Telling your kids "no" is the greatest gift you can give yourself

My three year old daughter found our stash of board games on Saturday, which she could not have been more excited about.

Over the course of a few hours she "taught" me how to play such games as Sorry, Trouble, Connect Four, and some weird game named "Labyrinth" that my wife played when she was little.  This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but I've apparently been playing these games wrong my entire life.  Did you know that in Trouble, the goal is to line up your colored pieces in each corner of the board, pop the bubble three of four times, and then put the game away?  I didn't.  To play Sorry you line up your colored pieces in each corner of the board, lay out one card in front of each group of pieces, and then put the game away.  I didn't know that either.

In fact, most of the games we played involved getting all the game pieces out, color coordinating them, throwing whatever other random game pieces there were onto the board and then packing it all up and moving on to the next game.  The rules of these games were strict, too.  There was no deviating from this pattern.  Anytime I'd question her authority, she'd pick up the "Constructions", point to a section and tell me that that's what it says.

"See Dad?"

So when my daughter came across my Notre Dame-themed Monopoly game (or, "The Shamrock Game" as it's now called), I wouldn't let her play.  She asked.  I hesitated; thoughts of money and hotels and Get Out of Jail Free cards strewn about the room ran through my head.  I said no.

She wanted to know why.  I told her that it was a game for Mommies and Daddies only.  She politely asked, "Can I play later when I'm bigger?"  Of course you can, honey.

She moved onto the next game, asking if we could play The Shamrock Game a few more times over the course of the afternoon.  "When you're bigger."  She accepted that answer with minimal push-back each time.

The worst part of Monopoly (other than the 75 hours it takes to play the game, the boredom of being the first person out, and the fights.  So many fights.) is the cleanup.  Putting all the money back in order.  Organizing the cards.  I could have easily let her play but I wanted no part of the cleanup.  It was laziness, but it was justified.

And I didn't feel bad about denying her this simple pleasure.  I had no issues sleeping that night, knowing I robbed my daughter of her first taste of Monopoly.

Fast-forward to Sunday.  She couldn't wait to get another crack at those board games in the morning.  We played a few rounds of Connect Four.  If you're not familiar, that's the game where you separate the black and red pieces, and then put them into the slots until there's no room left, then dump them out and do it again.

And then, out of the blue she asked, "Dad? Am I a big girl?"

Of course you are, honey.

"Big enough to play The Shamrock Game?"

BOOM! Headshot.  My ice-cold heart didn't stand a chance.

There was no way I could say no now.  So we busted open The Shamrock Game.

She marveled at the little metal tokens, organized the houses and hotels into single-file rows across the board, and put a few of the cards on the board.  But never touched the properties.  Had zero interest in the money.  Made virtually no mess.

Like most things in life, all that worrying was pointless.  I could have just let her play the game on Saturday and we would have had some fun and moved on with our lives.  But then I wouldn't have this story to tell.

So in conclusion, deny your kids the simple pleasures in life.  Because some day, if you're lucky. you may get a cute anecdote from it.  And really, that's what matters.

I'm not aloof. It's for your own good.

I test software for a living. 

My job is basically to break things: whichever app I'm testing but also the will to live of whichever developer coded whatever thing I just broke.  I usually find success in both of the areas by doing things a typical end-user would never think of.  Random, out of order, nonsensical things.  As tough as it is to admit, a drunken toddler would make for an excellent tester.

Being someone that "works on computers" I constantly have friends, relatives, people in the checkout line at Wegmans, asking for help with their computers.  I find this incredibly annoying.  Not because of the interruption (well, not entirely), but because 10 times out of 10 it's something the person could have figured out themselves if they only bothered to try. 

It's easier for that person to take 5 minutes out of my day than to waste 10 minutes of theirs.  And that bugs me.  Most people seem to missing that 'can-do' spirit (I know you're cringing as you read that phrase, but trust me, my cringe is ten times more cringier from writing it).  There's no pride in accomplishing something.  In learning a new nugget of information.  If there's no cheese waiting for them at the end of that maze, they'd rather not walk it.  Let someone else do the dance.

My wife is this way with anything technology-related.  I cannot stand it.  If I'm around, she's completely helpless.  "How do you flip on that there picture box?"  That sort of thing.  When I'm not around, and she's left on her own?  It's amazing the things she figures out.  You'd think she'd have some pride in that, but you could not be more wrong.

