A Bad Dad

In January 2018 Conservative FOX News talk show host Tucker Carlson said during his show and wrote on Twitter, “No matter how successful you are, if your kids hate you, you’ve failed.” I saw him say this and began to cry. It hurt me terribly to hear words that I feared were correct. And, I feared my kids hate me.

I have wanted to write this blog for a long time. I’m not sure my motivation for revealing something so personal and so painful. I guess I hope for some absolution. I guess, in part, I hope to let others in my position know they are not alone. But I do know what prompted me to make this writing today.

The above Tweet by journalist Andy Ngo shows a crowd of college aged kids at the University of California-Berkley who formed a human wall to block people from attending a speech by ultra-Conservative antagonistic writer Ann Coulter. These actions repulse me and worry me about our nations future. It also led me to think that were this event in Seattle my three adult kids might be among this objectionable crowd. And this type of thinking is, I believe, at the heart of why my kids ostracize me.

At the time I heard Carlson’s hurtful words I had just come through a difficult Holiday season in which my kids chose not to spend any time with me. It was also my first holiday season in my new home, which I purchased as a single man recently divorced from their mother. I was, and am, proud of being able to buy my own home as a single individual who also happens to be self-employed. You can ask around. That’s not easy to do. And the fact that my kids didn’t want to help mark this special season left me depressed. Carlson’s words made it worse.

Unfortunately my relationship with my kids has only gotten worse. I haven’t seen my 32 year old daughter in 2 1/2 years, or my soon-to-be 21 year old daughter in 2 years. I’ve seen and talked with my 27 year old son with a little more frequency. But it too has been minimal. It is truly the lone hole in my life that has otherwise been pretty happy, and fairly successful.

When they were growing up I was diligently involved in their upbringing. I attended every single parent-teacher conference any of them ever had. Never missed a recital, or performance by them in a play, or a concert, or a dance performance. Their sporting lives were full year round. And I was there. I coached them in Little League softball, baseball, soccer, football, and basketball. For those who have coached a youth team any time in the past 20-30 years you know as I learned, it’s like having a second job. But I did it because I wanted to be close to my kids and to help and encourage them to grow into healthy and happy adults.

I was proud to call myself a strict parent. But aside from the occasional swat on the butt for the two oldest in their elementary years I never struck them or abused them in any way. My youngest was the least challenging of my kids and never was spanked any time in her life, aside from a notable occasion when she was being a precocious 2 year old. It’s notable since it occurred at a Little League field in which my son was playing. Since her mother and I couldn’t get her to sit still and behave I gave the diaper wearing little girl a bare hand swat on her fanny. A nosy, opinionated woman, a mother of one of the other boys playing that day, took offense to my harmless discipline of my girl, spoke up, and harshly said, “Would you mind abusing your daughter somewhere else!” Naturally, I was shocked and angered by the woman and responded accordingly. I told her to “Mind your own damn business!” As for my daughter, I can’t imagine she has any memory of it at all. She was too young.

Those who know me know that I can be a softy, and emotional. Never a day passed without me telling my kids that I loved them. Never a day passed when I didn’t try to show that love in any way I could. As they grew into their teen years I would nearly always invite them to join their mother and I in whatever we were doing whether it was watching a movie, cooking a special dinner, or in my case going fishing on one of the many local lakes near our home. Seldom was my invite accepted. It never bothered me. Because as I told their mother when she asked why I always did this, I always wanted my kids to know they were wanted and that their inclusion in our lives involved any and everything, even if I knew they would decline these invitations.

I was married to their mother for 28 years; though the last two were a slow march toward our ultimate divorce after having learned of her disgusting infidelity. Regardless of how it ended we had a good marriage and a happy family for most of those 28 years (any claim to the contrary is revisionist history). It ended when I could no longer stay with the immoral woman my wife had become. I’m sure the divorce was hard on my kids, especially the two youngest who were still living with us when the shit hit the fan and their mother’s secret life became revealed. In their eyes, I’m sure it didn’t help that I started seeing a beautiful woman almost immediately after our divorce. They would never understand that despite living under the same roof I’d felt alone for 4-5 years, and that divorcing gave me the freedom to see this woman completely guilt free. I’m so happy and proud that Maria became my wife, just over a year ago, in a wedding that my two daughters chose not to acknowledge, let alone attend. And though I believe my kids resent my wife and me for getting together so soon after my marriage ended, they didn’t seem to hold their mother to the same standard even though she didn’t wait until the marriage ended to have another man in her life. My Ex didn’t want to divorce and tried to convince me to stay together, right up until the night before I moved out. But it was my decision because I simply no longer trusted or respected her. Being my decision alone, my kids blame me.

