I say “Lesson learned” a lot. Just ask Cecilia. If I was a 90s live-action Disney Dad the writers would turn it into my catchphrase. Each episode would end on a freeze frame of me shrugging off my terrible absent parenting with a sigh and a ‘Lesson learned.’
In reality (or what counts as reality in 2020) it drives Cece crazy but I’m not going to stop. Dripping water will eventually wear through concrete and part of my job as a Dad is to keep planting seeds. Some will never take, some will wilt and die, but some will flourish. So I’ll keep saying it.
The other night the kids and I were watching a cooking show (an actual cooking show not the weird competition shows that the Food Network has devolved into – a rant for another day) and as the guy was chopping up vegetables for a stew and discarding large chunks, Cecilia said, ‘He should really try to use more of that for stock, or like compost, or whatever, leaf to stem, right Dad?’ I might have passed out.
A passing comment here. A lesson learned there. Wonderful things can eventually happen. Maybe they’ll even plug in the vacuum one day.
We received another email survey about school re-opening from the superintendent this week. I dutifully opened it, read it, and then just as quickly closed it. My brain just shut down. Michelle and I have been debating our answers for the last four days. There’s no simple, easy, or right answer to the school question.
It was a stark reminder that being a parent is the hardest job. No training. No pay. Responsibilities that are never easily defined and always changing. So what do you do? I have no idea and that’s also parenting. The best you can do is be adaptable. Be ready to respond to a an unending, ever-changing flow of complicated circumstances. And keep the wine fridge stocked.
A month or so late, but we finally made it to the Cape. And the girls immediately set about trying to cram in all that missed time into eight hours. You’ve probably had these days with your kids where the time flew by as you hop, skipped, and jumped from one activity to the next. A day where you didn’t think about work, or your phone, or maybe even the virus for a bit. It’s wonderful…and completely exhausting.
The girls started back to school this week and I’m feeling…stressed and anxious? Probably not completely uncommon but I realized after a little tiff with Cecilia over homework on Day 2 that I really prefer Summer/Camp Dad to School Year Dad.
Not that Summer Dad never gets upset he just seems to listen a little more and snap a little less. I don’t want the one time I’m really present and focused on my kids for the next six months to be only about homework. I might learn a lot about base-10 number systems but maybe not so much about my child.
So, as we talked about the new school year, expectations and goals over dinner this week, I set one of my own: to let go of some of that anxiety and frustration and try to be more like Summer Dad all year long.
Just without all the sunscreen each morning. I won’t miss the sunscreen.
I wouldn’t have the weather to blame for any poor performance this year. This past Saturday was very mild (for August in New England) with low humidity. Past Brew Runs have been unholy slogs through a thick paste of water vapor and scorching sun. Not this year! This might have been the best weather The Brew Run has had in years.
Like Falmouth, The Brew Run is one of those funky throwback races before standard measurements like 5 and 10k’s where people just ran point-to-point or in some arbitrary circle. For the record it’s 5.2 miles with plenty of water stops and lots of crowds both running and cheering. You won’t be running alone in this race.
The girls were at Camp Grammie again last week so I was free to channel surf without thoughts of pre-teen appropriateness. I ended up catching a big chunk of The Breakfast Club for the first time in years. I, uh, noticed I had a different reaction than when I originally saw it.
Back then I mostly identified with Emilio Esteves’ disaffected and misunderstood jock. Or, at least I wanted to. I was probably (ok, definitely) most like Anthony Michael Hall’s uptight, rule abiding nerd. Watching it now? I am definitely the principal. God help me, I just want to get through the day, enjoy the weekend, and drink my coffee while it’s hot but these pesky kids won’t leave me alone. They don’t listen, they’re noisy, they get into things they’re not supposed to, they don’t sit still, and they are terribly dramatic. So dramatic.
Also, the custodian. I’m down with him, too.
In the summer, things slow down and that slower pace can allow some time to reflect. Unless you do track workouts with your running group on summer nights, then the pace picks up, but maybe there’s still time to reflect. When you are finished. And gasping for breath. And hunched over your shoes.
That was me last Thursday at the side of the track wondering, Why do I do this? Thirty years into this why am I still running? There’s the obvious and rationale answer that as long as I am running and I’m getting faster than I’m not getting older. But if I push past he greeting card philosophy, I’d say I’m still doing it because I rarely feel more alive than when I’m running. I feel the most comfortable with who I am when I run.
Running, like writing, is about putting in the work day after. It doesn’t come quickly or easily. There’s something elemental about the process that I really enjoy. It forces you to be patient with yourself and willing to go to uncomfortable places. There are just no shortcuts.
Not a bad example to set for the girls.