It was always an annoyance, but now that we have kids I find it troubling.  Even if that's the way our society has shifted (and make no mistake, it has), I don't want my kids thinking that's the norm.  Flames shooting out of your keyboard?  Good luck, kiddo.  You got this!  That's the attitude I intend to take with them.  Our lives are nothing but a serious of increasingly more difficult problems.  Learning how to deal with, and solve those problems is about the most valuable skill a person can have.  One I'm hellbent on instilling in my kids, wife's terrible attitude be damned. 

Because if they've tried something 10 times and it's not working, I want them to believe that the 11th time they'll get it right.  Every great accomplishment we've made as a people has come through trial and error.  How do you think we put a man on the moon?  We shot a bunch of dudes into space, and eventually we nailed our target.  Sure, we lost a lot of good men this way.  But we also landed on the moon!  You can't put a price on that.

So the next time your iPhone freezes, or you can't get your TV to connect to your blu-ray player, don't call your son or daughter or neighbor or your company's "computer guy".  Give it a try yourself!  Hit some buttons.  Plug some wires into different holes.  See what happens.  And if that fails, use Google.  Google literally knows everything.  Just leave the rest of us alone. 

The case of the metal saw

Being a father now, I spend a lot of time anticipating the future.  Wondering about random scenarios I will be presented with where I'll actually have to "parent".  What age to let them watch scary movies, teaching them to drive, cell phones cameras (*shudders*). That sort of thing.  Inevitably, that stream of consciousness always brings me back to my upbringing, and some of the more hilarious (in hindsight) moments from my childhood.

One of the funniest (again, in hindsight) revolved around my brother and the "metal saw".
My father was not what you'd consider a "handyman".  That's not to say he wasn't able to do the odd-job around the house.  He was certainly capable.  Especially if it involved varnish.  That man never met a piece of wood he didn't want to drown in varnish.  But fixing things just wasn't his hobby.  He was far more interested in music and sports and politics than hanging out in the garage building things.  Which I think worked out quite well for my brothers and I.  I couldn't imagine a life that didn't revolve around sports and music.  It's also worked out well for Neil, the man I pay to do all of the work around my house.  In fact, it's worked out really well for Neil.  He should probably send my Dad a thank you card.

But for a man that didn't spend much time building things, my father certainly had tools.  One of which was a hand-saw designed specifically to saw through metal.  A hand-saw which I had never seen my father hold, and one that, to a 12 year old, looks suspiciously like any other hand-saw.   So when my brother and his friend Jimmy decided they were going to start an after-school knee hockey game which I got to tag-along to (my entrance song? "Pump Up The Jam" by Technotronics) we needed something to cut our street hockey sticks in half with.  Rummaging through our garage we found that saw.  It looked exactly like the tool we needed.

So my brother grabbed the metal saw and started hacking away.  In a few minutes our full-length hockey sticks were cut in two and we had the tiny little sticks we needed.  I'm positive that my brother didn't return the saw to its proper place.  If he had, none of what followed probably would have happened.

As I stated earlier, to my knowledge, my father had never sawed a piece of metal at home.  I had never seen him pick up, look at, or mention that metal saw.  If it had been put back where my brother found it, to this day it would probably still be in that exact same spot.  But that's not what happened.  When my Dad got home from work he found that saw wherever my brother left it.  Wood shavings surely along its teeth.   Two-foot long hockey stick ends certainly laying on the garage floor next to it.

He wasn't pleased.

When we returned home later that afternoon, my father was in the garage waiting; angry lecture already mapped out in his head.  Saw in hand.  I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do know that it was directed at my brother and not me.  I was too young.  But that didn't stop me from being downright terrified. The crux of his angry ranting, the one thing that really ruined his day was that cutting those sticks, with that specific saw had ruined it.

Basically: its special teeth, designed to slice through metal, AND METAL ONLY, had been sullied by the wood.  I imagine it's like when you touch a baby bird, and the mother refuses to feed it.  Metal would know that the saw had once cut wood, and it's useful life was over.  That was my father's argument.  It may very well be true, but it just sounds so silly.

I'm willing to bet my house that my father had never used that saw to cut through metal before that day.  And I'm certain he hasn't since.  Is that because he simply wouldn't have (*nodding slowly*) or because we ruined the saw?   We may never know (we already know)!

How does this relate to my children and I?  I have no idea.  But my interactions with my children are a constant reminder of my parents and how they raised me.  Both the good and the bad.  And it's awesome.