I started this blog 6 years ago as a way to get myself to reflect on the experience of being a dad. I hoped that spending a little time every month thinking about things in my daughter's life would help me to understand her, and my relationship with her, a bit better.
Maybe some day she'll come across these pages. She'll remember some events differently, and some not at all. If she does, I hope they help her to understand me, and her relationship with me, a bit better.
More often than not, she's asked (or expected) to set the tone & boundaries when she's with her friends.
Maybe it's the only child thing. Maybe it's that she spends more time in the presence of adults than children. Maybe she's had enough of the right influences. Maybe it's just a phase. But it's good to think of her as the responsible one.
Change is drama. Movie directors know this. So do parents.
Each year she has changed schools has been a year of drama. Unsettled social relationships. Volatile grades. Personality changes.
The drama only lasts through the transition year. She gets used to the new routines. Study habits catch up with classroom demands. She makes new friends. Reluctantly or otherwise, she adjusts.
And so do we. We have to figure out how to engage her during transition. It's stressful, while it lasts.
Fortunately, transition is temporary. But as with the movies, there's always a sequel.
A lot of the things we sign our kids up for, from scouting to sports, require volunteers to make them work. No volunteers, no youth programs.
Making time commitments is no small favor to ask from people. Volunteers have to sign up for things weeks and even months in advance, and sometimes make major time commitments. Parents have all kinds of things competing for their time, tend to be overly optimistic about how much time things will take (travel & transportation included), and take routine household things like laundry and dinner for granted. Any parent who volunteers makes no small sacrifice.
As much as it's a commitment because of invasiveness and inconvenience factors to the individual volunteer, a volunteer organization is dependent on its volunteers to honor their commitment. Events and activities don't happen without the volunteers to make it so.
We remember those who have a gift for it - the brilliant coaches, the organized administrators - and these are the people who remind us that volunteer organizations are capable of amazing things. There are volunteers who do a crap job of it: they show up but make a hash of things. Still, there is a lot to be said for any volunteer who follows through on the commitments they made. In a lot of youth organizations, that's all that's being asked. Just show up like you said you would. And if you can't - hey, things come up - let those who are depending on you know that you can't. Withdraw if you must, but withdraw responsibly.
Your commitment is your obligation. Volunteering is optional. Commitments are not.
She's developed an eye for vintage, quirky signs from watching American Pickers.
And, in the process, she's found a way to clutter her bedroom walls as she has the floor.
She's a much different person today than she was just 3 years ago.
I can't pick her up as easily. I certainly can't throw her as far in the lake, or flip her while holding her by her arms.
Clothing holds her attention now. American Girl dolls don't.
She's less interested in Bugs Bunny and more interested in The Simpsons.
In her extra-curriculars, the gap between kids who are "casual" versus "committed" participants is blatant.
Interaction ("help me do this, daddy") gave way to observation ("watch me do this, daddy"), which has given way to awareness ("I'll be with my friends, dad").
Of course, I should expect nothing less. She's much closer to being a teenager than she was last an infant. It wasn't dramatic or sudden, and not everything about her has changed. Nor am I the same person I was just a few years ago. Plus, our relationship has to change if we're to stay interesting to each other, and not merely dependent and obliged to one another. And I'm looking forward to the next voyage of discovery, and curious to know who she'll become.
Still, I can't help but miss that little person I got to know.
As a newborn, I carried her in my arms.
As an infant, I held her hand.
As a child, we walked side-by-side.
As a pre-teen, I have no idea where she is at any given moment.
In a few years, "redshirt" will apply to freshman athletes at the school she goes to.
But for now, after watching enough Star Trek TOS reruns, "redshirt" means a person for whom tomorrow may not come.
...and another generational bridge is built.
I expected her first swim meet would be a learning experience for her: how it all works, where to find your results, getting a taste for competition, and above all else making sure not to miss an event.
But her biggest learning experience? How to function at a swim meet at 8a after staying up until 2a at a friend's slumber party. That will come in handy throughout her life.
