Hovercraft

My timing was good this past week.
On Wednesday I drove to Leominster to help my older son, Robert, celebrate his 21st birthday.
We had dinner, drinks, and now his name is going on the wall of the restaurant because he was able to down a double-shot of tequila, worm and all.
My sister-in-law, I have heard, was appalled by my participation in those festivities.
I understand her concern, but I don’t think I was encouraging bad behavior: I actually thought I was making quite the opposite statement.
The best we can do, I have always said, is to not make things worse.
Whatever you do, I love to quote Camus in “The Plague”, just don’t spread the microbe.
Besides, I wanted him to know that I was impressed that he had made it this far, relatively unscathed.
On Friday we bought a new bike for my 7 year old son.
By the weekend the weather had warmed considerably, and the seven year old was able to stay out for hour after hour, riding his new bike.
By the mid-afternoon he already had a few tricks to show me: first balancing his feet on the back of the bike and rolling down the hill, and then putting his feet up against the front and, again, balancing as the bike rolled along.
Be prepared, I told my wife, with bandages and first aid cream.
But what are we supposed to do – forbid him from attempting any tricks, taking any risks? You all know what comes of that.
So instead, seeing he was big enough for the 20” bike, we took him to the street, give him the bike, and let him ride.
Maybe it’s all about balance.
You have to let your children learn to walk on their own, otherwise when they needed to get something from the refrigerator they would fall right over.
It’s hard to strike the right balance yourself, as a parent: if you hold on too tightly, you’re both going to crash. If you let go too quickly, well, they’re still going to fall.
So what you do is hover.
You practice the fine art of hovering, of subtle support: you mix praise with fear and sneak laughter into the lecture.
This past week was a triumph of hovering.
God knows it ain’t easy.
To hover in Leominster I had to drive two hours, eat some mediocre Mexican food, and down a few shots of tequila myself.
Then it was on to Worcester –where Robert was sure to get carded, for more drinks (his, not mine) and bad karaoke.
Then a two hour drive home, interrupted just before I turned into the driveway by a call from my son –closing down the bar with his goodhearted (and sober) girlfriend.
“Yes’ I told him, “I had a great time too. Sorry I had to leave so early, but I have some more hovering to do with your little brother.”
Hovering around a seven year-old is just as tough as hovering around a 21 year-old –maybe tougher.
First of all, at my age, drinking a shot of tequila is far easier than keeping up with a seven year old.
And if the 21 year-old screws up, at least you can say that he should know better. The seven year-old still has the youth excuse.
There is very little difference though, in how much help they will ask for.
The younger son will actually ask for help, at first, for about 30 seconds: then he wants you out of the way.
The seven year old is, at least, not as good as hiding their desire for your approval, and will beam at praise.
The 21 year old will only ask for help after they have screwed up: but be careful not to think that your help gives you the right to lecture.
The 21 year old bristles at the offer of any advice from his father. He occasionally needs help, not advice, which usually translates in to cash.

So you hover: half way between the ground and the air, between praise and advice, between fear and laughter.
You need to have great balance.
You need to have great timing.
It was just one of those weeks, when everything that could go wrong, didn’t.
The sun was out, the wind was just right, and I managed to just hover in mid-air, like a dad is supposed to do.