An Introduction to Bad Parenting - The Orphanage Line

Glory is on her way back from a week in Mexico with her school chums tonight, a trip Audrey and I are incredibly glad they took. 

This is a group of friends who by and large have hung together and maintained their relationships since meeting randomly on their very first day of nursing classes at MacEwan. Now they are in their fourth year, having wrapped up their preceptorships earlier this month and readying for graduation in June.

Where they used to get together for some sort of outing at least monthly, it has been fiendishly difficult to coordinate get-togethers since most of them are working in different hospitals, clinics or even municipalities, many of them on shift work. 

Even day shifts left Glory little time for socializing, as she was typically heading to bed two hours after supper so she could get up at 4:45 for her 7:30 shift start!

Anyways, she and her friends have been tucked away at an all-inclusive resort on the Riviera Nayarit, north of Puerto Vallarta. She has been diligent about providing proof of life via Instagram and Snapchat every single day. I am hoping this event will cement relationships they will carry forward from their university days into their adult years, and for a long, long time to come.

Hearing about this sojourn or her upcomiong graduation, many people will say things like, "Amazing!" and "You must be so proud!" 

These are both indisputably true statements; I am proud of both my daughters, and with good reason, and can also confirm that they are both amazing!

But sometimes people will suggest things like, "you must be great parents!"

And I won't speak for my beloved wife, but in my case this is demonstrably untrue.

Let me give you an example.

It is no secret that of my two daughters, one of them was an easier-going child on the whole, and it was not Glory. This is not to say my youngest was a bad kid, but at times she was willful to the point of absurdity. How many three year olds have you witnessed put themselves on a time-out? Wild times.

On one such occasion, when Glory was no more than four years old, she stomped downstairs while I was at my desk and expressed to me in no uncertain terms that she was extremely dissatisfied with my authority and that of my wife, as well as her current living situation in general. Because she did not like it here anymore at our house, she had come down to inform me that she was, in fact, running away.

"Gosh," I said upon hearing this proclamation of intent. "Are you sure you don't want to live here anymore?"

She shook her head, resolutely.

"Well, if you've made your mind up, I am not going to try to stop you." I replied. "I don't want anyone staying here who doesn't want to be here. And it was good of you to stop by and tell me yourself instead of just leaving me a note or something." (Leaving aside for the moment that she did not at this point have command over many letters.)

She nodded, imperiously.

"Are you leaving right away?" I inquired.

"Yes!" she stated, emphatically.

I reached across the desk and picked up the phone. "I suppose I had better call the orphanage then..."

A perplexed look crossed her face. "The what?"

"Oh, the city orphanage," I said while I dialed eight audible but random digits on the cordless phone and then hit the hang up button for the ninth. "It is like a home for kids with no moms or dads, or runaways like you."

Confusion, perhaps a bit of panic on her face now. "But I don't -"

"Well, we can't have you living on the streets like a stray dog now sweetie, can we?" I explained as I put the inert phone to my ear.

"Daddy I -"

"Sssh, hang on honey, it's ringing." I paused momentarily, watching a cascading series of emotions run across her face. "Oh hello, City Orphanage? Hi, I have a four-year-old daughter who does not want to live at home with us anymore. Um hmm. Yes. Birth year? 2002. Blond hair, blue eyes. Hmm? No, no infirmities or disabilities..."

"Daddy, you -"

"Glory honey, I am on the phone right now. Sorry, yes, that was her, yeah. Mm hmm. So, I know it is kind of short notice, but how soon...oh, tonight? Yes, that would be great, thank you." I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and leaning over towards where she was sitting on the futon, I stage-whispered, "Go and pack your things."

Her eyes were now as big as pie plates.

I held up a finger. "Actually, hang on a second," I told her, despite the fact she hadn't shown the slightest indication of standing up. Taking my hand from the mouthpiece, I asked, I assume a single suitcase, right? Mm-hmm. And what about toys? Any one stuffy they can carry? Sounds good, just a moment please."

Covering the mouthpiece, I turned again to Glory, who was now looking fairly anxious. "Good news! They can come and pick you up in about an hour, so you should go figure out what clothes you want to bring, and one stuffy besi-"

"DADDY I DON'T WANT TO GO!"

I mustered my most surprised expression. "Really?" I said. "You seemed so sure a moment ago..."

"No, I decided I want to stay now," still in control, but upset in a different way than she had been, and maybe even on the verge of tears. A pang of guilt discoloured my enjoyment, and I decided to course correct a little.

"I would like it very much if you stayed with us until you are much older," I assured her, "and we can even talk about the things you don't like. Hang on a second - hello? Yes, I'm sorry about that...yes, it seems like she has had a change of heart. I will call you back if we need to - you are open until 8 pm, right? Okay, sorry for the bother, thanks very much. Ok, bye." I pressed the hang up button on an inert line, my offspring still none the wiser.

A few heavy breaths and some frank conversation later, we had a better understanding, and she returned upstairs a little more content than when she had come down, with no intentions of running away for the time being.

When I told other parents about this interaction, their reactions ranged from shocked to scandalized (with overtones of amusement, to be sure), with a covered mouth and statement along the lines of, "oh I could never do that!" being fairly commonplace.

As it happens though, I not only could, do it, I did do it, and not only that, I told other people about doing it and without even a trace of shame, as I recall it.

But none of that is what makes me a bad parent.

