Showing posts with label family relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family relationships. Show all posts

Sunday, June 5

The Pale of Personal Boundaries



“The Boundaries of Help” is a practical insight from author Karen Kissel Wegela. A practicing psychologist, Wegela reviews both her clinical experience and her own personal evolution with the concept of setting and honoring healthy boundaries in personal relationships. The author organizes her thoughts by dividing the article into three sections: the initial clinical setting which presents a conflict, the author’s process within herself to come to grips with the conflict, and the author’s conclusions for general consideration.


The first section describes a client-therapist and a mother-daughter relationship. Her analysis of the process required to set healthy boundaries is sound. Sara’s inability to say “no” to her two dysfunctional daughters amounted to allowing her adult daughters who frequently abandoned their children to take advantage of Sara. Moreover, the mental health agency where Wegela practiced had established rules to protect both the client’s time with a therapist, and the therapist’s privacy away from the clinic. When Sara dismissed the rules, or crossed those boundaries by first bringing grandchildren with her to a therapy appointment, and second, by calling the therapist at home, Wegela reaffirmed the boundaries previously agreed upon. She reminded Sara in both instances that she could not respond to her needs if Sara was unwilling to abide by the rules. Sara was upset and angry with her, and the author questioned her own altruistic ethics as a result.


Wegela’s second section in the article followed a step-by-step review of the situation described previously. She honestly reflected on her base, emotional response to denying someone in crisis. The author admitted to herself, and to the reader, she might have been insensitive or lacked the commitment she thought she had to serve others. Wegela felt connected and responsible to Sara because she knew her story, and more especially because she knew Sara was suffering.


Wegela’s willingness to share her thought process at this juncture is a valuable insight to the common human tendency of self-doubt, which she points out is often a crippling and distracting stumbling block to effective relationship-building. The author’s personal value-system, a combination of Buddhist meditation philosophy and her clinical psychology training, successfully restrained her “natural” emotions and helped her recognize the impotency of negative self-talk. She was able to come to peace with her decision to stand her ground with Sara. The reader may easily relate to Wegela’s personal struggle of second-guessing her own motives. Ultimately, in the case study presented, Sara responded positively to Wegela’s therapeutic insistence on “healthy boundary-setting”, and decided to say “no” to one of her daughters. She did this by explaining to her daughter that she was available to baby-sit one day, but not on another. A relieved Sara finally began to gain more control over her own life in so doing.


In the third section of the article, Wegela expounds on reasons why people open themselves to unhealthy compromises to their personal boundaries. She explores what she believes motivates people who can’t say “no”, or in other words, people who can not respect themselves enough to firmly distance themselves from interacting with other people’s needs or demands when those issues are beyond the pale of healthy limits. Wegela wisely asserts that, “Sometimes we let others walk all over us in our misguided attempts to be helpful. When we behave in this way, it is important to look into our own motivations.”


Her guided examination of personal motivation to help others to the detriment of self interests is an appeal to an entirely logical theme; it is not helpful to either party to give power to disrespectful or potentially abusive behavior. Wegela astutely asks the reader to consider how encouraging “. . .others to be so mindless and unkind,” is helpful to anyone? She cuts to the chase when she points out the fear inevitably involved in failing to say “no.” According to the author, when people give whatever another person wants because they fear the relationship will end if they don’t, the relationship is identified as co-dependent.


The article is well written. The clinical illustration of patient and therapist is fairly cut and dried and presents the issues without complication. Wegela gives the reader only a glimpse of the far more complicated interchange between Sara’s daughters, their children and their grandmother. The case example is sufficient to illustrate Wegela’s focus, which is the desirability of protecting healthy personal boundaries. The author delivers this stated focus with clarity.


