Cooked Goose

I am the father of teenagers. Yeah, I know. There are two of ’em. Couple years ago, my son got me in the fraternity into which fathers reluctantly, apprehensively shuffle. And although my daughter who turned thirteen a couple, short months ago technically followed her brother into teendom she was in all intents and purposes a “teenager” long before he. Her foreshadowing helped, but let’s face it: I’m new. Not sure what to do, where to go. And I have that familiar feeling that my whole stint here will be accompanied by this uncertainty. “You’re lost? Get used to it.” Okay. I will say this though, these teenagers have my full attention. So I’m learning.

Here’s the most important thing I’ve learned. The other day, I had a tough conversation with my son. I was correcting him, and he didn’t much want to hear it. I’ve discovered that talking incessantly at someone who’s not listening doesn’t get them to listen. Just multiply that statement by fifty when applied to teenagers. We were both done. Before parting in frustration, I told him that I loved him, that I thought about him and his sisters all the time, prayed for them every day, worried about them. When I said this, he looked into my eyes. After not making eye contact the whole time I was correcting him, the impassioned reminder about his father’s love had him looking into my eyes. In that moment, I literally saw him soften.

You will have tough things to say to your teenagers. They will come at a time when their capacity to listen to you will plummet like a led ball. The only thing that will keep your words buoyant will be their belief in your love for them. I really think my teenage son looked into my eyes, and examined my words. In that moment of fixed gaze, he cross-referenced my words to his memory.

What have I learned about parenting teenagers? Love them in a way now so that years from now when you’re neck deep in cell phones, skinny jeans, under developed thought processes, peer pressures … love them in a way now so whilst in the midst of all that, when you remind them that you love them, they’ll look into your eyes and find those words to be undeniable.

The last thing my Father taught me was this: “You gotta play the hand your dealt.” Neither one of us knew he was teaching me this valuable lesson. But as I’m going through a bit of a mid-life crisis, I harken back to my Father’s last, great life experience – his death.

Somewhere back there in post war South Korea, my Father contracted hepatitis. He probably didn’t know he had it. At forty-six years of age, he collapsed on a golf course. The initial diagnosis was kidney stones. I still remember the light-hearted, pre-surgery visit at the Queen of Angels hospital. The next day with him half conscious, writhing in pain, the surgeon delivered the news. Liver cancer. After two years of a mostly uphill fight, my Father succumbed to the disease. He was forty-eight years old.

He wasn’t planning on dying. My parents had just bought their first home in America. And coupled it with a brand new, brown Cadillac Sedan de Ville. Business was booming in the little sandwich shop they’d purchased in a subterranean shopping center in Downtown LA. Straight off a plane to the American dream in five short years. And then the sky caved in … nothing could be done about it. It was the hand that was dealt.

As much as we’d like to believe that we can affect the Dealer’s turn of the card, we can’t. Once the hand is dealt, within the confines of the cards dealt, we play. But before we can play that hand well, we have to accept it. Throwing it in in disgust isn’t going to help. Wishing ain’t helping either. No, we must accept. I’m not talking resignation. Not saying, “Fold ’em.” I’m saying without accepting, we’ll not know how to go about playing our hand.

It’s a tough, seldom mastered lesson. As I grope for it, a comforting thought is that I don’t really know what the best hand is … I think I know, but I don’t really. It’s what makes me chase the elusive flush when if played well, I could take the pot with a pair of Jacks.

A fight isn’t all bad. In fact, depending on the circumstances, avoiding one might be the real crime. Somethings require a fight, demand a fight. When that something occurs, best know how to go about fighting. That’s my point. In those instances when a fight was the best course before me, I shrank from my obligation. There’s all kinds of things I could point to but more likely than not, like most, I ran because I was scared. The fear was mostly of letting her in, availing myself to her, showing her the soft underbelly. “Nah, I’m fine. Whatever.”

When a fight is required, and not initiated, something even worse happens. That thing gets buried … or better, it gets sown. Eventually, it sprouts and takes over. Once that happens you’re no longer out for understanding. Reconciliation is not the goal. It’s all about payback. “Oh yeah? Is that how it’s going to be? Okay. We’ll see about that. Let’s see how you like it.”

Those sound like fighting words, but they’re not. They only sound like it because we don’t know what a good fight sounds like. We’ve not been taught. Those words are cowardly and out of control. They reek of toxic things like revenge and retribution.

A good fight has some important elements: 1. A good goal. In marriage, the goal is not to win, not to make your point. It’s reconciliation; 2. Discipline. All’s not fair in love and war. It’s not about satisfaction. The passions inflamed in a fight make it all the more important to remain self-controlled. 3. Like all fights, it requires a great deal of courage. Do not give in to fear. In interpersonal relations, fear is a poor counselor.

Just learning, but I’m getting pretty good at it. As we learn, we’ve begun to teach our kids how to fight properly.