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.