An appraisal of Wegela’s article must begin with her greatest insight into what is involved when wanting to help goes wrong. Most notably, Wegela assigns ego as a root reason people become entangled in one-sided or dysfunctional interpersonal relationships. The connotation of ego in this example appears to be the often negative definition of self-importance. However, it is clearly much more than that. She further emphasizes this point by adding an amazingly persuasive word to the ego discussion , “seductive.” Her use of this single word is brilliant because it is an inescapably emotional word. The author thereby ordains powerful meaning to the almost urgent desire people can experience when they sacrifice themselves for others, believing the resulting violation of boundaries is temporarily justified. Wegela is also referencing the larger meaning of ego; inner-self, core concept, and the subconscious.


Obviously, both self-concept and self-esteem are integral to the dynamics of all interpersonal relationships. To identify ego as the self-concept governing basic decision-making in human relationships is a clinically necessary perspective. It automatically becomes an increasingly complicated dynamic whenever people allow others to take advantage of them. A fine line exists between annoying inconvenience and the beginnings of actual abuse. Much of the time, this kind of complexity is so emotionally-charged those involved are unaware of the progressively oppressive web they are in.

In the context of offering help to others who fail to honor healthy behavior, the belief that one is specially capable, responsible or even destined to help may be a terrifically powerful influence on the lack of appropriate boundaries that result. If a person feels exclusively needed to give help, it becomes vastly more difficult to reject unrighteous imposition when it occurs. Also, the person who imposes upon the person who helps unconditionally may never appreciate their own culpability.



The concept of establishing healthy boundaries in personal relationships is a necessary skill for personal protection, happiness and optimum productivity. As in the case of Wegela’s client Sara, the two daughters and the grandchildren, establishing healthy boundaries proved to be a learnable endeavor. Mother learned how to hold her daughters more accountable for what they anticipated from her, and by their compliance, the daughters also had an opportunity to learn something about themselves. Wegela presents a great springboard for discussion on the topic in her very concise article.


Books by Karen Kissel Wegela, Ph.D.:

How to Be a Help instead of a Nuisance: Practical Approaches to Giving Support, Service, and Encouragement to Others

What Really Helps: Using Mindfulness and Compassionate Presence to Help, Support, and Encourage Others

Saturday, August 1

Final Answer


"Be Prepared" is the Scout motto. They have a systematic way to do just that - lots of camping, knot-tying, outdoor survival skills, responsible citizenship and practical leadership training that really is the ticket for boys to be prepared for almost anything.

I have pondered what a parenting motto should be. How about, "Forget About It", "Ignore It", or "Be Perpetually Surprised" ~ ?

Tonight, two of the five progeny posed a question over pork and funeral potatoes that I was not prepared for. It wasn't the 'where are babies from?' question. I was prepared for that! All the kids roll their eyes and tell their friends how their crazy mom drew them pictures and used correct terminology to answer that one. The brand new 20 year old said, "Mom, which is your favorite?"

I said, "horses." After the spasmodic laughter and the high-fives died down, she rephrased the question: "No, I mean which kid is your favorite?"

"Oh," I said, embarrassed. "Well, I honestly don't have a 'favorite'..."

This was unsatisfactory to both girls, who obviously seemed to know something I didn't.

"I think most parents really do have a favorite, but just say that they don't to spare hurt feelings," observed the highly confident 20 year old. The 15 year old stopped texting just long enough to raise her face and say, "Yeah."

"No," I continued, "really, I love all of you for your own selves, for who you are." This totally set them off. In unison they cried, "you like Robin the best!" Then, gaining steam, they looked at each other and fired away again. "And Leiland! Robin and Leiland!" There was fire in their eyes.

"Look," I said in a measured way, emphasizing my superior maturity and life-experience with lowered vocal tone and a meaningful pause; they were listening. "Are you trying to tell me how I feel? Because if you are, why did you bother asking?" They agreed maybe they had not perfected mind-reading just yet.

"O.K.," I began, feeling very philosophical, "It's like me asking you, who do you love more - Jack, or Bitsy?" (The two grandchildren, who are the stars and the moon of our world)!

"JACK." They both said again, in unison.
I was shocked. This wasn't working out so well. Quickly they explained the only reason they like fantastic 3 year old Jack more than adorable 8 month old MaKenna is because Jack can talk and do things with them.

