I love instructions. I let them guide me through any technological or mechanical endeavor whenever possible. I wouldn't say that I'm lost without them, but I do miss them fiercely when they are not there. I also love rules. My fellow fathers have noted this about me,and I'm even known to one of them as "Safety Guy." Whether it's a hot dog roast around the fire pit, or friends on the trampoline, or the speed limit through the kitchen (man that room is unsafe—who puts a giant fire box inside somebody's house and surrounds it with knives?), I have regulations for nearly any circumstance. Any infraction leads to a serious talking to—I wouldn't say "lecture" (but my wife would)—and possibly harsher consequences. These times, as well as when I'm instructing my children on the facts of our magnificent universe, are times when I start to take myself a little too seriously. Those who know me best understand that underneath my jovial exterior lies a broody introvert just waiting to clam up—I wouldn't say "pout" (but my siblings would)—but I try to be positive and happy. For those of you following my sporadic diatribe, you know just how darn funny I am...anyway, I love when my kids snap me out of my seriosity with their sweetness or their own brand of humour (which usually garners more acclaim than mine). For example, when he was just four or five, I had sufficienly addicted Cooper to Slurpees, which he would ask for every time we drove past our neigbourhood convenience store. One such request was made mid-January, which was easily deflected with an explanation that cold drinks are for when it's hot outside. This effectively stopped the requests for a couple of weeks. Then, having all but forgotten about the issue, we were in the car and my science-minded Cooper asked me something about the composition or temperature of the sun. As usual, I engaged in an overzealous explanation of every solar fact I could recollect.
"Wow, the sun sure is hot, right Dad?"
"Yes, it sure is, buddy."
"Yeah, then we should probably get a Slurpee."
He had me there.
More recently (but now anciently), I was explaining to Annie—in far too great detail for a then three-year-old—that if she didn't wear socks with her shoes, she would get sores on her feet, and that these sores would hurt. Of course, I used the word "blisters", and, upon hearing this word for the first time, she looked at me and burst out laughing, repeating the world through her chuckles..you know, like, "Come on dad, at least use a real word—now you're just being silly...blisters." It's at this point I realize that 'sores' or 'owies' would have been sufficient and I go on to wonder how often I confuse my children because I am explaining things so over-extensively that they roll their eyes and shut their ears. Or, I spend so much time explaining the 'what' of a principle and gloss over the 'why.' The trouble with this is that the 'why' is where all of the love and understanding and connection are found. In the realm of parent-child relationships, Silly is the universal language.
Update: Fast-forward a decade or so and I now have to use Google Translate to understand just about anything that comes out of their mouths…I suppose I asked for that.
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