sm
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
WORK
I was thinking, the good news is that my current job - which has lasted more than six-and-a-half years, a relatively long time in my field, technology sales - is with a well-run company that has emerged as an industry leader. Not only that, but the pay and benefits are good, and the majority of the people I work alongside are friendly and intelligent, and helpful to each other.
The bad news? I'm not a star in this world. I'm actually below par. Everyone else on this team is deeply committed, and striving to crush their numbers (and most are decades younger than me, which has made me feel increasingly isolated). Me? I just want to do my job and go home every day and forget it all.
There was a time when I was a big deal, at other places I've worked. But I was younger and healthier, and most important, I took the game more seriously and cared more about winning.
I've had some good months along the way here, occasionally landing at or near the top of the stack in terms of sales, but there's been a pretty steady decline over the past couple of years, and I've felt increasingly disengaged. (Hard to pin down which is the cause and which is the effect - I think they take turns).
So I wasn't actually shocked when my manager took me aside at the end of the day a couple of weeks ago and told me I was probably going to be laid off at the end of the month, which has since been made official. But even if it wasn't a surprise, it was still upsetting, because although the job itself gives me very little pleasure, day to day, I'm not in good enough financial shape to retire quite yet. And I had come to assume that this would be my last job.
But now I'm faced with having to re-enter the job market again. At age 65.
I'm not panicking (yet). Again, I'm coming off a six year run at a very well-respected company, so I should be able to get some interviews and offers before too long.
But I'm going to have to either find something to do that I care about more than what I'm doing now, or at least give a convincing performance. In any event, the whole notion of applying for another job at this point makes me want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.
Which is irrelevant. I have to work. But unlike what I had to deal with during many of my previous job transitions - and there have been many - which was, the absolute necessity to get another job, paying x amount of dollars, with benefits, as quickly as possible, this time I'll have a little breathing room. So I'll be able to consider the pros and cons of different companies and jobs before signing on anywhere.
This again is based on my getting actual job offers. But let's assume I will.
I know that this whole turn of events has created some real problems that I have to solve, and it's also unleashed a whole slew of emotions that are exhausting me. So I'm trying to strike a balance between taking this all seriously enough to come up with some practical plans and decisions, and not making it any more dramatic than it needs to be.
After all, it's just work. It's not like it's music, or family, right?
I was thinking, the good news is that my current job - which has lasted more than six-and-a-half years, a relatively long time in my field, technology sales - is with a well-run company that has emerged as an industry leader. Not only that, but the pay and benefits are good, and the majority of the people I work alongside are friendly and intelligent, and helpful to each other.
The bad news? I'm not a star in this world. I'm actually below par. Everyone else on this team is deeply committed, and striving to crush their numbers (and most are decades younger than me, which has made me feel increasingly isolated). Me? I just want to do my job and go home every day and forget it all.
There was a time when I was a big deal, at other places I've worked. But I was younger and healthier, and most important, I took the game more seriously and cared more about winning.
I've had some good months along the way here, occasionally landing at or near the top of the stack in terms of sales, but there's been a pretty steady decline over the past couple of years, and I've felt increasingly disengaged. (Hard to pin down which is the cause and which is the effect - I think they take turns).
So I wasn't actually shocked when my manager took me aside at the end of the day a couple of weeks ago and told me I was probably going to be laid off at the end of the month, which has since been made official. But even if it wasn't a surprise, it was still upsetting, because although the job itself gives me very little pleasure, day to day, I'm not in good enough financial shape to retire quite yet. And I had come to assume that this would be my last job.
But now I'm faced with having to re-enter the job market again. At age 65.
I'm not panicking (yet). Again, I'm coming off a six year run at a very well-respected company, so I should be able to get some interviews and offers before too long.
But I'm going to have to either find something to do that I care about more than what I'm doing now, or at least give a convincing performance. In any event, the whole notion of applying for another job at this point makes me want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.
Which is irrelevant. I have to work. But unlike what I had to deal with during many of my previous job transitions - and there have been many - which was, the absolute necessity to get another job, paying x amount of dollars, with benefits, as quickly as possible, this time I'll have a little breathing room. So I'll be able to consider the pros and cons of different companies and jobs before signing on anywhere.
