October Afternoon


Jay: my cognitive inferior for now at least

Last night I came across this chart, which shows how different cognitive skills decline with age (and apologies for the poor resolution of the chart…click on it to get a clearer view).  The good news is that at 30, theoretically I haven’t peaked in any categories besides numeric ability and perceptual speed, and who needs those skills anyway. Plus, surprisingly, it looks like there’s still room to grow in a few key areas…

From "Personality Psychology and Economics" by Mathilde Almund, et al. Available at: http://www.nber.org/papers/w16822

Looking at the chart, I was also pleased to see that Jay will remain my cognitive inferior for at least a couple decades.  (Anecdotally, of course, I knew this already: Last night he insisted on eating his soup with a fork.)

In some areas, though, he’s got me.  He has to hear a book only a few times before he has it memorized.  A couple nights ago we were reading Corduroy and I stopped before the end of each sentence to let Jay fill in the rest.  He always got it and I realized I didn’t even know the name of the girl who rescues Corduroy at the end of the book. (I told this to Caroline and she said in horror, “How could you not know about Lisa!”)

He’s also got me beat on global awareness.  On Tuesday mornings there could be a hurricane raging in our living room and he’d still notice the first grunt of the trash truck out on the street.

I think Jay’s biggest advantage, though, is that he rarely doubts his ability to learn something.

Last night after dinner we were playing with Legos and Jay wanted to add a window to a tower he’d built. It was a nimble maneuver—too much for his inexperienced fingers. He had trouble aligning the Legos and a couple times he pushed down too hard. Watching Jay was like watching a dog try to extract kibble from one of those rubber Kongs.  After awhile you can’t stand the futility anymore and you just want to do it for him.  Jay, though, plugged away and eventually he got it.

Later that night after he’d gone to bed I opened a web design program I’d just downloaded.  It was more advanced than the software I’m used to and I quickly hit a roadblock.  My heart started to beat faster and my body flooded with despair.  “I’m never going to get this,” I said, throwing up my hands and snapping my laptop closed.

Then I realized that regardless of how he chooses to eat his soup, that’s something Jay would never say.

The afternoon drive

Hard rain all the way to Caroline’s office prompted a near incident with a pedestrian.

James told on me when Caroline got in the car: “Daddy did a bad thing on the sidewalk.”

Wally craned his neck at an impossible angle to see Caroline as she sat down in the front seat.

It’s not my fault if an a cappella version of this song meant something to me when I was 18.

Jay dashed through the parking lot at the supermarket to get dibs on the shopping cart with the steering wheel.

Phoenix came on the radio:

Jay gets in trouble and Daddy remembers he used to, too

Last night after Jay had finished dinner Caroline gave him the same talk she gives him every night: “First we’re going to brush your teeth, then you’re going to get in pajamas, then it’s playtime.  But if you don’t cooperate you’re going to lose playtime.”

Despite the warning, Jay bungles his way to an early bedtime a couple times a week.  Usually it’s for small-time antics like refusing to open his mouth for his toothbrush or holding his arms stiff when Caroline tries to change his shirt.

Last night was like watching one of those crash test commercials, where the car plows into the cement wall in slow motion.  After successfully brushing his teeth Jay ran downstairs instead of going to his room to change. “If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to lose playtime,” Caroline reminded him again as he two-footed his way down the stairs.  Jay just shrieked with defiant delight.

“Alright, you’ve lost it,” Caroline said as she swept him back upstairs.  Jay screamed like the world had come to an end.  He sobbed and sputtered.  Then when he realized that wasn’t going to work he got sweet.

Jay holding a stalk (a stalk!?) of brussel sprouts a couple hours before losing playtime.

“Here Mama,” he said, handing her his nighttime diaper.  Caroline thanked him.  Then in her sweetest voice she made it clear: His fate was sealed.

As I listened to this, I remembered a feeling I’d had often as a kid: the feeling of desperately wanting to take back something I’d just done.  Jay loves playtime.  If he were a rational beast he’d do anything to preserve it.  But he’s not a rational beast.  He’s a manic late-stage toddler.

