Tag: effects on children

Million-Dollar Endorsement

Million-Dollar Endorsement

Audio version now available.

 

While watching football over the holidays, my youngest son asked me why all of the sideline reporters are hot women, and all of the play-by-play commentators are variably attractive men. “Sexism,” I responded without hesitation. “It’s bothered me for years. These broadcasts are just money-generating engines, and I’m sure the networks have done focus groups. I think dudes are just uncomfortable being informed about football from chicks, except the cute ones who fawn over the winning quarterback.”

 

“Exactly,” my daughter said from behind the couch to which my fanny was semi-permanently adhered during bowl season. I didn’t even know she was in the room. Had I known, I might have used a different word. Females in their early-to-mid twenties have strong opinions, and they are pretty unified about reserving the word, “chicks,” for babies with feathers. Other than that, my message would not have been different had I known she was listening. Either way, it is hard for me to describe how it felt to have her agree with me.

 

At first, it was like the jolt of joy you get when you put on your jeans for the first time in the fall and find a five-dollar bill in the back pocket. But the more I have thought about it, the more her one-word reaction means to me. It has been a long time since she felt comfortable endorsing my opinion.

Evolution Series: Christmas Card

Christmas Card

Audio version now available.

 

It’s Christmas card season. I took last year off for many reasons. I had, for 21 years, come up with the concept, outfits, and the wording of my family’s cards. I also ordered, addressed, stamped, and sent the cards for over two decades. So last year it felt invigorating to NOT send a card. So invigorating that I decided to NOT do it again this year.

 

But I still had to gather photos, design, write, and order cards for my mom’s Christmas card. I took that job on about five years ago. This meant texting my three siblings for photos of their kids and pets, and putting something together that my mom approved. I care that she can tell her friends and our family about her grandchildren. I’m proud of that story.

 

But is she proud of me? Does she understand, fully, what has happened?

Parents Crushing Kids’ Emotional Grit

Parents Crushing Kids' Emotional Grit

Audio version now available.

 

Jack Christopolis was one of my best friends growing up. When I was invited to dinner at his house, his mom made typical midwestern fair for Jack and his brothers, his dad, and me. From meatloaf and mashed potatoes to roasted chicken with carrots and onions, eating at Jack’s house was a lot like eating at home. With one exception. Jack had a very narrow flavor palate, and refused to eat his own mother’s cooking. She made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich almost every time I had dinner with Jack’s family. At my house, the options were limited to eating what was lovingly prepared for me, or starving until breakfast when I could eat last night’s dinner cold.

Emotional Safety is a Dying Fad

Emotional Safety is a Dying Fad

Audio version now available.

 

I hate having my priorities in order. Why do I listen to all the talking heads who unanimously confirm that when people are on their deathbeds, they want their families around them, and they don’t utter a single word about their careers or their money. Knowing relationships matter more than power and prestige is unhelpful. I’ve been societally conditioned since birth to achieve and accumulate. Now I’ve got to consistently put the people who love and trust me first? What a drag.

An Open Letter to My Children

An Open Letter to My Children

Audio version now available.

 

I made my kids watch Beautiful Boy, the 2018 Steve Carell and Timothee Chalamet movie about addiction. I also made my kids watch a CNN documentary about the internet-induced proliferation of pornography. My alcoholism was traumatizing to my wife and kids. I can’t erase the past, and I refuse to ignore it, so the only thing I can do is be a cycle breaker. But as my kids will tell you, the most traumatizing thing I have done to them might have been making family movie nights out of Beautiful Boy and a CNN porn documentary. To make matters worse, Chalamet’s character has the same name as my oldest son, and when my hair was shorter, I was constantly told how much I looked like Steve Carell. In fact, someone once brought me a life-sized cardboard cutout of Steve Carell promoting The 40-Year-Old Virgin, and I was once chased down a city street by a man screaming, “Hey The Office! You dat guy!” I have not shaved or had a respectable haircut since.

 

In spite of the trauma my insistence on confronting addiction with my kids has caused, I still feel like it was the right decision. We didn’t talk about this stuff when I was a kid – not in school and not at home. Nancy Reagan insisted that we, “Just say no,” to drugs, and there was a PSA where a fried egg represented my brain, but the only messaging around alcohol that I can remember was that we had to be sneaky until we were 21, so my friend, Brad, and I buried a styrofoam cooler in the woods behind his house and covered it with a piece of plywood with leaves glued to it.

 

Is talking about addiction with my children hard? Yes, absolutely, but it is also as important to unwanted-consequence prevention as talking about vegetables and condoms and exercise and seatbelts and identifying the arrogant stupidity of the sharp bulb.

Dance Like Everybody’s Watching

Dance Like Everybody's Watching

Audio version now available.

 

Confidence comes from doing the things that require a little liquid courage without the liquid courage.

 

***

 

How do you know if you need a few drinks to talk to women when every time you are in a situation conducive to initiating a conversation with the opposite sex that situation carries with it an expectation of alcohol consumption? I don’t remember needing liquid courage when I was a drinker, but I also don’t remember socializing sober.

Selling Out

Selling Out

When Sheri saw the “For Sale” sign in our front yard as we pulled into the driveway on Saturday afternoon, it choked her up. We’ve been working so hard to get ready for this, but preparation doesn’t dismiss the emotions when they come. I took a video of our house – this inanimate object, this material possession – when it was painted and staged and as clean as it has ever been, and I was surprised to have to fight back tears as I narrated the ways we used each room over the past twenty years.

Evolution Series: Is This Emotional Abuse?

Learning About My Trauma by Helping Others

I opened the door and saw Javier, the sixteen-year-old son of one of our tenants, standing on my doorstep. His was not a face I expected to see, but I was fond of his family, and he looked distressed. I asked him if he wanted to come in and talk. He was breathing hard as he perched on the sofa. Javi told me, his face reddening, that his dad had started hitting his little sisters. “I could put up with it when it was just me. But them? No. I can’t stand it.” He knew I was a lawyer (though unbeknownst to this desperate kid, I hadn’t practiced in years, and never in family law). He’d come to me to understand his options for getting his dad out of the house. He even brought evidence in the form of cellphone videos of his dad’s violence he had bravely recorded inside the apartment. What would happen if he called CPS, he wondered. 

 

A couple of hours later, I reluctantly sent Javi home, breathed a big sigh, and opened my laptop to do some research. This was my first (and hopefully last) time being the trusted adult a kid came to with a big problem, and I was determined not to let him, his mom and his sisters down.

The Developing Story

The Developing Story

I have vivid memories of the high school English teacher who ruined writing for me. I don’t remember her name, but she was tall and slender, and she wore flowing, button-down blouses and kept money and slips of paper tucking into her left-shoulder bra strap. I cringed every time she reached behind those shirt buttons and pulled something out.

 

She was propper and groomed and articulate and full of herself. Her criticism of my writing was consistent. It wasn’t about punctuation or grammar. She corrected what I still remember to this day to be stylistic differences. She only knew one way to write, and if my classmates and I wanted good grades, we had to conform. I couldn’t do that. I wasn’t an idealist or full of confidence and rebellion. I just couldn’t write her way. I lacked the talent. So I dropped out of advanced English down to regular English, and I spent the next couple of decades or so convinced I couldn’t write and feeling traumatized by rare glimpses of money tucked under bra straps.