Love Ya, Proud of Ya

It seems like I've read a bunch of articles/blogposts lately that talk about ways NOT to parent, specifically what not to say to your children.  Don't tell them they're smart.  Don't say, "good job!"  Don't use "Have fun!" as your parting words.  Don't tell them to be careful all the time; they might become fearful.  Don't praise them.  Don't compare them to other children.

For heaven's sake, can we all relax just a little bit?  Look, my parents were great.  The best, in fact.  But my dad, I bet he didn't read one single article about what to say or not say to your kids the whole time I was growing up.  He very well could have ruined us!  He tried to teach us about French philosophers.  He'd go around saying, "Ma mere est mort aujourdi-hui..."  He gave us Latin lessons in his wood-paneled library, which we failed miserably.  He bribed me to read Animal Farm and The Metamorphosis in 4th grade.  (stories about animals and bugs, if you ask a 4th grader!)  One day, when I was 8, he told me that there was a big surprise waiting for me on my bed.  When I raced into my room, there was, indeed, a big surprise.  A huge stack of Encyclopedia Britannicas, with bookmarks and highlighted passages, along with an empty legal pad on which I was expected to write a report on Alpha Centauri, the closest star system to our sun.  Surprise!!

Besides all the brilliant lectures, my dad had one thing he said, and he said it all the time:  "Love ya, proud of ya."  And if we were leaving the house or hopping out of his car, he added, "See ya, be careful," and then, always, "Love ya proud of ya."

He said those phrases so much that we kids had a plaque made, back when vinyl lettering was the big thing, to hang over the door in my parents' kitchen.  "See ya!...Be careful!...Love ya!...Proud of ya!"

The thing is, my dad could have been saying anything.  He could have said, "You kids are the best.  You go out there and have fun."  He could have said, "I want you to be the best one in your class today."  Or conversely, "I love you no matter what, even if you fail."  He did say all that stuff, but what he was saying with his personal mantra was, "I see you.  I notice you."  Now we have an acronym for the night-time version of Dad's phrase, which Ari loves to text me every night.  "GNLY POY."  Good night, love ya, proud of ya."  I'm glad my dad chose the words he did.  I knew he was proud of us, and it was embarrassingly obvious that he loved us.  My greatest trial in life as a kid was the worry I carried around with me, like a bag of stolen coins, that one day, my dad would discover that I wasn't actually as great as he thought I was.

Now, if that was my biggest problem, you can see just how idyllic my childhood was.  Except for the bullies.  Kevin and Ted.  They threw crab apples at me.  They butted in front of me when I was first in line at the bus stop.  They drew a line in the snow every day after school and told me not to cross it, or they would kill me.  I endured a few cold afternoons, shivering on the sidewalk, but I never really mentioned the bullies to my parents.  I don't know why.  I guess I just knew that everything would be OK, because my dad was proud of me.  (And maybe waiting in the snow behind that line was better than reading Encyclopedia Britannica?)

Even with all the new advice out there, my dad still parents with a few chosen words.  Here is a recent exchange:

"Well, you going to keep that pink hair?"
"I don't know.  Maybe.  What do you think?"
"I guess it depends on whether or not you want to be regarded as a freak."
"I might."
"Yeah...that might not be so bad."

What I know, regardless of, or maybe because of, what my dad says, is that it doesn't matter what color my hair is, or what people are saying on Facebook about how to parent, or about anything else.  It doesn't matter what I say to my kids, as long as the meaning is, "Love ya, proud of ya," and as long as I mean it as much as my dad does.