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Dad & Big Brother

My husband knocks on the car window and our son turns as he’s walking toward the school. My husband waves, my son waves back, then turns toward the school again. He takes a couple steps and my husband knocks on the car window again. Our son stops, turns to look at his dad waving again and shakes his head. Then a smile spreads across his face and he wriggles his fingers at him and turns back toward the school.

“What was that for?” I ask. If our son was six, and on his way into elementary school, it would have been cute, but he’s fourteen and in middle school.

“I’m building up his immunity,” he says.

“To what?” My brows pinch together in puzzlement.

“Being embarrassed so easily. If I embarrass him enough then he won’t take it so seriously when other embarrassing things happen in his life,” he reasoned.

I’m not sure how sound his theory is, but I do know that I love him for it. I love how he knows when to be dad to our son - an only child - and when to be big brother, and that he does it so well. He’s an amazing dad in so many ways, but I think his ability to play both roles and understand the importance of both in our son’s life is really ingenious. I also think it’s remarkable that our son learned so quickly to tell the difference between the two roles and responds appropriately.

Those of us who have had older brothers or sisters remember well the lessons we learned from them. They toughened us up, taught us to not cry so easily, showed us how stupid we look when we threw tantrums, modeled how to talk trash and banter in way that is funny, but not cruel. They often pushed us farther than we wanted them too, but they always seemed to know when to stop. As much as we may have disliked older siblings as a child, they played an important role that many of us would not appreciate until we are older.

My husband has used his role as father for all the traditional reasons: to teach our son about life, to protect him, to mentor him, and to raise him to become a good man. His role as big brother has proved just as important and he uses it for a different set of lessons: to teach our son how to interact with friends, how to be competitive without being a sore loser, how to banter with the guys without being a jerk, and how to be a good man who shows compassion as well as strength.

When my husband is big brother, our son can talk trash with him, try to best him in games and pranks, poke fun at him and wrestle with him. When he’s dad, our son knows that he has to be respectful, listen to the advice he is being given, and follow his instructions. There is a shift in both of them as they move between the roles of father/son and big brother/little brother. The shift is subtle, but both of them are so tuned into it now and rarely misread the other.

I love watching this dynamic, and smile to myself as husband taps on the car window again to get our son to turn around. I know he’s trying to annoy him, just like a big brother would, and our son knows it too. That’s why he rolls his eyes at him as he turns away, a reaction that would get him a reprimand in other situations, but is completely appropriate in this one. My husband smirks back at our son as he walks away and I marvel that a man who mostly raised himself knows so well how to be a great dad, and the importance of being a big brother, too.  

Philadelphia From The Outside

Philadelphia is brimming with sounds, smells, and sights that are so different from the west coast. Sirens blare constantly, people yell prophesies on the street, painted murals adorn many a wall, and the aromas of every food imaginable fill the air. People seem as leery of me as I am of them, until a smile is exchanged, and then they warm quickly.

At night, the streets remind me of Gotham City. Tall stone buildings with pillars and towers and carvings are lit, glowing eerily in the fog. Steam rises from the grates on the sidewalk, but through the windows, the interiors of the restaurants look cozy and inviting with tables crowded with couples and friends.

I spent an afternoon in Reading Terminal Market, overwhelmed by the choices and the assault on the senses. The farmers markets on the west coast is a lovely outdoor experience with fresh air, vegetable and fruit stands, a handful of hot food vendors, and people meandering from booth to booth. The east coast version of a farmers market is so very different, but just as wonderful. The market is indoors, the smells are inescapable, the food vendors far outnumber the fruit, vegetable, spice, coffee, and tea stands, and a sea of people move quickly through, intent on their destinations. Only a few of us brave souls dared wander slowly through the crowd looking at the array of baked goods, fresh fish, and ethnic foods displayed behind glass cases.

Each person I motioned to go ahead of me in line looked vastly relieved to not have to wait for the lost tourist to make up her mind. Most smiled quickly then rattled off their order as I eavesdropped. One woman followed that same pattern, but then turned to look at me again as she waited for her food. "Is this your first time here?" she asked, softening the 'r' on here and extending the last vowel (which most of the country assumes is a silent 'e'). I nodded and she proceeded to tell me the best places to eat in the market and what to order.

She inquired and I told her I was in town for an education conference. As luck would have it, she was a teacher for many years and had just as many opinions and suggestions on how to fix the education system that she was more than willing to share with no encouragement from me. I found it amusing that she had  no qualms about airing her bold opinions with someone she knew nothing about, and had I not been a person who happened to agree with much of what she said, I may have found her offensive. I didn't, so I smiled and nodded. In retrospect, she probably would have appreciated a little dissension and a good discussion.

I took her advice and tried some of her suggestions, and thoroughly enjoyed being an outsider looking in for a while. I saw her again as she sat with her husband, eating huge slices of pizza (the kind you really can only find on the east coast). She waved and pointed me out to her husband as I held up the bag of sweet potato fries (the best I've ever tasted!) to show her I did take her advice.

It was such a brief encounter, standing in line while she waited for her pizza slices and I browsed, but it made the whole experience better. Her forwardness was refreshing in this case. Maybe I would have found her annoying if I had to sit next to her for five hours on an airplane, but for the five minutes we conversed in line, she made me feel a little less like an outsider.

As I left the market, a man held the door for me and smiled. "You are destined to know each other," he said at the coincidence as his wife--my new, opinionated friend with the warm face and intent eyes--passed through the door behind me. I sincerely agreed. I contemplated asking her name as we wished each other a good day, waved, and went opposite directions on the sidewalk, but decided against it. In my mind, her name will always just be Philly.