A privileged childhood has nothing to do with a family’s economic status.
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With Mother’s Day in the rearview mirror and Father’s Day next on the horizon, I’d like to offer this important PSA for all fathers and sons.
When I was eight years old, I really wanted a Nintendo Entertainment System. Yeah, remember that? The original 8-bit NES was all the rage when I was in elementary school and though I’m dating myself, it’s an important piece of information. Why? Because when you’re eight, your life is simple. It revolves around things like bedtimes, lunchboxes, recess, candy, Christmas, swimming pools and video games. And we should never leave childhood fun behind entirely. At least, fun and games is what our youth should be about and yes, I had a privileged childhood, for which I refuse to apologize.
In point of fact, however, it wasn’t privileged because of money. Truth is, the family was struggling at about the time I really wanted this fancy new toy, so my father couldn’t run right out and buy it. At $200, the NES was hardly cheap and let’s not forget we’re talking about the mid-80’s, when one’s dollar went a lot further. A few hundred bucks was almost out of the realm of possibility for my parents, who had just started a new business and were loath to waste money on expensive toys. The business was barely staying afloat.
But when you’re eight, you know nothing of such problems. t is my firm belief that no eight-year-old should ever know of these things. We have our entire adult lives to become bitter and disillusioned; mightn’t we at least retain the innocent bliss of childhood? Anyway, my father didn’t want me to be fully aware of the family’s difficulties but he did want me to understand the value of a dollar. He wanted me to realize he would have to work that much harder if I were to end up with an NES. In short, he wanted me to earn what I wanted.
So, he made a deal with me: He said all I had to do was dig out a spot for the new woodshed (yes, we heated our house with wood in those days). It didn’t look like a big space. I figured I could do the work in a week and I’d be playing Super Mario Bros. by the weekend. Eight-year-olds don’t have an eye for such projects, though, and by the end of the week, I wasn’t even one-tenth done. The wheelbarrow took dirt away, but there always seemed to be more. It sucked. I hated it. So I just gave up and figured I’d wait until Christmas and then my parents would have to get me the NES. I let a few weeks go by and finally, one day after school, my father cornered me and said:
“Guess you don’t want that game system anymore.”
I just shrugged and said I did but it was too much work. Then he said that if I didn’t finish, I wouldn’t get the NES and that was that. It wouldn’t be under the Christmas tree, either. Plus, the ground was going to freeze soon and if I didn’t get a move on, it would be impossible to complete that year. It dawned on me that he wasn’t going to step in and finish it (as I assumed he would) and even if he did, the NES was out. I appealed to my mother, but all she said was something like, “I think it’s idiotic to pay $200 for a video game machine, anyway,” so she was no help. But I knew what I wanted. And I knew the score.
Six weeks later, one crisp November afternoon, just before the first frost set in, I trundled my last wheelbarrowful of dirt to the woods. I had calluses on my hands and for what seemed like the hundredth time, I was hot, dirty and sore. But it was done. As promised, less than a week later, I sat down, turned the power on, and delighted in my reward. My father came in and played some, too.
I refer you back to the mention of a privileged childhood. No, it wasn’t about silver platters and servants, but it was certainly privileged in the most important way of all. When someone asks if I’ve seen bad parenting in public, for example, my response is often— “What parenting?”
Think I’ve strayed from the point? I haven’t. My father is my hero because he was, and remains, a parent.
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