EyeToast: Bask in the Fat

As a parent, I feel that one of my biggest responsibilities is to instill in my kids an innate desire to be...curious.

About everything.

Of course, I don't want to belittle the importance of teaching kids other critical lessons such as the perfect way to boil an egg, how to fast-forward through commercials on TiVo and stop it precisely as the show starts again, and, of course, the proper techniques of delivering an effective dutch oven.

You know: life skills.

But this curiosity thing drives me. I feel like I'm constantly kicking the kids out of the house and locking the door behind them, telling them, "I don't care what you do, but you're not staying inside to slowly morph into one with the couch, so figure it out." Of course, inevitably, and no matter how much whining there might be (i.e. a lot), they end up have a great time exploring, spying, play-acting, etc.

But one way in which this curiosity drive formally manifests itself is through their organized extracurricular activities. We have a rule in our house: only one sports/extracurricular activity at a time with as little overlap as possible. It can be the same series of activities (soccer, softball, etc.), or something new each time - we don't force the kids into anything they don't want to do, but we want them to want to do something. Anything. In the end, our oldest constantly has a list of things she wants to do and try, but our youngest, McKenna, definitively stated last year, "I don't want to do anything."

Hmm. OK, I understand the ridiculous oppressive dangers of scheduling everything for kids, but I needed to understand better what she wanted to do instead.

"I just want to sit on the couch and do NOTHING."

OK, no. I explained to her that she didn't have to follow in her older sister's footsteps down the sporting route - she could do anything that interests her at all - maybe something that another friend was interested in. I went through a list of ideas to see if anything peaked her interest...

"Art?"
"No."
"Gymnastics?"
"No."
"Entomology?"
"No!"
"Phrenology?"
"No!"
"Spelunking?"
"I said I don't want to do ANYTHING!!!"

Hey, I would be fine with this if she instead was out in our court playing with friends, designing a treehouse in the backyard, searching for a cure for irritable bowel syndrome in our laboratory... But no, she only wanted to do "nothing."

Then I remembered she had a propensity for dancing... There were times when I'd have the stereo on and she would break out with her own version of ballet, or, if I was playing some swing, her own (glorious) version of that. One day when she was in a particularly good mood, I proposed it to her.

"Would you be interested in taking some dance classes? I found one that teaches ballet and tap in the same class once a week - all with girls your own age."

She pondered this. "Would I have to wear pink leotards and a skirt?"

I pondered this. "Do you want to wear pink leotards and a skirt?"

She looked at me like I was daft, "Yes, of course!"

"Then absolutely!"

So I signed her up, got her the leotards, the skirt, the tap shoes, the ballet shoes, the tights, the hair ribbons...and started taking her to the studio each week. The only problem was that the studio was a 35 minute drive on a Thursday night in traffic across town for a class of 7 year olds that didn't end until 8:30. It was a commitment. We couldn't simply drop her off and they didn't allow parents to watch the classes, which meant 60+ minutes of driving time each week and another hour reading in the parking lot on a weeknight.

Still, we were happy that she was at least pushing her boundaries and trying something new.

On that first night, she was nervous. When she finally emerged from class, she saw me, grabbed my hand, and pulled me out to the car - unsmiling.

"How was it?" I asked, expecting her to rave about how much fun it was and how cool her teacher was.

"I don't want to talk about it," she stated with tight lips and a frown.

I was a little worried. "Did something happen? You didn't like it?"

"No! I liked it! I just don't want to talk about it!"

OK. OK. I get it. She was self conscious - fine. As long as she was having fun. But of course the second we got home, Paige and Reese asked her the same thing, and they both got the same answer: stay outta my bidniss.

So the weeks went on. Every week I would drive her - in silence, sit in the car while she was in class, ask her how it went, and get the same irritated response. We knew she struggled with this type of attention and feedback, but this was getting ridiculous. On top of this, she refused to show us any dance moves she was learning, talk about any of the kids she was befriending, or tell us her teacher's name or anything about her experiences. It was annoying, but...we were happy she was doing something, anything...

A few months go by and then we get word that there will be a dance recital. Finally - we will get to see the fruit of our monetary, time and emotional commitments! But McKenna headed us off at the pass and told us she didn't want to do the recital. We didn't push it, knowing that it was likely she'd change her mind if she didn't feel the pressure from us, and sure enough, a week before the recital she proclaimed she suddenly wanted to do it. Of course, because it had to be on her terms, and in her mind this was the way she maintained control rather than the teacher, her parents or anyone else.

