Memoir Missive: Being a Dad
How a terrible interview brought out the worst in me and a tearful rebuke
Note: I’m still chipping away, bit by bit, on the memoir. We’re closing in on the final chapters of the first draft.
Fall of 2020 our boys started a new school. We flipped from public to private school. This was a big deal because I’d been ride or die public school for years.
Schooling choices amongst people in my world are akin to gangs you join. And once you get jumped in, changing allegiance can be tough.
On the one side, you have the homeschoolers. These committed moms and dads use these years of young influence to provide as much hands-on education as they can to their kids. They’re good people, but you can usually pick them out of a crowd. They drive vans or big bus-like vehicles and their kids, while polite, also might be feral because they rarely wear shoes and if you ask them where their parents are, they will probably say “No” and then hit you in the leg and run off. Then they’ll build a campfire for you and cook you dinner after their mom, who was nursing a newborn somewhere, makes them apologize to you not just with words but with actions.
On another side, you have private schoolers. These folks are bougie and spend their well-earned money on providing education for their kids the normies can’t afford. If you tell people your kids are in private school, you’ll get some side-eye and then people will wonder who you murdered to get all of that money to send your kids to school. The private school parents are the most likely to be helicopter parents with strong entitlement vibes because they’re paying customers. They don’t want the school to just educate their kids but also provide their social calendar. If their kids misbehave, it must be the school’s fault.
Then you have the public schoolers. This is the traditional route. Mom and dad might both be working but they’re committed to their neighborhood and their kids’ education. They have a firm conviction that public education is the right way to appropriately train their kids for how to engage with different worldviews. They send their little missionary kids to school every day to make a positive impact. Their kids are probably cussing under their breath a little, too.
Side note: Whatever path you choose brings with it blessings and curses. There’s no perfect model and you’ll always be dealing with (and compensating for) your schooling decisions.
When Expectations Don’t Match Reality
Making the switch for us took some time, some prayer, some processing, some support, and a longer-than-expected interview process. At least it was during COVID so numerous aspects of the application process were cut short.
Driving up, the campus looked nice—small cottages with play areas for each age group (the equivalent of elementary, middle, and high school, though you can’t use those words in classical education). We walk in and are greeted by two members of the admissions team and then ushered into a small library.
There, sitting at the table, the litany of questions begins. I don’t remember all of the questions. I just remember the feeling.
Anger. Embarrassment. Confusion as to whose kids these were.
The admissions interviewers for the meeting didn’t seem to be bothered.
I was bothered.
With every one-word or half-answer or “I don’t know,” I found myself wanting to snap. Come on, boys, this isn’t hard. Just do what you’re supposed to do. Be kind; don’t be a jerk. And, for goodness’ sake, stop crying about uniforms and homework.
Forty-five excruciating minutes later, the meeting was over. I want to yell at my kids, but my commitment to conflict resolution means I can’t let the school see me yell at them. I have to wait until we get in the car and yell at them like a normal dad.
Then it starts. My words might be off here, but my feelings are not.
“Boys, you were very rude in that meeting.”
“What?!?”
“You were rude. You were disrespectful. Why couldn’t you answer the questions? That was unacceptable.”
The tears begin to flow. I don’t care. I just keep driving.
“That is not the way you talk to adults; that’s not the way you interview.”
Tears continue. I wonder if they will actually accept us. “Pastor’s family denied admission to local Christian school.”
Just Tell Us!
The drive home has one light that always takes a little longer because traffic backs up. My oldest, ever the honest one, through tears, says, “You just needed to tell us!”
That one cut deep.
In what world should a dad assume his kids magically know how to handle situations they’ve never been in? That’s apparently what citizens do in the world I’ve created in my mind.
Welcome to Hans’ head. Population: zero, because nobody can survive.
My pride wants me to double down. “Kids should know better,” I’d like to think. But why should they know better? That’s why they have parents. I’m their dad.
The perception of a ten-year-old to give such a tearful rebuke still sits with me. I’m at a light about to turn and I realize just how askew my own heart is. School acceptance or not, I can’t be this kind of person.
We get home and I process the words. I know that simple things like helping my young kids understand expectations goes far better for them. I know they need my encouragement more than my evisceration about not measuring up. I’m their guide in this world, not their drill sergeant.
They need their dad.
Speaking of, here’s a great song about dads being dads.
Don’t Assume, Friends
Too many of us expect people to simply know how to act in any situation. That was my problem—my failure. At times, it still is.
But that’s isn’t how it works, is it?
Parents, in particular, are gentle guides to help their kids navigate what is ever a circuitous road. They don’t need your anger; they need you.
Where do you need to set someone up for success rather than tell them where they didn’t measure up?
Related Posts
Author’s Commentary