Conflict Resolution

I have three kids, all very close in age, that are beginning their entry into the "tween" years. Based on my observations so far, this is the stage in development when the Conflicto Gland begins to saturate a young body with Scream-At-Your-Brother hormone.

It's not new, conflict has followed us from wood blocks to cell phones, but the power has recently been cranked up on the conflicto-meter to the point of shrill, ear splitting feedback. I try to impart the techniques of conflict resolution on my kids, sometimes they listen sometimes they.... what am I saying? They never listen!

Our home has also been filled with animals of diverse type, each forced into compulsory and sometimes stressed relationships with their humans and each other. No one asked the mature cat with established turf if she'd like to share her space with a new kitten. The bird did not knowingly sign up to live life in a confined space with predators.

Our home is a complex web of relationships between 13 creatures of various species, many of whom are at each other's throats.  With a little understanding, and some coaching... we manage.  For instance, take this recently witnessed exchange:

BIRD - "When you look at me like that it makes me feel as if you want to eat me."
CAT - "What I hear you saying is... you taste like chicken."

My Tiny Brain

I found a hand written note on a Post-It in my wallet, it was written to me.  The message was cryptic and incomplete, as if the note-leaver assumed I was a mind reader who'd understand its obscure context.  I stared at it... I tried my best to interpret... and then I recognized the writing.  It was mine.

I'm a husband, a father, and a professional in a technical field.  Life is busy and I think the neurons responsible for absorbing new clutter in my brain filled up years ago.  The only way to fit new stuff in is to push some old stuff out but those pesky neurons are sentimental, it seems, and they'd rather hold onto the dusty memories of bad childhood dreams than make room for "pick up milk after work".

To extend my memoronic capabilities I allow certain things to spill out onto little pieces of paper, I write notes to my future self.  While this is a handy and often indispensible tool, it suffers the same drawbacks my brain cells do; gradual accumulation of clutter, and lack of recall.  You see, writing a note to my future self does not guarantee that the future me will read it.  That "me" has to remember there's a note to read!

Here enters technology to save the day.  I recently acquired (quite delinquently) a mobile device that hosts an electronic memory bank for lists and notes.  It is a digital repository for thoughts akin to a physical extension of my neural network.  It's like my brain just knocked out a wall and added a new room that I carry around in my pocket.  With a cheerful little song, and a bit of a wiggle, it even reminds me when I need to remember something (now if I can just remember to take it with me when I leave the house).

Note to self... sell 3M (Post-It) stock and buy Apple shares. 

Truthfully, I've been using computers to augment my brain for quite some time, but this latest addition to my computing arsenal is tiny, really slick, and has me reflecting on cultural trends.  Since the dawn of the Industrial Age we've been offloading tasks to machines, it seems we've come far enough to entrust our very memories to digital devices.  Do we really need our lazy brains to remember anything anymore?

In my experience, men are more likely to acclimate easily to handheld devices that compliment cognition and tote effortlessly in one's pocket.  I believe this is for two reasons; out of sheer necessity (because men have very poor memory), and because men are already quite accustomed to thinking with what is in their pants.

Easy Riders

As parents, Cristy and I do everything we can to ensure our kids don't hit any unexpected bumps in life's road.  Actually, if you extend that analogy a little further... it feels more like we're clearing forest, grading land, and laying down fresh asphalt that is smooth like stretched velvet.

No bump is too small to warrant attention, apparently.  Peaches get peeled, pitted, diced, and served in tiny bowls to avoid the hideously fuzzy skin that would surely kill the children (or so we're lead to believe).  The giant red, not-seedless, grapes purchased accidentally must be cut open, seeds removed, and bagged nicely to qualify for consumption in a school lunch.

The cumulative effect of this mind boggling pampering causes something I call "Smooth Road Syndrome" in which suspensions grow soft and vehicles settle into low-rider profile.  When your chassis rides a hair's breadth from the blacktop you sure look cool!  Until you hit a speed bump.

I had never imagined how true-to-life this analogy was until we took the family hiking this summer. The dirt trail through pine woods was scattered with exposed rocks and tree roots and my youngest son, Joey, was wearing his low-rider shoes.  He tripped the whole way up, the whole way down, and made it very clear to everyone on the mountain how displeased he was with the unimproved surface.

Last year, we hiked Green Mountain, a local grass covered foothill popular for its easy trails and city views. On our decent down a trail hewn from rocky hillside, stepping over large rocks and taking care not to slip on patches of gravel, my older son, Garett, said, "Whoever built this place sure hasn't done much with it".

Perhaps our parental paving machine, responsible for such an easy ride, should start shedding parts into the roadway as a way to keep the drivers sharp.  "Watch out for that bolt!".  "Oops, sorry about that wheel stuck in your grill".

Eventually, the big machine which has been leveling ground (and eclipsing the path ahead) will run out of steam or reach the end of its contracted duties.  Hazard signs will go up... and its operators will wave the drivers around.

Good luck kids!