So last night he went to bed knowing what Jack Handey, the old Saturday Night Live character, knew: “If you drop your keys into a river of molten lava, let ‘em go, because man, they’re gone.” Except in Jay’s case he didn’t drop them.  He threw them.

I have a theory, which may be wishful, that I remember my childhood better as I grow older.   Time and experience negate memory, but they also prompt it.  As I watch Jay develop and I think about his experiences like the one last night, I’m reminded of sensations that had slipped away so gradually I didn’t even know they were gone.

This has happened a few times recently:

  • At story hour last week the theme was Autumn.  The librarian asked, “What falls from the trees when it gets cold?”  Hands shot up.  The librarian called on a trembling four-years-old.  “Leaves fall from the trees,” she said. The excitement in her voice reminded me of what it felt like to be called on, to be right, and to think I understood how the world works.
  • On Saturday afternoon we went to the park.  While Jay was playing I walked over and watched the end of a youth lacrosse practice.  The kids were scrimmaging.  The coach yelled out, “Next goal wins.” One kid broke from the pack and launched the ball against the baseball backstop that served as the goal. His teammates mobbed him.  They screamed in triumph.  I felt a rush in my stomach, reactivated like muscle memory—the pure joy of winning.
  • A couple Saturday nights ago Caroline and I went to a friend’s house for dinner and left Jay with a babysitter.  When he realized what was going on he begged us not to go.  “Mama stay,” he said over and over again.  As we hurried out the door, his pleas reminded me that I used to feel equally desperate when my parents would leave.  In those moments I couldn’t comprehend why it was that nothing I said could change what they were doing.

All of these were sensations and memories I hadn’t thought about in years.   When you’re a kid there’s so much going on that it’s hard to know what’s worth remembering. Plus, you’re always looking ahead, so remembering’s not something you really worry about.

But watching Jay is like returning to a place I’ve visited once before.  The first time I was there I had no idea where I was.  But on a second visit landmarks stand out, streets feel familiar, I have a sense of what’s around the corner.  It’s a nice feeling to watch Jay with that kind of perspective, and to use his childhood as a map for revisiting my own.

Related Posts from Growing Sideways

A glimpse into the method behind Jay’s madness

A reminder that now we’re playing for real money

We don’t get to choose what we love

As a kid I was a sucker for a big news spectacle—OJ, Diana, Monica—and spent days of my life glued to CNN.  I’m not drawn in as easily these days—partly because I’ve got less time and I’m more cynical about cable news, but more because my circle of concerns has pulled inward, to Jay and Wally and our small domestic world.

When Steve Jobs died, though, I got caught up in the spectacle.  I was compelled by both the objective measure of his mark on the world and by the way he made that mark—by letting his instincts determine his work.  It’s rare to find someone about whom you could say both “I want to accomplish as much as he accomplished” and “I want to live my life (at least in part) the way he lived his life.”

So for a week I spent a lot of time thinking and reading about Steve Jobs.  The single most amazing thing I read was an interview he gave in 1985 to Playboy Magazine, right after the debut of the Macintosh.  The interview isn’t directly related this post, but Jobs’ ability to conceptualize the computer and predict its influence is so stunning that it’s worth sharing anyway.  Here’s Jobs’ answer when asked why anyone should bother buying a home computer:

Jobs: The primary reasons to buy a computer for your home now are that you want to do some business work at home or you want to run educational software for yourself or your children. If you can’t justify buying a computer for one of those two reasons, the only other possible reason is that you just want to be computer literate. You know there’s something going on, you don’t exactly know what it is, so you want to learn. This will change: Computers will be essential in most homes.

Playboy: What will change?

Jobs: The most compelling reason for most people to buy a computer for the home will be to link it into a nationwide communications network. We’re just in the beginning stages of what will be a truly remarkable breakthrough for most people—as remarkable as the telephone.