Her final swim lesson was the same as all of her other lessons. Streamlined kicks. Freestyle laps. One-armed backstroke. An IM. And dad on the sidelines giving her signals (kick! big arms! reach!) and smiles (jazz hands! thumbs up!)
It was like all the other lessons, but for the fact that it was her final swim lesson. She needs to move on to a team - endurance and meets - to develop further.
It is time. For both of us.
Music competitions haven't changed much over the years. If you're performing in a single event, you get there an hour or so before your scheduled performance time, find the rehearsal room and loosen up. You run through your solo a few times, not because you're going to get any better, but to get into the rhythm of the piece. You watch the clock and look out for people you know. Then you head up to the performance room. Compared to the chaos in the hallways and the practice room, the performance room is nearly deserted and quiet. It's running a little bit behind schedule. Your performance lasts only a few minutes. The judge doesn't interact with you beyond a few statements and gives no immediate feedback. You say your "thank yous" and you nervously wait for the results to be posted (always twice longer than expected).
The written feedback is more verbose these days, and there are more volunteers providing logistical support to get the right kids in the right rooms at the right time, as there seem to be a lot more children playing solos than before. But otherwise, it's the same as it always was. And the important stuff hasn't changed: a good accompanist follows the soloist, a good judge recognizes technique even through the nervousness of the performer.
Once you get your result, you go home, with the rest of the weekend to bask in the glory of a few minutes good work, or stew in the disappointment of a few minutes bad work. Assuming you're not eligible for a state-wide competition, you're left only to speculate on the music you might play the following year: the disdain at having to play the same class of difficulty if you didn't score a top mark this time round, or the excitement of moving to a higher class if you did.
The award you get for your performance is only a small medal indicating the class of difficulty and the score achieved (I, II or III). It is small, but it is meaningful. Unlike all those participation awards, this one is truly earned, and reflective of how you did on the day. No matter how you scored, that "few minutes of work" is a reflection of you, your skill, and how well prepared you were on the day.
It's common practice to pin your music awards inside your instrument case. The more performances you give, the more hardware you'll have to pinned in the case. After a few years, it can look pretty impressive. While there's something to be said for pride in achievement, it's best if those sit on a shelf somewhere. In music, as in a lot of life, you're only as good as your next performance, not your last.
She did well on the day, earning a I in her first solo competition. Hopefully, not her last.
There seem to be a lot of parents who don't just want their kids to be able to swim, but want their kids to swim competitively. Maybe it's because the parents swam on team, or they got a rush watching the Olympics, or because it offers individual competitive opportunity for the kids to score some hardware for the trophy case at home.
Whatever the reason, I've seen more than a few kids moved to competitive swimming well before they've developed good mechanics. They don't effectively transfer energy into propulsion in the water. Their flip turns have all the grace of an octopus unfolding a lawn chair. They might come out of the starting blocks well, but they fade fast. Worse, the emphasis in team on endurance over mechanics reinforces the poor muscle memory of their strokes. If they ever hope to be competitive, they'll have to un-learn a lot of poor swimming mechanics - or take up a different sport entirely.
I hope she swims on team. I hope she likes the competitive aspect just as much as she likes being in the pool. But before she goes into a competitive situation, she's got to have developed the mechanics that will allow her to compete effectively. A good swimmer can become a great swimmer with refinement and endurance. A poor swimmer will never improve without mastering the fundamentals.
She's at an age when grades start to matter. That means that the stuff that needs to get done - assignments, worksheets, vocabulary words, notebooks - have to be at school when she needs them at school, and at home when she needs them at home. Frequently, they are not.
"A place for everything, and everything in its place" does not come naturally to her. We can coach her, incent her, and give her tools. We can remind her that staying on top of things is her responsibility. But as organization doesn't come naturally to her, she will have to develop the muscle memory to compensate, a defensive reaction to double check that she isn't forgetting something. As it is, she feels the disappointment borne of sloppiness, but she hasn't really experienced a major set back yet as a result. Until she does, it's likely to persist.