This again is based on my getting actual job offers. But let's assume I will.
I know that this whole turn of events has created some real problems that I have to solve, and it's also unleashed a whole slew of emotions that are exhausting me. So I'm trying to strike a balance between taking this all seriously enough to come up with some practical plans and decisions, and not making it any more dramatic than it needs to be.
After all, it's just work. It's not like it's music, or family, right?
Friday, December 29, 2017
Same As It Ever Was (But Then Again, No)
I have a fairly good memory, and I make an effort to not sentimentalize my past. I clearly remember that I had pain and loss and troubles and doubt and fear in my younger years. But back then, I was also able to plausibly imagine that I had all the time in the world to work these things out. (In my homegrown mythology, Denial and Optimism are twins).
So, change was scary but often beautiful and thrilling: my last girlfriend became my wife; most of my original band-mates from the early days moved far away, but I eventually co-founded a new band where I got to be a front man and songwriter; our first child was born and we surprised ourselves by being pretty good at parenting; we made it through six miscarriages but eventually had our second child, as healthy and beautiful as the first, making it clear to us, finally, that a healthy chunk of our "good parenting" was dumb luck; I lost jobs but always found new jobs; each of my bands fell apart but I started or joined new bands (and kept writing new songs).
So far, so good, yes?
But at a certain point, "change" changed. It was no longer synonymous with "challenge" or "evolution" or "adventure". Instead, it began to evoke dread, and, on a bad day - and there seemed to be more bad days - it started to sound like a polite euphemism for "entropy", or "decay", or just "loss".
When the kids were younger, the work of bringing in money for the family, or the work of taking care of the household and the garden wasn't any easier, but we didn't allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by it all - or at least not overwhelmed into paralysis - and so we were able to keep a certain momentum going.
Over these past few years, that's become a bit more, ah, problematic. Not that there aren't some real factors in action here (and I won't presume to speak for my wife, but these things apply to her too), including chronic pain, financial uncertainty, and the worst President in our country's history, each of which can and do create their own cascades of escalating misery.
<Well, I think I've painted a dark enough picture here; time to let some light in (since one of my principal deities is Balance) >
So, here's where I tell you what doesn't suck. Or, to put it another way - a better way - what am grateful for? Plenty, it turns out.
First, my wife, then our children. There's a lot more to it than just jotting their names down at the top of a list, of course, and they're not what I wanted to write about right now, so I'm setting them to one side for the moment. (Don't worry; they'll be fine).
What did I want to write about here and now? Music.
I've been playing and singing for more than 40 years now, and writing and arranging my own material for more 30 years, so on a certain level, it has been one of the constants in my life. I've gone through more than a little self-doubt about my inherent abilities and whether or not I would have achieved a great deal more if I'd gone all-in and made it the focus of my daily working life, and those internal arguments still rattle on, to this day. But for better or worse, I kept writing and playing and singing. At times, I had no clear idea of what I was working toward, beyond a fervent commitment to never being a former musician, but, hey, it did the trick.
My last band, The Waterdogs, had a long run - more than 15 years - but despite the fact that we had a lot of good songs, with two main songwriters in the group, and a decent level of musical proficiency, we performed rarely - perhaps 3, 4 times a year - and those were mostly block parties or school fairs. Not sure if that was the main cause of our demise, but it was a factor. There were also personality clashes, and the not-uncommon build-up of impatience with each others' eccentricities. (As I've observed on more than one occasion, being in a band can be like the worst parts of a being in a marriage and running a small business).
But when it became clear that the group was done, I sat down with our bass player Joe, who I'd always seen eye-to-eye with, and we agreed to keep playing together, with the material pared down and re-arranged to be more suitable for a duo, and to see if we could enlist one or two more players to make it a fuller ensemble.