"Y'know," big sister said matter-of-factly, "it's always easier to relate to kids when you don't have to carry them around anymore." Hmm. Interesting. I hadn't thought about this myself. "When MaKenna is older, we will like her a lot more, too." Now that we had the relationship thing established, I finally answered their very serious question.

"I absolutely do not have a favorite. I love Bi for how she can tell a story with all the character's voices and even the sound effects, like when Spongebob's eyelids close - 'doink!' (Yes, they agreed, she's really super at that), I love James for when he tells me about a book he's read, or a story he's written, or an idea he has - I love to listen to his brain! I love Leiland for his musical creativity - well, all of you are creative, but I also enjoy how he seems to be careful about my feelings. I used to stand in the kitchen and listen to you (Asia) play the piano, when you didn't know I was listening, and I love how you come up with such deep thoughts sometimes, like you're 30 instead of 20. I don't know where you get the sudden insight. And Rachel- wow! Who wouldn't want to hear her sing full blast to the radio? You make my day."

"That's right," she said, happy to be noticed for an awesome talent. Silence at the table. I assumed this was an invitation to explore more about how much I enjoy my children.

"I always thought all of you were so fun to be with," I began. "Like when we went on walks. I never had a kid whining, 'oh, my feet hurt, why do we have to do this? When can we go home?' If I saw something curious, I'd point it out to you, and everyone would appreciate it and we would talk about it as we went along..." I noticed I didn't seem to have the same rapt attention as a moment previous. They were looking at me again with suspicion.

"Robin, right?"

"No favorites!" I said. "And another thing. I really love their spouses. It's great to be at this time in life, when your children marry, and it's like you have more children to love and admire for who they are..."

"Ug." said the older sister. "Whatever you do, please don't start crying again."

Oh. I guess we had the "in-law" discussion before.


"So, mom, whose laugh do you like the best?" Aw! This was easy. No explanations necessary. I was prepared.

"That would be Robin and you (Asia), hands-down." Having pleased the rabble with this
response, I realized I had a weird visual in my head of Regis Philbin on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" asking, "Is that your final answer?"

Yes, yes it is.

Sunday, July 19

Dogs Can't Hear Those Notes

More in a Series of Helpful Observations

1. Bite not thine own fingernails should ye desire a different result for thy off-spring. (Oopsie.)


2. Remove ammunition from The Thrower, yea, in haste shall ye thwart his lust for mayhem. Heed not silly childhood behavior 'experts' who exhaust themselves with much advice about how to carefully explain to the child there are different kinds of throwing. The child is not stupid. He likes to throw.


3. Bite The Biter an eye for an eye. But ~ bite not the biter if it is not thine own child.


4. Employ the new babysitter with confidence. However, see that ye dismiss not thy eldest daughter's report when thou return. Thou mayest learn how one babysitter forthwith turned into "two", and they both spent much time on the phone, and used the F word to the children, and so forth. (thanks, Bi!)

5. Indulge not The Backwards-hurler into space; of such is sure calamity.

Rather seize the human cannon in mid-air, and squeeze it close. Let not go until the child responds to thy request for calm. Then apply something interesting to do immediately, distracting the child. Should it rise up and begin flinging itself again, intercept exactly the same as before. Now give warning that yonder bed await it should there be a repeat of the behavior. Do not relent. Never surrender.


6. Pretend marvelous surprise should ye hear children express in public what others piously assume is forbidden in thy home, perchance thy performance save thee.


7. Be wise, and know there are circumstances wherein the young child's natural discernment is absolutely correct:

a. Should thy little 6 year old son observe the school bus driver is mean and exerciseth much unrighteous dominion, and he say to her, "Thou Big Fat Meatball", be not angry with him, but investigate the matter. Behold, ye shall find many reliable witnesses who doth validate the driver is cruel and derelict in her duty to very young children. Protest ye the write-up given thy little son, for his assessment was indeed accurate every whit.

b. Likewise, be ye diligent when young, second-year school teacher giveth thy same little son naught but red marks all over every single paper. Yea, he doth return from class utterly demoralized. Ye shall privately remind the teacher this child has skipped Kindergarten, and has not the full school year of penmanship practice as do the other children in his 1st grade class. Ask her to mark her own records, but mark not his paper so extreme, as it doth defeat him greatly. When the pretty, fashionable young teacher receive thy words with much anger and crazy left-field emotion, ignore her. Watch only for thy son's papers returning home less marked with red, and his smiling countenance. (good boy, James!)



