Softer parenting approach may have legs
Tired of being Terminator to his two young sons, a father changes his tune
So I’m driving Max, 7, back from swimming lessons and discussing his stellar report card — he can now officially swim two metres unassisted — when the tiny plastic frog he won at a community picnic two years ago breaks off at the foot.
“I command you to fix it!” shrieks Max, who has autism and ongoing issues with flexibility. “Pull the car over right now. I COMMAND YOU!”
He commands me? I keep driving, but as Max continues barking orders from the back seat, I can’t help but wonder where he picked up such colourful, cinematic language.
Has he been reading up on military strategy during the Normandy invasion during the Second World War? Is it a line from the Norse archvillain in The Avengers?
When he calms down the next day, his 29-cent plastic frog long forgotten, I decide to ask him.
“I got it from you,” he reports dutifully. From me? He shrugs. “I think you might have said it jokingly.”
It sounds plausible. I say all kinds of outrageous things, such as, “That’s it, we’re moving to Nepal!” and “Who wants to go skiing off the roof?” — although I’m not necessarily joking.
But it’s a lesson on how everything I say as a father of two young boys can be used against me.
“That’s it, no dessert for you!” my youngest son, Sam, 5, will tell me in an irritated grumble if he thinks I’ve done something wrong. “Get to your room, Buster, before I take away screen time as well.”
I’m not quite sure how this happened — this dumbing-down of Dad.
But I must be signalling that I’m ripe for satire because, every time I turn around, some three-foot malcontent is telling me off with the kind of adjectival overkill that makes me sound like a cross between Archie Bunker and Attila the Hun.
I don’t get it. Is there something in the air?
“Nope, it’s definitely you,” notes my wife, pinpointing the source of their inspiration. “You have a certain overthe-top gruffness they find highly amusing.”
It’s true that where Alicia — a trained psychologist — has a soothing “tell me what’s wrong, my dearest darlings” approach to frazzled youngsters, my chief role model tends to be Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator:
“I’ll be back. Talk to the hand. Hasta la vista, baby.”
In a practical sense, this results in me overreacting to almost every minor infraction in what I now realize may be perceived in a comical way.
“Max, you didn’t finish your broc- coli? You’re grounded for life!”
“Meghan, you didn’t take out the garbage? Pack your bags, you’re heading to reform school!”
“Sam, you referred to me as ‘balder than a peanut?’ Where’s the phone? I’m calling your teacher.”
These all seem like perfectly logical responses to me.
But if the experts are to be believed, it’s time to tamp down my outrage and tap into the pre-adolescent mind in a way that says, “I hear you, kids. I support you. You can talk to me, not just my hand.”
Jump to two days later. I’m yammering on the phone about cable TV packages in a conversation that has turned obtusely technical when I hear Max — outraged by some perceived rule infraction — shrieking hysterically outside my office.
“DAD! DAD! Sam won’t share his trains!”
“Max,” I tell him, putting down the phone. “It sounds like a classic case of justice denied. Let me give you a hug and I’ll be there as soon as I finish this conversation. Deal?”
“NOW!” he barks impatiently. “I COMMAND YOU!” Oy. Again with the commands. “Max,” I reassure him soothingly. “Command is such a strong word. You know the old saying: you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” “I DON’T LOVE YOU ANYMORE!” he erupts violently. “I WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN!”
I reel backwards. The drama. The commitment. The brutal honesty.
This is a performance worthy of Daniel Day Lewis.
I consider applauding but, trying to de-escalate, affect a look of great sorrow.
“You wish I was never born?” I respond solemnly. “I find that hard to believe, given the sentiments expressed in your recent Father’s Day card.”
I grab the card off my desk. “‘My dad is super-special because he is just himself.’ Super-special. How about that?” “I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU AGAIN!” he counters, becoming more enraged. “AND I WILL NEVER FEEL ANY DIFFERENT!”
I can see this is going nowhere, so I replace the card gently and head downstairs as Max, muttering disapproval, follows close behind.
Now what? As I prepare to abandon my sensitivity training and read him the riot act, I take a deep breath, make myself a snack and retreat into a radio earworm that’s been plaguing me all day.
“Who’s that knocking on my door,” I croon, uncertain how the Rod Stewart song, “Hot Legs,” became lodged in my cerebral cortex. “It’s gotta be a quarter to four.”
“Is it you again?” I hear a tiny voice chime in, “comin’ ’round for more.”
I look up and catch Max’s eye as, father and son united, we burst out laughing.
“I’m talkin’ to ya, hot legs, wearing me out,” we sing together on this curiously inappropriate ’70s hit. “Hot legs, you can scream and shout. Hot legs, are you still in school? . . . I love ya honey.”
Who’s the world’s greatest dad? Me, of course.
Who’s the world’s greatest kid? Do I really have to say? Joel Rubinoff is at home, slapping himself on the back while the kids run amok. Email him at jrubinoff@therecord.com.
I take a deep breath, make myself a snack and retreat into a radio earworm that’s been plaguing me all day: Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs”