LEGOs

When I was a kid, I loved playing with my LEGOs.  I didn’t have many, and mine were the basic block and flat panel varieties that would bore kids senseless today with all the cool shapes available to them, but they provided me with hours and hours and hours of creative bliss.

That sound they made clacking on the floor as I dumped them out of my cardboard box.

Those favorite pieces with the teeth marks where I used my incisors to pry them apart a thousand times.

The opaque wedge piece that ALWAYS covered the “cockpit” of my LEGO space ships.

Memories.

Whenever I went to my happy LEGO place, I quickly adopted the persona of Master Builder.  I was an architect, an expert engineer if you will.  I built and built BIG, but I never destroyed my creations.  If I assembled the world’s tallest LEGO tower (or at least the tallest one in my bedroom), I never purposefully let it topple back to earth to be smashed into smithereens.  If I built a gnarly new space ship (and I was a prolific space ship builder), my ships never crashed or blew up because mine were the good guys and the good guys always won.  Of course, I would have to disassemble my precious blocks to build new creations, but that always took place after play was over and there was never a hint of wanton destruction. 

I was a builder.

Flash forward three-and-a-half decades and I realized something today watching my boys play with their LEGOs.

Words are like LEGO’s: they should be used to build.

As an educator, I know the value of a well-placed compliment.  Few things can make a kid’s face light up like me telling them they did a great job or that I’m proud of them for working so hard.  Outside of school, I can choose the perfect word and instinctually know when to use it to make even the most stone-faced dowager positively sparkle with joy.  Phrases such as “You can do it” and “I believe in you” and “That’s beautiful” will either melt your heart or make swell with pride, and the most powerful words in the universe, “I love you,” can change the course of human history.

In watching my boys, I also realized that I failed at using those uplifting words time and time again.

The object of my failure?

My oldest son.

I have two sons, and both of them are miracles.  The older of the two, the one I affectionately call my “first-born child” on social media, was prayed for and over for years and years by many, and the day he was born is to this day one of the major high points of my life.  However, as much as I love him and adore him and would give my life for him, he is a very headstrong boy, and at eleven years old, I often question whether either one of us will see him turn twelve.  I suspect some of you have children like him and you struggle as well.  Still, it does not excuse my actions.

I am the king of tearing down my son with words.

I’m not proud of it, but I have always been hyper critical of my boy, perhaps because we’re so unalike in many ways.  I was raised to be obedient and was, for the most part, almost always so.  I never verbally questioned a decision my parents made, I worked hard in school and pushed myself to excel to make excellent grades.  I have been fiercely independent most of my life and have always had a strong work ethic having held a job of one sort or another since I was sixteen years old.  I’m “Type A” all the way and will make sure you know it not because I brag about it but because you can see the excellence in my results.

My first-born child, however, argues with us often, and it’s the norm to tell him numerous times to do something before it gets done.  He questions our decisions as a matter of procedure, he feigns helplessness due to a lack of motivation, and getting him to do something that requires hard work is like performing a root canal on yourself-- painful and nearly impossible.  Add to the mix a bad case of the “slow motions” and self-centeredness, and you can see why we butt heads.

Now before you say anything, we’ve tried every course of action you can suggest to “correct” the boy from spanking (yes, we believe in it and it has been effective in short term payoffs) to grounding to time out to the silent treatment to going on strike.  Likewise, we’ve tried the nurture approach, the let-him-set-his-own-boundaries theory, the sit-him-down-and-reason-with-him method, and a ton of positive reinforcement techniques.  Sometimes we make progress, and sometimes we take huge steps backwards.  The fact is, he is simply a stubborn and headstrong ball of “Grade A” 100% kid.

No, we are definitely not alike in many fundamental areas, and as hard as it is for me to say, that’s okay.

What is NOT okay is my biting tongue tearing him down over and over again.

While I do not call him names and I have never cursed at him, I am not kind in how I verbalize my displeasure.  I raise my voice often and “put him in his place”, which is just a diplomatic way of saying I am overbearing in my words and demeanor.  I am constantly on him to “hurry up” and “try harder”, and that is just letting him know that he is not good enough.  Instead of saying “Good job on that project,” I find myself spouting out “You could have done that part better.”  Really?  Man, am I ever a heel.

