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Ever wondered what the Portland Trail Blazers have in common with The Nutcracker? Henry Abbott, a father of two, who writes about the NBA on ESPN.com’s blog, TrueHoop breaks it down.
Thank goodness we had a gravel driveway. It was almost impossible for anyone in a car to surprise you that way.
At my dad’s house, we were not supposed to watch TV.
So, on evenings when we were home from school before my dad was home from work, my sister and I would lounge on the shag wall-to-wall (red, flecked with orange) and eat stuff we weren’t supposed to eat, watching whatever we could watch (as I recall, it was basically always Three’s Company) before the tires hit the gravel outside. Then we’d flick off the television and fly up the stairs to our bedrooms to carefully portray “diligent children doing homework.”
Our TV was a tank. The picture was black and white when on, but mainly the color of dust when off – because, as the story went, it was only used on special occasions, and we were careful not to disturb the dust.
I thought, then, that my father was unreasonable. “Special occasions” were things like the week before Christmas when we’d watch some of the specials. Or some night after dinner when we’d gather by the fire and watch, you know, elks migrating or something. Or, later, when VHS tapes were around, when we’d make a family trip to the video store and come home with a subtitled hit from the foreign section, like Jean de Florette.
But now that I have kids, I find myself thinking along similar lines about television. No, you can’t just sit there watching whatever comes on next. Life is short! Carpe diem! Get out there and do something!
It makes me sad that sitting alone in a darkened room can be the highlight of anyone’s day. I worry that too many of us are getting too much training to be merely audience. I want the great moments of my children’s lives to involve sunlight, movement, and friends.
But there are exceptions, right? For a sick kid stuck in bed all day, television is surely sent straight from heaven. I have never loved television more than when my toddler daughter sat like an angel through a transcontinental flight watching one of those little DVD players you can rent in airports.
The big exception, though, is true passion. That’s one thing I share in common with my dad: if the kid is really into that thing, and it’s on TV, then OK, dip your toe in a little. My daughter, for instance, loves her ballet class like you would not believe. If there is nothing better we should be doing, I doubt I’ll ever tell her she can’t watch The Nutcracker one more time.
When I was about ten, I started getting really into the Portland Trail Blazers. I’d listen on my Walkman — Walkmen were brand new at the time — while I was “doing my homework.” But if there was a big game, against the Lakers, say, or the playoffs, and if I had a handle on my homework, then my dad would often watch with me. He’d even take me to games, even though it was so not his thing that the first time he took me to a basketball arena, he mistakenly drove to the baseball stadium. He was all about indulging my great passion (”let’s watch the game”) while still being steadfastly against letting me become a couch potato (”NO POSTGAME SHOW!”).
I can’t argue with that kind of parenting at all. In fact, I doubt I’ll be very different, although I can assure there is one mistake I will not make: no way I’d ever be dumb enough to have a gravel driveway.
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