It took more than a year, but we managed to bring on, first, David on mandolin and violin, and then Berne on percussion. Then came the work of getting them really connected with the songs, figuring out which parts worked, which didn't, then a bunch of practices. Not a fast process, but we made steady progress. The challenge for me was that I was now The Guy. I wrote all the songs, I sang all the songs, I played the only guitar on all the songs. I'd never had that role before, and it required that I really knew what these songs were supposed to sound like, and that I help everyone to find their parts. Oh, and I had to sing and play my best, to keep them wanting to be part of my made-up world.
The initial goal was to record about 13 songs well enough to serve as a good demo, and we accomplished that. Again, during this process, I had to put more thought into every note I sang or played than I ever had before. And as we did the recording, overdubbing, and mixing, I realized that I was - at least at times - singing and playing, well, better. Clearer. I'd broken through some kind of barrier.
I also realized that during the times I was playing, even just by myself in the front room, whatever physical or emotional pain I'd been feeling receded. It didn't vanish, mind you, but it was like it just didn't matter as much, for a little while.
Some breathing room can make all the difference.
I have a fairly good memory, and I make an effort to not sentimentalize my past. I clearly remember that I had pain and loss and troubles and doubt and fear in my younger years. But back then, I was also able to plausibly imagine that I had all the time in the world to work these things out. (In my homegrown mythology, Denial and Optimism are twins).
So, change was scary but often beautiful and thrilling: my last girlfriend became my wife; most of my original band-mates from the early days moved far away, but I eventually co-founded a new band where I got to be a front man and songwriter; our first child was born and we surprised ourselves by being pretty good at parenting; we made it through six miscarriages but eventually had our second child, as healthy and beautiful as the first, making it clear to us, finally, that a healthy chunk of our "good parenting" was dumb luck; I lost jobs but always found new jobs; each of my bands fell apart but I started or joined new bands (and kept writing new songs).
So far, so good, yes?
But at a certain point, "change" changed. It was no longer synonymous with "challenge" or "evolution" or "adventure". Instead, it began to evoke dread, and, on a bad day - and there seemed to be more bad days - it started to sound like a polite euphemism for "entropy", or "decay", or just "loss".
When the kids were younger, the work of bringing in money for the family, or the work of taking care of the household and the garden wasn't any easier, but we didn't allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by it all - or at least not overwhelmed into paralysis - and so we were able to keep a certain momentum going.
Over these past few years, that's become a bit more, ah, problematic. Not that there aren't some real factors in action here (and I won't presume to speak for my wife, but these things apply to her too), including chronic pain, financial uncertainty, and the worst President in our country's history, each of which can and do create their own cascades of escalating misery.
<Well, I think I've painted a dark enough picture here; time to let some light in (since one of my principal deities is Balance) >
So, here's where I tell you what doesn't suck. Or, to put it another way - a better way - what am grateful for? Plenty, it turns out.
First, my wife, then our children. There's a lot more to it than just jotting their names down at the top of a list, of course, and they're not what I wanted to write about right now, so I'm setting them to one side for the moment. (Don't worry; they'll be fine).
What did I want to write about here and now? Music.
I've been playing and singing for more than 40 years now, and writing and arranging my own material for more 30 years, so on a certain level, it has been one of the constants in my life. I've gone through more than a little self-doubt about my inherent abilities and whether or not I would have achieved a great deal more if I'd gone all-in and made it the focus of my daily working life, and those internal arguments still rattle on, to this day. But for better or worse, I kept writing and playing and singing. At times, I had no clear idea of what I was working toward, beyond a fervent commitment to never being a former musician, but, hey, it did the trick.
My last band, The Waterdogs, had a long run - more than 15 years - but despite the fact that we had a lot of good songs, with two main songwriters in the group, and a decent level of musical proficiency, we performed rarely - perhaps 3, 4 times a year - and those were mostly block parties or school fairs. Not sure if that was the main cause of our demise, but it was a factor. There were also personality clashes, and the not-uncommon build-up of impatience with each others' eccentricities. (As I've observed on more than one occasion, being in a band can be like the worst parts of a being in a marriage and running a small business).
But when it became clear that the group was done, I sat down with our bass player Joe, who I'd always seen eye-to-eye with, and we agreed to keep playing together, with the material pared down and re-arranged to be more suitable for a duo, and to see if we could enlist one or two more players to make it a fuller ensemble.