Being a strict dad is a contributing factor to my kid’s currently being out of my life. It doesn’t help that their mother never, NEVER disciplined them at all. This knowledge was confirmed by them in a frank discussion we had at the time of the divorce. According to them, their mother never even sent them to their room as a form of discipline at any time for anything. Being the one and only adult who held my kids accountable for misbehavior was tough for me. Especially as the troubling teen years for the older two ravaged our household and I became the enemy while their mother not only didn’t discipline them, but I found out years later, got HIGH with my sonFinding out that their mother was getting high with a son who was not only being disciplined by me for marijuana we would find in his room or in his possession, and who also faced school suspensions for it, further lowered my view of my Ex and further helped explain our current difficulties. Dad is bad. Mom is cool.

For those who don’t know me another factor that I am confident is a contributing factor in this rift is the fact that my Ex is African-American, and as such, my kids identify as black. Furthermore, in terms of society and politics I am Conservative while my Ex is quite liberal. To call my kids liberal would be generous. They are clearly of a socialist mentality. I wish they weren’t. But I am genuinely pleased to have them be politically aware and involved. I have told them so.

To me the real problem is what has happened in society. The narcissistic, judgmental, facist, behavior of today’s millennials, of which my 21, 27, and 32 year old kids qualify, teaches those of similar thinking that they not only have to oppose thinking different from their own but that such people are the enemy and are evil. So, my kids look at me as the privileged white, angry, racist Conservative that all people like me are.

On the night Donald Trump was elected President I jealously watched my girlfriend (now wife) Maria texting back and forth with her adult kids, talking about the returns coming in. Being such a momentous night I wanted to reach out to my kids too. Knowing they would unquestionably be upset by the election results my first text to them was completely benign and non-threatening. My oldest daughter responded with a very angry text and told me I was only gloating and basically to shut-up and go away. Here was just one more occasion that she broke my heart a little bit.

In being reminded of Tucker Carlson’s words I am not absolving myself of all responsibility for what is becoming the tragedy of my life, the ostracizing from my kids. I have regrets. I especially wish I hadn’t shown anger as much as I did. But aside from that I take comfort from those who know me and knew my time with my kids. During those times I was told repeatedly by admiring friends and family that I was a great dad. Not a bad dad. And though I have far more doubts than I used to have, I know I gave my kids everything I could, to see to it that they were raised with a knowledge of God, and a value system that I cherish. I didn’t do everything right. But I love my kids in spite of everything. I miss them terribly. And I look forward to the time when whatever they hold against me will be replaced by a maturity that is currently lacking, and life experiences that will also teach them that their dad wasn’t that bad, and may even have been pretty good. And, Mr. Carlson, because my kids live and are moving ahead in their lives, and I hope are happy, I am not a failure.

I love them all.

 

My Favorite Child

I wonder if any parent loves one of their children over their other children. I’m sure it happens, but few parents would admit it. Societally its one of the biggest sins a parent can make; loving one of their own over the other or others.

With Father’s Day approaching I thought I would tell you about my favorite.

I have three kids. Two are grown and out of the house and my youngest is ending her sophomore year in high school.

Arica Nichole Schuett 2010My oldest daughter, Arica, is my favorite because she was my first. The gift she gave me of merely coming into my life and giving me the title of “Daddy” is not something anyone else can ever claim. I still remember holding her in one arm as we walked or I rocked her or swung her to sleep. She was always an independent child and played well on her own. But our father-daughter time was abundant and a treasure for me. I coached her in softball for years until her skill exceeded my coaching ability and I “handed” her off to a team and a coach more fully knowledgable about the finer aspects of high level fast-pitch. Arica played other sports too. Arica grew into a beautiful young woman. She won a Scholarship Pageant. She became an artist. And she remains passionate about anything she does, touches or says.