On her last practice before the recital - in which our extended families had already committed (and paid!) to come - I helped her get in the car and she sat there in the back seat tightly gripping her recital costume in silence. With the excitement of the impending event just a couple days away, I had to try again...

"So...how did class go? Are you ready for the show?"

She glared at me. "AAAAAAA! I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!"

So, yes...I lost it.

"Look!" I began...blood pressure surging, brow furrowing, bowels clenching, "THIS HAS GOT TO STOP!" I proceeded to soliloquize the commitment that others were undertaking so that she could continue to dance: the hour drives in traffic every Thursday night, sitting in the car while she danced, the money we were spending on the classes, clothes and shoes...and that we were doing this because we loved her and simply wanted her to have the opportunity to try new things, explore new avenues, learn new things about herself.

"You need to understand," I said strongly, "that every time I ask you about your experience, it's not because I'm trying to get you angry; I AM TRULY INTERESTED IN YOUR HAPPINESS. So when you brush me off so rudely and coldly, it not only hurts, but it makes me question WHY Mom and I are spending the money, the time and the effort to bend over backwards to do this for you!"

My long speech and harsh tone hung in the air like a swimmer dying slowly in an Olympic sized pool filled with flesh-eating bacteria.

I was pissed. Frustrated. Hurt and angry. But as I slowly calmed down and began to breath normally again, the silence continued... Suddenly my anger returned. How could she sit there and listen to all of that and STILL ignore me? This was unacceptable. We NEEDED to talk about this. NOW.

"WELL?!?!" I asked in my best Ted Knight impersonation, "I'M WAITING!"

She crossed her legs, looked out the window and said, "Dad, guess what? In class today the teacher had us get on our costumes and mine is so cool, we have to wear our hair in ponytails with a ribbon and we even got socks that we get to keep and I'm the the only person who knows all the dance moves perfectly and..."

My head was spinning...I couldn't exactly assimilate what I was hearing. Was she actually IGNORING my speech? Was she actually attempting to NOT address our concerns? Was this her way of slyly sneaking past these nearly insurmountable problems?!

My first reaction was, "HELL YES SHE IS!" But then I was hit with another thought... Wait a second, it wasn't that she was avoiding the concerns...she was actually addressing them head on. Although I realized I was the one that needed to "talk" about the problem, she instead went right to the "fixing" of the problem. No bullshit. No circular discussions. No accusations or admissions and denials of guilt.

This was actually brilliant.

We each got exactly what we needed: me - having her share her experiences, and her - not having to have to talk about the process of sharing her experiences. Her solution was direct and to the point - cut out the fat, eliminate the MSG, and get right to the meat. And from that moment on, she proactively shared with us - everything: her experiences, her dance moves, her friends... We were both satisfied, and I was once again reminded how eye-opening it is to learn something new about yourself from your kids.

Of course, getting right to the meat isn't always so satisfying... We saw it this week as the tribe cut out the b.s. and went right for the self-proclaimed "King:" Brenda. Now, with Marty and Brenda gone, who really is left to care about? Nobody. Is it satisfying to see someone get what's coming to them? Sure, but in the long run, it's absolutely horrifying.

In fact, that's been the biggest problem with Survivor over these 21 seasons. More often than not tribes figure out a way to cut right to the meat and get rid of the strongest, the smartest, the craftiest, yes: the most interesting players in the game in order to keep themselves alive. The problem is that what's leftover is DEAD WEIGHT. Inevitably it means we'll see a tribal council with idiot vs. loser, or worse: idiot vs. loser vs. someone who by shear willpower and studliness somehow makes it to the finale, only to get trounced by the other two during the imbecilic voting.

So when Brenda refused to stand up for herself and *gasp!* "scramble" to stay alive, fine. You suck, and - why again did you even agree to come on Survivor? The whole point of the game is to do everything you possibly can to WIN. She gave up.

Still, the thought of a final two with Purpletarded Kelly and balsa-kneed Dan makes me cringe. We deserve better than this.

Ultimately, while it's OK for a child to ignore the delicious fat and superfluous seasonings to get right to the meat, the life worth living is one that basks in the fat. Plays with it. Appreciates it. Uses it sparingly, but isn't afraid to nibble it at times, or rub the melted, rendered mess all over their naked bodies in pure acts of self aggrandizement at others.