passage or crisis?

At dinner one night, probably in the spring or summer, no hockey,
the whole Clan was gathered and we were talking about, I don't even remember, but 
I shared how I was going through a mid-life passage. 

Wyatt, all of 11 years, blurted out, "You mean mid life crisis!"

I was flabbergasted. How the heck did he know that reference? 

So I asked him.
Don't remembering the answer but betting a fiver it was either, 
"I don't know!''''replete with scowl at the end. 
Or. 

The go to answer. The answer that is so devastatingly effective, c/ombining both offense and defense into a simple monosyllabic exclamation. 
The one response their little Cylon like brain instinctively knows will trigge'r a totally human parental reaction that is neither intelligent nor logical. 

"What?!?"

Replete with, The Look. 

It's The Look that clinches it. It's The Look that puts the icing on the cake, thrusts the apple in my eye, puts the match to the fuse.
Wide eyed, slack jawed, open mouthed, with attitude splattering like puke onto the table.

Parenting encompasses all of the learned responses we have gathered to this point. 
It employs all the ways in which our experiences have taught us to effectively communicate in a meaningful and healthy way with our fellow humans.
I had my kids in my early thirties. I am thankful for that. I was able to use all of the lessons learned in my twenties to patiently and lovingly nurture my kids. 
Utilizing the years of trial and error, the countless fits and starts of personal growth; I confidently and quite magnanimously employed  all of this knowledge to patiently and maturely present the wisdom I have accumulated to my impressionable offspring l.
Yeah right.

Peering at me, spectacles sliding down his nose, his Asian Harry Potter face frozen in a simultaneous expression of amazement and scorn.
I could taste the bile rising in my throat.

I know, another upchuck reference, but that's how immediate and distasteful my response was.

When I was a teenager, my Mom accused me of treating my friends better than my family, which meant her, and she was right.
It was also one of the first lessons I learned in realizing that cliches are true. 
Best friends, siblings, girlfriends, wives, definitely ex-wives, 
children, pets, but most of all, parents.
You only really hurt the ones you love. 
Even the most loving of us all have been guilty at some time or another of hurting those closest to them.
It's all about love.
Love is like the promise of nuclear energy. So beautiful, so deadly.
How many stories have been written fed by the promise of love?
How many endings covered in blood?
Not to be cynical, but it never fails...we are so human.
And the one we hurt the most?
Usually ourselves.

For years I heard, and was flummoxed by, the adage,
"You can't truly love someone until you love yourself."
Profound in it's simplicity, yet maddening to the uninitiated.
Read People Pleasers. 
I was a card carrying member for most of my life. 
For me this cliche was anything but simple.
More a diabolical koan illustrating a simple truth that was basically meaningless. 
My father glaring at me, 
"Just have confidence in yourself!"
Double Yeah Right.

Consequently.
It seems so unfair, to them, the little ones.
Where is the grand design in the scheme of things?
When they were in pre-school, I remember reading how a child's personality is basically formed by the age of five.
(Today, 20 years later, it's probably embryonic.)
But that was just about the time the initial perils and tribulations of parenting had crested and a semi-confidant feeling had descended.
"I'm getting the hang of this, it's not that frightening anymore!"
Now you're telling me;
my confusion, my anger, my fear and utter helplessness have been the main factors in the formation of their very being?
Who the frack thought of this?!

It's always amusing to look back isn't it?
The culmination of that dinner conversation was me defending my state.
"It's not a crisis if you go into it with intent son, if you don't, than yes, it's all about cowboy boots and a red Porche, but I'm trying to go about this with my eyes open.
I'm in a Mid-life Passage."

We are all gifted with Bullshit Meters, some more than others. 
But the undeniable truth is that children have the shiniest most beautifully functioning Bullshit Meters in existence. 
And from the moment of birth they have it trained on us. 
Little Baby Cops with their Bullshit Meter Radar guns glowing red, waiting.

I now know, I'm not reacting to what they say or do, not really. 
I'm reacting to their reactions to me, because I know, deep down, even though my rationalizations are so beautifully realized,
I am caught in the speed trap of their Bullshit Meter. 

Now I don't want you thinking that every response they have is seen through this light because it's not.
I am Dad and with that comes certain rights. The right to be right, first and foremost. 
I also have the right to be obstinate, because I've earned it.
As long as you are 18 or under, your Bullshit Meter may be yours but your ass is mine.
Since Wyatt turned 18 the rule has been Dad has the right to say his Dad thing once, 
if he's buying dinner, twice, at least.
But as an 18 year old on his way to becoming a man, you have the right to call a timeout if I transgress.
It's actually worked quite well. We have more constructive exchanges with less eye rolling.
The Bullshit Meter is a wonderful tool for the rest of your life. Invest in it, trust it.
But I am not the man I used to be. Thankfully.
Their Bullshit Meters have been turned into my Mirror.

As for the dinner, I was definitely going through a passage, a passage of loss and regret, of love tempered with bitter anger. 
I was struggling, collapsing on myself like a black hole. 
And yes son, I was in crisis.