My second, Christopher, Chris off FB 11-2010 is my favorite because he is my only son. When he came into my life he proved to be all boy. He was a handful. He wouldn’t sleep at night, and because he was so active he kept hurting himself. We had more trips to the hospital with him than my other two kids combined. And every time he hurt, I hurt…so badly. It was as if I had the broken arm or I was getting the stitches. Christopher was and remains one of the sweetest boys, and now men that I have ever known. And I love his happy friendly demeanor. It became cliche` in our house for him to tell his Mom at least 1-2 times per week, “This is the best dinner I’ve ever had.” And he always said it with such sincerity. Chris became a musician and now leads a band as its song writer, guitarist and lead vocalist. He even has some songs when he’s on the keyboards; proving Mom and Dad’s investment in piano lessons wasn’t completely in vain.

Micah 1st day of 6th grade 002My youngest daughter, Micah, is my favorite because she’s my baby. She’s the last one I’ll ever have. And she assured that we would go out of the baby making business with a BANG. Unlike her brother and sister (and I’d say ME at a similar age) she has not been in a rush to be grown up. She has remained content being young, being a kid. She is Sooooooo funny and makes me laugh all the time. Her innocence and sweetness is something I miss terribly any time I’m not home when she comes bounding in the door.

It’s a blessing to me that I have 3 favorite kids. I love them equally but differently. You’d be amazed how often kids, and adults get the sense that they are not their parent’s “favorite”. And as a parent its important to know that creating that sense in your kids can be damaging to them and your relationship with them. It might be something you don’t know you do and don’t do intentionally. But be observant and aware. They will always be your kids no matter your or their age.

People with no kids dont know – YouTube

Years ago I worked under the dictatorial rulings of a Sales Manager who thought she knew everything about kids and the raising of them because she had gone to college and earned a degree in Early Childhood Education. Using Deborah’s name here would be indiscreet, so I won’t. Oops!

But this 50+ year old women never hesitated to share her views on what would be best for my kids to both my wife and I. She also never wasted a moment to share those views with anyone else who was a parent and would listen. Since she occupied an authority position within the company I worked her subordinates, who she referred to as “her children” (I shit you not), were more or less required to listen to her views.

This woman had no children. Ever. And I always resented the arrogance she demonstrated to offer ANY advice on child rearing.

Fortunately, in this video, Michael McIntyre finds a much more humorous way to convey what the parents of this world know.

People with no kids dont know – YouTube.

So if you don’t have kids and never went through the challenge of leaving your house…with kids…kindly do the rest of us a favor who know the truth; please…and I say this with all love, kindness, and humility…SHUT THE HELL UP! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT.

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Father’s Just Showing Up

Originally written as a Facebook Note June 21, 2009 I republish my memories and thoughts about my father here for others to consider as they think about their own father.

 

Jerome Mathis Schuett

 

When I think of my father I think of the day he died. I think of his temper and obstinate assuredness. And I think of the fact that he was there at every important event of my life. He was there. And that is what I find most important in my thoughts.

Someone once said “90% of life is … just showing up.” I shared this quote with my son today as we ate our Father’s Day breakfast, a delicious confection of Dungeness Crab Eggs Benedict, honeydew melon, and hash browns prepared by my seventeen year old boy. Like so many things shared by father’s to their seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen year old sons and daughters he didn’t subscribe to the quotes logic and sentiment. He said, “That doesn’t make sense. What about the times when you show up and don’t do anything?”

I’m sure I disappointed him and failed to convince him with my brief uninspired retort, “Well, that would make up the other ten-percent. Wouldn’t it?” Nothing further was said; and I’m sure he didn’t give it another thought. But I hope, like so many of the things I try to impart onto my children that a time will come that the quote and its sentiment might settle in his mind and create wisdom.

Truly, I don’t know if “just showing up” is 90-percent of life, or if it’s 60%, 70% or if it’s a moving target. I tend to believe its more like 95%. All that is good or bad in your life “is” because you are or were in it; you were involved. You were participating. You showed up.

