JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

One challenge I wrestle with as a parent is the same challenge I encountered as a manager.  What motivates me does not necessarily motivate others.

Our daughter Emma has a tender heart.  She responds best to nurturing and praise.  She abhors structure.  And, she thinks and works visually.  She’s decidedly a right brain kind of gal.

I’m not.  My left brain dwarfs my right.  I discard visuals to focus on text.  I’ve had co-workers tell me I have ice in my veins and chafe at my penchant for “clear plans.”  And, I get motivated when I get a kick in the pants.

For instance, the teachers who inspired me to elevate my “game” were those who made it clear I had underperformed.  I can remember their words as if they were said (or written) only yesterday.

Miss Bearly, my first grade teacher, who made me stay after school to improve my work, “This is too sloppy.”

My high school sociology teacher, Mr. Finn who said, “I would have expected better from you.”

My high school history teacher, Mr. Bliss who explained my poor grade saying, “A student like you should choose better words.”

Dr. Seaver, a highly respected history professor at KU who wrote across the bottom of my paper, “This is rotten careless work.”

And, Dr. Malcolm, an economics professor, who simply wrote at the top of my first exam: 36 – F.

I dug myself out of a hole and earned an A in each of these classes (well I guess you don’t get As in first grade).  I wasn’t pushed in the same way in the classes in which I received Bs.

What motivated me, in part, is I don’t like to lose.  When the challenge was put squarely on the table, “you can do better,” the classes became a game.  An “A” meant victory.

My professional mentors who pushed me hardest brought the most out of me, too.  Neither Mike Hayden nor Rich Harwood was too concerned about my feelings when things needed to get done.  Their attitude was have fun when the work was done.  That was just fine with me.

Emma doesn’t respond so well to this approach.  As you can imagine, we occasionally butt heads.

She was doing math homework the other night, calculating square footage, when she declared, “This is stupid.  No one would do this in real life.”

I looked at the problem and offered, “I do this kind of math all the time in my work.  Your mom has to figure out square footage when we do house projects.”

“Look at that problem again, Dad,” Emma demanded.

I read: A garden is 18.75 feet by 4 feet.  If a bag of mulch covers 7.5 square feet, how many bags of mulch would you need to cover the garden?

“We do those kinds of problems all the time,” I said again.

“No you don’t,” Emma rebutted.

“We do, Emma,” I replied, trying not to be impatient.

“If it was you, you’d say, ‘Ah, it’s about 80 square feet.  Buy a dozen bags and if we have extras we’ll take them back to the store,’” Emma concluded emphatically.

I had the feeblest response of all, “Please, just do your homework, Emma.”

Emma is self aware.  She knows that competition is not her thing.  She turned to me one night and stated flatly, “Dad, I’m just not competitive like you.”

On the outside, I was calm and understanding.  “That’s okay, Emma.  Not everyone is.”  On the inside, a voice was shouting in my brain, “What is the matter with you?!?”

I learned a lot as a manager.  I worked at it.  I tried to understand my style and the styles of my employees.  I wasn’t perfect by any stretch.  Some days, I pushed too hard and had to back off.

But, I have good relationships with my former employees and we did kick-ass work.  We set standards that people still talk about.  I take that as a sign that something was right.

Somehow, what I learned as a manager doesn’t always translate well to the home.  Emma and I still search for that space in which we can bring out the best in each other.

Sometimes we do better if we pick the right time of day.  Late Sunday nights is not one of those times.

Sometimes we just need to give each other room – or at least I need to back off.  Occasionally I’ll offer to help type a paper and she gives me a leery gaze.  “No suggestions,” she’ll say.  She knows me too well.

Mostly we do better if I’m disciplined about limiting my role to asking questions without commentary. 

I also try to remember that the effort to discover what motivates our kids is part of the process of growing up.  As Joni often reminds me, Emma’s only eleven years old.  And, I’m only forty-four.

We both have a lot more growing to do.

Rawlins County Campers

My parents made sure I had experiences to build my sense of confidence and independence.  As a boy, I was completely unaware of their intentional and thought out schemes.  I appreciate it today.

I was eight when both parents agreed to be counselors at the Rock Springs 4-H camp.  I was afraid to go without them.  I know my dad detested the counselor role.  He told me so 34 years later.  I can’t imagine my mom liking it much better.  There are very few parents who pine to be camp counselors.

The next year, I went to 4-H camp on my own – well, along with 20 or 30 other Rawlins County kids (I’m sitting front and center).  My parents gratefully stayed home.

These are the types of building blocks my parents engineered so I would gradually gain the confidence to do things on my own.  I always got sick the night before “sleep away” camps.  But I made it through several years of scout camp, KU basketball camp and KU baseball camp before the eighth grade.

Traveling to Flagler by bus was another one of the experiences my parents planned for me.  I took an annual Greyhound trip (or was it Trailways) from Colby (the nearest stop at the time) to Flagler where my Creighton grandparents lived.  Each year, the trip was done with a little less supervision.

The first year, when I was six, I traveled with my brother Alec.  My dad followed behind in the car.  Alec made a separate trip that year with Thorn Hayden and no parents shadowing their progress.

The next year, I traveled with Alec and Paul Hayden.  Our parents or Paul’s dropped us off in Colby.  My dad waited until the end of the work day to travel to Flagler.

The trip with Alec and Paul was marked by the infamous “Stuckey’s Experience.”  I fought tears for nearly an hour.  In the era of low gas mileage and small gas tanks, filling stations populated the Interstate at exchanges between towns.

Stuckey’s and Nickerson Farms – part lunch counter, part filling station and part novelty shop – were  the prominent chains along I-70 in western Kansas and eastern Colorado.  You could fill up your tank, get a hamburger and buy a felt picture of a jackelope all in one stop.  These stops were shrines to American entrepreneurs and consumers alike.

We stopped at a Stuckey’s near Goodland, KS to pick up passengers and a mid-morning snack.  At seven, my head barely cleared the top of the lunch counter.  The waitress’ eyes never made contact with mine.  I tried to get her attention but to no avail.  There were 20 other passengers to serve.

When the bus driver yelled for us all to re-board, I had failed to garner a snack.  The devastation was almost more than I could bear.  Alec and Paul tried to comfort me by sharing their food.  But, I could not be consoled.

The next year was the big trip – no parents for two days.  Silas Horton joined me on the bus that year.  We stayed in my grandparent’s “guest house” – a detached studio apartment in their back yard.  We thought we were on a grand adventure.

Joni and I have not been as deliberate as my parents in creating a series of experiences for our kids.  Our kids do a lot but camps and unsupervised travel are not among the things they do.  I sometimes wonder if that’s been an error.

Perhaps my parents weren’t as deliberate as I imagine.  But, knowing my mom, they were.  I’m glad I’m remembering the steps they took.  There’s still time for Joni and me to do the same favor for our kids.