The interview is full of mind-bendingly prescient declarations like that one, and the force of Jobs’ personality jumps off the page.  At points the interview left me almost breathless.  One of my first thoughts upon finishing it was: I need to make sure Jay and Wally read this when they’re older.

But the one Jobs quote that really caught my attention wasn’t from the interview.   It was something he said at the end of his life to Walter Isaacson, the author of his official biography, which came out today.   “I wanted my kids to know me,” Jobs said, in explaining why he’d abandoned his desire for privacy to cooperate on a biography.  “I wasn’t always there for them, and I wanted them to know why and to understand what I did.”

The tension between professional ambition and family is something I think about a lot.  If my 15-year-old self were to see the life I have today, there are lots of things he’d be happy about (overjoyed, even), but I think he’d also be surprised by the degree to which I’ve prioritized taking care of Jay and Wally over other kinds of achievement.

Of course, 15-year-olds have a pretty limited perspective: They understand money and fame a lot better than they appreciate the sense of purpose and satisfaction that comes from raising a child.  But that said, I’m still surprised when I consider the choices I’ve made since Jay was born—to pursue freelance and contract work as a way to pay the bills and to spend the balance of my time being a dad.

During the 2008 presidential campaign I came to admire Barack Obama more than I’ve ever admired a public figure.  I admired his intelligence and his competence, but most of all I admired what I saw as his ability not to lose his sense of himself amidst the noise of a national campaign.   There was also a part of me that was attracted to the size of his presence—how fully he’d brought himself to bear on the world—and craved something like that for myself.

But the thing I never got about Obama was how he’d been willing to spend so many nights away from his daughters.  From 1997, when he was elected state senator, to 2009 when he moved into the White House, he probably spent more nights than not away from his family.  The things he gained in return were great, but so were the things he lost.  In a life where he’s seen and done more than most people ever will, he wont know what it’s like to have been a day-in-day-out part of his daughters’ lives.

Even now, two years into my life as a semi-stay-at-home dad, I still maintain some pie-in-the-sky ambitions: to run for office, or to write a book and go on tour.  But then I consider what’s required to achieve something great—that you dedicate yourself to it as singularly as Steve Jobs dedicated himself to Apple. Last night as I lay on the floor in Jay’s room at bedtime while Caroline read him The Lorax, I realized again that there’s no professional achievement I’d choose over being at home with my family.

Sometimes I wish I were built differently- that I burned the way Steve Jobs burned.  But I also realize that in life we don’t get to choose the things we love.

It takes a village: a roundup of readers’ comments

There have been a lot of wonderful comments left on Growing Sideways recently.  One reader recalled the moment when her mother, dripping wet in a skirted bathing suit, lost her “myth” status.  Another talked about his earliest memories leaving wartime southern Illinois in 1945.  Martha wrote about why it’s important to her that her kids learn to play the piano better than she ever did.  Nick explained why he does Kumon with his daughters. Andrew reflected on how immigration changed his parents’ view of family. My dad told me he’s not sure what’s going on in Ann Arbor, because he never had any trouble getting Jay down to nap.

If Wally looks excited, it's not because I'm dangling a granola bar wrapper in front of his face. It's because I just read him a month's worth of amazing comments on Growing Sideways.

Anya, in response to That thing around the corner

As someone who is at the age of the kids you described, this post was very interesting for me. The last line seems to sum up how I feel when I read your blog: I’m aware that we’re at different stages in our lives, but I see my own future in your posts. It’s something that I’ve had to think about more now that I’ve started college because there’s more of a domino effect. (I need to take these classes because I want this degree, and I need to do well in them because I want to go to graduate school, and with graduate school comes the idea of starting a family.) Your blog makes the idea of being a married-adult-with-children seem less distant and scary.

