Somebody wise once said we hate most in others what we hate most in ourselves, and no, I don’t think it was Shakespeare.
I guess I could Google it. Actually I did and got a bunch of different answers, including different variations and some guy named Anonymous, or maybe Carl Jung, and yes, Willie’s name came up too but the quote wasn’t quite the same.
Anyway it’s likely public domain by this point and I’m going to use it, OK?
I find when I start lecturing my kids, which I try not to do by the way, but then some genetic thing kicks in and I let fly despite my best intentions.
And then when I’m done my self-righteous rant and take a few seconds to think about it a line from a Harry Chapin song begins to haunt me: “My boy was just like me.”
Or in my case, my boys are just like me, which for some reason is cause for much frustration.
Whether it’s asking them to make their bed, which they don’t seem to understand is a sign of laziness and the answer “why would I make something up when I’m just going to climb back in it again in a few hours anyway?” just prompts a rant about how one day you’ll understand that the little things in life do count and in fact climbing into a fresh bed for a good night’s sleep might one day be something to treasure, but then that makes me sound even older than I am and would I understand that kind of reasoning when I was 18 or even 20?
Of course not.
Or when I feel they are delaying getting started on studying for an exam or finishing up that term paper, which they are both in the middle of at college right now and, unfortunately, for them, they are both still under my roof at this time, I try to resist but usually succumb to offer sage advice like “you know it’s easier to get it done if you start earlier” or the even more wise – “term papers don’t write themselves you know.”
I know for a fact Shakespeare wasn’t involved in either of those nuggets but, hey, I try.
The ironic thing is they are both way more responsible at their age than I was as I had procrastination and doing just enough to get by and get decent grades down to an art form…..but now I know life isn’t a dress rehearsal and it’s much shorter than you might think and everything counts, except when it doesn’t, and…..
So I share a story from my student days that I think might be helpful to illustrate a point.
It was Dec. 8, 1980 and I was struggling to finish, and likely start knowing me, an English essay that was due the next day. It was getting late and I turned on the radio, for some reason but likely as a delaying tactic, and found out John Lennon had been shot and killed.
It was sad, outrageous and difficult to believe as I listened to people pour their hearts out about what he and the Beatles meant to them.
Somehow, I eventually got the paper done, maybe the magnitude of the night put my puny problems in perspective and allowed me to focus, but the story doesn’t end there.
At about 3:37 a.m., roughly, I spilled my rather large glass of water over two thirds of the pages of the paper that I was just writing out in good form and I jumped out of my chair to consider my options.
Quit. Run away. Get a doctor’s note claiming fumbilitis and that it was incurable.
I considered them all but finally spread out all the pages on my bed, let them dry, and handed in a rather crinkly, but sill legible essay on something or other that likely got me a B-minus or so.
“Wow, you had to write out your essays by hand,” they exclaimed, implying that’s one step up from scratching it out on limestone, but I think they sort of got the point anyway.
And, as if on cue, the next day the youngest son’s computer crashed and he lost access to three of his half-finished term papers, (it really happened, he got a note from the computer place and everything) forcing him to get extensions and he handled it very well and maturely and better than I would have. And, yes, he regained access and finished them all.
However, lesson learned, I think, and I can’t help but think of that other wise saying by somebody who once said “the more things change…….”
