The Dating Dad: Perfectionist: March, 2009

On the last Saturday of February, Simone experienced her first snowboarding lesson. We arrived at the Winter Park ski school, harried and rushed from a morning that got away from us in spite of spending the night just a few short miles from the ski area. By the time I got Simone registered, equipped and parked at the bottom of the bunny hill, I was a sweaty, frazzled mess. The blessing was that I had no time to fuss over her or feel nervous—class was starting just as we arrived, and it was all I could do to kiss her forehead, and encourage her to “have fun.”

The journey to the side of the mountain took a lot longer than the 70-minute drive from the city and up and over Berthoud Pass. I’d been chivvying Simone for years to start her foray into winter sports, discussing the pros and cons of skiing vs. riding. But it always came down to two things—fear on her part, and a lack of desire on mine to engage in the production of hitting the slopes with a kid who didn’t really want to be there. But, thanks to the wonders of PBS and the best reality game show on the planet, Simone decided that, though painful and fraught with falls at first, learning to snowboard could lead to fun days of carving turns and kicking up sprays of snow with her daddy.

On the way to the ski area, Simone would reassure herself by asking me questions like, “So I’m going to fall a lot today, right?”

“For sure.” I’d say.

“But the snow is pretty soft, and it won’t really hurt!” She’d respond.

Even the staffer at the registration desk made sure Simone didn’t have any illusions. “You’re going to be on your butt a lot today, but it will all be worth it!”

So I left Simone to her adventure, and went off on my own, Jane’s Addiction and the Fratellis my soundtrack as I rediscovered my own love for tearing down a mountain in the chill sunlight of a winter day.

Lunchtime came early for the snowboarding class, and I was waiting for Simone as she and her crew came marching into the little room where they’d eat crusty mac ‘n’ cheese and drink some sort of orange substance. She gave me a big hug, and told me she was having fun. But then her voice cracked. She complained that the instructor wouldn’t help her up when she asked for it, and was trying to make her do things she wasn’t ready to try yet — like making her way down the hill solo.

I explained that the teacher was probably helping her learn to do things on her own, but I could tell Simone wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “Just do your best,” I said. “And remember to have fun!” As she wandered off to the food line and I made ready to head back up the hill, her young instructor pulled me aside.

“Simone is doing so much better than she thinks she is,” the teacher told me. “I’m frustrated, because she’s doing well but doesn’t believe me, and won’t push herself to take some chances.”

She sounded just like Simone’s current teacher a few months ago at conferences.

Somehow, Simone has developed perfectionist tendencies; she’s resistant to starting projects or activities she’s not convinced she’ll do well from the get-go. The result is that it takes a lot of encouragement to get her to take risks—in her output at school, in the new taekwondo maneuvers—because she’s uncomfortable with failure.

I know where this comes from, and it’s not me. I’m not afraid to embrace my imperfections (all too publicly, sometimes), and have been known to accept responsibility for missteps that weren’t even mine in the interest of harmony, taking the hit to avoid the unpleasantness of a drawn-out row (rarely in the professional milieu…which is why I do so much better as my own boss; and definitely too often in past relationships).

When I screw up in front of Simone, I model a gracious acceptance of my gaffe. I demonstrate the ways we can learn from our mistakes, and also how we can move on. I try to be the kind of father who gets better and better at things through trial and error. My experiments in the kitchen don’t always come out the way I plan them, and I’m more than willing to dump a bad meal and order in when it happens. But I’ll try preparing that dish again and again until I get it right.

Simone’s mom, on the other hand, has never been so great at admitting when she’s in the wrong. I’m not going to sit here and confess her sins, but having perfectionist parents with high standards for achievement and behavior and low tolerance for failure certainly didn’t make it easy for her to live with her mistakes. Better not to make them in the first place.

My parents, who’d grin and say, “Couldn’t you have done better?” when we’d get a 98 percent on an exam, weren’t quite so uncompromising. And, honestly, a little more structure and forceful discipline when it came to academic habits would have saved us all quite a bit of grief (and money… failing that first semester of organic chemistry wasn’t a little mistake, believe me).

So, luckily for Simone, she gets a pretty balanced set of expectations—we both push her to challenge herself and do her best, but her mom is more rigid in defining processes (which is very valuable), and I’m more flexible and gooey about how it all plays out. Her mom likes a plan; I like to improvise. If Simone can take the best that both approaches have to offer, she’s going to be one well-equipped adult.

In the meantime, though, we’re all working to help her become comfortable with taking risks and failing. So I told the snowboarding instructor to encourage Simone—to let her know that pushing herself is a big goal for the year, and getting down the hill with less and less help is a great way to do that. Then I pulled Simone aside, told her how proud I was to hear her teacher tell me that she was doing really well—better than she thought—and how I wanted her to be patient with herself and take some chances.

It couldn’t have been a more perfect first day on the hill: a cloudless, heartbreakingly blue sky, the lightest sprinkle of new snow, the sun fearless in the face of the winter cold, warming the air just enough to keep the girl comfy in her new snowboarding regalia. I ran across Simone’s snowboarding class up the mountain, making their way down a wide, gentle run. She didn’t see me, so I hung back in the shadows of the tree line, stopping to watch her try and try and try to link her turns without plopping down into the snow. When she’d sit down, I murmur, “get up get up get up.” And, usually, she would.

I spent the rest of the afternoon drifting by the run, staying out of sight, and catching snapshots her progress.

When I swung by to collect Simone after her lesson, she was disappointed that the day was done, and was amped to hit the slopes again as soon as possible. The teacher reiterated Simone’s great progress, and also her lack of confidence (she was good at making toe-edge turns, but refused to make heel-edge ones because she didn’t like falling on her butt).

I’ll put Simone into another lesson next time we go up; I want to give her another full day to build confidence and skills. In the meantime, we’re talking a lot about challenging ourselves and taking risks, even if it means messing up or taking a hit.

Simone can visualize herself as a half-pipe-riding snowboarder able to pull off a flawless “roast beef.” She doesn’t doubt her future success.

Neither do I.

Comments

Perfectionism is tough to deal with . . . I know because I have it (way watered down from my dad's version) and my son has it . . . fortunately little Maggie seems to have escaped it. Well done in encouraging her to take those risks.

Posted by: Elaine at Lipstickdaily | March 09, 2009 at 07:45 PM

This is a great blog, Eric, you're a really good writer! I came to your blog for the challenge you gave in your workshop to connect with you 4 ways, but wound up reading and bookmarking -- so I guess your marketing tips really work! (This makes #3, btw! ;-D) (If you want to see my blogs, you can start with http://lynnxe-studionotes.blogspot.com/, there are a few more through my profile.)

Posted by: Lauri Lynnxe Murphy | March 21, 2009 at 05:17 PM