The Pride of Parenting

The telltale heart of being a parent is that ever present aroma that accompanies that cardinal sin; Parental Pride.  Oh, you may take careful steps to double, nay, triple-bag those double deuces that the two-year old drops in his diapers, and you may place that waste in the waist-high pail that waits outside the walls of your child's room, and you may even endeavor to emigrate that excrement to the exit, but no matter how you slice it, the smell seems to seep right back in.

And that smell is the Pride of Parenting.

If, at this point, it is unclear what I mean when I pronounce this Pride of Parenting then I humbly encourage you to consider the following:

a)  There appears to be an innate natural drive to having children.
b)  Leading up to having children, there appears to be an innate natural tendency to inaccurately judge the skills and values of those who insist on allowing their children out in public.
c)  Having children is humbling, not in small part due to the amount of crow you are required to eat, when realizing just how small minded we were about the context and condition of those parents we shamelessly judged while slug-a-bed we wallowed in the murky, tepid waters of prenatal self-righteousness.
d)  Parenting a child is rife with doubt, feelings of supreme inadequacy, hopelessness, fear, and regret and a particular awareness that there are people out there still enjoying life in part b).
e)  In order to survive d) one must realize that children seem to (at the best of times) grow and develop in spite of everything we appear to be doing wrong, and arrive as a semi-competent adult due (in no small part) to blind luck, or divine intervention.

BUT... every so often a parent will adopt a policy akin to b) where they start to believe that they are doing something right.  Or doing something well.  Or doing something better than other parents.  And that, my dear friends, is the Pride of Parenting.

It is a fetid, ugly thing and I feel it is my duty to warn you of its perils while seeking my own redemption for committing such a heinous thing as believing I might be on the road to being a successful Stay-at-home Dad.

For those who might be regular readers of my irregular ramblings you may, at this point, say to yourself, "Self, I read those irregular ramblings often irregularly and I thought that man was doing things just fine."  No really, I give you permission to say that to yourself.  And sure, maybe you weren't looking to harshly judge me.  Maybe you actually thought, "hey, good on you man, you're taking on the responsibility of raising two boys with your head held high and an army of support behind you."  Maybe you truly believe I can help you consider something valuable that will help you become the parent you know you are capable of being.

And that my friends is the Pride of Parenting.

So as I settle into the irony of writing this message to you, know that I'm really just writing to ask forgiveness for thinking that what I was doing was "working" any better than what someone else might be doing.  It's true!  Listen, I actually hear myself think things like, "well I'm sure not going to be that dad that races to the side of my boy when he falls down..." or "You won't catch my boys in organized sports/school/scrapbooking too early." or "these boys of my will grow up to be resilient and confident men because I love them openly and with signs of physical affection like a hug, or a kiss."  or "I wonder what my wife thinks I do in this #microoffice of mine for such a long time..." but I digress.

I'm working to raise my kids to be independent, strong-minded, men of integrity... with a delightful sense of humour and killer smiles.  As I start to see evidence that it's working I realize that in my zeal I have forgotten to let them be boys.  Vulnerable, frightened, and reliant on the knowledge that there is someone there next to them to catch the bike when it falls, hold their hand in the thunderstorm, or just simply let them cry when they fail.  You see?  I got caught up in my own Pride of Parenting.

My son will wander off in the middle of an event to see the sights explaining that he "was bored, so he went for a walk."  Or he'll disappear into traffic because he saw something cool, and says "Dad, what are you worried about, I looked both ways?!"  I half expect him to be out in the backyard grilling meat on the barbecue before the end of summer announcing that he "was just jonesin' for something juicy."  But he's FOUR.  Maybe I shouldn't make him stand in line to apologize to the desk-clerks for making a scene in their lobby, or let him wash the dishes when he asks.  Maybe taking the training wheels off his bike and letting him take the neighbour-kid's homemade jump the next day is too soon... Maybe these signs of hyper-independence really are symptoms of what happens when you ask him to fold his own laundry and ride the bus to work in the morning; doing things earlier, writing things earlier, reading things earlier, producing his first symphony... I'm realizing more and more that I've had a part in all this...  Before I know it he'll be grown up and resentful just like we were and I'll have let him miss the best part of being a kid:  Being a kid.

In my reflection I've realized something important, and I hope you have too.  AND I hope the next time my four-year old says "Dad, can I help you use the band-saw." I really hope that I'll remember to say, "you know son, I think you're too young for that... let's wait and cut-off your fingers tomorrow."

Postscript:

No son's (in whole or in part) were harmed during the writing of this article.  I think... wait, I hope they're still in the yard.  Oh right... phew, we already put them to bed.