Yuppies Marching

How smug was I in high school when I first heard Dave Matthews' Ants Marching and thought I got it? That would never be me. In some ways, I avoided that fate. No nine to five me--the phone rings all the damn time. No commute, I live amongst my projects. I do make more money that I ever thought probable, and it buys less than I ever thought possible. And tonight, I became decisively more middle class and yuppiefied. I wrote my first email to the principal--no, no it's worse, there's not even a principal yet--its just the owner of the preschool! Let's leave the substance of the complaint out, to protect the innocent. It's a big enough deal to send an email, and abide the precipitating phone calls and conferences, but no one is on fire.

The odd thing is, while writing the email, I wondered if I wasn't helping too much. On the one hand, we want our kids to work things out on their own. On the other, when they are being subjected to harm outside of their control, we feel like we need to intervene. As I rolled this over in my head, I thought of something else. What is the percentage of children that will never have a parent, or in this case two parents proof-reading and email on their behalf--Is it too harsh, to soft, the correct tone? And the fact that there are two of us mulling this over is not because we just stumbled upon awesomeness accidentally. (For the record, we are not awesome.) Two stable, if not perfect households raised two stable if not perfect children. Over $100,000 was invested in post secondary education, some of which we are still paying off, to teach us not to be jackasses. Then we were fortunate enough to bounce around for a while trying out various lifestyles and vocations until we stumble upon parenthood and marital bliss--in that order, oh the scandal.

So, while not a textbook case, I'm still pretty amazed that statistically less than half of the children in this country will get what we have to offer. I wish I had something to say about that, but the shock of it is pretty overwhelming. I spend a lot of my time wondering if the interaction I have with my daughter is good enough. I wonder if I balance teaching and affection. I wonder when she needs to be seriously introduced to musical instruments. I wonder if I spend enough time with her. And then I wonder how we expect to even have a livable world without every single father pondering these things. Then I wonder how we can expect every single father to wonder about these things when we live in a world where so many fathers and mothers probably don't have the time, energy or perspective to do so. They don't get a break. Then the problem seems so huge I just give up for the night. And as my sweet child sleeps, and as my dog chews a bone, and my wife wonders how long I will type, I grab a beer from the fridge. And I realize--that's the problem--those of us not experiencing the problem directly can take a break. And in doing so, we never solve it.

What Would Elsa Do?

**If you haven't watched Frozen several times, you will not get anything out of this**

My daughter identifies with Elsa, to the point of completely ignoring Anna. Anna is sweet and goofy; fun and engaging. Elsa is a flawed badass who struggles through her own problems. A risk taker. If Elsa existed in a temperate climate today, she would be a biker. She'd trade in the braid for a brain bucket and the dress for some leathers and hit the road. Sure it's dangerous, but it's a fulfilling way to live. You learn a lot about yourself when you make your decisions less than six inches above pavement racing by at seventy miles per hour. Usually you find out that you aren't quite the badass you thought, but so be it. Knowledge is power.

In other news, I read today about New York State's program to buy out residents of Staten Island, who's homes were damaged in Hurricane Sandy. The article was interesting, and mildly nuanced, but the comments on the story were not. So much, "taxpayers subsidizing rich risk takers etc." I know little about coastal New York, but we are equally besmirched here in Dare County, NC. Few people who don't know this will read this blog, but, I must say: Emergency disaster relief is not flood insurance. And disaster relief usually comes in the form of subsidized loans. So, in the world of bail-outs, flood insurance and FEMA aren't really bailing anyone out. (They are spending money, but that is another issue.) Another interesting fact: flood insurance only covers loss above base flood elevation. So accepting grandfathered, repetitive loss properties(which are the minority), no one is really behaving irresponsibly--at least in Dare County NC, which is all I can speak about.

Do we take a risk living here? Certainly, risk that is typically borne by ourselves. Why do we admire Elsa, the badass, ice-flinging, self styled risk taking princes. But then we are more than happy to disparage those who choose to pay ridiculous insurance premiums and endure astronomical cost of living, to live by the sea. If you asked an insurance adjuster about a person riding a motorcycle or living by the sea--and she answered honestly--she'd tell you that those persons are a potential gold mine. All that agent could tell you is that someone who chose to do both of those things would be a real cash cow for the old company.

Risk is a bitch, but it makes the world go round. It makes us money and it makes us interesting. You win some, you lose some. I get that. When someone is taking different risks than you, it's pretty easy to ridicule their decision making process. As you can learn a lot about yourself near the pavement, you can learn just as much near the sea. Ask yourself: "What would Elsa Do?"

Quinn Creeps

The above is a photo of my daughter. You see the back of her head in the foreground, and between the porch rails you see "the drummer," the object of her affection. We will refer to him as "the drummer" to protect his privacy. Live music is the norm in a resort town on a sultry Sunday eve, and Quinn loves to boogie. So a couple of weeks ago, when she exclaimed that she was, "falling in love with that boy (the drummer)." I didn't think much of it. I mean the drummer's always get the girl, right? They usually don't have to put in much effort either -- "the drummer relaxes and waits between shows for his cinnamon girl." And it is reasonable to believe that Neil Young could be speaking of a Canadian drummer. I take that to mean a slightly less forceful and self appraising drummer than your average American drummer. Even he needn't work to woo! He relaxes and waits--that's it.

Be that as it may, this week was different. Quinn made a couple of adult, or at least young adult proclamations that gave me pause. First, as you see in the photo, she is a professional creeper--she said that she wanted to see "the drummer," but did not want to be seen by him. She also asked, "mom, do you think I need to apologize for the last time?" She looked genuinely concerned, and upon further inquisition explained that last time she was holding "the drummer's" tambourine when he needed it. This was no surprise, because she had held his tambourine for the entire evening. Clearly she had been brooding about this for quite a while.

Quinn's earlier expressions of a desire to marry, or the sentiment that she was falling in love sounded like things she might have heard others utter. But to contemplate a perceived failure in the eyes of the object of her affection, store it in her psyche for almost two weeks, and lament it with sincerity was tragic and absurd all at once--just as young love tends to be. I have no angle on this one. I was taken aback, and I've been that way ever since. I tried to develop some insight, but none came. I can say that I smiled, and offered no more comfort than my presence. As the evening wore on, I was forced to ponder the reality that that would be all I'd ever have to offer. And as my daughter starts down a long road, seemingly way too soon, I may never be more helpful than I was last night--and that wasn't very helpful.