From childhood to adult hood the most seminal moment in my life came at age eleven, January 5, 1976. While returning home from my paper-route I unwisely attempted to cross a busy four lane street through heavy late afternoon traffic. I failed. A blue Cadillac whose driver never imagined a paper boy on bicycle suddenly appearing before his windshield smashed into me at full speed, some 35 miles per hour. The driver never having touched his brakes.

The event is fresh in my mind because I just relived it last Monday night. Since that cold and rainy night on NE 8th Street at Crossroads in Bellevue, Washington 33 years ago the event has invaded my mind every few years. And by invading my mind I don’t mean to say I think about or remember it. I mean to say I relive it and experience flying through the air. I feel my forehead smashing against the curb as my upside down body descends to the concrete sidewalk. My body feels the unsteady dizziness that pulled me back to the concrete after standing up once I landed. It’s not remembering. I’m there again. It’s as real as this computer on my lap.

I’m sure the meeting of my brother and his Mom this past weekend triggered this episode. His Mom was a big part of mine and my Dad‘s life in the year preceding the accident. They had split up by the time of the accident. But her surprise visit to me after my return home from the hospital was very important to me then and remains so today.

In experiencing the crash again, I see my Dad. He was there. He showed up. While lying on the sidewalk I was immediately surrounded by strangers. Someone had a blanket and covered me up. And I asked someone else to call my Dad to tell him “I would be late getting home”. In the intervening time before seeing my Dad an ambulance arrived. Paramedics examined me and cut up my brand new Swabbies (pants) I’d received for Christmas, not two weeks earlier. Though I was still a month from my twelfth birthday I didn’t cry. No tears came as I calmly thanked those who helped me, and apologized for causing everyone so much trouble. I remained perfectly lucid and emotionless as I explained to the medical technicians where my hurts and aches were that they couldn’t readily see. But when they took scissors to my first ever non-hand-me-down pants I began to weep.

The paramedic stopped cutting. “Am I hurting you?” he asked. “No”, I said, “But you’re ruining my new pants”. “You’ll get some new ones. It’ll be OK.” He didn’t know. He didn’t know they were my only ever new pants. And he didn’t know they wouldn’t be replaced. They would be sewn.

I was put on the gurney and loaded into the ambulance. Before the doors could close I heard a familiar voice. I heard my Dad. He had come. He poked his head in the ambulance door ever so briefly, saw that I was alive, said something reassuring. And then said, “I’ll see you at the hospital”.

I felt so much better. I feared that he would be mad. My Dad never handled unexpected bad news well. His typical response was to grimace and soon yell at whoever or whatever was his provocateur. In the case of my car-bike accident he may have lambasted the stranger who called him. He may have cursed every slow driver that impeded his two-mile drive from home to the scene of the crash. He may have shoved those who had curiously gathered around the ambulance as he pushed into the vehicles doorway. But he and I never talked of such things. He never made me feel bad for the accident that reconfigured my bones, and my hand specifically. All he did was make me feel better by being there.

There is no need to romanticize my father. He was flawed in so many ways. But he never missed one of my sporting competitions, or school events. He was at my wedding though he said he wouldn’t be because he didn’t believe in interracial marriage. Repeatedly time and again, he showed up. And every time he did I was glad.

And in the eight years since his death not an event or holiday has passed where I didn’t wish for his presence. This includes last weekend when I MET his other son. A son who’s life he never acknowledged or participated in. His loss.

His failure as a father to my brother and his temper and his lack of ambition, selfish nature, and lack of personal fortitude are all forgiven. They are all forgiven, because he showed up. He was there for me when my body was broken and when so many other fathers never would have been home to receive the phone call to begin with.

Your author, step-mother Terri, my Dad Jerry Schuett, and brother Jeff.

Your author, step-mother Terri, my Dad Jerry Schuett, and brother Jeff.

Perhaps you too can forgive your father his failings. If he was there he has already exceeded that which 25% of all American fathers deprive their biological offspring.

I pray my children benefit from what I impart. But I know they gain from my presence. I know tucking them in, cheering them on, and disciplining their transgressions can only help them provide their children that which those future grandkids of mine need most from their Dad and their Mom. Their presence.

Ninety-percent of life is just showing up, that may be true. But when it comes to being a father, or a Dad, it might just be the whole ball game.