8. Be ye in the habit of saying often, "I'm so glad I saw that!" For verily, there are many little things in a day that do amuse and surprise, yea, enough that ye may all be filled with merriment if even for a small moment. Thy children will be quick to share with thee, and laugh much. Yea, they will be funny.


Likewise, start ye now a list posted in the house wherein all may write funny things observed or heard. Not only be ye sharing humor, but ye shall encourage awareness of legitimate language.


For example: from beautiful "Singing Bee" show hostess last week: "Well sang!" or from a Fox News reporter on the Gaza border: "...the two sides collashed!" or from a hostess on "Ramsey's Kitchen": "Mike likes to presentate his food."


Especially entertaining (or frightening) are comments ye shall find sadly posted for the world to see on blogs/news stories of all types: "I am in aw of your ignorance..." by 'Staricka'.


Ditto.

Saturday, July 11

The Profundity of Motherhood III


PART THREE
1. Be ye not vexed with accidental spills ~ join the club. Messes validate thy motherhood.

2. Gird up thy loins, and hark ye; for verily, it is written: at some time all of thy children will destroy something of value to you.
Take ye especial care ye leave not the hack saw within reach of thy little boy. See that ye apologize to thy son all the days of his life for thy anger at the moment ye discovered his handiwork upon the face of thy brand new furniture, yea, upon no less than 5 pieces of furniture. Acknowledge liberally ye would happily deny all the furniture in the world for the chance to relive that one moment again with thy little son, when ye ought to have embraced him, and thanked him for "helping" you, because indeed he observed you using the saw and thought to do him likewise. Yea, ye will feel bitter remorse for frightening all the children with your great and terrible rage, yea, a day when ye lost control and failed thy calling. (I love you James - sorry Bi - thanks for crawling back in through your bedroom window to get baby
something to play with)

3. Celebrate the ordinary as if it were not; seek opportunity to have fun with that which is fundamental - and blessed be thy house and the happiness thereof.

4. If ye be not Organized, honor those that are - perchance they might visit thee and teach thee how to be so. Once having obtained, teach thy children how to organize, that their days may be free from needless searching but never finding, and their hearts devoid of anxiety.

5. Dismiss not the book thy child recommends to thee. But read the book, and thy life will be greatly rewarded. Thy children shall observe how ye do value their estimation in so much that ye do willingly read their 3rd grade book or their Junior in high school book. Ye may consider, 'Ah, I am monitoring what my child is learning,' however, in this ye do err. Ye should endeavor to read the book for no other reason than thy child hath requested it of thee. For in this wise, ye do share and share alike in the unabashed Joy of Discovery. In truth, these 'discoveries' will also be thy favorites, and will be anchors of little events which bonded you together.

6. Fret not when ye perceive thy child is frightened of a new experience that ye know is beneficial to them. Be patient, stay afar off. Take care to observe how other children in the same activity are responding. Be ye reasoning as an unbiased observer, and slow to assume it is too troubling for them to conquer.

7. If ye propose a family picnic, and the fruit of thy womb object with obnoxious noise and grotesque facial expression, carry on. Busy thy children in preparation, do ye not labour alone. Once ye are arrived at the park, and thy table is spread, they who once lamented will see fit to rejoice. Apply this principle to other experiences thy family may initially protest. Heed not the party-pooper, for they shall have their reward.

