What We Teach Our Children

I must admit that I was proud of my kids yesterday.

Wolfboy, see, is a competitive little spirit. In any contest, if he happens to come in second place, he behaves as if that means he's the first place loser. It's all or nothing for that kid.

It's been a point of contention between us, as I'm not particularly competitive.

[Except in Scrabble. I'll whup you.]

Many times, like after the fishing derby, he's beside himself for not winning, and I'm beside myself because I cannot comprehend why it bothers him so. Many times the best parenting I can offer in such a situation is to distance myself from him, lest my own frustration boil over. To me, if you cry every time you're not the top dog, you will lead a tear-filled life.

***

So out of the blue the kids asked to play some baseball last night. I'd just started watering the back yard, and since the front yard is full of trees, we opted to head over to the empty lot by the church. We all put on ball caps (at THEGIRL's insistence), scrambled up some gear and drove across Precinct Line Road.

I pitched to Wolfboy, who has always been an uncanny, natural hitter. THEGIRL stood to my right.

He whiffed on the first pitch.

On the second pitch he hit a skimmer that hit THEGIRL in the shin. I winced at the impact, expecting tears.

She gave out a big, bluesy laugh, picked up the ball, and handed it to me.

Well, okay.

***

He's always been a dead-pull hitter, though, so I decided to put her on my left side instead, and that worked out fine.

He smacked a few, ran laps around the imaginary bases, and started to keep score. He still reminds me regularly about the time we played such a game and he scored 30-something runs and I scored only a handful. That boy...

***

So when his sister's turn to bat came up, I took him aside for a conference, explaining that she is a little girl, and can't play as well as he. I pointed out that I expected him to be a good big brother and teach her how to hit, and to toss her good, easy pitches. I was trying to keep him from going for blood like he usually does.

And lo and behold... he was great.

He lobbed the ball to her, and complimented her when she missed but came close. He didn't lose patience, didn't tell her she couldn't do it. He kept pitching to her, and eventually she connected a couple times. She took off running all different directions, carrying the bat as he ran after her at a speed not quite sufficient for him to tag her out.

And later on when he hit again, he even ran slowly once so she could tag HIM out.

He didn't keep score, and he didn't give any attitude when our little game didn't bear much resemblance to baseball at all.

I am very proud of him, and I told him so.

***

I tried to nap today, but to no avail. Racing thoughts.

I did stay in bed for an hour, though, letting my mind wander.

As I got up, Wolfboy came to me, crying, saying that something sad had happened outside. He said he'd been riding the pedal-tractor and he'd run over a baby possum.

I hugged him and told him I'd take care of it. I found the story to be doubtful from a couple different angles, but clearly there was a dead critter in the yard for which he felt responsible.

I told him not to worry, that if a possum had fallen out of a tree, it was certainly dead before he got to it. Then I told him about the time I ran over an armadillo, and how bad I felt about it.

So I went out and had a look at the critter. I'm told that THEGIRL took it pretty hard as well, though she'd calmed down by the time I came back in. She'd been saying that he was sleeping, not wanting to accept (or perhaps not comprehending) that he was dead.

There was indeed some hairless little dead animal in the yard. It may have been a possum, but I can't really be sure. I disposed of it and fended off Wolfboy's questions about where I'd put it ("Where? In the car?" "NO!").

***

I took him to see Iron Man again. It was at the $1.25 theater, which is about all our budget can stand these days.

I slipped him 50 cents to play some Kung Fu arcade game. Lo and behold the little ringer was damn good at it, and played so long on those two quarters that we missed the start of the film.

***

And the movie rocked, again.

Afterwards, we talked about Iron Man. I indulged the little boy in me and asked him lots of questions about what he thought about Iron Man's future, and what bad guys he could beat.

Then I asked what he'd do if he do if he had his own Iron Man suit.

He said he'd avenge the loss of my shirt when I was mugged after a concert.

Oh my gosh.

I didn't even remember telling him that story.

[The story: Bryan McAuley, my sister and I were set upon by a gang after seeing Foreigner at the Summit in Houston in 1983. I remember thinking, God, there must be 15 of them as they approached. They roughed us boys up a little, didn't touch Sis, and stole our binoculars and our newly-purchased tour shirts.]

I was taken at his gesture, and surprised that the information had stuck with him.

I explained that those little thugs may have grown up and gone to jail or prison. Acting like they did at that age was a real indication that they might end up as adult criminals. I told Wolfboy that on that day, the bad guys won.

"Yeah, but they lost the big fight," he said.

What big fight?

"Against the police."

Wow.

***

There's a lesson I've tried to teach my kids, though I'm not certain it's managed to sink in yet.

See, if we're, say, in a parking lot, I try to be very clear about the fact that they shouldn't run or move quickly in the direction of a car that's going by. They tell me they were going to stop.

I explain to them, though, that the driver doesn't know that. They shouldn't do anything to even make the driver think that they're going to do such an awful thing as to run out in front of the vehicle.

The lesson: No matter what your intentions really are, it's a bad idea to behave in such a way as to make people even think you're going to do something bad.

Some grownups never manage to grasp this.

***

Good night, and God bless you.