Comments are welcome. Thanks for visiting.

My Dad with his first Grandchild, Arica.

Dad & Arica

My Dad with his first Granchild

 

Kids are Spoiled. Do they Know Sacrifice?

English: A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, m...

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich

August 1982 my brother and I packed up our pick up truck and I left home for the first time to go to college at Washington State University. We arrived on campus 3 days before the dormitories opened. For two nights I slept on the golf course. It wasn’t so bad, at first. It’s pretty warm, even at night, in August, in Pullman. A dorm administrator took pity on me when I went to visit my soon-to-be home, and let me in to register one day before anyone else in the building. What little money I had was being saved for my books;  and the only thing I had to eat those two days were a couple of peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches and carrots I’d packed with me when I left my Mom’s house. I have never been hungrier in my life then when they finally opened the dormitory’s cafeteria three days after I had arrived on campus.

I made the decision to arrive on campus three days early in order to find a job before all the other students arrived. It worked. I was hired to work in the dormitory cafeteria. It was a job that barely paid my living expenses during my time in school. I wonder how many kids today would make such a sacrifice today.

Years later after leaving college, attending and graduating from a broadcasting-vocational school I was hired for my first radio job in a little town called Raymond. It paid me only $600 per month and I was paid only once per month. During the one year I held this job I lived on my own. I had no phone because I couldn’t afford it.

Beef Top Ramen Contents

Obviously there was no internet back then, so I had virtually no contact with my old friends and family. I lived on Cheerios, Top Ramen, and Mac & Cheese.

Tesco now carrying Kraft Macaroni and Cheese!!...

Having meat of any kind was maybe a once a week treat. Months later the first time I returned home my Mom cried when she first saw me saying, “You’re so skinny!”. During this time I sold all of my ski equipment to pay for food and rent. I was very lonely. I went to sleep by myself listening to one of the only 3 radio stations that could be picked up in far-away Raymond. Dave Niehaus was my Summer-time pal as I drifted to sleep in my room, in the dark, listening to Mariner games from far away.

A box of Cheerios breakfast cereal.

I made the decision to work in this low paying job in this tiny far-away town because I wanted to work in radio and they gave this squeaky voiced 21-year old a chance. After they agreed to let me be the broadcast voice of the high school football and basketball games I know I couldn’t refuse. It was a tough year, but I was living a dream come true. I wonder how many young adults would make the same decision in order to reach for their dreams.

It was a few years later when I was working as News Director of an AM/FM radio station in Moses Lake, WA when I was asked to make another huge sacrifice. I was 24 years old and had moved up in income and stature in the radio business and was truly on my way to making a career. But my life had taken on the responsibility of two others. I was now married and my wife and I had a baby daughter. During one of her weekend trips home to Seattle my wife had been offered a good paying job at a Seattle TV station. It was for more money than she and I could make combined in Eastern Washington. Though my resume was still pretty sparse and I wasn’t confident in my ability to get a job in the big market of Seattle I quit my job and moved back to Western Washington. The three of us lived in my in-laws basement for about 4-5 months until I could find work. When I finally did get a job it wasn’t in Seattle. It was at a radio station in Mt. Vernon, WA. We got an apartment in Lynnwood and for nearly 2 years I commuted North, while my wife commuted South.

I made the decision to derail my private career path in order to help build a better life for my family and to cure my wife’s home-sickness for her family and the city in which she grew up. Though I loved Eastern Washington and really liked my job and my career trajectory it wasn’t a hard decision. I knew it would make my wife happy. I wonder if today’s young people know to make similar sacrifices on behalf of the spouse to whom they promised a life together.

One of the most selfish things I ever did was start my own company. I left a job in which I had struggled to build an income that had grown to 6-figures. It had taken 13 years. Upon leaving the job I was faced with zero income, and no immediate clients. My family, which was now a family of five, had to learn to do without a lot of things to which we’d become accustomed. It took a couple of years of sacrifice before my company brought my income back toward previous levels.