To make matters worse, for all of his negatives (and who among us doesn’t have a plethora of negatives), he is abounding in positives.  He is wonderfully artistic and draws better than any eleven-year-old I know.  He is musically gifted and can play piano beautifully and has a voice like and angel.  He is caring and nurturing with children younger than himself, a trait that usually manifests as being a great big brother.  He can be amazingly empathetic, and there are times he does something out of love or kindness or loyalty that make me practically swoon with appreciation and pride.  He’s a remarkable boy and a gift like no other.

So why can’t I see and remember the good when I’m faced with the difficult?

Perhaps it’s because I was never good enough to my step dad and he let me know every day how useless I was.  Believe me, that is not the way I feel toward my son, but maybe a bit of that critical nature rubbed off and resides in me.  Perhaps it’s because I pushed myself hard to succeed and just find it difficult to deal with those who do not share my vision of success.  Perhaps it’s an unconscious feeling of unhappiness with where I find myself or the stress of living my life and I’m just a bully that takes it out on someone that’s weaker.  I don’t know, but it doesn’t excuse my behavior one little bit. 

I love my son. 

I love him just the way he is.

There are things I would like to see change with the boy, but those things shouldn’t affect how I show and verbalize my love for the kid.

He is my first-born child, my heir, my birthright, and I need to change my ways before it’s too late.  In really thinking about it, I don’t want him to be like me-- I want him to be better than me. 

It’s time for some major reexamination of the junk that comes out of my mouth.

He’s my son and he deserves it.

It’s time to dust off the forgotten LEGOs of my memory and be the Master Builder again.

He’s my son and he deserves it.

It’s time to use my words to build my boy.

He’s my son and he deserves it.

It’s not going to be easy, but how much of what’s important is?

He’s my son and he deserves it.

I love you, first-born child, and I’m sorry for my words. 

YOU’RE MY SON AND YOU DESERVE IT.

It’s time for me to build you a ship and help you soar.

Kickball

We are having a student-teacher kickball game at school today.

 

Of course, when I say “we”, I mean everyone else.

 

I won’t play.

 

Ever.

 

Oh the kids have asked me to play repeatedly over the last few weeks (just like they’ve asked me to play in the student-teacher end-of-year volleyball game EVERY SINGLE YEAR even though I always politely answer, “No”), but I keep excusing myself and turning them down.  They walk away sad and dejected, and I’m sorry I send them to that place, but that’s just the way it has to be.  I won’t play organized sports, not even for cute little kids.

 

Now before you accuse me of being a heartless jerk bent on dashing children’s hopes and dreams, I should tell you that I’m game to do almost anything else other than organized sports.  In years past, I have allowed my students to paint my face green for a day as the result of a lost challenge, I have offered to shave off my mustache numerous times (which would effectively make me appear be twelve again), I’ve ridden countless amusement park rides with countless kids just because they asked me to, I’ve spent thousands of dollars of my own money on experiments and music and supplies to make things interesting and fun, I’ve come in early for STUCO meetings and pulled all-nighters putting together the yearbook, I’ve cooked breakfast for my entire class, I’ve trusted them in the bowels of caves and on the tops of soaring granite boulders (teaching is NOT for the faint of heart), and I’ve learned to rap for them.  I was even a three-hundred-pound drag queen for a class that wasn’t even mine in the talent show one year.  You need something done, no matter how strange or odd or silly or bizarre?  I’m your man!

 

But don’t ask me to play organized sports.

 

Why?

 

Oh that’s easy. 

 

I suck.

 

At least, that’s what I was told when I was a kid.  Often.  Repeatedly.  By everyone.

 

Okay, “told” is an understatement.  I was teased and berated and vilified over my pathetic athletic ability.

 

And those words cut me to the core.

