DEAR DIARY
Oh man, there are some times that being a parent is rewarding in delightful and unexpected ways, and it totally makes the hardships worthwhile.
It's happened in the past that Ciaran has caught me jotting story notes in a paper journal when I should have been doing something else with my attention. For example, when I take him to his Tae Kwon Do, I really probably should watch him with bright, attentive eyes like how other parents watch their kids. Instead, I risk Bad Parent Jail by writing my notes down so's I don't forget them.
Whenever he asks me questions, I do my best to answer him honestly and I don't sugarcoat much. So when he took me to task the first time at his TKD class, I answered him as gently and honestly as I could.
"Daddy, you weren't watching me."
"I'm sorry, kiddo. I was watching you a bit, and I saw that you were super-focused and following the Mister M_____'s directions one hundred percent. I'm very proud of you!"
"What were you doing with that book?"
"I was writing down story notes. I get these ideas for stories, and I don't want to forget them, so I write them down when I can. But I look up too, and I'm watching you, even if you can't always see me watching, okay?"
I thought perhaps he'd complain further, but he seemed to accept my explanation. He looked thoughtful as I changed the subject to dinner and what we were eating and such. It was awkward, but at the time I felt like I'd dodged a bullet, parentally.
Fast forward a couple weeks, to tonight. I'm putting him to bed, and while he's picking up a couple of toys, I notice a little spiral notepad on his bedside table - maybe one and a half inches by three, bound at the narrow edge. It looked like the sort of thing one might get in a child's birthday party host gift bag, along with rubber balls, kazoos, and other tchotckes. Idly I picked up the notepad and leafed through, expecting to see random scribbles or nothing at all. Instead what I see are crudely-scrawled letters formed into words meandering all over the page, typical of what a five year old might write if given no direction by a teacher or boundaries provided by lined paper.
"What's this?"
"It's all the stuff I did today. I wrote it down so I don't forget."
"No ... no kidding. Okay, wow, help me read this."
"It says I had breakfast," and he points at the word brekist, "and I had cereal," sereel, "and then I played the Wii." and then Wii.
"That's really cool, buddy!"
"I write it down so I don't forget."
"Yeah, all right! Sometimes you can write down stuff that happened in the day, and sometimes if you think of something cool that hasn't happened yet, you can write that down too."
"It would be cool if we beat the ice boss bad guy in Metroid."
"Yeah, it would. And, hey listen - don't worry about using up all the pages. Whenever you need a new notebook, we can get you one."
"Okay. Dad, how do I write 'Metroid'?"
"Let's sound it out."
The entire time I had to fight down gleeful squeeing at this unexpected desire to write things down.
Typically, bedtime involves reading a story, and letting him play quietly "until the big hand gets on the X" - usually 15 or 20 minutes. Today I told him "You can play until X, or you can write more in your journal - you know, whatever you like." Not two minutes after I left his room, he came creeping out, looking for a chair (because obviously it's easier to write while seated in a chair than laying in bed). I was well pleased with his choice.
Am I proud? Heck yeah I am. Do I have something in my eye? Yeah, I expect I do.
(And yet, and yet. There's a cautionary thing here. Kids are observant. They pick up parents' habits. So yeah, this here instance is turning out for the good, but I'll need to be more mindful of myself around my kids.)
It's happened in the past that Ciaran has caught me jotting story notes in a paper journal when I should have been doing something else with my attention. For example, when I take him to his Tae Kwon Do, I really probably should watch him with bright, attentive eyes like how other parents watch their kids. Instead, I risk Bad Parent Jail by writing my notes down so's I don't forget them.
Whenever he asks me questions, I do my best to answer him honestly and I don't sugarcoat much. So when he took me to task the first time at his TKD class, I answered him as gently and honestly as I could.
"Daddy, you weren't watching me."
"I'm sorry, kiddo. I was watching you a bit, and I saw that you were super-focused and following the Mister M_____'s directions one hundred percent. I'm very proud of you!"
"What were you doing with that book?"
"I was writing down story notes. I get these ideas for stories, and I don't want to forget them, so I write them down when I can. But I look up too, and I'm watching you, even if you can't always see me watching, okay?"
I thought perhaps he'd complain further, but he seemed to accept my explanation. He looked thoughtful as I changed the subject to dinner and what we were eating and such. It was awkward, but at the time I felt like I'd dodged a bullet, parentally.
Fast forward a couple weeks, to tonight. I'm putting him to bed, and while he's picking up a couple of toys, I notice a little spiral notepad on his bedside table - maybe one and a half inches by three, bound at the narrow edge. It looked like the sort of thing one might get in a child's birthday party host gift bag, along with rubber balls, kazoos, and other tchotckes. Idly I picked up the notepad and leafed through, expecting to see random scribbles or nothing at all. Instead what I see are crudely-scrawled letters formed into words meandering all over the page, typical of what a five year old might write if given no direction by a teacher or boundaries provided by lined paper.
"What's this?"
"It's all the stuff I did today. I wrote it down so I don't forget."
"No ... no kidding. Okay, wow, help me read this."
"It says I had breakfast," and he points at the word brekist, "and I had cereal," sereel, "and then I played the Wii." and then Wii.
"That's really cool, buddy!"
"I write it down so I don't forget."
"Yeah, all right! Sometimes you can write down stuff that happened in the day, and sometimes if you think of something cool that hasn't happened yet, you can write that down too."
"It would be cool if we beat the ice boss bad guy in Metroid."
"Yeah, it would. And, hey listen - don't worry about using up all the pages. Whenever you need a new notebook, we can get you one."
"Okay. Dad, how do I write 'Metroid'?"
"Let's sound it out."
The entire time I had to fight down gleeful squeeing at this unexpected desire to write things down.
Typically, bedtime involves reading a story, and letting him play quietly "until the big hand gets on the X" - usually 15 or 20 minutes. Today I told him "You can play until X, or you can write more in your journal - you know, whatever you like." Not two minutes after I left his room, he came creeping out, looking for a chair (because obviously it's easier to write while seated in a chair than laying in bed). I was well pleased with his choice.
Am I proud? Heck yeah I am. Do I have something in my eye? Yeah, I expect I do.
(And yet, and yet. There's a cautionary thing here. Kids are observant. They pick up parents' habits. So yeah, this here instance is turning out for the good, but I'll need to be more mindful of myself around my kids.)