"When you live with someone a long time, pretty much your whole life, you kind of get to know them."
- Patrick, age 10
When I was 8 or 9 years old I attended my first major league baseball game. I insisted on bringing my baseball glove, as I wanted to be prepared to snag one of the many foul balls that were sure to be hit into the stands within reach of my seat during the course of the game. My Dad didn't try to talk me out of hauling along the glove, although he must have known that the sheer distance from home plate to where we were sitting would have made a foul ball actually reaching us incredibly unlikely. I remember a snapshot that we took from that game - an image captured of me looking at the camera, smiling, glove in hand, with the players on the field in the deep background, so far in the distance that they were mostly indistinguishable.
Years later when I took my son to his first major league game, I wanted to make sure everything was just right, that the experience was perfect - choice seats (and ones that were not up in the top decks, a mile away from the action), great food and drinks, and a trip (or two) to the souvenir shop. I knew, or at least assumed, that much like I remember the first game my Dad took me to all those years ago, that 10, 20, even 30 years from now, my son would look back on his first game as well. I wanted to do everything I could to make sure that the memory, one of the few childhood memories I was sure would resonate with him, was as close to perfect as I could create.
But looking back on both these games, with the added luxury of time and perspective, I should have realized that just like I can't really remember many of the specific details of the game I attended as a child that my son as well will eventually forget (if he hasn't already) the details of his first game. Who played, who won, what we ate in the 5th inning, whether or not it was cold or hot, what I bought him from the team store - these details fade over time. What we both will remember is the connection with our Dad, the shared experience, and the feeling for at least those few hours, that there was nothing else at all happening in the world.
We do the best we can for our children. We work as hard as we can muster, and as our capabilities allow, to try and make the best lives possible for them. This often entails working more than perhaps we should, saying 'yes' when we ought to say 'no', and sometimes sacrificing little things in an attempt to secure bigger things. We take calls when we should be helping with homework. We break out the BlackBerry at soccer practice, send a few texts during the school concert - it's not a big deal right? It's work. We convince ourselves we are doing it for them. And by working this hard, we can score box seats next summer, bag the suite at Disney World, and pass out iPads next Christmas.
I think most kids, eventually, begin to care less about the 'stuff' we can provide and care more about our attention.
Mostly, I think, our kids just want to feel safe at home.