Spend it Wisely

There are a lot of dads out there who think that bonding with their children involves non-stop, action-packed extravaganzas, or at least an endless string of acquiesces pertaining to the television or worthless junkets prominently displayed on waist-high, convenient store shelves. You’re the guys who aren’t afraid to say yes as evidenced by the countless three-hour Chuck E. Cheese benders you regularly subject yourselves to. But your parenting philosophy works, right? I mean, after all, you see the smiles and hear the laughter firsthand, correct?

Well guess what? You’re right. Fun-filled environments and spontaneous gifts go a long way in meeting children’s acute needs—those that are brief but intense and pop into their heads (and then out of their mouths) without warning—like their need for attention, for instant gratification, and for a sense of empowerment. But what about your child’s chronic needs? You know, the ones that lie beneath the acute ones? These are needs that remain constant and continue over a long period of time—like the need to feel loved, safe, secure, confident, and able.

Those are the ones I prefer to focus on, and a Hannah Montana key chain won’t do the trick when it comes to meeting them. So instead of pulling out my wallet and spending my hard-earned money every time my eight-year-old stepdaughter announces that she wants something, I simply tell her no, before explaining exactly what it is that I am willing to spend on her.

“John,” Alli will say as I’m waiting in line at Weigel's to buy my coffee.

“Yes, honey.”

“Can I have this?”

[without looking] “No, babe.”

“Why do you always say no?”

“Because no is the new I love you.”

“You never buy me anything,” she'll complain.

“Honey, I don’t spend money to show how much I love you. I spend time.”

Believe me, Alli would much rather I buy her a trinket than practice soccer with her for an hour. But what she doesn’t realize is that by spending that hour, I’m trying to meet her chronic needs, and ultimately, they are far more important than her need for a smoothie. I’m trying to make her feel safe and loved while instilling in her the belief that’s she’s able, thereby boosting her confidence. Simply hanging out with her may be mundane and unspectacular, but it requires much more effort, creativity, and imagination than plunking down the few bucks needed to procure the latest object of her desire. Since Alli doesn’t fully appreciate that fact yet, there’s very little payoff to my parenting approach. Yet I stick with it anyway, because not only do I have faith that one day she’ll be thankful for my efforts, but I also think she’ll be better off for them.

However, until then, I’ll take a backseat to those who insist on buying her splashy gifts, and treating her to raucous outings while I quietly continue to build a long string of memories that will hopefully last forever. Like the time I taught her how to ride a bike, or the time I showed her how to catch a wave on her boogie board. One day she’ll figure out that instead of taking her to the mall for a couple of hours of shopping, I chose to take her to the woods for a couple of days of camping. Eventually she’ll realize that I never went to the beach to catch up on my reading. I went to teach her how to skimboard. (Check her out) One day, she’ll be thankful that I know every single one of her friends. At some point, she’s bound to appreciate the fact that I know all of her favorite songs, though, I will readily admit that she’ll never appreciate it when I belt them out during a Saturday morning drive (via, quite frankly, a surprisingly impressive falsetto).

I take great satisfaction in being so plugged in to her world, but the truth is that other than wowing her with my Moseby impersonation (it’s a Zach and Cody thing), there aren’t many immediate benefits to all of the time I invest. That’s why it was so rewarding when I unexpectedly stumbled across one the other day.

“Fuck it,” I heard Alli say to her mom while I was manning the grill.

“What did you say?" asked my wife.

“Fuck it,” she repeated, that time with more volume and better diction. I could tell by her tone that she didn’t understand what she was saying and certainly wasn’t knowingly saying anything profane. But since I hadn’t heard what she and Caroline had been discussing, I desperately needed some context.

“Alli, what is it that you’re trying to say?” I asked.

“Fuck it. I’m almost positive it’s fuck it,” she answered defensively. I looked at her in utter confusion. “Carly’s friend,” she continued. “You know, the one who hates Freddie.”

It was all clicking. She was trying to think of a character on “iCarly,” one of her favorite TV shows that I watch all the time with her. I still didn’t understand the “fuck it” part, but at least something was beginning to make sense. “You mean Sam,” I said.

“Right. Sam. Sam, fuck it.” That time it clicked for good. She was struggling with Sam’s last name.

“I think it’s Puckett, Alli. Sam Puckett.”

“No. It’s fuck it. Fuck it with an F.”

(For what it's worth, fuck it with an F could be the funniest thing I've ever heard in my life.)

“Alli, Sam on 'iCarly?' Her last name is Puckett. Puckett with a P. I promise.”

And thus the confusing fuck-it episode was put to rest. See? There’s no way I could have negotiated that innocently profane maze without in-depth knowledge that only time well spent can provide. Some of you dads out there still won’t buy my approach. You’ll still opt for the layup that is donuts. You’ll still prefer the cheers you get in your car by pulling over for ice cream as opposed to the kink you get in your back by sitting in some absurd fort constructed from blankets and sofa cushions. And that’s fine. I get it. I have my style and you have yours. But if you insist that focusing solely on the acute needs, and never giving thought to the chronic ones is a good approach?

Well, Puckett. I can't help you.