8. Seek not every whim and fancy of new baby accessory or popular toy. While much is cute, shockingly color-coordinated and seemingly desirable, behold, ye are sorely deceived. Surely it is wisdom ye do without much unnecessary purchasing of cumbersome products which do not reward thee for more than a few weeks, or products which are obviously ridiculous! If ye must obtain, be not disdainful of thrift shop fare. Or, if ye may borrow of another, so much the better.

9. Covet not the giant, SUV-like stroller. This behemoth is difficult to maneuver in a crowd, requireth the strength of Atlas to heft, and verily defeats the very purpose of being mobile with the young child! Seek ye instead a humble umbrella stroller, one with shade above, and storage below. Behold, it is exceedingly light and easy to wield. Yea, it doth accompany thee in the blink of an eye. It doth hold all thy necessities, and ye need not more than this. Honest.

10. Exhaust not thyself in yelling at thy second son to stop leaping like a monkey off furniture immediately after dinner every cursed night ~ save thy breath and leave him to his folly. It shall come to pass that one day he leap not far enough and break a toe. Behold, his passion for playing "lava" hath been completely healed and ye are free from his manic, frenetic episodes. (love you, Leiland!)

11. Beware the Ant Farm birthday present. It's brightly colored plastic pieces and silky white
sand are lovely, and the 2 week wait for live ants to be shipped from Hurricane, Utah, doth fill all with delicious anticipation. Hark ye; whilst the directions seem simple enough, and thy son followeth them with exactness, behold - all will go horribly wrong in a matter of seconds. Yea, the ants doth awake from their sleep with much energy, in so much that they fail to enter the container as promised, but do gush out and run quickly across the dining room table. "Fear not!" you say, believing the ants will stop at the table's edge, and ye can hope to retrieve them with cups and paper. Sadly, in this ye do err. The ants heed not the edge of the table, and do plummet to the extra long shag carpet below. With truly fierce screaming and hopping about, ye do fetch the vacuum, and such is the slaughter of more than half the colony. (sorry, Leiland)

12. Think not that thy children will suffer if they receive not their own bedroom, fully decorated and generously appointed with glorious things. Consider Rachel, how she had nought but a pack n'play for her bed in her brother's closet. Yea, she did lie down each night and gaze up at her brother's shirts hanging above her. In the morning, she did press her face against the mesh sides of her pen, and wait for the boys to arise. If they fetch her not, she did reach up and play happily with the hems of the shirts. Later, when she mastered escaping from the pen, she would wait patiently inches from Robin's or Asia's faces in the other room until such time as they did awake much afrighted.

13. Be ye welcoming to pets. There is an irreplaceable companionship between child and animal. If ye be adverse to noise or mess or anything that to thee justifies denying a pet, REPENT. Even a goldfish may teach thy child many valuable lessons in love and life. Complain not should they forget to feed the pet or do other duties assigned, but encourage them to empathize. Feed not the child until they feed their pet. Hide not the inevitable encounter with death fearing it too painful for the child; but send the children to find a box suitable for the deceased, to decorate it, and prepare it with care. Say ye appropriate thoughts at the grave site, and pray ye and sing together. For verily, in the Resurrection ye shall again see all that once lived with thee and shared thy house with thee, and thy joy will be great.

14. Be not dismayed if the children slog in the irrigation; no matter how terrible the deep mud thereof, or the mud thickly oozing through hair, into ears and slathered upon clothing and flinging mightily through the air. Just see that ye prepare a way they might hose themselves off before entering the house.

15. Embrace the making of Chore Lists. Yea, prepare ye several different methods. Write upon popsicle sticks, or colored index cards, or print out from thy computer. Offer fun options, like "Choose ye the chore music", or "Ye are in charge of the snack during a break that all may share and be refreshed". If ye have exceedingly tedious chores, such as the matching of socks from yon giant sock basket, render the task less odious by declaring, "Match ye as many socks as possible in 6 minutes. Set ye the timer." Consider the littler children who cannot accomplish what older children can; give ye only 3 or 4 sticks to choose for them. Tell the older children they must take 6 or more sticks. If they be working from a list, have them mark off each task as they go. Draw or paste ye funny pictures of what needs doing instead of writing it. Construct the chore directions in rhyme, or in a rhyme they must find words to complete. It is no crime to exact performance from thy offspring. Ignore protests. Yea, even do ye ignore their rolling eyes many years hence. Eventually, it shall come to pass one fine day that thy children suddenly realize they know how to do things, yea, and there is a reason WHY.