It took more than a year, but we managed to bring on, first, David on mandolin and violin, and then Berne on percussion. Then came the work of getting them really connected with the songs, figuring out which parts worked, which didn't, then a bunch of practices. Not a fast process, but we made steady progress. The challenge for me was that I was now The Guy. I wrote all the songs, I sang all the songs, I played the only guitar on all the songs. I'd never had that role before, and it required that I really knew what these songs were supposed to sound like, and that I help everyone to find their parts. Oh, and I had to sing and play my best, to keep them wanting to be part of my made-up world.
The initial goal was to record about 13 songs well enough to serve as a good demo, and we accomplished that. Again, during this process, I had to put more thought into every note I sang or played than I ever had before. And as we did the recording, overdubbing, and mixing, I realized that I was - at least at times - singing and playing, well, better. Clearer. I'd broken through some kind of barrier.
I also realized that during the times I was playing, even just by myself in the front room, whatever physical or emotional pain I'd been feeling receded. It didn't vanish, mind you, but it was like it just didn't matter as much, for a little while.
Some breathing room can make all the difference.
Friday, December 23, 2016
One Way or Another, This Darkness Got to Give
As my friends and many of my acquaintances know, my birthday is December 31st, just a few days away. I suppose I should be grateful that I get to save some time by combining my personal taking-stock of the past year of my life with the rest of the world's annual looking-back; a great big Reflection-Fest.
So -
This past year, I know some of you experienced pain and loss on levels that I'm not sure I could have endured. The death of a child, or a spouse - my brain won't even let me imagine these things for more than a few moments. But one of the things I learned (or remembered ) this past year was that it's a bad idea to put down your own emotions (just as it's a bad idea to compare yourself with others; a sucker's game, for sure). The emotions are what they are - no more, no less. Let 'em cycle through.
That said, I went through some stuff in 2016. About mid-year, I was reaching a point where the anxiety and depression I'd shrugged off and pushed away for a long time just got to be too much. I felt like all the padding had worn away and it was just metal on metal.
When my sister died in May, I began to seriously crumple, though most people around me weren't aware of it. (I attribute this in equal parts to my advanced skills at acting normal and people not being terribly observant overall.) But I still waited till late June to look for help from a professional.
I saw the therapist from July through November, and over that time, I got a decent grip on my situation. (In fact, though the phrase "get a grip" is usually not uttered in a kindly tone, it's actually a useful suggestion). And while she didn't pronounce me "all better", she did ask me, at our last session, if I thought it should be our last session, and I said yes, I think I know how to proceed from here.
Because really, it's all stuff I've known for a long time. I just need to remember, and to practice.
Of course, right around this time, this other thing happened, and it was kind of like the Universe was saying, "oh, you can deal with adversity now, huh? Is that what I heard you say? Well, how about if we make a reality TV star/con man President of the United States? And not even a good-natured one. A complete nasty creep on every level. And you'll have to see and read about him and hear about him every single day for the next four years. How about them apples, motherfucker?"
I admit, this will be a challenge. But I know I'm not alone, and I also feel certain this fool will fail, And I'm working on my mental health by not dwelling on the stupidity or malice or short-sighted greed of those who voted for him. I don't think that most of them will ever admit they were wrong, any more than HE ever will. The main thing is to minimize the damage he and his stooges can do before he's removed from power.
In the meantime, my advice, to myself and anyone else who might have asked for some, is, be good to each other, and let the words of love be said.
As my friends and many of my acquaintances know, my birthday is December 31st, just a few days away. I suppose I should be grateful that I get to save some time by combining my personal taking-stock of the past year of my life with the rest of the world's annual looking-back; a great big Reflection-Fest.
So -
This past year, I know some of you experienced pain and loss on levels that I'm not sure I could have endured. The death of a child, or a spouse - my brain won't even let me imagine these things for more than a few moments. But one of the things I learned (or remembered ) this past year was that it's a bad idea to put down your own emotions (just as it's a bad idea to compare yourself with others; a sucker's game, for sure). The emotions are what they are - no more, no less. Let 'em cycle through.
