3 posts tagged with "parenting"

“You’re invited. Be sure to come at 4:35 p.m.!” my 7-year-old told his three siblings. He pressed handwritten invitations for our “GALLERY OPENING” made from scrap paper into their hands. It was a few minutes before the event time listed for our formally informal affair. My son was enthusiastic about the photos we had just hung together in the hallway of my kids’ favorite stuffed animals: the bears.

My kids have imagined a whole universe around their plush toy bears; many of these personalities carry names derived from IKEA’s endearing Djungelskog toy. Minutes later, my son would sit on my shoulders and pull back a taped-up pillowcase to unveil the stars of our new hallway gallery.

Right as my son hollered for everyone to come upstairs for the ceremony, my youngest yelled from below, “DAD, I NEED YOU!”

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The wafting scent of attention… and meltdowns​

Like bears and their developed sense of smell, my kids have a knack for tracking down perceived inequities. Young children are notoriously poor judges of equality.

The little one had heard his brother and me working upstairs. He was jealous I wasn’t playing with him, and concluded that he should break his Duplo construction on the kitchen table. Tears started flowing as he tried to force the pieces back together. “Dad, it’s not working! It’s just broken! See?”

There’s a short window where my kid can regulate his emotions on his own. After too long, the jealousy, frustration, anger, and tears become overwhelming and we reach meltdown. He was heading straight to it.

Standing next to him or gently rubbing his back wasn’t enough for this runaway train. It was time to set the Legos aside and work together toward regulation as the emotional flash flood ran its course.

I picked my son up and hugged and rocked him in my arms. His whimpers started settling after he bit into a piece of orange sour candy.¹ As he calmed down, I pointed at a picture of a bear that hangs downstairs above our kitchen table and told him its story.

Ripping cozy bear a new one​

When my oldest son was the same age as his youngest brother, he drew a bear with a beanie and scarf for a school art project. I loved the drawing when he brought it home. It might be kid art—but it looks so expressive and always draws me in. My son was proud of his bear drawing too. He taped it to the wall next to his bed.

One night, my oldest was upset with his sister. He ran up to his bedroom. As part of his rage, he ripped his bear drawing, crumpled it up, and threw it on the ground.

At bedtime, I picked the drawing up from the floor and asked my oldest to hang it back up in its spot. With some lingering upset emotions, he refused. “No, it’s broken. It’s ruined. Throw it away.” We left the conversation at that, and I tucked him in and kissed him goodnight. But, I didn’t want to get rid of that bear.

Once all the kids were asleep, I looked again at his drawing. The tear and wrinkles were on blank parts of the page. I grabbed scissors and cut away the damaged portions. I mounted it on some textured drawing paper, and scrounged up a frame.

Cozy bear gets a new home after being ripped apart

The next morning, cozy bear was on the kitchen table. As my oldest son bit into his breakfast, I taught him the lesson “things that are broken can be fixed. Cozy bear looks great.” He didn’t know what to say, but he gave me a hug and kept getting ready for school.

My youngest nuzzled my neck as I finished telling him the story about his oldest brother and cozy bear. We reassembled a few of the big pieces of Legos on the kitchen table and went upstairs. We were impatiently awaited for the grand reveal.

The great reveal​

At 4:39—four minutes late—the festivities resumed. My 7-year-old proudly pulled the pillowcase back to reveal our new wall décor. The other kids politely applauded. The plush toys gazed on from behind as my kids’ little fingers started waving around, pointing at the photos and calling out their favorite memories. Before long, they started holding their toys up to the pictures and telling the toys their stories.

The bears look over their new gallery

Our gallery: The Museum of Skog 🐻​

Our little gallery isn’t much materially—it’s a few simple frames, cheap photo prints, and an iPhone used as a leveler.² We love our bears and our memories with them.

Top row
← Kids riding on a wooden bear in San Francisco
↑ A small tin box with a bear saying « Je t’aime » (“I love you” in French)
→ Kids hugging bear statue at Vancouver International Airport (YVR)

Center row
← Weighted plush bear “helping” cut a raspberry tarte
→ Weighted plush bear and IKEA Djungelskog bear hugging

Bottom row
↑ The “Pika parade!” that loves to cheer on their friends, the bears

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Footnotes​

1. Sour candy can help “reset” our nervous system. Next time you’re feeling unsettled, try eating a sour patch kid while you work through whatever you’re feeling. It might help. ↩

2. My son was fascinated that the phone could do math to figure out how straight the picture frame was. Apple Support article: How to use your iPhone as a level ↩

I spent my summer as a fifteen-year-old working on construction sites in Southern California for my grandfather. Like many caring grandparents, he cared deeply that I learn to do things the “right way” in life. His way.

