The Kid with It All

About six months after my 18th birthday, my parents’ forewarnings came to pass. I worked an unpaid internship at a Texas newspaper, the San Antonio Light, where my dad was the assistant CEO. Early one evening, about three weeks into it, I was speaking with one of the newspaper’s oldest and longest-serving reporters, Frank Trejo.

 

Unlike many reporters who spent a life writing nearly every story carried out by car thieves, murderers, rapists, serial killers, cops gone bad, run-of-the-mill thugs, and politicians incapable of telling the truth, Frank wasn’t cynical. He was a happy-go-lucky man and, on this particular evening, dispensing advice to make me better in my chosen profession. I devoured his words like a famished kid and even took notes because that’s what good rookies do: Listen to those who’ve come before them.

 

Across the newsroom, eyeing the conversation, was another man. The fact that he couldn’t hear it didn’t matter. He was about 10 years older than me and about 45 years younger than Frank. Life was different for him; authority figures weren’t to be trusted. 

 

“Hey, Trejo!” he screamed across the newsroom, standing behind a five-foot-tall partition where his pens, paints, paper and drawing board were kept for his editorial cartoons. “Are you trying to get a promotion – or a raise!?”

 

As much as the incident pissed me off – and I never mentioned it to my old man – this was exactly what my parents warned me about: People were going to look at me, the son of a prominent executive, and issue judgment because I was following Dad’s footsteps.

 

To be the child of a highly successful executive is no easy path to travel, especially if you’re following them into their chosen career. It’s quite treacherous. As my parents warned me, all eyes are on that person. 

 

They endure hushed voices as their colleagues issue biased, harsh, and, often, unfair convictions not only about their abilities and their work but also about what they wear, how they speak, and how they conduct themselves -- something they themselves likely never endured, especially with such furor. 

 

One of the best lines I ever heard about my intent was six years later, during my first week in the circulation department, now called consumer sales, of a gritty tabloid newspaper, the Chicago Sun-Times, where my dad was the CEO. I suggested to one of the department’s mid-level executives, who was overseeing my entrée into the department, that I spend my first weekend shadowing one of the division managers so I could improve my understanding of how the paper was distributed and sold. 

 

Nick Manzi called down to the city circulation manager, asking if there was anyone I could tag along with. 

 

“What the hell does he want to do that for?” Ian Clark barked. 

 

“He wants to work,” Nick replied.

 

Soon it was arranged, and I met the division manager at 6 a.m. on Sunday. We spent the day traveling in the city and around the greater Chicago area, visiting various retail outlets, newsstands and both airports, seeing how the paper was presented. We spoke with a few store clerks and managers, too. 

 

I learned a lot that day: One of the reasons people purchased the Sun-Times instead of the Chicago Tribune was because it was far easier to read on a standing-room only El train into the Loop, where many of the city’s businesses were located. It also had the best sports coverage. And winning local teams helped sell copies – big time! 

 

These lessons continued when I worked during the morning’s wee hours, filling the newspaper’s sales boxes – now artifacts from a bygone era – around the city, including those adjacent to Cabrini Green. I delivered copies in sub-zero temperatures, even blizzards, and retain harrowing memories of traveling on the Kennedy Expressway, with about a foot of snow on the ground and more falling, at 1 a.m. to get to a suburb, Wheeling, doing 360s on the highway as I drove one of the newspaper’s 1980s Chevrolet Caprices, which, in those days, were large, heavy, four-door gas guzzlers.

 

“You’ll have to work harder than the next guy,” Dad said before I joined the paper. “And you need to understand it better than everyone, too.”

 

Joan Kane, Dad’s executive assistant, provided even more cutting advice: Consider yourself a public figure, she said.

 

I picked up the hint.

 

Hunter Biden, the president’s younger son, fills me with empathy. Living in a fishbowl isn’t easy. He had no more control over his dad’s career than I had over my dad’s and the steps he took to ascend to the top of his profession.

