The question that nags me constantly – “Am I a good dad?”
I know that I am in a relative sense – I do my very best to be patient and present, and to provide opportunities to experience and learn life’s lessons.
I also know I can do better.
I do well in the idiosyncratic situations of parenthood – figuring out how to get him down the mountain during a crappy weather day on the mountain, and getting him excited for yet another summer camp in Portland where he doesn’t know any other kids.
This week, we’re on vacation in Squaw Valley. Yesterday was day three, and with wet snow coming down that forecast to change to rain, we faced the “Should we give it a shot?” ski decision.
We gave it a shot. The open trails were modest blues I had scouted the day before – all trails I knew Benjamin could ski. But that was the day before, and this was today.
The trails that had been groomed hours ago were now covered in 6 inches of wet snow, and the conditions were just a little too tough for him.
So there we were, atop the mountain, struggling to keep his skis attached, and experiencing the typical frustrations that go with a tough day on the mountain, or any situation where one might have felt thrust into without complete free will.
Whether you’re seven or forty-seven, we’ve all been on a proverbial mountain at one time or another and decidedly did not want to be there. And there he lay, face down in the snow, a ski off one leg, the other ski somehow still attached, twisted under his body. Within three minutes of hopping off the lift, all confidence was lost and any chance for fun evaporated.
We tried pizza turns from side to side on the trail. We tried side-stepping down the mountain.
We tried encouraging. We tried cajoling.
We tried lying – “You’ve skied much tougher runs…” (he hadn’t given the weather and wet snow) and “This isn’t a blue, it’s a green.” (It was a blue).
We tried austerity – “Not being able to do something is okay, but not trying to do something isn’t okay. You have to try.”
I even picked him up skied with him between my legs for a stretch, partly because that was the quickest way down that particular section and partly hoping that might make him feel a little embarrassed that he had to be carried down the slope.
Nothing worked.
The wet snow indeed turned to rain, and the three of us stood there staring at each other, the weather, and the slope ahead. I tried to imagine myself at seven years old and how I felt in a situation that was beyond my willingness to tolerate. I couldn’t remember specifics, but I definitely remembered that feeling of quit.
Then I told him – “Okay, here’s the deal – the only way off the mountain is to ski down. There are two ways we can do this – the slow way or the fast way. Right now, it’s raining and it’s cold, and none of us want to be here right now. The sooner we get off the mountain the better, so here’s what I want you to do – Point your skis down the mountain and pizza your way as far as you can, and when you fall, laugh.”
That was all I had left.
It worked.
He pointed and pizza-ed to the bottom of that section and then yard-saled. When I caught up, he was smiling. So we did it again. And again until the slope leveled out and the ski lifts were in sight. It took us close to an hour and a half to grind our way down the mountain on that single run.
We unbuckled, celebrated, and headed in for lunch.
Later we played foosball, had a snowball fight, read Harry Potter and had movie night in the hotel room. Life was good again. You can tell from this story that I’m pretty damned proud of myself – these are the situations of parenthood I do well.
It’s the other stuff that’s the toughest – the constant self-questioning about how I handle day-to-day situations – the inevitable morning fight to get ready for school, negotiating how many bites before he can be finished dinner, and how to motivate him for his jiu-jitsu classes. I try everything from patience to incentives to idle threats to raising my voice. The yelling is most embarrassing because I’m the adult and I’m supposed to be the mature one. The incentives bother me – why does he need ice cream as motivation to go to jut-jitsu when he absolutely loves it when he gets there and tells me after class how much fun it was?
Why is the hard stuff in parenthood easy, and the day-to-day stuff so hard?
How perfect do I need to be?
When he’s 17, or 27 or 57, or even just tonight when he’s lying in bed, will he only remember my annoyance over finding socks before school or telling him to hurry up because we’re going to be late?
How much will he remember foosball, movie night, Harry Potter and surviving our ski adventure?