Familyhood Read Free Page A

up. And we make it up all day long; a steady bombardment of well-intentioned contradiction.
    â€œCome on, why don’t you go out and get some fresh air” is followed by “Come on in—you’re getting too much sun.”
    â€œPlay with your brother” ends up with “Why don’t you give your brother a little time to himself?”
    â€œNo more pretzels—have some fruit” leads to “Why would you eat seven bananas?”
    â€œWhen you meet people, look them in the eye and say ‘Hello’ ” is hard to do when you’ve already been instructed “Do not talk to strangers.”
    I’m actually amazed that my children aren’t perpetually dizzy.
    â€œRead a book” and “Put the book away and go to sleep.”
    â€œIf you’re not sure, just ask” vs. “Come on—you can figure it out for yourself.”
    The suggestions are not only contradictory, but often arbitrary.
    â€œWhy don’t you give that man on the corner this dollar—he’s hungry” is followed with an urgent “No, no, sweetie, not your whole piggy bank . Just . . . a little.”
    â€œOh. How much do I give?”
    â€œUm, I don’t know, actually. Okay—that’s fine. We’ll go get you another piggy bank.”
    (When my older guy was about eight, he saw a guy standing on a corner and sweetly handed him five dollars. As we walked away, I gently explained that while I loved his spirit of generosity, this particular fellow wasn’t actually homeless—he was waiting for a bus.)
    THERE IS NO END to the pushing and pulling, trying to get the balance just right. And when you have more than one kid, you not only have that many more people to balance individually, but you have to maintain the balance between them too.
    At its simplest, there’s the exhausting attempt to keep things equal.
    â€œWhy does he get fifteen minutes more of TV?”
    â€œBecause you had more yesterday.”
    Or “How come he gets to pick where we’re going for supper?”
    â€œBecause you picked last time, now this time he picks. Next time, neither of you picks.”
    But that’s a walk in the park compared to the much trickier judgment calls and interminable calculations we make to push (or pull) each of them in the particular areas we believe they need to be pushed. Or pulled.
    I have one kid who needs to take things more seriously; the other could afford to lighten up a tad. I have one who is innately anxious, one absurdly reckless. One child is a “hugger,” the other not so much. My younger son—though loving and affectionate—has to be practically paid off (cash only) to indulge a hug from his grandmothers. By contrast, my older son will hug anyone not currently behind bars. Neither is right, neither is wrong; both just need a little adjusting. But it’s the specifics where you get tripped up; it’s like cooking from a recipe that’s been destroyed at the margins—you know what goes into the cake, but they don’t tell you how much or when it’s supposed to be dropped in.
    Most frightening of all is that nobody has the answers for you. You’re the captain. And the crew is looking a little nauseous.
    I HAVE A FRIEND who flies airplanes. Not the little ones with the remote control box that you take to the park and try not to fly into people’s dogs. I’m talking about real planes. With landing wheels and wings and cup holders; the kind of plane that could take you from one state to another. And also crash upon takeoff.
    I had a hard time understanding why this otherwise responsible and conservative guy with a lovely wife and kids would elect to take on an activity that involves potentially falling from the sky and hurtling to a certain death.
    â€œIt’s relaxing,” he told me.
    â€œReally,” I said, unconvinced. “The crashing part doesn’t bother