 

Joe Biden did what was best for Joe Biden and, perhaps, as he contemplated each campaign, he thought about his family. Of course, this is something only those within the Biden inner circle will know. 

 

But it’s a lesson. You can be incredibly successful, as the president is, but if your young are ensconced in legal issues, become front page news, or can’t seem to get a handle on their demons, that says something about the parenting.

 

It’s unfair. It’s harsh. It’s as unforgiving as what any child endures when following their parents into their profession or living in a fishbowl.

 

As these stories about Hunter’s legal woes, personal failings, and drug and alcohol abuse come to pass, there are likely many who wonder, me included, what kind of father Joe Biden was to him. Was he there for those critical moments when Hunter was much younger or during the teenage years, sometimes filled with danger and trepidation? What lessons did he impart, and what nurturing did he provide when Hunter was younger and into adulthood?

 

Parenting never stops. I know. I've got two in college. 

As children grow up, they need their parents less. They’re making their way and their name in the world. But when the child is front-page news, and the articles are centered on legal woes and, sometimes questionable business affairs, some of it is a reflection on the parents. 

 

Did Joe Biden set up his kid?

Oh, the fuss: The Manners, where are they now?

Etiquette – sometimes referred to as “manners,” that type of behavior

parents once taught their kids so they wouldn’t act on their impulses – 

gives every appearance of being pushed aside, replaced by

insensitive and crass behavior in everything from cutting in line to

drivers flipping one another the bird.

And it isn’t limited to Massachusetts. 

I’ve seen it in many places – from the male chauvinist in Eugene,

Ore., with whom I had business dealings during my Tribune days,

to a racist working at a Boston Market in Lombard, Ill., and a gay

man in Washington, who refused to promote a colleague of mine

because she was African American.

What do they call that, WWB?  Working While Black.

I don’t know.

But it shows that jerks are everywhere.

It was telling moment, three years ago, when a lady working behind

the counter at a nearby Starbucks thanked me for saying please and

thank you as she attended to my order. 

“Thank you for being so considerate,” she said.

““You all do a great job here,” I said, caught off guard by her

comment.

“Not everyone thinks so,” she replied.

Two summers ago, my wife was flipped off as she drove out of the

parking lot of a local train line carrying commuters in and out of 

Boston.  I guess the other driver thought he was more

important. 

Never once did that happen in the 16 years we lived in a Chicago suburb.

But, of course, it’s possible it happens in other suburbs of the country’s

third largest city.

My wife and I spend a lot of time teaching our kids manners.  Everything

from how they dress and speak, including how they handle themselves

at the dinner table, has been reviewed hundreds, thousands, maybe

millions, of times.

Obviously, we haven’t perfected this – we only need to see how our sons,

10 and 9, behave at home to know how badly we’re doing – but we

work on their behavior nonetheless.

I’m always grateful when another adult reports that they’re well behaved,

but I also wonder whose kids they’re really talking about. 

If only we could get them to behave at home – without the constant

reminders!

Right now, we’re following the advice more experienced parents provided:

Eventually they’ll grow up; in the meantime, keep repeating the lessons. 

During recent trips to a nearby mall, where I was buying the boys new

clothes, I kept up the lessons, telling them – well, to be completely

truthful, it entailed gripping their shoulders so they’d stand still – to

allow the women to board and depart the elevator before they did. 

The reaction, on both occasions, was fascinating.

One woman noticed what I was doing and smiled while the other

appeared incredulous, giving the impression that I was wasting

time.  She shook her head and chuckled.  Fortunately neither boy

picked up on the reaction of the second woman.

And while this is hardly a scientific survey, these reactions might

provide a clue as to where we stand on manners today.  Half of

the country is grateful for them while the other half is so jaded

it’s not expecting them – hardly a good thing, I’d say.

Still, we should aim for civilized behavior.  It doesn’t take much

to remind ourselves we’re not the only ones on the planet.  Just

look up from your wireless, handheld device and you’ll see them.

