For most things, I’ve been a late bloomer. Girlfriends, college, a job that pays enough to live on. I haven’t seen ET yet and I still go to the bank to deposit a check. I was 51 before I had a car that would start every morning.
One thing I did early, though, was become a parent. I was 23 when my son was born and sometimes I feel like we grew up together. Twenty-three seems awfully young from where I’m sitting now. What happens when you have a kid early is that your friends start having kids right about the time yours is moving out of the house.
That’s when I got to sit back and laugh at all my tired forty-something friends running down to Albertson’s at 9:00 at night in a Mercedes to buy a 24-pack of Pampers. The next day they’d call me and ask how I managed to survive doing it on my own in an ‘85 Toyota Corolla.
Every time someone would ask me “how I did it” I’d stumble through some hackneyed response like, “Just keep showing up” or “You’d be surprised what you can do when you don’t have a choice.”
But after a while, I started wondering why anyone would ask me for parenting advice. Most of them had never met my son, or even been to the house when he was growing up. They had no idea if I’d done a good job. All they ever heard were the good stories. The time Taran and I got chased around a campsite by an angry hummingbird. The evening walks down to the pond to hear the frogs singing.
Then I realized I’d never asked my son the one question every parent thinks but never says out loud. “What did I do wrong?”
As soon as I thought it, I pushed it back down. Could I even handle that answer? It’s too late to do anything about it so why even bother? I knew I’d ask him, though. No matter how bad the answer was, I knew I needed to hear it. I don’t like running scared from something and this had me scared.
So I called him up. I told him about all the people who’d asked me for parenting advice and how I wasn’t sure that I was qualified to give it. Then I said it. “What did I do wrong as a parent?”
He answered quickly, “You did great, dad.”
“No, really. We’ve had enough arguments and slammed doors. What should I have done better.”
“Dad, you did fine.”
In five seconds I’d gone from great to fine. Now I had to know. I had to take my medicine.
“Seriously, son. What did I do wrong?”
“Dad, you did the best you could.”
Ugh, Now I’m not even fine. I’m down to “did the best you could.”
I asked him one more time and said to take a few days to think about it. He paused for a bit and said he’d get back to me.
A week later he called back. He said, “I wish you hadn’t kept saying, ‘How can you not know this?’”
And then I remembered all the times I’d said that. And it hurt. It hurt to know I’d said it and it hurt even more to know how many times I’d said it. ”How can you not know that?” is very close to “How can you be so stupid?” It sounds like a genuine question but it’s not. It’s a steel pipe wrapped in a pool noodle. It looks harmless but it leaves a big bruise.
So I apologized. And felt terrible for weeks. For a long time after that, when someone asked me how I made it through 20 years of raising my kid alone I told them I had no idea. I said I did my best and hoped my son was still talking to me at the end of the day, even though sometimes he wasn’t.
Last week, a friend told me she wasn’t sure if she’d said the right thing to her daughter. I asked her if she thought what she’d said had brought her closer or pushed her away. She said it was going to take a while to find out. We can’t always do things that bring people closer. Sometimes we have to stand our ground and say what needs to be said, even if it pushes someone away. I wish I’d chosen those moments more carefully with my son. He’s 33 now and closer to me than I was to my dad at that age. So I guess I did ok. If you come to the show, you know that he helps me set up the room and sometimes even tells a story. We have an unwritten rule between us that we’ll never tell a story that would hurt the other person. Those are the only stories either of us wants to tell.
And that’s the kind of story we’re looking for at our next show. Come tell a story about having to be honest with yourself. What made you do it? Did you put it off for years or dive in immediately to get it done? Were you alone in a room or did you have to walk up to someone? How did the experience change you?
Remember to practice your story out loud on as many people as possible and time yourself when you’re doing it. Please don’t get onstage if you haven’t practiced your story. The audience is giving you their time and attention. It’s not fair to them if you get up there and try to wing it.
All stories have to be under 8 minutes. Stories can be as short as you want but not over 8 minutes. Stories also have to be clean in both language and content. Send me an email if you have any questions about that.
The rest of the rules and guidelines are below:
Workshops are a great way to get feedback on a story you’re working on. Here is one I highly recommend. It’s run by two wonderful storytellers who have told many times at FGS and other shows in the area:
https://www.meetup.com/Fresh-Ground-Stories-Storytelling-Workshop
I’m also happy to help anyone with a story they’re working on. Send me an email and we can set up a phone call.
See you on Thursday, May 16 at 7 pm, at the Chabad of Queen Anne – Magnolia. 1825 Queen Anne Ave N, Seattle, WA 98109 (Remember, no non-kosher food in the building)
Paul
Freshgroundstories at gmail dot com
Fresh Ground Stories 