I do a lot of writing, and I do a lot of parenting. But this is my first attempt to write about parenting. In fact, the only thing I do more than parenting or writing is surfing the Web while I’m supposed to be parenting or writing. My wife thinks I’m a stay-at-home-dad, my editors think I’m a work-from-home journalist and my daughters think I’m some kind of over-sized iPhone accessory.
I think I’m quite good at parenting. But what is parenting? From what I’ve heard sciencey types say on NPR.com, the biggest determinant of a child’s future is not the participation of parents in their every-day lives but the situation the child is born into. As long as the child is confident of having some food on the table and some sort of regular TLC, they basically do the rest on their own, as I understand it. The future of the kid who languishes in full-time day care all day then comes home to six hours of tv and a peck on the cheek is not predictably better or worse than that of the kid whose parents take turns teaching them piano, poetry and maths, breaking only to group-hug it out and whisper words of worship into one another’s ears.
Supposedly, all those “eat-your-greens,” ‘turn-off-that-nonsense-and-clean-up-your-room” fights are not increasing the child’s chances of becoming a neuroscientist, just increasing the chances the parent will have to be treated by one. If all this is true, shouldn’t the verb “to parent” revert to a passive meaning like the verb “to father” or at least a slightly pejorative, fussy meaning like the verb “to mother”?
Couldn’t I just set out a plate of cookies, turn on Phineas& Ferb and leave my two beautiful daughters alone downstairs while I veg out in front of randomlinksaboutstuffouralgorithmsknowyouwillgetsomeguiltypleasureoutof.com all day? (All day every day, that is, because I already do this all day some days.)Shouldn’t I just go out and get a real job?
Everyone has their own definition of parenting. My interpretation – when my better, non-Internet-crackhead angels are in the driving seat – is to engage my children. I am that guy in the supermarket, talking in a loud and unintentionally cutesy voice, improvising answers to questions my girls ask about where black beans come from and how they get into the can. (“A gift from the god of flatulence; it’s bean magic, baby.”) Am I actually improving their mental development or am I just wrecking everybody else’s mental development? Science isn’t saying.
The other day was my older daughter’s fifth birthday, so it should have been one of the best days of my life. It was a bad day for me. I was stressed out. After a short sledding outing, I spent the rest of the day in my tiny office. I was on deadline for two of my regular assignments. And I have a huge new assignment that I have to finish by the end of the year (which I should be doing now). I had driven home from an assignment late the night before, an ice storm coming down around me. Side note: I had never believed in the term “ice storm” until I was in the middle of one. In Ireland, where I come from, ice is a very gradual force. It slowly freezes puddles in a very unstormy fashion. Between Waco and Denton, Texas, the other night, the rain pelted down as tiny glass beads that 3-D printed an inch-thick sheet of ice over everything. Ice storms break that compact we have with Nature that we will take her subzero precipitation as long as it is fun and good looking.
I was also mad. Some central Texas teen cop (he looked like a boy playing dressup, his handgun a world too heavy for his skinny hands) had given me a ticket, even though everyone was rushing to stay ahead of the ice storm. It was one of those Texas towns that’s got a speed-limit sign and a cop car they made themselves with a couple cans of paint and a set of Christmas lights, and that’s about it. The cop took an instant disliking to me. Maybe he saw the bike I was bringing home to my daughter in the back of the car, and was mad he didn’t get an invite to her party.
I probably should have Nelson Mandelaed it out. But I was mad.
I was so grumpy during the birthday day that my wife had to unsober me up by saying: “I’m just trying to make the day nice for her.”
When I thought about it, that’s what I’m trying to do when I’m parenting. That’s the unifying principle behind the games of hide-and-go seek and the wheedling of carrots onto my daughters’ plates. I’m trying to make the day nice for them. I’m trying to piece together a childhood of nice days. So, even if her career in neuroscience doesn’t go as far as she’d hoped, my older daughter will always have her good memories from being 5 (for she has reached the point in her life where everything is on the memory horizon).
That’s a job worth doing, right?
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