I learned how much he cared when he barked “Hey, what do you think you’re doing over there?” across the room and pointed at me in scorn while his other laborers kept working. My cousin worked beside me, but he knew what was coming and stopped to watch. It’s so hard to look away from a train wreck.

The house in Southern California where my grandfather’s ire taught me about his beef with ”put jobs” /* truncate */

“That thing you just did there. That’s a ‘put job.’ You just put the damned thing down over there. You just made another job you’ll have to do later,” he seethed. He made me go back to complete the job and stooped over me to watch me finish the work his way.

My grandfather humiliated me publicly. I fumed silently—talking back wouldn’t save any face.

After he stopped micromanaging my task, I simmered down and figured out that it’s not so hard for a job site flunky to do things the boss’s way.

My grandfather was a very clever and intelligent man. There’s a certain logic to seeing a task through to completion. A principle sat encapsulated in his vitriol. I latched onto that principle, both as a way to work effectively and to avoid further humiliation beyond that low-stakes summer job site. Maybe it could help me avoid humiliation in life too.

Runaway principle​

A burden carried by most gay men is that “if you are to be loved, you must hide the truth about yourself and work at being lovable.” ¹ Grandpa’s ‘put job’ lesson sailed into the past, but I reasoned that I could work at being consistently loved if I finished my responsibilities to completion.

Homework assignment? Done. Student council task? Completed. If I started a task, I would see it through. My teachers and church leaders commended my skills and gave me more of their dreams to bring to life. A one-of-a-kind religious retreat for graduating high school boys? Yep. Provide pro-bono graphic design for all mayoral candidates in town? Sure!

The ever-growing list of demands that my lovability rode on became untenable. Grandpa’s principle taught me to get the job done once I started: it didn’t stipulate when I would pick it up.

Why else would I bother to corrupt a PDF file right before a class deadline? Who knew that it would take a teaching assistant a day or two to try to open it for grading? They’d just ask me to re-upload my file. They’d still love me, especially when they saw my dazzling work.

Speaking of making a good impression, picking up a job and doing it “all the way” also invites what project managers call scope creep. I shouldn’t just floss my teeth… I can only be loved if I’ve ensured the floss is biodegradable and won’t harm marine life. In fact—should I even start flossing if I only have time to get three spots? That’d be a waste of floss.

This principle was showing its diminishing returns. I couldn’t see it—not with my lovability in the balance.

Atlas I am not​

Moving into an apartment while going through divorce and raising four young kids sucked. Attempting to do it without a single fucking “put job” was one of my more insane undertakings in life. My entire world rode on my shoulders. Grit, determination, and belief in the power of my grandfather’s shame-based principle got me through. I did it. Slay.

Keeping it all up after moving in weighed heavily. Work, laundry, meal prep, quality time with kids… it all slowly dragged me into a pit of anxiety and depression.

Therapy and antidepressants kept me functional. I’m grateful they exist. They gave me a chance by burning off some of the fog in my brain. Once I could gaze into my mind more clearly, I could start deconstructing what emerged from my grandfather’s humiliating train wreck from twenty years prior. Two new memories stick with me just as well as that job site clash.

First: I had recently started dating someone new. I winced when I watched him toss a dirty rag to the floor from the kitchen. “Why’d you do that?,” I quizzed. He said things just need to move in the right direction and they’ll eventually get there. The tossed rag had landed midway between the washing machine. Later in the morning, it and several other rags dove into a washing machine with steaming hot water and bleach. Nick’s example showed me the work would get done with less fuss and that I’d still be lovable.

Back at my place with my kids, I still got easily overwhelmed fighting the urge to stick with a task until it was completely done. Some kind people on the internet suggested K.C. Davis’ book “How to Keep House While Drowning” Bookshop.org | Libby. Her story helped me see how common it is to feel overwhelmed, with each page giving me new snapshots of ways to treat myself with kindness. This reinforced what I watched Nick do.