About a year ago, when the boys were earning their Cub Scout

Citizenship Pin, they met the local police chief.  During the

meeting, I had one of the boys ask a question – What could

they do to be good citizens?

He gave a wonderful, simple answer that the kids still remember:

Open doors for others and always say please and thank you.  Be

considerate.  Be nice. 

Words to live by.

The Morning Routine

Most mornings are the same: I’m out of bed at 4:20 a.m., putting on my exercise clothes before heading over to the local YMCA to complete my “macho” workout in about an hour. I figure the time spent running on a treadmill, lifting weights and doing those god-awful abdominal crunches will keep mortality at bay, allow me to eat and drink to my heart’s content, and see my children well into their adult years.

After completing my exercises, it’s off to a nearby convenience store to purchase a copy of The New York Times before returning home to take my wife to the train station. (In case you’re curious, The Chicago Tribune, The Daily Herald and The Wall Street Journal are home delivered.) Our sons usually join us for this ride and receive mom’s usual admonitions, which include behaving like the well-mannered boys they’re expected to be. Once at the station, she hugs them, telling them how much they’re loved.

Back home – it’s not even 7 a.m. yet – the boys eat breakfast while I tend to shaving, showering and dressing. An hour later, the kids are dressed, their teeth are brushed, and we’re out the door again. The younger son, attending a junior kindergarten program, is the first to be dropped off.

I take him into his classroom, get him peed and his hands washed before giving him lots of hugs and kisses, telling him he’s great and loved. Once out of the building, I turn to his classroom window, wave good-bye and blow a few kisses his way. From what I understand, it eases his transition and provides the impetus he needs to start playing with his classmates

The older one, now a first grader, and I soon find ourselves sitting in a coffee shop, working on his reading skills. This lasts for about 45 minutes and gives him just enough time to read about 10 pages of a book he checked out from the school library. This exercise usually involves further memorization of words he already knows and expanding his vocabulary by sounding out words that are new to him.

This daily habit can be fraught with frustration. In the beginning, there were days he refused to read. So instead of becoming angry, I took a different approach. “We’re not doing this for my benefit,” I told him. “We’re doing this for yours. If you want to learn how to read, you better start reading this book.”

That message worked and, in the 10 weeks we’ve been at this exercise, I’ve seen dramatic improvements in his reading skills. Not only that, but his confidence and enthusiasm for reading show through so much so that he enjoys showing off new words he can read. It’s especially exciting if it’s a compound word.

Our time with one another also gives me a chance to pick up new details about his young life and answer his questions, which lately have included inquiries about people’s gaits, wishing wells (the restaurant has one, sort of), election results, football and whatever else happens to be on his mind.

Like all the parents who’ve preceded me and those who will succeed me, I begin to realize the limits of my influence. Our elder son, only six, is clearly growing up and doesn’t need us like he used to. He will experience many of life’s trials and tribulations without our interpretation. Not that we’re shy about expressing our opinions to him but we also know he needs to experience life sometimes without the benefit of our experience. Because if he doesn’t, it's doubtful he'll become the well-adjusted, self-sufficient adult he needs to be.

This is a difficult moment for any concerned parent: It’s that time when you realize that your once little, helpless, bundle of joy, who can now walk, talk and think on their own, is working as hard to be as independent from you as you once did from your own parents. It’s that alarming moment, a day of reckoning, when you realize you now understand all the concerns and worries your parents once had for you – and may still have in spite of the many years you’ve been alive.

Before long, we’ve left the coffee shop and find ourselves at school. Given the weather, I, along with all of the other parents, pull up as close as possible to the entrance so he has a short walk into the building. I get out of the van, help him with his backpack and give him two bags, one filled with snow-pants, the other with boots. He always seems overloaded.

Before he leaves my presence, I tell him I love him, how smart he is, and to learn a lot in school. He says good-bye, turns around and waddles toward the door. I usually remain standing next to the van, until I see he’s safely inside the building. Call me overprotective. I’ll plead guilty to the charge.