That said, I went through some stuff in 2016. About mid-year, I was reaching a point where the anxiety and depression I'd shrugged off and pushed away for a long time just got to be too much. I felt like all the padding had worn away and it was just metal on metal.
When my sister died in May, I began to seriously crumple, though most people around me weren't aware of it. (I attribute this in equal parts to my advanced skills at acting normal and people not being terribly observant overall.) But I still waited till late June to look for help from a professional.
I saw the therapist from July through November, and over that time, I got a decent grip on my situation. (In fact, though the phrase "get a grip" is usually not uttered in a kindly tone, it's actually a useful suggestion). And while she didn't pronounce me "all better", she did ask me, at our last session, if I thought it should be our last session, and I said yes, I think I know how to proceed from here.
Because really, it's all stuff I've known for a long time. I just need to remember, and to practice.
Of course, right around this time, this other thing happened, and it was kind of like the Universe was saying, "oh, you can deal with adversity now, huh? Is that what I heard you say? Well, how about if we make a reality TV star/con man President of the United States? And not even a good-natured one. A complete nasty creep on every level. And you'll have to see and read about him and hear about him every single day for the next four years. How about them apples, motherfucker?"
I admit, this will be a challenge. But I know I'm not alone, and I also feel certain this fool will fail, And I'm working on my mental health by not dwelling on the stupidity or malice or short-sighted greed of those who voted for him. I don't think that most of them will ever admit they were wrong, any more than HE ever will. The main thing is to minimize the damage he and his stooges can do before he's removed from power.
In the meantime, my advice, to myself and anyone else who might have asked for some, is, be good to each other, and let the words of love be said.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Denial: A Useful Option
Back in 2008, my wife went in for a routine mammogram, but unlike all the many previous hi-tech breast-mashings that amounted to nothing, this one resulted in a "we don't like how this one little spot looks; please call us to schedule a biopsy" call.
Teri was frightened, of course, and so was I, but we both settled fairly quickly into the mode of casual disbelief: this would all amount to nothing, because, well, just because.
I accompanied her to the biopsy - an outpatient procedure at Kaiser Oakland - mostly to fulfill my ongoing role as denial force-field generator (or, "DFFG"). And I continued in that useful role as we waited for the results.
Which came back positive, as in, yep, that's cancer all right. Next step: surgery. DFFG on full power now, as we waited for the Day of the Knife.
That was a long wait, or seemed like it; DFFG on overdrive. Which allowed us to go about our normal business without incident.
Finally, on to Kaiser Richmond - a real moon-base of a facility - where Teri had to do the whole patient check-in deal, and I had some number of hours to wander the waiting room alone. The DFFG was showing some signs of metal fatigue, perhaps, but the lights were all green and all seemed good, or at least neutral.
Finally, the nurse wheeled her out, or maybe it was even the surgeon? I'm fuzzy on the details (DFFG side-effect; not uncommon) but somehow someone communicated to us that the surgery was a success, defined as such because there was no more detectable cancer to cut out, and somehow we also learned that, in fact, the tumor had been so small that the biopsy had pretty much taken nearly the whole thing out.
There were some discussions about follow-up exams to make sure there were no reoccurrences (and even talk of doing pre-emptive chemo, or radiation? Not sure. Anyway, sounded like a bad plan and it never took place).
We both agreed that going from deep denial to grateful relief had been an excellent strategy, at least in our case.
I suppose most anyone reading this during this last week before the Presidential Election of 2016 will have figured out why I'm reminiscing about these events at this point.
Fellow Citizens, start your DFFGs, if you haven't already.
Teri was frightened, of course, and so was I, but we both settled fairly quickly into the mode of casual disbelief: this would all amount to nothing, because, well, just because.
I accompanied her to the biopsy - an outpatient procedure at Kaiser Oakland - mostly to fulfill my ongoing role as denial force-field generator (or, "DFFG"). And I continued in that useful role as we waited for the results.
Which came back positive, as in, yep, that's cancer all right. Next step: surgery. DFFG on full power now, as we waited for the Day of the Knife.
That was a long wait, or seemed like it; DFFG on overdrive. Which allowed us to go about our normal business without incident.