The good keeps coming​

A little bit of a good thing remains a fundamentally good thing. If I only have the time or energy to do that little bit, I can still hold my head high. Things will get where they need to.

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Footnotes​

1. From “The Velvet Rage” by Alan Downs Ph.D. Bookshop.org | Libby ↩

Dedicated to my papa; a great man. 🩵

Today I taught my four kids how to build a PC. It was a good activity for a rainy day. As my son tightened the screw to fasten the power supply to the case, I thought “wow, these are third-generation PC builders.” and I started remembering how we got to this point.

For me, it started like this:

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My papa tries to do all the things​

At medical school, my father’s curiosity drew him into the university’s mainframe computing lab. He started a parallel degree in computer science so he could figure out what computing was about. He—like many early adopters—saw its potential and wanted to benefit from new technology.

He later realized studying for both degrees concurrently was too much work. He stuck with medicine and turned computers into a hobby. For years, his passion kept our household several steps ahead of the curve. Watching his excitement piqued my curiosity early on.

What do you want to create today?​

My parents used Macs. As a toddler, I wanted to play with the computer just like my parents did. My toddler self would create messes in the physical world, like “helping” pour juice and spilling it all over the carpet.

I also quickly learned that I could “help” in my parents’ digital world, making regular improvements to their file organization. Watching the trash icon get fat and skinny over and over again amused me. My parents were not amused.

One day, my parents attempted to reign in my interest and creativity by installing KidPix, a drawing application that required a password to escape “kid mode.” It didn’t take me long before I figured out repeating certain actions would crash the application and expose the Finder, all the cool applications, and the trash. 😅

Although I’m unsure what backup plan ultimately protected their data from my 3 year-old antics, I know they didn’t dissuade me from playing with our Mac. They also showed me their own creativity with technology—thanks in large part to our LaserWriter printer.

By the time I was in second grade, I watched my mom use our Mac to create all kinds of themed birthday parties and events. She took full advantage of the laser printer’s thermal fuser to print gold foil onto dark blue card stock for the cover page. In my eyes, her themed creations looked like the real deal! She was so good at the themed creations, and I watched her turn it into a small business: “Party in a Box!”

Watching her make money using our computer and printer gave me some business ideas too. I printed flyers on her neon paper scraps offering my neighbors lawn mowing, dog walking, weeding, and house sitting.

By the time I turned eight, I had saved enough money for a right of passage: buying my own computer.

“Come to the dark side, Matt”​

Young kids don’t want to appear weird to other kids their age. Most of the parents at my elementary school in the town bordering Redmond, Washington had fallen into money by working for Microsoft in the 1980s and early 1990s. Their kids loved Microsoft, especially because they got to use the free soda machines when they visited their parents office.

Microsoft’s influence in my community was evident. We had just received a grant from the Bill & Melinda Gates foundation: three fancy Gateway 2000 PCs along with licenses to Microsoft Encarta encyclopedia on CD-ROM. Our class field trip went to Seattle Art Museum to gawk at a few pages of Bill Gates’ recently acquired diaries of Leonardo da Vinci. The billboards and radio ads and campus shuttles surrounding me praised Windows 95. Their slogan, “Where do you want to go today” stared at me from dozens of spots on their campus as we drove past to my swim practice. Microsoft was living its best “evil empire” life at the time, and I lived right in its shadow.

When classmates heard that I would buy my own computer, they expected I would pick a Compaq or a Packard-Bell or a Gateway powered by Intel’s flashy new Pentium II processor.

Despite the social pressure to join the dark side, my eight-year-old self knew that I couldn’t create the same things I saw my parents do with a Windows machine. I wanted my creative freedom, just like I do today. I wanted my first computer bought with my own hard-earned money to be a Mac. The Original “Bondi Blue” iMac.

My fourth grade teacher required us to keep a journal. On a page about my personal “Circle of life” I pasted a picture of my newly purchased iMac G3… along with a picture of France, me swimming, and a Boeing 727 jet sporting Alaska Airlines colors.

Bullied by Microsofties​

The kids at school—and their parents(!)—berated me for my purchase. “Macs are so gay!” some classmates repeated to me day after day—a double whammy.

Undeterred, I used my new iMac to play and build imaginary worlds at home with my siblings. Government systems for our society of plush animals. Newspapers with an advice column penned by our cat. My very first website—coded in the freshly-defined HTML 4.0 spec—featured my Cub Scout pack, our fire station outing, and my allegiance to Cupertino.

