It’s like trying to tell a stranger about rock and roll suggested John Sebastien of the Lovin’ Spoonful. When Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, and Little Richard started recording Maybeline, Teddy Bear, and Tutti Frutti, the “other” John Sebastian – if it’s not baroque, don’t fix it – had died some 200 years earlier. Muh, muh, muh my generation takes pride to this day on having invented the genre. More insightful scholars point out that nothing in rock music happens for the first time, that the post-Bach music came to be amorphously, every musician borrowing from and improving upon the licks of their predecessors.
But trying to explain to someone who doesn’t care for The Dixie Cups…
Spring is here, the sky is blue, whoa
Birds all sing as if they knew
Today’s the day we’ll say “I do”
And we’ll never be lonely anymore
… why the lyric still makes you tear up half a century after you first heard it is a losing proposition. “If you have to ask how much the pork chops are, you can’t afford them.” You can’t tell a stranger about rock and roll, but you can communicate to your kids every aspect of what you think is important. Unfortunately, the transfer of emotional intelligence from one generation to the next is different from passing along simple information. Subtract two from both sides of the equation will help a middle school student solve linear equations. But trying to teach emotional intelligence isn’t straight forward. I don’t think AI can do it. “Be nice” parents say. “Don’t hit!” Kids seldom internalize admonitions—especially when they are too young to understand the barrage of words. I think children are more likely to model niceness, but I don’t know everything.
I do know that what loving parents have with their kids is ineffable, magical. Hard to articulate, hard to put a number on it, hard to describe. If my patient readers will tolerate yet another running analogy—“our sport is your sport’s punishment”—I’ll explain.
Both of these vignettes are from this past Saturday, chatting with my running buddy, Jeff, as our group plodded along the greenway paths and over the rolling hills. Jeff and I envisioned a third member of the conversation, an Otherwise Perfectly Nice Person Who Doesn’t Run. Needless to say, said imaginary person had to be imagined, having the good sense not to be with us.
1. Me: In 2005, I failed to hit my goal time of three hours and thirty minutes for the marathon. I felt good at eight minutes per mile until Mile 20 and then lost 120 seconds over the last six miles.
Jeff: Yeah, I hear that.
Otherwise Perfectly Nice Person Who Doesn’t Run: Why didn’t you just run the last mile in six minutes flat so you could hit your goal?
2. Jeff: The cut off time for my hundred miler last month was 32 hours. The guys driving the sweeper car told me to drop out, that I wouldn’t finish before they shut down the course.
Me: Yeah, that happens.
Otherwise Perfectly Nice Person Who Doesn’t Run: Why didn’t you just quit? You had already run 90-something miles. What difference would it have made?
Me: Yeah, no point in talking to the people in the sweeper van.
Jeff: Yeah.
Jeff went on to acknowledge that ultra running is a niche endeavor and that there is no impetus for anyone outside the circle to be interested. I agree. There is no reason to talk about running with non-runners any more than there is a reason for anyone to want to look at the photographs of the places you’ve been or the meals you’ve eater. I’m mentioning the above conversations to point out that your relationship with your kids is nobody else’s concern. Indeed, terrible advice is ubiquitous. Not only are invitations to process addictions—nicotine, opioids, student loans—pervasive, there are folks out there who will tell you not to read Harry Potter to your kids.
Can you imagine?
Loving parents have to stand up for and stand beside their children. It is our sacred responsibility to transfer our values, beliefs, and understandings to the people who will give us grandchildren. Nobody else has to understand or give permission for you to protect your kids from the worst of popular culture.
The five love languages are said to be touch, service, words, time, and gifts. Whereas, in my family, our love language is primarily snark with a dash of completive games, but baking cookies, hiking, volunteering, tossing a baseball, sitting quietly, watching movies, attending sporting events, gardening, training dogs, delivering meals to shut-in neighbors, or wood-working will work just as well. As long as you, the parents, accept that at the end of the day, you and you alone care the most about what your kids think, feel, and do.
And you don’t have to justify your choices to anyone. Just like Jeff and I don’t have to explain our predilection for ultra marathons. Just like you don’t have to try to tell a stranger about rock and roll.
