Part I: Never Take Parenting Advice from an Expert Who Has Not Bailed a Child Out of Jail
Why? Because without hardship, anything they tell you is just theory.
Thirty-seven years ago, I was adopted by a precocious three-year-old. She saved my life. I wrote about it in a blog post (How Adopting a 3-yr-old at 19 Formed the Basis for a Thriller). That post garnered a boatload of emails asking me every question imaginable, from What Were You Thinking? To, You Must Be a Saint. to answer those questions, I decided to write this series of posts. Here is the first thing I learned:
I wasn’t thinking. I was nineteen. I wasn’t a saint. I was nineteen. Etc.
How did it go? I turn to my favorite Presidential quote: Mistakes were made.**
I learned a lot. I tried all kinds of things as she grew older. I read a lot of books and received all kinds of unsolicited advice. Along the way, I figured out the universal truth about parenting:
NO ONE KNOWS DIDDLY.
Tiger Mom? Bite Me.
This blog post will be a ~ weekly, post about parenting. Sign up for email updates on the right. You’ll have to wade through my quirky reviews of thrillers and my incessant pleas to buy my books (go ahead, make my day, Sabel Security Thrillers, Books 1-3 Boxed Set), but the delete key is pretty easy to press, so sign up and don’t whine.
For the sake of clarity — I have no qualifications, no degrees, no expertise, no real reason to pontificate on the subject of parenting. I’m not even smart. But I do have two anecdotal insights into parenting that will benefit you: 1) I raised a child to self-sufficient adulthood, and 2) later married a wonderful woman, had two more biological kids, and—so far—have made FEWER mistakes.
Comparing what worked against what failed opened my eyes to many things. I’ve even compared notes with other parents with two families and confirmed some of my ideas. I will share those ideas and concepts with you. You will disagree with me. I don’t care (see universal truth, above).
The upcoming posts will tackle parenting in this format:
- Part II: What I Did Wrong Before I Became a Parent
- Part III: Toddlers, Foundations both Shaky and Strong
- Part IV: Golden Years 5-10, Buying into The Daddy-Deity (or Mommy-Deity)
- Part V: 10-15, Dad-You’re-So-Stupid –or– The Crucible of Middle School
- Part VI: 15-College, How to Accept Your New Role as Consultant and Financier
- Part VII: Post-Graduate, the Return of the Prodigal Child – Deal With It
Once I’ve covered those issues, I might go back and add color and depth in a second round. Or, I might be lazy and repeat what my father-in-law (a Harvard-educated surgeon who did a damn fine job of raising two children) said when I asked for parenting advice, “Oh, I don’t know, it doesn’t really matter.”
For those of you who want to know, here is the short version of how I came to be an accidental parent:
When I was nineteen, a friend-of-a-friend told me daycare costs were killing her. She had been sixteen when she conceived her daughter and three years later the bio-dad was gone, the euphoria was over, her friends & family faced their own life-struggles, and her future was bleak. She had an opportunity to work the night shift which would move her up one notch on the poverty ladder. She asked me to help by watching her child from the time I got off work until she went home at midnight.
With no clue about how that would change my life, I said, “Sure.”
The next day, I stopped at the daycare facility and announced that I was there to pick up a child. I didn’t know the mother’s last name, and didn’t know the child’s name. And they looked at me blankly. (This was before people worried about child abduction.)
I’d seen the girl once at a distance and described her to the daycare workers: she’s about so high, three years old, blonde hair. They took me to a room filled with three-year-olds about so high with blonde hair. It struck me that I might have been a bit unprepared for the responsibility I’d agreed to shoulder.
The workers looked at me. I looked at them.
A little girl came running out of the crowd, her arms outstretched, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy Daddy”, and leapt into my arms.*** She squeezed me tight with unconditional love and never let go—for the next thirty-seven years and counting.
I had no idea what happened. I only knew that for the first time in my life I was desperately important to someone. And in that same instant, she became the most important person in my life. What could be better than that?
How did she turn out? She’s now forty, living in Seattle with her husband, raising her children as best she can, and is a sought-after cosmetologist. I am proud of her!
To answer the question that’s been bothering you since you read the headline: no, I never bailed her out of jail. Someone else did.
Peace, Seeley
* Or should have learned anyway.
** Ronald Reagan responding to the press about why his administration ignored a congressional law forbidding the sale of arms to Iran.
*** Yes, I’ve often wondered what those workers thought when a girl, whose name I did not know, called me Daddy.
Copyright 2013, Seeley James – don’t even think about reprinting this in part or in whole without contacting me in writing. Huge sums of money will be involved. Could be … you never know.
