Chip off the ol' block?
It's always nice when your children show an interest in something you're doing. There's a sense of parental pride in teaching them a skill or sharing an interest in a hobby that you've enjoyed.
I remember my father sitting alongside me when I was young as he patiently taught me about philately--the fancy word for stamp collecting. He had collected stamps for years and had amassed quite a nice assortment. Though he rarely had free time to engage in the hobby as an adult, he relished those rare occasions when he could rustle through the boxes of unfiled stamps, searching for just the right one to complete a page in his stamp book.
He was successful, for a while, at piquing my interest. He bought me my own U.S. stamp book and gave me a nice pile of stamps to sort and file. But by the time I had filled about half of the book, I lost interest in the hobby. I was a teenager and had much more important things to do.
I wonder today if my waning interest disappointed him. I certainly didn't mean to. What I enjoyed most about the experience, I think, was not the stamp collecting but the special time spent with him. My sister cared nothing about the hobby nor did my mother. It was something only he and I shared. Still, as my interests expanded, sitting at a table hunting through a box of stamps just didn't have a hold on me anymore--even if it was with my father.
I say all this because I experienced something similar this week when my 10-year-old got her first experience at carpentry. Although I wasn't the one who taught her, I still got a bit of a thrill when she came home from middle school camp on Tuesday and excitedly told me that each student was going to build a wooden bird house. That would never have happened when I was in school. We girls were resigned to taking home economics while only the boys got to take "shop." I always wanted to be in shop. My mother had already taught us how to sew and cook, so home ec wasn't appealing to me at all.
So when I found out that Amelia was going to build something, I was just as excited as she was. I quizzed her all about the project. What kind of wood are you using? Are you going to cut it or will it already be cut? Do you get to nail it? Will it be painted? How big will it be? Of course, she knew none of the answers, but it didn't stem either her interest or mine.
I secretly hoped that some of my laborious woodworking in the garage had paid off--that somewhere in her subconscious she had noticed what I was doing and wanted to learn more. That was my silent hope, anyway, even though I don't think it was reality.
On Thursday, she came home with scratches on her knee and proudly announced that the teacher had noticed blood running down her leg that morning, unbeknownst to her. The wound, she proclaimed, must have occurred while she was working on her birdhouse. But she was so engrossed in the task that she didn't even notice when the rough wood apparently scraped against her knee. I know the feeling.
The birdhouse came home today with Amelia, and she was so proud. So was her mother. Amelia showed me how the door opened and closed, and she said that she was going to paint the words, "Home Tweet Home" on it when she got home.
I don't know if any birds will ever live in it, but I know that it already holds something more valuable: a mother's dream that her daughters will grow up with opportunities that she never had. I want my girls to have opportunities to try new things, to fail and try again, to succeed and feel the flush of accomplishment that comes from hard work well done. I want my girls to be strong, skilled, and independent. And maybe I even want them to follow in their mother's footsteps, if only a little bit. Just without so much blood.
I remember my father sitting alongside me when I was young as he patiently taught me about philately--the fancy word for stamp collecting. He had collected stamps for years and had amassed quite a nice assortment. Though he rarely had free time to engage in the hobby as an adult, he relished those rare occasions when he could rustle through the boxes of unfiled stamps, searching for just the right one to complete a page in his stamp book.
He was successful, for a while, at piquing my interest. He bought me my own U.S. stamp book and gave me a nice pile of stamps to sort and file. But by the time I had filled about half of the book, I lost interest in the hobby. I was a teenager and had much more important things to do.
I wonder today if my waning interest disappointed him. I certainly didn't mean to. What I enjoyed most about the experience, I think, was not the stamp collecting but the special time spent with him. My sister cared nothing about the hobby nor did my mother. It was something only he and I shared. Still, as my interests expanded, sitting at a table hunting through a box of stamps just didn't have a hold on me anymore--even if it was with my father.
I say all this because I experienced something similar this week when my 10-year-old got her first experience at carpentry. Although I wasn't the one who taught her, I still got a bit of a thrill when she came home from middle school camp on Tuesday and excitedly told me that each student was going to build a wooden bird house. That would never have happened when I was in school. We girls were resigned to taking home economics while only the boys got to take "shop." I always wanted to be in shop. My mother had already taught us how to sew and cook, so home ec wasn't appealing to me at all.
So when I found out that Amelia was going to build something, I was just as excited as she was. I quizzed her all about the project. What kind of wood are you using? Are you going to cut it or will it already be cut? Do you get to nail it? Will it be painted? How big will it be? Of course, she knew none of the answers, but it didn't stem either her interest or mine.
I secretly hoped that some of my laborious woodworking in the garage had paid off--that somewhere in her subconscious she had noticed what I was doing and wanted to learn more. That was my silent hope, anyway, even though I don't think it was reality.
On Thursday, she came home with scratches on her knee and proudly announced that the teacher had noticed blood running down her leg that morning, unbeknownst to her. The wound, she proclaimed, must have occurred while she was working on her birdhouse. But she was so engrossed in the task that she didn't even notice when the rough wood apparently scraped against her knee. I know the feeling.
The birdhouse came home today with Amelia, and she was so proud. So was her mother. Amelia showed me how the door opened and closed, and she said that she was going to paint the words, "Home Tweet Home" on it when she got home.
I don't know if any birds will ever live in it, but I know that it already holds something more valuable: a mother's dream that her daughters will grow up with opportunities that she never had. I want my girls to have opportunities to try new things, to fail and try again, to succeed and feel the flush of accomplishment that comes from hard work well done. I want my girls to be strong, skilled, and independent. And maybe I even want them to follow in their mother's footsteps, if only a little bit. Just without so much blood.
posted by Tif at 6:09 PM
1 Comments:
There's gotta be a children's sermon in there somewhere...Follow in the Footsteps? Very well written, Joy!
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