued. "We have a very special relationship few fathers and daughters share. We're also lucky because that's come naturally to us; we're similar, we share a brain and nigh-on identical tempers. Here's the thing: from now on, you and I are going to have to work at keeping that special relationship. We're going to disagree, sometimes loudly and angrily, and that's fine because it's a normal part of growing up. But think of this: we're still the same people beneath the disagreements, and I don't want us to look back in 10 years' time and think 'aw, we wasted a decade complaining about each other, only to discover we're both still cool once the hormones subside'."
"That'd be a waste," LJ agreed.
"So here's what we'll do," I suggested. "When you hear the bell sound and feel that boxing chicken wind up for a bout, tell me. Tell me that you disagree, that you feel I'm wrong or being unfair, whatever it is. Try to tell me politely. Meanwhile I'll try to listen without getting annoyed and respond while remembering you're not a little-little girl anymore. It's not always going to work - most likely it'll rarely work - but if we go into this with the intention of keeping our heads, maybe over time we'll get good at it and be more like it than Mom and her dad than your Pa and I were."
"Teamwork," LJ nodded. "It's always worked for us before." And then she hugged me.
Greet the Fire as Your Friend,
SF