Of Children and Adaptations

The other day, I received my son's report card, with his teacher's comments in black ink stating “follow-through with more efforts in school-work to fulfill utmost potential.” We never go through school stuff together – we had to call a truce to our incessant arguing, a few years back. As I looked at his grades, I asked myself how much of his accomplishments are mine and how much of his? A parent, proud of a child but not of oneself, quite reasonably would ask such a question; while, a parent who takes credit for a child's achievements would not. Obviously, I am no stage mother and, indeed, maybe even a strange one.

In this modern era of technology and “new age” thinking, I find it more difficult to digest that the old has no more place where fast and functional seem to be the norm. Culture is a funny thing. More often, it tells us how to behave, against which we rebel without realizing that the choice is not for the choosing. Evolution, however, tells us that the way is not usually paved with great intentions. Thus, we choose to believe that culture “evolves”. But each time I hear a parent talk about a child's unreasonable objections, I flash back to my younger years. Did I ever listen to what my mother was saying when she said so and so? Did I ever hear my father complain about this and that? Was there actually a time when I listened to my parents?

My Choice

 The rest of the house is quiet this evening, just like at bed-time when I was 12. Somehow, I couldn't help but smile at the little voice in my head, “He is so much like you at that age. Reading fairy tales from Childcraft Volume 2 in bed, while your mother punched on the keys of her typewriter.”

Earlier, I popped my head into my son's room to say “Tomorrow night perhaps, we'll take in a movie after dinner,” remembering how my dad used to relax after a long day at work. Finally, I understand why my father loved watching John Wayne in The Longest Day.

His Choice

Then, again, I ask myself, how much of me is of my mother and how much is of my dad? How much is of the environment and how much is of my own thinking? Would my son be like me when he grows up? What kind of parent would he develop into? Conclusively, I could only hope that should he turn out to be an adaptation of myself, may he turn out to be a much better version.

With half a mind for my son's reading Bruce Lee: Letters of the Dragon in the silence of the next room, I take a pause for a bit to bask in that sweet feeling of satisfaction to his innocently natural way of 'adapting'. And amidst this scene's profundity, contrarily I muse with pride and type away. For truly, what can I say except that culture is a funny thing! And evolution? Well, my son didn't have to like it, but hell! It was the only way to go!