16. Welcome young chefs into thy kitchen. Listen not to the many mothers who protect the kitchen as if it were a polished sanctuary unto themselves, and deny the child inclusion therein. Behold, they are foolish. They have no experience tasting excellent brownies made by a child. They can have no reward in pancakes or cupcakes or cookies or spaghetti or burritos or even shish-kabobs prepared by very young children. They have not the fun of trying to fish out the errant egg shell from batter, or watching the egg slide down the cupboard in an attempted escape!
Be not jealous should a child display talent beyond thine own; rather, rejoice with them in their accomplishment! For behold, it is a skill ye righteously desire they obtain. Even so shall ye assign them turns planning a menu, shopping and cooking meals during the Summer. If there be a massive mess to clean up; thrust ye all into the fray - making scrubbing a festive toil set to popular music.


Wednesday, April 15

Tax Man


(circa. 1961 ~ Danny & Cindy in the framed portrait, beast calculator on desk to his far right, clip-on bow tie because he didn't like to tie ties)
My dad was a CPA. Attending school on the G.I. bill, it was a career choice suggested to him by one of his professors at BYU. Flattered by the generous recommendation, he switched his major forthwith and forfeited completing try-outs for the football team. He had already been issued a locker and his new Cougar uniform.

Tax season began in January. We didn't run out to greet his tail-fin Cadillac coming up the driveway anymore as he stayed later and later at the office. When he did arrive, he didn't play or wrestle with us, but simply flopped onto the couch with a whistle or a groan and asked us to take off his shoes. "Hoo-wheee!" he'd exclaim wiggling his stockinged toes, "these doggies are tired!" Sadly, we went to bed without papa's thrilling home-spun stories of adventure and intrigue following the Lewis & Clark westward expedition, his big voice rising and falling with the pathos of the moment - be it blood-thirsty Indians or enraged grizzlies waiting for us at the end of another harrowing canoe ride through killer rapids.

By late March, he was bringing home arm loads of files from the office and staying up until the wee hours of the morning every night. Mama often stayed up really late then too, vacuuming or playing the piano or reading when they normally would have both been asleep. It was a time of general tension and excitement we little kids only vaguely understood because our daily routine had changed.

He used an old hand-crank calculator about the bulk of a 6-slice bagel toaster on steroids. A veritable cast iron beast with enamel-topped metal keys, it made a wonderful racket as his fingers attacked the number keys and pulled the lever working his endless figures. He hardly even glanced at the thing; his fingers knew the numbers just as intimately as his head did.


We had an old black wall phone in the service porch (aka laundry room) off the kitchen that was reserved for his business calls. We kids were not allowed to answer it. Ever. When my mom answered it (first always drying her hands on her gingham apron), she used a funny, sing-songy "different lady" voice. I sincerely wished I could answer the phone once in a while, but it was a little too high for me to reach properly. I knew I could yank the receiver down by pulling on the coiled cord. However, this was just a knowledge I possessed without benefit of actual application. Some rules in childhood were strictly and absolutely established. While I don't remember the verbiage used, it must have been wondrously impressive because even hearing the phone ring gave me a little shiver in my stomach and made me freeze in my tracks: "DO NOT RESPOND - MUST NOT TOUCH -"

I was much more impressed with my papa's collection of sleek, shiny fountain pens.

Gleaming and handsome (in a profusion of colors and designs) ever perched at the ready in a nicely polished marble or wooden holder, they shouted sophistication. He had a lot of them - mostly sitting around at his office. Some had little brass plaques on them, inscribed with something important I am sure. One even had a clock in it, with the two pens poised like bunny ears over it. In his desk drawer, there were more of them. They came in little decorative cases that snapped shut like an alligator, or in an elegant cardboard box presented with all the formality of a State gift. Their little plastic ink cartridges rolled around in the scooped wooden drawer dividers next to brand new pink erasers and paper clips.