I made the decision to start my own business because I knew I didn’t want to work for someone else the rest of my life and knew that I wouldn’t be able to leave anything behind for my kids when my time came to an end. I also wanted to give my wife the opportunity to get back to doing what she loved, radio voice work. She’d moved away from her talent in favor of jobs that paid well and provided a security the radio industry never has. She is now our primary voice talent for Total Broadcasting Serviceofficial-logo-jpeg-document-size.jpg

My life has never been easy. My parents were lower-middle-income at best, poor at worst, and never provided me with anything outside of the bare necessities. After graduating high school they determined that I was a man and they never provided me anything else, ever. I know others have had it a lot tougher than what I have. Nevertheless, I’m proud of building a life that has allowed me to raise my kids and be happy; to enjoy some niceties.

They say 26 is the new 21. The same as 21 used to be the new 19. Twenty-six is now the age in which kids are becoming adults. Twenty-seven is the age Obamacare no longer allows parents to keep their “kids” on their health insurance plan. And 27 is now the average age in which guys and gals get married for the first time.

I think its sad. Kids have there colleges paid for by either their parents or by our overly generous (and broke) Federal Government. If they get work they expect a middle income lifestyle right away. Too many don’t seem to have any respect for authority. They believe every night is Saturday night. And I wonder if todays kids even know what sacrifice really means.

Thanks for visiting. Comments are welcome.

Spanking Kids Leads to Adult Mental Illnesses – ABC News

Can spanking your child on the butt be cause of mental illness as those kids become adults? This study claims that to be true. But in my mind the study doesn’t go far enough.

As pointed out in this news story its long been understood that severe physical, mental or sexual abuse does lead to mental illness among victims.

Spanking Kids Leads to Adult Mental Illnesses – ABC News.

If this study is to be understood should participants also be tested or judged on all that they’ve become as adults? The assumption by this author is that all of us, even the most well adjusted, are mentally challenged in some form or another. All of us have certain quirks, worries, anxieties and occasionally depression (be it mild or more pronounced).

Let a study report on what percentage of those spanked in childhood become more disciplined, harder working, physically fit, and generally well-adjusted versus those who didn’t face stern discipline in their youth. In order words, focus on the positive not the negative. Then we can better judge how to best parent the next generation.

Thanks for visiting. Comments are welcome.

Father’s Day

My thoughts on Father’s Day seldom drift toward me and my kids. They always tend toward my Dad. He died November 30, 2001, the cherry on the sundae of the worst year in my life.

My dad and brother, Jerry and Jeff.

My Dad was a unique character. Jerome Mathis Schuett was born in Bellingham, WA in 1937, Grandson of a German immigrant; and son of a logger. While he frequently spoke lovingly of his father’s industry he was the only one of the three son’s of Shelby and Delores Schuett to never work in the timber industry.

My Dad left Bellingham for Washington State College in Pullman in 1956. Like all WSU grads he was a Cougar through and through. And he infected all the rest of his family with his love of all things crimson and grey.

My Dad’s temper, alleged philandering, and complete and total disregard for anything my Mom cared for led to their divorce when I was in the 4th grade. By the time I was in the 5th grade he had successfully sued for legal custody of my brother and I. He was one of only 17% of divorced men in the 1970’s to win custody in a court of law over mothers.

And thank God he did. He raised my brother and I to be very independent. By the time I was 13 years old I was cooking or preparing all my breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. I was doing my own laundry. And if my Dad ever asked to see my report card….I can’t remember it.

My Dad was flawed in so many ways. In fact there were long stretches of my adulthood, months and on one occasion years, where I didn’t speak with him. He was often crude. He was almost always devoid of any knowledge or care of hurting another human beings feelings. He was the macho man, only NOT.

Jerry Schuett made a lot of friends. But not a lot of close friends.

He left an impression on me that has been so deep and so lasting because he was there. Twenty-five percent of all Dad’s aren’t even present for the raising of their children. In the black community statistics are abhorrent. More Dad’s aren’t there than are. So knowing my Dad attended all my soccer, basketball, baseball and football games through high school puts him above a lot of Dad’s. Knowing he wanted us to be raised by him rather than our mother means a lot too.

Knowing his many flaws and that he and I clashed a lot, some have questioned why I miss him so much. My only logical answer is that he was always there. And now he is not.

At bare minimum, I know I have provided my kids at least that.

Thanks for visiting. Comments are welcome.

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