I don’t know when it began, this preoccupation with having the last word, but I think it was when the boys were about nine or ten. I got into a bit of an argument with one of the boys and then found, when I thought it was over, it wasn’t! It went something like this:
“Why did you hit your brother?”
“He called me a stupid jerk.”
“You really hit him. He wasn’t even looking at you.”
“He hurt me by calling me that.”
“No matter what he calls you, it doesn’t justify hitting.”
“Okay, okay, but he’s been doing this to me all day. Calling me this.”
“Still …”
“And I was tired of it.”
“Okay, but still … you didn’t have to hit.”
“Okay, but I wouldn’t have hit him if he hadn’t said it so often.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“I know, but that’s no excuse for him to call me names.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes sense to me. He can’t call me names.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to him. But you can’t hit him no matter what he calls you.”
“Fine. But I only did it because he was doing it a lot.”
“No excuse.”
“I know, but what’s his excuse for calling me names?”
And this discussion would still be going on if I didn’t leave the room. The point is—my son, both of my sons, had to have the last word. A “still” or a “but” had to come after my “That’s no excuse,” so his statement could be the last one. Why? Because it made him feel somehow that he’d won the argument. Last word equals won. Or something close to winning. Outlasting.
So then the question is, once I realized that this is what he was doing, why did I have to add another word to his last word and prolong the agonizing discussion? Because, of course, I, at a distinctly more advanced aged than my son, was caught in the same trap. I wanted to win the damned argument.
The fact that it wasn’t a winnable argument did not occur to either of us. My son, wanting to rationalize his actions, had to justify slugging his brother so that, even if he knew he was wrong to do it, he was not at fault!
Say what?
Yes, folks, when the forty-third President of the United States “apologized” for some major screw up by saying, “It was wrong that this happened” as opposed to “I was wrong,” he was doing exactly what our kids do. He is acknowledging that wrong was done, but can’t quite acknowledge that he has a part in the doing. He’s saying, “The buck stops … well … over there.”
It took a few of these discussions for me to realize that I had done the same thing. Until I had to square off with my own kids, I hadn’t realized how often I’d acknowledged I was wrong but … not at fault. There was always a justifiable excuse for my wayward action.
“Julia, did you leave the light on in the bedroom?”
“When? You’re reading on the living room couch.”
“It’s one light.”
“Electricity is expensive.”
“You leave lights on all the time.”
“No, I don’t, only if I’m going right back into the room.”
“I was going back into the bedroom.”
“When? Next Christmas?”
“It’s a light. It’s one light. Shall we talk about your leaving the refrigerator door open all day?”
“That was because the fridge had shifted and the door didn’t close all the way. I didn’t know that till we found it open.”
“I didn’t know the light was on until you reported it.”
“But, you said you knew and were going back to turn it off.”
STOP! Sound familiar? Why couldn’t I (a) Just not mention the light? It’s no big deal. Julia is as frugal and responsible a person as I have ever known. But my father was a maniac about turning off lights. He’d turn them off while I was in the room. Had I inherited his mania? Or (b) Once having made the criticism and having heard her excuse, why couldn’t I just let it go? Because, as I saw my sons doing, I had to win the argument.
My favorite Julia retort to me was when I walked into the bathroom and noticed a full toilet.
“Who didn’t flush?” I yelled.
From down the hall, came Julia’s reply, “Get a life!”
I laughed and laughed. She’s good.
But I couldn’t lighten up with my kids. I had to make sure I had made my point e.g.: “hitting is wrong under any circumstance,” and not have them believe that under this circumstance it was okay because etc., etc., etc.
But I had forgotten to realize that his wasn’t a real debate. My son had heard me. He’d gotten the message, but he still wanted to win the argument so he could feel good, and I had to allow him that, even though it drove me nuts. Allow him the last word because, ultimately, the last word is bunk! The last word is only the last word. Making your point is what matters, and having him understand my point was all that mattered. If I thought he understood my point, then I could allow him the last word, even if it was a silly rationalization of behavior. Even if it, or rather simply, because it made him feel good.
By fighting to win, to beat their dad, I saw how dogged I had been, not just as a young boy, but as a goal-oriented, somewhat mature male. And seeing myself, in them, I could now … let it go, and yes, “get a life.”
(Boys rush in after school.)
SAM
We’re going to try out for the fifth-grade musical—“Guys and Dolls.”
LEE
My favorite musical. I saw the original production when I was just about your age.
GABE
You saw the original? Wow.
LEE
Yup. When I was a kid, the Broadway shows did out-of-town tryouts … in Philadelphia before opening in New York. I was sitting way up in the back of the balcony at the Shubert Theatre watching Nicely Nicely sing “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ The Boat,” and I said, ‘That’s what I want to do!’”
SAM
Be a gambler?
LEE
Be in the theater. Write a musical like that.
SAM
I’m gonna try out for Nicely Nicely.
GABE
I’m gonna try out for Sky Masterson.
LEE
Wouldn’t that be something if you were both in the show that made me fall in love with show business?
GABE
There’s only one problem.
LEE
What?
If I get the part of Sky, I have to kiss a girl.
LEE
What’s wrong with that?
GABE
On stage? In front of hundreds of people?
SAM
Come on, Gabe … you don’t have to mean it. It’s just a play.