Marnie, in response to That thing around the corner

I’m so intrigued that we live in a world where the first comment to your post is from a nineteen year old. I was very far away from thinking about the domino effect or being married with children at nineteen. And now I’m twenty-eight and I wish I’d been better counseled about the real world. I am a former teacher as well (in urban schools), and it’s always heartbreaking in some ways to have students illustrate the statistics. A friend’s former student had twins in eighth grade. So many low-income kids never truly get to have a “childhood.” I enjoy your voice and your blog.

John B. in response to That thing around the corner

And, to add a voice form thirty years n the future, nothing prepared me for this either. It’s fun to watch you wander through the minefields I’ve already picked my way through and reliving that period of life again by watching your trials. But every period of life has had the same wonder of exploration. Not enough fires to gather around and listen to the elders any more.

John C. in response to What it might really mean to learn to be a parent

You can’t imagine the depth to which your self-observations reverberated in me as I read your latest on “parenting”. I could change the characters from Jay and Wally to J and D and all the rest of the words would hang perfectly about my neck. Of course I am not that father of so many years ago but now the grandfather to J and D’s children. As I read your piece I found myself musing, “What would I do differently now in those situations that used to get me ‘disproportionately worked up’?” Then it occured to me that these days I tend to start each day self-orienting – checking out the world and my place in it and then consciously deciding how I will deal with what may come. This usually entails a moment of gratitude. That’s all it usually takes – just a moment – just acknowledging how thankful I am… and then the latent anger that has haunted me for so many years is defanged and I am allowed to go about my day easier. I think the Buddhists call it Mindfulness. It doesn’t matter what its name is… it works.

Ingrid in response to Fade Out: What happens to a toddler’s memories?

I often wonder about the capacity of memories at different ages as well. I’m sure there is a brilliant study on the matter. I will say that I still hold memories of my pre-school that I attended at the age of 4. I recall the room set up and the way the play-dough smelled and the names and faces of a few friends that i kept through grade school. I get flashes some days, and will remember a birthday party at the pool when I was three. Of course, I don’t really know if it’s a true memory or a story I told myself from a photo. But i will say that a smell, or a view, or a taste will bring bad some very old memories. So happy for your move, but so sad you wont be on the streets of Philly anymore.

John C. in response to Fade Out: What happens to a toddler’s memories?

I left our wartime home in southern Illinois in the fall of 1945 when I was just 4. We returned each summer for a week or two vacation until I was almost 9. The combination of those visits, the Kodak pictures carefully pasted into the white leather album, and my mother repeating the stories that went with those pictures all laid down new neural pathways thus creating a rich new set of memories. I believe that is what family does. These stories thus become the oral history of my life. These beautiful and insightful stories that you are writing will be the stimuli for Jay to lay down new memories of old expereinces.

Bob in response to Let me wrestle you down to sleep

Not sure what you were doing wrong, Kevin, but when James was with his Grandpa during Hurricane Irene, I got him down for naps each day you and Caroline were gone. I did lay down on the floor in his room, so maybe that helped. Or was it that I fell asleep first? And that is my bigger point. Here is a young boy with an alotted time for napping, and he chooses not to use it. I would love a nap each day, but there is no alotted time.

Anne Sullivan in response to Myth making

I distinctly remember both instances when my mother and my father lost their “myth” status with me. My mom approached my friends and me at the local swimming pool in her old fashioned skirted bathing suit with a rubber swim cap adorned with plastic flowers on her head. She was soaking wet, and as my friends barely suppressed their laughter at the sight, I was mortified. With my dad, the situation was worse—I was working in his office after college, and I overhead a subordinate of his discussing a major mistake my dad had made that cost him a promotion. I enjoyed this post of yours because it reminded me of the times when I did view my parents as heroes, and even though they “fell from grace” a bit, they did provide a lot of comfort over the years with their reassurances that everything would be alright.

Martha in response to Do all parents fall into two categories? One leading sociologist says they do.