He could write neatly and precisely with any of his fountain pens. The golden nibs seemed to glide effortlessly at his beck and call. Personally, I resisted the beautiful temptation of the lovely fountain pens. It didn't take a genius to realize deadly ink flowed like Niagara Falls and your secret little drawing experiment would be a horrifying beacon of obviousness all over the paper, the light blue felt desk blotter, your dress, your hands and always always - your face.


There were too many fat books in his offices; one in Canoga Park (or Thousand Oaks or North Hollywood as his practice relocated) and one in a room at the back of our garage. Shelves of books. Stacks of books. Not story books, I knew this, but stupid laws and rules books. Most of the books were glorified 3 or 5 ring binders with thick leather outsides. The pages were often thin and fragile like scripture pages, but lots of them were coarse and stiff, displaying folds from how they had arrived in the mail before being filed. Most of the titles had alphabet letters and a dizzying variety of number combinations on the binding. The gold leaf in much of that lettering seemed a spectacular waste. Virtually all of them were totally uninteresting. Not one picture, either. I checked lots. The only occasion I felt these types of books were useful was when my Grandma came to visit. She slept in my bed. Her doctor had instructed her to sleep at an angle, feet higher than head. I'm not sure why. Two of the oldest and most ridiculously fattest books on the planet were placed under the foot of her bed. They were as effective as concrete blocks, and grandma didn't seem to mind in the least that her bed was in a perpetual NASA launch position. I kind of admired that she was able to begin snoring so quickly each night after we said prayers.

Numbers were papa's friends. They spoke to him, and he knew their language. He could think
fluent numberese lightning-quick in his head. Everyday problems seemed to often have a remedy quick arithmetic could help solve. There was a mathamatical equation to the meaning of life ~ if you knew where to look. As much as I was an emotional and visual-thinker, his was a naturally analytical brain. He had little tolerance for my violent aversion to what he considered an essential life-skill. He took it as a personal insult that an accountant could have a child who didn't like math. Maybe about 4th grade, a swift belt and a chalk board on an easle in our living room seared the answer to 6 X 8 into my psyche permenantly.

I even worked for him once for about 6 months in the front office. Bi ("Bee") was in Kindergarten, and James was a toddler. I rode the city bus to his Scottsdale office and dinked away on an IBM Selectric ball typewriter the size of a small freighting vessel, answered the phones, ran errands and filed endlessly. New tax laws or revisions of the tax code arrived daily and in multiples via manila envelopes. Dutifully I opened them all and sought the corresponding fat book they belonged to, wrestled with iron maiden-like ring clasps and filed everything away. I did tedious data entry on an old computer that would have crushed a small child if it ever fell off the desk. His partner's son (only just barely back from his mission) was super condescending whenever I approached him for assistance with something I had done wrong on the computer, or if the snail-slow copy machine jammed in an area beyond human intervention. He sighed a lot. (He was my baby brother's age. It would have been sweet to clobber him). I also learned what ASAP meant.

Eventually, very eventually (and not prompted by the afore-mentioned experience)- he finally conceded that I had indeed thwarted his early assessment of my mental accuity. I had somehow managed to skirt even casual interplay with his precious numbers and still excel in other cognitive areas he considered decently important. It was a long time coming, and it stunned me when the cat was finally out of the bag. "...You're smart," he said, more than once. It was declared matter-of-factly, as if he had just spoken the sum of annual Federal deductions to an assistant and then continued on with another topic. He wasn't one to soothe or coax or attempt to offer the 'feel good' thing within the context of an adolescent emergency, or at any time for that matter. And there it was. I think I was about 39.

While I have no absolute proof, I'm pretty sure there are no concerns on the other side about income taxes, last-minute unorganized clients or reams of yellow legal pads. Happy Tax Day, dad.