Yesterday afternoon, though, I walked in to hear him riffing on one of my paternal rants. It was laughably cringe-worthy to hear my 7-year-old telling one of the younger kids that he should not be touching another person's stuff. He does listen to me. It is the kind of thing that I tell him when we and are walking to the train station and he gets curious about whatever he sees and wants to pick it up as his own, or if he balances himself on a car mirror so he can kick the icicles off the undercarriage or the scuds that accumulated in the wheel-wells. (I know, I know; a scud is something else entirely but it's the aptly sludgy word for that unnameable clog of snow.) Ever-conscious of a scenario where someone storms out to tell my son to get off the lawn or stop touching the car, I warn him about other people's property. My warning has expanded in length over the years as I try to give my son the full rationale rather than the harsh admonishment and I had that mix of amusement and nausea as he nailed me verbatim under different circumstances. The younger kid was touching one of my son's toys.
In many ways it was a bookend. I recall my first time teaching nearly 30 years ago where I seemed to be teaching with a voice and demeanour that left me waiting for one of my students to tell me, "You're just like your father." Despite that consciousness, I was perceived to be my own self rather than an amalgam of my parents' and ancestors' influence.
As we turned in for the night and the zone-out music was cued up to lull my son, I let him know that I heard him and he cringed at the revelation just as badly as I did. It was a treasured embarrassment and there will be variations as more of my chestnuts crystallize. I know the day will come when he will dust off my other chestnut about the difference between knowing and doing. On this night, I actually took the time to double-down on that line and tell him, for the first time, that knowing but not doing is "not knowing."