I pay for the piano lessons, I pay for the extra spanish tutor, and I make sure my kids never miss Sunday school because I have found that whenever I run into someone who does something very well, or has a passion for a hobby unlike no one else, or their faith is pervasive in their lives, it is because they were exposed in childhood. They didn’t just take a few classes, read a single book, or observe someone else, they dived in deep. I was also a latchkey kid, and my parents cultivated what they could in their spare time, and the outcome was beyond what most would call decent. Nonetheless, my list of mediocre talents is long. So given the good fortune to provide my kids with the opportunity to make their list a little shorter than mine is an opportunity I find difficult to pass up.

Nick in response to Do all parents fall into two categories? One leading sociologist says they do.

I was not cultivated at all. I was a latch-key kid. My parents’ stresses left little room for planning of any kind, and yet I ascribe to them my love of art and knowledge. I am fulfilled enough to wish even some portion of my happiness on my three children, and I wonder deeply what fraction of genetic predisposition and experience, what ratio of ease and strife, what presence and what absence of resources led to my good fortune. If I could reproduce my childhood I do not trust my children would exit it similarly endowed, because I am used to seeing my trajectory as anomalous in a sea of pessimistic demographics. So I pay for the piano lessons, I do the Kumon (at home, I mean), I go to all the museums, stabbing blindly at the hope of passing on the opportunity of happiness, but stabbing nonetheless with vigor and zeal and even a little frightening uncertainty if any of my actions can lead to another’s happiness and virtue. I find it hard to take no action when the stakes are high. Maybe we are each passing on to our kids what we think we should, not only in order to inherit our own happinesses, but also to inherit something better?

Andrew in response to Hit me: Jay, Wally, and The Tree of Life

as the friend in question, i wanted to add some color to the anecdote that might make it seem less odd. my entire family (myself included) immigrated to the US and settled in a fairly homogeneous area, so that comment of his was informed by our collective family experience as outsiders struggling and working to acclimate. i think that the normal “alone-ness” that envelopes the adult lives of children after their parents pass away is multiplied exponentially for immigrant families, particularly for those – like us – who leave behind the entirety of their non-nuclear family support structure in their home country.

the other nuance worth remembering is the vast change in technology over the intervening years. today, when we’re constantly connected by facebook, skype, email and phone to our families around the world, the notion of being alone seems cutely outdated. but i doubt anyone in the 80s and early 90s, let alone my parents, would have predicted these advances, certainly not when it cost dollars per minute to call foreign countries and our phone successfully connected maybe 20% of the time. that shroud of uncertainty over our futures must have been frightening to them.

the contrast is made even more poignant when i think of the stories they heard from their preceding generation, of branches of the family which boarded ships in the early 20th century for far-flung places like brazil, australia and detroit, and which weren’t reunited for 40 or 50 years. this, in turn, almost certainly biased their own expectations and predictions for how isolated we might be as adults.

it all turned out fine in the end, but deliberating about all of this reminded me of something else i loved about the movie, which is that as much as we believe ourselves to be agents of our own fate, our behaviors, fears, aspirations and expectations are vastly and unconsciously influenced by the circumstances of the age during which we live. it seems to me that one of life’s major projects is understanding when one is acting as an individual and when one is acting as the ultimate terminal effector of larger, ageless cosmic processes.

Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.

[Growing Sideways now has its own Facebook page.  “Like” it here.]

Just after Jay, Wally, and I left the house this afternoon to get Caroline, Pearl Jam’s Better Man” came on the radio.  I could hardly believe my luck.  My favorite band, one of their best songs, playing at a time of the day when the boys and I otherwise would be stuck listening to “Pumped Up Kicks” yet again.

As we waited at a red light I let it loose:

She lies and says she’s in love with him, can’t find a better man…

She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can’t find a better man

The light turned green.  I turned the radio up, sang louder.  In the back of my head I wondered: “What does Jay make of this?  What is it like for him to see his dad overtaken by music? Does such passion surprise him? Scare him? Intrigue him?”

Then the song came to an end and I looked at the backseat.  Jay was sitting there, staring out the window at a gas station.  I’m pretty sure he basically didn’t even know I was there.

Enjoy the song.  Sing it loud.  Tell Jay his dad is cool.