Finally, on to Kaiser Richmond - a real moon-base of a facility - where Teri had to do the whole patient check-in deal, and I had some number of hours to wander the waiting room alone. The DFFG was showing some signs of metal fatigue, perhaps, but the lights were all green and all seemed good, or at least neutral.
Finally, the nurse wheeled her out, or maybe it was even the surgeon? I'm fuzzy on the details (DFFG side-effect; not uncommon) but somehow someone communicated to us that the surgery was a success, defined as such because there was no more detectable cancer to cut out, and somehow we also learned that, in fact, the tumor had been so small that the biopsy had pretty much taken nearly the whole thing out.
There were some discussions about follow-up exams to make sure there were no reoccurrences (and even talk of doing pre-emptive chemo, or radiation? Not sure. Anyway, sounded like a bad plan and it never took place).
We both agreed that going from deep denial to grateful relief had been an excellent strategy, at least in our case.
I suppose most anyone reading this during this last week before the Presidential Election of 2016 will have figured out why I'm reminiscing about these events at this point.
Fellow Citizens, start your DFFGs, if you haven't already.
Saturday, September 24, 2016
A Little Help: Part One
I've always prided myself on being resilient. Not to say I've had to overcome horrendous obstacles in the course of my life, but there have been a few twists and turns along the way that seemed pretty hairy to me at the time; a few wall-slams; you know, life. But I had been able to reliably bounce back over and over again.
Then, a few months back, not long after my sister died, I found myself suddenly feeling all my different mental and physical wounds and bruises much more deeply than ever before. I was still functioning, still getting up each morning and doing my job at work, but everything was an awful effort, and I spent much of my day cycling through anger, morbid sadness, or just dull pain.
Of course, I still had some moments of pleasure, but they seemed painfully more and more short-lived. Meanwhile, the darkness was deepening.
So, I took what felt like a plunge and got a referral through Kaiser for a therapist. I didn't know exactly what to expect, even though I had seen a psychiatrist for about a year when I was 16 - 17, but of course that may as well have been during a previous life.
The person I was referred to turned out to be an older woman - meaning, older than me - which I realized mattered to me. Honestly, if someone younger than me had tried to counsel or question me, I would have probably thought, "what the fuck do YOU know?" And I think I've always found it easier to talk to women than men. (Probably because, by and large, they're smarter and they interrupt less often.)
In my favor, I'm a good patient, meaning that I'm open to being treated and I think the idea of talking through difficult, painful thoughts and feelings in order to gain perspective and to figure out good ways to cope with them is a sensible one. (Turns out, not everyone does.)
Without going into a lot of detail, and to keep the story moving, I'll just say that I've made some progress, partly because, not unlike Dorothy in Oz, I knew most of the answers all along.
I've always prided myself on being resilient. Not to say I've had to overcome horrendous obstacles in the course of my life, but there have been a few twists and turns along the way that seemed pretty hairy to me at the time; a few wall-slams; you know, life. But I had been able to reliably bounce back over and over again.
Then, a few months back, not long after my sister died, I found myself suddenly feeling all my different mental and physical wounds and bruises much more deeply than ever before. I was still functioning, still getting up each morning and doing my job at work, but everything was an awful effort, and I spent much of my day cycling through anger, morbid sadness, or just dull pain.
Of course, I still had some moments of pleasure, but they seemed painfully more and more short-lived. Meanwhile, the darkness was deepening.
So, I took what felt like a plunge and got a referral through Kaiser for a therapist. I didn't know exactly what to expect, even though I had seen a psychiatrist for about a year when I was 16 - 17, but of course that may as well have been during a previous life.
The person I was referred to turned out to be an older woman - meaning, older than me - which I realized mattered to me. Honestly, if someone younger than me had tried to counsel or question me, I would have probably thought, "what the fuck do YOU know?" And I think I've always found it easier to talk to women than men. (Probably because, by and large, they're smarter and they interrupt less often.)
In my favor, I'm a good patient, meaning that I'm open to being treated and I think the idea of talking through difficult, painful thoughts and feelings in order to gain perspective and to figure out good ways to cope with them is a sensible one. (Turns out, not everyone does.)