 

Truth be told, I am admittedly quite uncoordinated.  I have always been that way, and I have always been painfully aware of it without the need of anyone pointing it out to my attention.  I can’t serve a volleyball well enough to make it over the net.  I don’t understand a single thing about football.  I can’t dribble a basketball with my hands or a soccer ball with my feet.  DO NOT ask me to hit a fast-flying baseball with that tiny stick, and bowling was never bowling with me-- it was guttering! 

 

But the worst? 

 

The worst was always kickball.

 

My fear and loathing of organized sports most definitely began with elementary school kickball.

 

Kickball was an institution unto itself in the little town I moved into and grew up in.  If you were a child of the early 80’s living in Iola, Kansas, you were expected to play kickball.  If the weather was at all decent, we played kickball in PE where Mrs. Yokum tried and tried to teach me how to kick that stupid ball.  I can still see the pitcher haunch over and draw his arm back to deliver the pitch with that evil gleam in his eyes assured that I would miss it. 

 

And I did.

 

Always.

 

Groans of disgust from my teammates.

 

Uproarious laughter from the other team.

 

Shame and humiliation on me.

 

If there were reward days, especially in fourth grade, the kids always voted to play kickball.  Our teacher, Mrs. Hawk, would appoint herself referee and hush even the faintest hint of a jeer or jibe with one steely glance from behind her thick glasses-- at least while she was looking.  The moment she would turn away (usually to reapply that garish Avon red lipstick), the ribbing would start and I knew another hellacious game would ensue resulting in anger and shunning from the other kids.

 

And recess?  Man, don’t even get me started on recess.  Thankfully, at least then, I could opt out and not play the game.  Of course, I’d spend the rest of the time playing by myself because every-stinkin’-one else was playing-- you guessed it-- kickball.

 

The worst part of the experience, though, was picking teams.  If you’re cursed like me, you’ve been there and know what I’m talking about.  Nothing stinks more than being picked last, by every captain, every time.  Actually, it’s not so much being picked last as it is becoming the kickball equivalent of leftovers-- no one wants you and everyone complains when they get stuck with you.  When the jocks were captains, they flaunted how much they hated getting stuck with me.  When my friends were captains, all sense of loyalty fizzled away as they too realized they were stuck with me.  Heck, in the rare instances when the nerds and other outcasts (the few that I hypocritically perceived as being even lower than the social ladder than myself) were captains, they seized the moment of realization that for once even they were superior and any shred of decency was thrown to the wolves.

 

Man, I hated kickball.

 

I STILL hate kickball.

 

So here I am, forty plus years after those terrible elementary school years where the fear and loathing of organized sports took root in my soul, and I continue to get all jittery and nauseous when I’m asked to play.  I’m sure many of you won’t understand, especially those of you who are good at sports or we’re never ridiculed for your lack of skill.  Some of you may even be reading this and thinking, “Dude, it’s like forever ago-- get over it.”  Hmmmm.  Tell that to the grown man who refuses to sing the National Anthem at a ballgame because he was told he can’t sing.  Tell that to the mom that dreads cooking for her own family because her husband told her she couldn’t compare to his mom.  Tell that to the fat kid who makes up excuse after excuse to get out of swimming in gym class because the other boys laugh at him and point at his belly (that kid was me).  Tell that to the teenage girl who cuts herself because she was told she was ugly.  Tell that to me and I’ll tell you to shut up.

 

Never think for a moment that words don’t hurt. 

 

Maybe you’re made of stiffer stuff than I, but I doubt it.

 

Having said all that, I have actually let go of the animosity I held for every kid that teased me, even though those wounds still persist.  It’s as if the infection has healed, but the scab is still fresh and painful.  I can forgive ignorance, I can forgive with the knowledge that hurt people hurt people, and I can forgive childish stupidity because, after all, children aren’t always mature enough to understand the knife’s edge that are their words.  However, that doesn’t mean for one second that I want to rip the scab off and bleed again.  I will forgive the perpetrator, but still have no desire to revisit the act.

 

You can ask me, but I will not play kickball.

 

Ever.

 

Okay, maybe someday I will, but not today.

 

Enjoy the game.  I’ll cheer from the sidelines.