What Really Matters

I have noticed over the course of the dozen or so days that I have been travelling in California with my family, sometimes with moderate amusement and sometimes with considerable chagrin, that my son has different priorities than I. This should really not surprise me. After all, we are different human beings. I would not expect him to be a mirror image of me. I don't think the world could handle two of me. One of me is enough. Maybe, it is simply that since we are out of our regular habitat, I notice these things more.

We are in Newport Beach at the moment. This evening, after a lovely dinner at an Italian restaurant in Laguna Beach, a few miles down the road, we stopped at a public park on our way back to the hotel so he could play basketball. My wife and I sat on a bench, enjoying the beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean and the setting sun. He played basketball, practicing his shots and refining his form.

While in Anaheim for a couple of days, I took him to a park there several times, so he could practice his basketball 'moves.' There are a million things to do everywhere, but basketball is all that matters to him.

Well, not exactly. In the hotel rooms, he does hundreds of pushups and crunches daily. When he gets the opportunity, he runs, usually at least 1,500 meters, approximately one mile.

I don't really mind any of this, except when it threatens to interfere with family plans. After all, there are three of us on this trip and we need to satisfy the wishes, as much as possible, of all three. That's only fair. I suppose what my puzzlement is really about, is that I see myself at his age, in 1957, and remember that I would have given anything to have been able to go on a trip like this with my parents. To disappear from home for a whole month, to do all the things we do, to visit so many different places on this trip and others, that was more than I could have imagined at that time.

My parents worked very hard just to keep food on the table, to build a home for the family and to set aside some money for their retirement. We started out very poor, immigrants from post World War II Europe in 1949. By hard work, thrift and perserverance, my parents managed to take care of us all as my brother and I grew up, and themselves after we left home. Along the way, there was little money left over for a lot of toys, vacations or a fancy lifestyle. My parents never complained then and neither am I now. They did what was necessary and responsible, just as I am trying to do now with my own family. I just wonder sometimes why my son appears not to realize how good things really are for him.

He is not ungrateful. It is just that he, like his friends and others of his age, is accustomed to the good life. I try very hard not to make it too good. That would be irresponsible. He is usually the last, among his friends, to get the latest toys or gadgets. Some things I refuse to get for him at all, because I consider them to be frivolous or wasteful. I want him to realize that whatever he gets, he gets because his parents have worked hard and love him and want him to have a better life than they did, not because 'everybody has one,' or he wants to be just like his peers.

I don't think he is oblivious to the places we go or to the things we see, although he often has his nose buried in his Gameboy as we drive along the California coast. I hope that he notices at least some of what we see, that he enjoys at least some of what we do, and that someday maybe, just maybe, he will reflect back on this time and remember it fondly.

One can only hope.