As a parent, own goals scored as a result of poor organization are not just irritating, they're disappointing. Of course, disappointing though they may be, they're also proof positive that the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.
Robust is when you care more about the few who like your work than the multitude who dislike it (artists); fragile when you care more about the few who dislike your work than the multitude who like it (politicians).May that she always have the strength - and stubbornness - to be the artist, and not the politician.
- Nassim Taleb, "The Bed of Procrustes: Philosophical and Practical Aphorisms"
In July 1969, Neil Armstrong stood atop the pinnacle of human achievement.
It's been said that landing on the moon was about the most audacious thing imaginable in the 1960s. We had to invent all kinds of technologies, master extra-terrestrial techniques in simulated environments, and build equipment to a level of quality such that they could withstand the harsh environment of space. We did it with scant first-hand experience, and limited component and systemic testing.
In the years following July 1969, we put another 10 people on the lunar surface, and hundreds more into low earth orbit. Humanity has produced three long-term space stations. We have a fleet of satellites orbiting the Earth, moon, and sun gathering scientific data ranging from the salinity of the oceans to fluctuations in the Van Allen belts. We've got four that are leaving the solar system, heading for interstellar space, two of which we still have contact with.
And that's not all. Since that first landing, we've launched space telescopes, developed reusable spacecraft, and landed rovers on Mars. We even launched a probe that collided with the moon so that another probe in orbit could study the chemical composition of the debris. These are no small accomplishments.
But as aggressive as these things are, the Mars Curiosity landing brings back audacious. It slowed from 13,000 mph to zero in 7 minutes in the thin Martian atmosphere. It did this using thrusters to control the approach despite reaching temperatures in excess of 1,600 degrees. It deployed a parachute at 9g to slow down, then detached the heat shield, then disposed of the parachute. It then used rockets to control the descent, changing both horizontal and vertical velocity to align with the planet's surface. But it saved the best for last: it's party piece was to cover the last 20 meters using a sky-crane to lower the rover to the surface.
And that's just the start. It crawls. It shoots photos. It vapourizes rocks to determine their chemical composition. It transmits all it learns back to the Earth.
Of course, the ultimate human experience is for people, not robots, to journey into space. And the Curiosity rover lacks the personification of the lunar missions because it's not one man, but thousands of people.
But that's how Mr. Armstrong wanted it. Much has been made about what he chose to do after his astronaut days, leading the reclusive life of academic and farmer. He didn't want the spotlight and didn't want to be a curiosity himself. But it's no accident that unlike all other missions, there are no astronaut names on the Apollo 11 mission patch. He was party to that decision, precisely because he realized before the event took place that setting foot on another celestial body was an achievement by humanity and not a single person.
Personification is why so many people today believe our scientific progress has receded when in fact it has advanced beyond our wildest dreams. We associate Mr. Armstrong with human greatness. That is justified: Mr. Armstrong, like all astronauts, is genius and guts incarnate. But our achievements today are no less remarkable. Just look at the SDO imagery if there's any doubt.
We idolize Mr. Armstrong because we get to bask in his reflected glory as fellow members of the human species.
It is selfish on our part to hero-worship.
Mr. Armstrong did not want that.
Farewell Neil Armstrong, and we thank you.
We expect our kids to learn life lessons from playing sports, things like teamwork, competition, discipline and practice. But the competitive structure of sports is not representative of how most people live their lives. Sport relies on tournaments to crown a champion. Most people live their lives - and particularly their careers - in a perpetual regular season.
Either we need more workplace tournaments (good luck with that, accounting department), or being the best team day in and day out needs to count for more than awards for individual accomplishment and securing home field advantage in the tournament.
We watched it through a more primitive apparatus: an optical projector constructed from binoculars, a tripod, cardboard and duct tape (what else?). The image from the projector, while not as crisp as a filtered lens, had the advantage of being much more fun: we projected onto cardboard, our shirts, and even our hands.
