I thought all of you parents out there would find this amusing...and interesting...and probably kinda wise. This was written by Washington Post columnist John Kelly. Read on:
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I’ve reached the age when it is natural for me to look back at my legacy. What lasting impact have I made on history?
None.
That doesn’t bother me. What does bother me is I don’t think I’ve made much of an impact on my children, either. I mean, though I’ve basically held them captive for the past two decades, I’m hard-pressed to think of any handy aphorisms or sage advice I’ve pounded into them.
Oh sure, I’ve been a “good role model.” I covered the electrical outlets when they were toddlers. I told them to do their homework. But did I encapsulate useful life lessons into a memorable, easy-to-digest, easy-to-regurgitate nugget? No, I did not.
I mean, read any memoir or interview with a famous person, and that person invariably utters something along the lines of, “My father always said ...”
In 1999, presidential candidate Steve Forbes told The Washington Post’s David Broder: “My father always said, ‘Everything is sales. Never forget it.’ ”
And apparently he didn’t.
The former commissioner of baseball Bud Selig once said, “My father always told me, ‘Nothing’s ever good or bad except by comparison.’ ”
So catchy!
Not long after he became Virginia governor, George Allen said, “My father always told us, ‘Be a leader, don’t be a follower.’ ”
Athletes seem to particularly love Dad’s wise counsel. Here’s golfer Ken Venturi: “My father always said excuses are the crutches for the untalented.”
Here’s Arnold Palmer: “My father always said if you treat people the way you’d like to be treated, things will always work out.”
What was up with these fathers, always saying something? Sure, a lot of it was pretty obvious, but it stuck with their kids. What about my kids?
I thought about what my daughters might say, years from now, when asked to reflect on the lessons they had learned from me while growing up. I shuddered when all I could come up with was, “My father always said, ‘Put the dirty plates in the dishwasher so they’re facing the sprayer arm spindle.’ ”
About a year ago, I tried to address this aphorism deficit. We were on a long family car trip. I can’t remember what we were talking about — whether to stop at an outlet mall or why it is that so many BMW owners are bad drivers — when I said, “You can’t eat pretty.”
“What?” my family said.
“You can’t eat pretty,” I repeated with conviction.
“What is that?” one daughter said.
“Oh, it’s just something I say. Something I always say.”
And for the next few hours, I did. I kept saying it, trying to drill it into my daughters’ brains like an earworm.
Eventually I had to explain what I was up to: Though I had kept them clothed and fed, provided a roof and orthodontia, I had failed them as a father. I had not bestowed upon them a snappy maxim that they could reflect upon. A lot of the good sayings were already taken — treat people the way you’d like to be treated, for example; how I wished I’d come up with that one — so I had to invent my own: You can’t eat pretty.
This was my gift to them, better late than never.
“We want a different one,” they said.
They didn’t like “You can’t eat pretty.” I could see their point. The best paternal bromides should be endlessly applicable. Mine was kind of limited. Frankly, it was a bit negative, too.
I thought for a while, then said in the voice I use when I’m trying to be wise and self-evident: “People are people.”
“What do you mean?” came the response.
“Just that: People are people. You should keep that in mind. Like, let’s say someone makes you mad. You could say to yourself, ‘Well, as Dad always said, ‘People are people.’ And that would mean maybe that the person was dealing with her own issues.”
They looked skeptical. I think the best I can hope for is that they might someday say, “Once, on a weird trip to the Outer Banks, my father said, ‘People are people.’ ”
It’s too late for me, but it might not be for you. If you have little kids, pick your saying now and apply it liberally for the next 20 years.
Or as my father always used to say, “Don’t fall behind on your car’s oil-change schedule.”
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