Great Expectations

I love my kids. Sure, there are times when I want to sell them on Craig’s List, but that’s just because they are my kids, and they have been blessed with the uncanny ability to push my buttons. Occasionally, I do have to pull the tough love approach on them, but it’s fairly safe to say that I am wrapped around their little fingers. As a result, or perhaps simply because of my natural control issues, I am a fully engaged parent. When I take Tyler to his first grade class every morning, I actually park the car and walk him to his class as opposed to utilizing the schools drive-thru drop off system. Nothing against the parents who do use the drive-thru, I just clearly love my kids more than they do. It has nothing to do with my helicopter parenting. It’s all about the love.

For now, I think my level of engagement is acceptable to Kailey and Tyler. To them, I am still somewhat cool. I can walk Tyler to his class, hand in hand, and even give him a hug at the door without it causing him too much angst.

Let’s face it, kids can be cruel, and it won’t be too much longer before the elementary school social system takes shape and he would rather lose a leg than have his dad give him a hug in front of his friends. To be clear, even probably well into his high school years, I will still be there trying to give him a hug – that’s just the way I roll – but I don’t think he will be quite as enthused with my level of engagement at that time.

As my son, my boy, my-chip-off-the-old-block, Tyler definitely has a special place in my heart. He is my little buddy, and I am so proud of him it hurts. Now, before you think I am getting too mushy, let me assure you that our relationship is not all wine and roses. After all, we are father and son, and that relationship is typically rife with tension. But even as my blood pressure periodically spikes as a result of his antics, there is no denying that he brings an incredible amount of joy and fulfillment to my life. And that is why I am terrified.

I’m terrified because I don’t want to lose this special relationship we have. He is growing up way too fast for my liking, and I am afraid that as he continues to grow into the incredible person he is meant to be, that the far too common trappings of the dysfunctional father-son relationship will rear their ugly head and we will lose what we have. He is my pride and joy and it breaks my heart to worry about stuff like this, but I need look no further than my own relationship with my dad to know that great expectations don’t always ensure great relationships.

People have children for a whole host of reasons. I am confident that my parents’ motivation for having me was not to burden me with countless insecurities and then turn me loose on the world armed with a nagging sense of not being good enough. I’m sure that, just like the rest of the sane world, they wanted to have kids for the obvious tax benefits. All joking aside, I’m sure they had only the best of intentions, but somehow along the way this is how I ended up. I went from anything’s possible

to a neurotic mess with an unhealthy amount of self-doubt.

In the beginning, there was no telling who I was going to grow into. Doctor, lawyer, artist, ball player, firefighter, accountant, you name it and it was a possibility. I couldn’t even hold my own head up or eat solid food, but I was good enough, or at a minimum I wasn’t aware of the fact that I might not be.

The hard part to swallow – the part that has me worried about my relationship with Tyler – is the fact that somewhere along the way in my childhood, things changed. I don’t know when, where or why, but there was definitely a shift. When a father has a son, look out world. Your little chip-off-the-old-block is something special, and everything they do – from first poop to first step to first base hit – is a monumental accomplishment worthy of a write up in the local sports page. Granted there really isn’t anything earthshaking about the achievement, just the fact that “your boy” did it is more than enough to set off the old pride-o-meter.

I am sure that, just like all dads, my dad had those same great expectations for me, but at some point I must not have lived up to them, and the weight of not being good enough crept into my life. I have read that fathers have a tendency of living vicariously through their sons trying to achieve what they themselves were unable to achieve. I’m not sure if that was the case with my dad, but whether it was realizing that I wasn’t athletic enough to become a pro ball player or not smart enough to become a doctor, somewhere along the way my “sky’s the limit” was replaced with self-doubt.

It is almost frightening the amount of power fathers have over their son’s emotional well-being. As son’s, we are almost hardwired to need our dad’s approval, and when that approval is not forthcoming, the result can be a lifetime of not feeling good enough that can shape almost every aspect of our lives.

Now, before you launch a fundraising campaign for my therapy (please make checks payable to Zach Streight or Cash, either is acceptable) I think it is important to point out that I wouldn’t change anything. It has been fairly difficult working through some of the issues I have been carrying around as a result of my own special brand of family dysfunction, but the reality is that I love my parents, bless their heart, and I love my childhood. Sure they could have done better on some fairly impactful aspects of child development, but nobody’s perfect. They did the best they could with the tools they had, and the must have done something right, because, to quote Stuart Smalley, “I’m smart enough, I’m good enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.” Some of them do at least.

Unfortunately, the reality is that the story of the neurotic adult who has spent a lifetime not feeling good enough, is almost boringly common. In fact just yesterday, 32,476 new blogs launched with that as their primary theme. The more I talk about my own parenting challenges with my male friends, coworkers and colleagues, almost universally they all share a similar story of having a painful relationship with their own dads. While it is nice to know that there is nothing special about my particular brand of family dysfunction, I must admit, the recurring theme has definitely increased my level of worry for my relationship with Tyler.

What is it about the father-son dynamic that seems to always lead to such heartache? Why do so many doting fathers end up being angry, disapproving critics who focus on what their sons aren’t as opposed to what they are? Don’t get me wrong, I would love for Tyler to end up breaking a home run record, winning a gold medal, or curing cancer, but more than that I just want him to be himself, to live a great life and to know that he is loved. I bet the vast majority of dads want that as well, so what happens? What ends up causing the shift? And more importantly, how can I stop it from happening?

I have heard that worrying serves no purpose and is basically just a waste of time. For the most part I agree, but in this instance, I am okay with worrying about my relationship with Tyler because the stakes are too high. I don’t want him to grow up constantly doubting himself and feeling like his best isn’t good enough. I want him to focus on simply being the best Tyler he can be, and to know that, I will always be proud of him for that.

The good news, from my perspective at least, is that even when all I can do is sometimes go to another room and silently yank clumps of hair out of my head through clenched teeth because of his behavior, I still love him more than words can say, and I rest easy knowing that he is good enough for me. I just hope that I am going to be good enough for him.

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