No, what makes me a bad parent is the absolute glee I derive from remembering it, even now, two decades later. This afternoon I realized that I had never written it down - and that is how I decided what to blog about today.

And I will be gladder still when Glory gets home tomorrow, and I am sure she made awesome memories with her friends. 

Amazing how both girls turned out, isn't it, given what their dad is like and all, eh?

I hope they splurged on getting one of these pics too

Memories of Bayport and The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook

With Fenya currently packing up her belongings in order to move them out to Toronto, there is quite a bit of sorting going on, mostly of the keep/ditch variety. Some hard choices for sure, but with limited space in their first shared dwelling (550 sq. ft.), she had been doing pretty well at divesting thus far.

Looking at the bookshelves in the basement, I know my own time of reckoning is coming nigh; dusty college textbooks, references untouched since Wikipedia is easier, wonderful paperbacks meant to be read again "someday"... the list goes on. 

Some books will be kept because they are likely to be reread (Lord of the Rings), some because they should be re-read (Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance), and still others because they are great ones to lend out (like that copy of Inside Delta Force I loaned out to someone and has yet to return).

Some are on the bubble, tipping between practicality and sentimentality. That kids' edition of Tarzan with the Ape/English dictionary in the back? That will be hard to part with. Harder still will be the long-coveted grail of my childhood - The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook.

I was reading before I trundled off to first grade (no kindergarten in rural New Brunswick where I grew up) and was a voracious reader. A cousin of Mum's introduced me to the Hardy Boys when I was in first or second grade, and I was agog. These weren't kids like me or grown ups like my folks, but something in-between...

They went to school but also drove cars, knew judo and boxing, were proficient with scuba equipment and firearms, and regularly thwarted kidnappers, smugglers and thieves. They also regularly rescued their own father, who got into an awful lot of tight scrapes for a world-famous detective. I fell for the series like a safe dropped out a window.

My personal collection was only a handful of second-hand books gathered from garage sales or received as gifts, but I pored over the stacks in the library at Willow Park Elementary (after passing Mrs. Cameron's read-aloud test required to check out books from the upper elementary section) to make sure I hadn't missed any.

I read all the Hardy Boys I could find at the Leduc Public Library as well, looking over the checklist on the back covers to see if there were any titles I had missed. One volume tantalized me terribly with its unfamiliar formatting and the absence of any descriptor you might use to convey a sense of the unknown, such as mystery, secret or clue: The Hardy Boys Detective Handbook.

My mind reeled at the thoughts of what legerdemain might be contained within such a tome, and its very elusiveness only increased its credibility in my eyes over the years.  And on one fateful day, when Dad was purchasing a book at the Coles in Southgate Mall and I dutifully looked over the DI-DO section of the young readers section to fill gaps in my Hardy Boys reading list, there it was.

I hurriedly brought it over to my father, breathlessly explained how long I had been searching for this particular title, and begged him to purchase it for me. This was not something I did a whole lot of (I don't think?), and he and Mum both liked to encourage my reading. This coupled with the real-world information credited on the cover to a retired Bureau man swayed him enough to drop $3.95 and elevate him to truly heroic status in my eyes.

And make no mistake, I devoured that book. It was set as a series of short stories featuring everyone's favourite teenaged detectives, but each one was followed by a non-fiction chapter outlining the techniques, science or equipment used in the preceding tale. Fingerprinting, surveillance, crime scene analysis, plaster casts of foot or tire prints and photography were but a few of the topics covered. What nine-year-old didn't want to learn how to tail a suspect without getting caught, or where the best places were to dust for fingerprints? 

I never got so far as to build my own fingerprint kit (with dusting powder, adhesive tape and index cards) but marveled at the inside lingo of loops and whorls provided no doubt by legit G-man William F. Flynn.

One lesson about observation really stuck with me; after witnessing a motor accident, Frank and Joe Hardy describe one of the autos involved while their hapless friend (and consistent transportation provider thanks to his jalopy) Chet Morton confesses he only made out a blur. 

One of the brothers patiently explains that observational skills can be developed over time, like a muscle, but will not perform if left unexercised. He demonstrates by turning Chet around and saying, "You've been with us all morning; describe the shirt I'm wearing."

Poor Chet guesses incorrectly, and the brothers don't chide him, but encourage him to work on it, because they may be quasi-fetishized establishment squares, but are good chums and stand up fellows nonetheless. I immediately pictured myself failing that selfsame test, and would probably do so today as well, despite the valuable lesson Frank and Joe tried to teach me. But their encouragement of their less-observant comrade stuck with me even more.

Despite my fervent and misguided childhood wishes (pro tip: don't tell your friends you wish one of them would get kidnapped so you could rescue them), I never got the opportunity to truly apply anything I'd learned from the Hardy Boys Detective Handbook. I did get a nice basic understanding of how forensics worked, and its limitations, which made me a bit more critical of other youthful mystery series.

And I read most of them: Alvin and the Secret Code, Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators, Encyclopedia Brown, etc. Kids interacting with adults, interesting settings, and always a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel- but only the Hardy Boys backed it up with one book of real-world knowledge, and I am grateful for that. And for Dad, who was not an easy sell on such things, who relented to my pleas almost a half-century ago.

Yeah, I am probably going to hang on to that Handbook.

(Original 1959 edition with even squarer Hardys)