I’m sure I will have some very interesting and occasionally awkward conversations with my daughter as she gets older. She will openly question why I do or did certain things. Not bad things, per se, but things that are seemingly inconsistent with the image she might have of me, things that may even be inconsistent with the image I hold of myself.
I have a few things like that. I suppose we all do.
I think the biggest point of her curiosity will center on my love of television. I just don’t get people who say they never watch TV. In my mind, they’re akin to people who brag about the fact that they never watch the news or that never-ending pool of people Jay Leno seems to encounter for those Jaywalking skits he used to do who couldn’t recognize or recall the name of the current Vice President of the United States. Yes, I know the time I devote to watching television could be spent doing other, more enriching things (e.g., becoming fluent in reading and speaking a foreign language like French or Swahili, learning to paint, taking yoga, etc.), but so what? I like TV. I like its dramas, comedies, horror, police and forensic procedurals, courtroom dramas, science fiction, you name it. I am fascinated by the interaction of personalities, by arcs of character development and the infinite possibilities of personal action and response an hour of programming can bring. If those pieces are present and are entertaining, I can watch just about anything. Even a Lifetime movie.
But there is, admittedly, a degree of disconnect between public me and private me. For example, I love to watch the show Family Guy. If you ever want to hear me laugh out loud uncontrollably, put on an episode- any episode, really- of Family Guy. I simply cannot believe the stuff that the show’s writers are able to get away with week to week.
Recently, I’ve discovered the now-defunct show Prison Break and can’t seem to watch the episodes fast enough. In the past two weeks, I’ve blown through three and a half seasons and will probably finish the entire thing before Christmas.
As a parent, I know that I cannot watch most of this stuff around my daughter. She has a way- like all children- of absorbing what she sees or hears and then parrotting it back either seconds after exposure or during inopportune moments later. Inopportune public moments. It only takes one experience to drive that lesson home.
I generally can’t watch these shows around my wife, either, but that’s entirely different. Her tolerance for the shows I like is only slightly higher than my tolerance for any of the so-called “reality” shows on Bravo that tickle her fancy. As a result, we’ve learned to appreciate the beauty and utility of our DVR. It allows me to record EastEnders, Skins, Doctor Who, and Torchwood (see a pattern here?) to my heart’s content, while she can record as many of those ghastly Real Housewives, Million Dollar Listing, and Top Chef shows her understanding of technology will permit.
It's not a perfect arrangement, but it works.
Now that my daughter's a little older, her questions have become more profound. There are times when I can almost see the little gears turning in her head as she poses questions and digests their corresponding answers. It's frightening to behold because I know that my time for giving what I call "nonsensical Cliff Huxtable answers" is coming to an end; she's getting too smart for my own good.
It might be easier to have the dreaded, yet obligatory sex talk in a few years with my daughter than to talk about these seeming inconsistencies. At least with the sex talk, I know the answers. Or at least I would hope I do. I don’t have any good answers for my personal inconsistencies, at least none that would make sense. Not even to me.
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