While I was enthralled with Mac OS 8.5, my older brother had jumped on the FreeBSD train. I watched him closely during the rare times he would let me into his bedroom. His fingers danced on the keyboard speaking with his command line. His world seemed so strange and different from mine.

One day, his home-built server running FreeBSD on a disused 386 gave up the ghost during a Seattle wind storm. This was a really big deal in our house. That server was our router. At the time, GTE expected residential customers would never have more than one computer. Their approved ADSL modem only allowed a single client. Without this home-built server and its network address translation, our internet connection at home was limited to a single computer.

My dad handed my brother some cash to buy components to build a new server. My brother and I jumped into his Geo Metro and drove an hour up I-405 to the only store in the region that had the components we needed in stock.

I had no idea what my brother was asking the salesperson in the weird-smelling store for. I picked up a few words: Celeron, dual processor, CD-RW drive, 12 hard drive bays, 20GB (huge!!!) hard drives, RAID1 controller, power supply, case fans, and more.

We raced home after finishing our errands. I helped my brother carry everything from the car into his bedroom lair. I watched him carefully assemble our massive new server together.

While I wished my brother had let me help him with the build, I was grateful he let me observe and ask occasional questions. Late in the night he brought our home network back to life. On my way to school the next morning, I wondered “will I ever be smart enough to build a computer like him?”

Pouring water into my apple cider​

My creativity grew as I learned how to use more powerful applications on my iMac. A neighbor who worked for Adobe handed us a copy of InDesign 2.0, which I used to make better flyers for odd jobs around my neighborhood. The best paying work was in PC training and troubleshooting.

The shame my classmates had once made me feel about being a dumb, gay Mac user fueled my zealous, teenage snark about Windows, its flaws, and Microsoft’s evil. However, I didn’t need customers to feel stupid while they paid me to exorcise 36 viruses from their machine. Good business required me to practice biting my tongue.

One day, my mother volunteered me to repair a virus-laden PC at our community’s youth chorale. Pro-bono. The choir director was convinced that viruses were causing her computer to suddenly shutdown without warning several times a day. Her PC did have multiple infections including the Anna Kournikova virus and the Code Red worm, but that wasn’t her real problem. Her power supply was on the fritz. Its erratic voltage was about to nuke the system that housed her only copies of member records, accounting files, community sponsor info, email, calendar, and more. She didn’t need a re-install; she needed a new machine.

The choir couldn’t cover the unplanned expense of a replacement computer that year. After my father finished his shift at the emergency room, he saw me poking at the PC. He asked a simple question: “do you think we could build a new one for less money?”

I hadn’t thought of that. He told me to check out pricewatch.com—a website that tracked the best prices of individual PC components—and see if I could price something out. He said he’d help me build a machine if the parts would be significantly cheaper than buying one.

Pricewatch.com in the early 2000s
Photo: Archive.org Wayback Machine

The build business​

Using my spec list, parents of chorale members offered to buy a component or two for the new PC. Some paid for a fan, others a hard drive. I donated my labor. A friend at Microsoft contributed a glossy, new Windows XP Pro retail kit they could get for a few dollars at the Microsoft Employee Store. I suppose the evil empire could do some good.

This first build was painful; some of that pain came from our pointed Mac-ness at home. The motherboard I had picked needed a BIOS update to be compatible with the processor. Getting that BIOS loaded required imaging a floppy disk, something that Apple had deemed obsolete and eliminated five years earlier. Ultimately I got the files loaded onto a floppy using a decade-old Quadra.

After plenty of trial-and-error and some patient help from my father to carefully mount the processor without damaging its pins, the new machine came to life. We took it down to the choir director’s office and started copying files. A few minutes after the last file transferred, the old PC played its usual intermittent shutdown trick. The director pressed the power button to bring it back to life. It didn’t turn on.

My papa and I kept on building PCs for friends and family as a side business. Eventually the cost advantage compared to retail PCs vanished and we moved on, but we had a good time together during those few years.

Teaching my kiddos​

A few weeks ago, my oldest son asked me if I still knew how to build a computer and if we could build one together.

Today, my kids learned to build a PC. A third generation is getting their start. I keep thinking: where will they want to go today?