“I’m slowly starting to realize that the best way to teach my sons is to role model behavior or tell a story. Better yet, tell a story that role models behavior.”
“Come and look at the bike I’m going to get for my birthday,” Jett said as he led me into a local bike shop.
“It’s the white one with the shocks,” he pointed.
I looked at the Specialized kid’s mountain bike, then checked the price tag. $360.00!!!
“Oh, hell no!” I said loudly.
“Mommy said I could get it,” pleaded Jett.
“I don’t care what your mother said; no 8 year old needs a $400 bicycle,” I barked as I exited the store.
Jett burst into tears, “I need a new bike. Mine is too small.”
“You need a bigger bike, yes, but it doesn’t have to be new, and it certainly doesn’t have to cost $400.”
When we got home, Jett was still bawling. I showed him videos of kids jumping off cliffs with mountain bikes.
“If you can do this, then I will buy you that bike, but you can’t even go up and down the hills at the bmx track,” I explained.
“Yes, I can. I did all the hills,” cried Jett.
“Jett, I watched you. You are one of the worst kids out there. You don’t even go down the main ramp.” I didn’t want Jett to be like one of my cousin’s kids who thought he could go pro in skateboarding when he could barely Ollie.
Jett started screaming, “I can do all the hills. I’m getting that bike; you can’t stop me.”
“You wanna bet?” I screamed.
Luckily, my roommate came out and pulled me aside.
“You know, you are lucky that your boys even want to hang out with you. Don’t waste this time yelling at each other. Listen to him. I bet this has nothing to do with the bike,” said Dave, a father with four grown children.
Suddenly, a line from St. Francis’s prayer popped into my head, “Oh, Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.”
I walked out calmly and sat Jett down at the dinner table, “Ok, son. I’m going to get you a bike, so tell me what you want.”
“I want a gear bike with handbrakes and shocks,” Jett said.
“Ok, we can find a bike like that. What color do you want?”
“The same color as the one in the bike shop—white, red, and black.”
“Ok, Daddy will find you a white gear bike with handbrakes and shocks,” I said softly.
Suddenly I remembered a story from my childhood. “You know, Jett. I remember when I was a kid, I ordered a brand new custom made surfboard from Hawaiian Island Creations. It had orange airbrushed rails, blue fins, channels…”
“What are channels?” asked 5 year old Fox who had sat down to eat.
“They are grooves on the bottom of a surfboard that make it go faster. They don’t put channels on boards anymore, but in the 80s channels were cool,” I explained.
“The board I ordered was what all the pros were riding. About 5’8” long, twin fin with a swallow tail,” I shaped my fingers into a w to show Jett and Fox what a swallow tail looked like.
“When my Hawaiian grandfather was driving my down to pick up the board, he asked me how much it cost. I told him $200 which was a lot of money in those days.”
“Hey, Makala, we go swap meet and you can buy 10 boards for $200,” I lowered my voice to imitate my Hawaiian grandfather.
“No, grandpa, I need this board. It has channels and was custom made for me,” I said in a higher voice.
“You don’t need no $200 surfboard, Makala. You’re a kook. I’ve seen you surf. You can barely stand up,” I said in the low voice.
Jett and Fox laughed, “what is a kook?’
“It’s someone who can’t surf very well,” I told them. “You’re a kook,” they said over and over laughing.
“I told my grandfather that I was I better now. I wasn’t a kook. He hadn’t seen me surf in a while. But you know what the truth was?” I stared at Jett and Fox.
“What?” they asked.
“I was a kook. I could barely turn. I didn’t need a short twin fin surfboard. I needed a big long beginner’s board like you can get at the swap meet. My grandfather knew this, but he still let me spend $200 on that HIC custom surfboard.”
“And what happened?” asked Jett.
“I got that board and I could barely catch a wave. It was so short that you had to be a really strong paddler to catch waves with it. That board made me a kook for a long time. If I would have listened to my Hawaiian grandfather, I would have caught a lot more waves and learned to surf a lot faster.”
I don’t know if Jett understood how the story related to him wanting a $400 bicycle, but it was a wonderful dinner we shared together.
I’m slowly starting to realize that the best way to teach my sons is to role model behavior or tell a story. Better yet, tell a story that role models behavior. This experience reminds me of a poem by Li-Young Lee:
Sad is the man who is asked for a story
and can’t come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books in a world
of stories, he can recall
not one, and soon, he thinks, the boy
will give up on his father.
Already the man lives far ahead, he sees
the day this boy will go. Don’t go!
Hear the alligator story! The angel story once more!
You love the spider story. You laugh at the spider.
Let me tell it!
But the boy is packing his shirts,
he is looking for his keys. Are you a god,
the man screams, that I sit mute before you?
Am I a god that I should never disappoint?
But the boy is here. Please, Baba, a story?
It is an emotional rather than logical equation,
an earthly rather than heavenly one,
which posits that a boy’s supplications
and a father’s love add up to silence.
Photo: Flickr.com/Tim Buss
I love this story. A great view on parenting in moments like these. Thanks so much for sharing!