As he’s making his way toward the door, his pace quickens and this look of confidence comes across his face. He’s ready for whatever awaits him. All at once, I’m overwhelmed with a deep sense of pride and a longing for days since past. I’m suddenly jolted into realizing that our little Buckaroo is growing up faster than I prefer. And the same thing happens every morning – tears fill my eyes.

Parenthood: The challenges, joys and fears

“You will know no fear until you’re a parent,” an experienced parent once told me. And it’s true. Until you’re faced with the responsibility of turning a helpless baby into a self-sufficient, well-adjusted, educated, adult, you’ve never known shear terror.

It’ll bring about sleepless nights, panic attacks, constant worry, stupidity, self-doubt, fits of anger, and the occasional need to imbibe in one-too-many.

If you look at our culture today, the demands on parents are exponential: They’re expected to keep their kids in top health by making sure they eat only organic food; they're expected to turn their baby into a genius through videos from Baby Einstein; they’re expected to discipline their children only through the use of “time-outs;” and, finally but not lastly, parents need to see to make sure their young understand algebra, biology and can read – all before they reach the 1st grade.

Thank God for places like McDonald’s, Chuck E Cheese, and The Red Robin – restaurants where you can feed your child some fat-packed, cholesterol-laden meal while witnessing other parents violating all of our culture’s “rules” about child rearing. The latter two even serve beer!

As I was growing up, my dad use to say to me, “You know, you didn’t come with a training manual.”

And that’s the problem. Go to any bookstore these days and, as far as I can tell, there are too many training manuals. What did parents do in, say, the 18th century? I’m not sure but somehow they managed to turn out a generation of children who were likely no worse – and no better – than the ones we’re creating today.

I can’t stand the parent police. We should find a boat big enough for them as well as the food police, the attorneys and the accountants – and sink it!!!

My wife and I were one of these couples who were married for a long time before we ever became parents, 14 years. When the first bundle of joy arrived, we’d done a number of things that many people might envy: We’d traveled overseas, met the “beautiful people,” dined in great restaurants and generally had a lot of spontaneous fun.

All of that came to a crashing end with the arrival of our first son. But that’s okay. I understand he, like his younger brother, needs to be brought up by us. We’re far from perfect parents, but we are responsible ones, so we stick close to home, especially at dinner time.

I’m thankful for those nights when we eat at a restaurant – without the children in tow. Even if it is a restaurant that’s nosier than I prefer, the fact that I’m eating without attempting to keep a kid in line, forced to listen to an ear drum-ringing tantrum, clean up a mess, deal with a potty issue, or just make sure they’re eating the damn food that’s been served, is a relief.

Don’t get me wrong. I dearly love our children. They’re not perfect nor will they ever be. Part of that’s due to the fact that they have a highly imperfect father who thinks most of the parenting manuals published today are gobbledygook.

I rely on my own wits, wisdom, and childhood experiences to bring up our children. The way I see it, my parents didn’t produce a serial killer or a rapist. I’m far from perfect, but I’m not a criminal.

After dinner at our house, we take our boys upstairs for a bath. Sometimes I put them in the shower. After the curtain’s closed, and the started is water, I listen to their conversation.

At nearly 5 and 3 1/2, these two little guys have a lot to say to one another. They exchange stories about their day, their friends and their interests, which includes Spiderman, Star Wars, pirates, fire trucks, the police and candy.

After they’re in their pajamas and their teeth are brushed, we read them one or two books. Then we tuck them into bed, kiss them, hug them and tell them how much they’re loved.

A few hours later, after they’ve long fallen asleep, I sneak into their bedroom to admire them and adjust their covers. The same thing always happens while I’m there. I don’t know if it’s physical or it’s mental, but there’s always this irrational fear that grips me.

I start worrying about all the things that could go wrong. Terror attacks, car accidents, school issues, and more, suddenly sweep through my mind, gripping me with more fear, than I’d ever experienced before someone started calling me daddy.

It’s like what that parent once told me: You know no fear until you’re a parent. That fear makes me a better parent. I hope it never goes away.