Without going into a lot of detail, and to keep the story moving, I'll just say that I've made some progress, partly because, not unlike Dorothy in Oz, I knew most of the answers all along.
- Some painful things really did happen to me, and to my wife, including loved ones killing themselves, other loved ones dying of natural causes, financial calamities, and our own aging and escalating chronic pain. (Add in our children growing up and leaving home into the mix as well).
- Over time, I had devised ways to make these experiences even worse than they had to be, by either blaming myself for not being a better friend, brother, son, husband, father, human being, whatever, or by calling myself a crybaby, or both.
- And I was also wasting more and more time in a state of anxiety, ranging from vague apprehension all the way to near-paralyzingly dread, in anticipation of every conceivable bad outcome. Again, few of my fears were entirely delusional; they were based on things that had happened before and could happen again - like getting laid off - but they had begun to resist my efforts to rationally defuse them.
- To be continued. Of course. -
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Ever since I was a little boy,
...I somehow knew that I would be a father some day. I just assumed it was part of being a man. And this was not because of any particular thing my own father did for me or said to me when I was little, although he was a loving father and maybe even a bit more demonstrative than his peers. When I stop to think about it, maybe the notion was rooted in all those TV dads, on shows like "Ozzie and Harriet", "My Three Sons", "Leave it to Beaver", or "The Donna Reed Show". Just a guess. I may never know.
It wasn't that I thought a great deal about it along the way, mind you; it was just that I took it for granted I would help raise children some day. When I finally did meet my future wife, it's a funny family story that when we started becoming a couple, she told me explicitly and adamantly that 1) she had no intention of ever getting married, and 2) she was never having kids. Me being 25 at the time, my reaction was, hell, that's just fine, but I did wind up being the one to propose marriage and, not too long after, I was also the one to ask, how about us having a baby?
Well, people change, and, when the time for each was right, she got into both marriage and motherhood. And, of course, so did I. We've been together for 37 years now, and we raised two beautiful, smart kids. I'm not going to say it was all unicorn rides under rainbows along the way, but I really did have a lot of wonderful times with them as they grew up, and, knock on wood, they seem like they feel likewise.
But now, like all parents, we have to adjust to the fact that they have lives of their own, and they will make their own way in the world, complete with mistakes, doubt, and pain.
From all I've seen and understood, Teri and I are struggling with this transition about as much as other parents do, and we're coming to accept the changes about as well as others do, too. But the hardest aspect for me is that being a good father was a huge part of how I defined myself. How I STILL define myself. And a huge part of that was - is - my pride in my children.
But it's not their lot in life to make me proud. They may make choices that appall me, and maybe others that delight me. But these will be their own choices. Their lives.
THIS is the hardest part for me to accept.
It wasn't that I thought a great deal about it along the way, mind you; it was just that I took it for granted I would help raise children some day. When I finally did meet my future wife, it's a funny family story that when we started becoming a couple, she told me explicitly and adamantly that 1) she had no intention of ever getting married, and 2) she was never having kids. Me being 25 at the time, my reaction was, hell, that's just fine, but I did wind up being the one to propose marriage and, not too long after, I was also the one to ask, how about us having a baby?
Well, people change, and, when the time for each was right, she got into both marriage and motherhood. And, of course, so did I. We've been together for 37 years now, and we raised two beautiful, smart kids. I'm not going to say it was all unicorn rides under rainbows along the way, but I really did have a lot of wonderful times with them as they grew up, and, knock on wood, they seem like they feel likewise.
But now, like all parents, we have to adjust to the fact that they have lives of their own, and they will make their own way in the world, complete with mistakes, doubt, and pain.
From all I've seen and understood, Teri and I are struggling with this transition about as much as other parents do, and we're coming to accept the changes about as well as others do, too. But the hardest aspect for me is that being a good father was a huge part of how I defined myself. How I STILL define myself. And a huge part of that was - is - my pride in my children.
But it's not their lot in life to make me proud. They may make choices that appall me, and maybe others that delight me. But these will be their own choices. Their lives.
THIS is the hardest part for me to accept.
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