approached the massive, soulless black screen. The primitive white cursor blinked at me arrogantly, daring me to make my move. I was not to be intimidated. I took a deep breath, and The Challenge was on…
Game 1: Tie. (“Okay, you’ve got this covered.”)
Game 2: Tie. (“Come on, you can do it!”)
Game 3: Loss. (“What the…?”)
Game 4: Loss. (“This can’t be happening!”)
Game 5: Tie. (“Okay, now don’t panic.”)
And so it went…seemingly random sequences of losses and ties. But not one win. As my veneer of denial began to slowly erode, the realization crept up my back like an army of cold spiders: I could not win. But, surprisingly, after the initial frustration, a tie started to feel not-so-bad; as a matter of fact, it felt pretty good. (Or at least, it felt acceptable.) There was no such thing as a “win.” A tie was a win. I walked home alone that day, humbled but wiser. Tic-tac-toe was never the same again…
But this was more than just a game of tic-tac-toe. It turned out to be about all kinds of challenges. Especially challenges in important relationships, like with friends, family, or partners. It’s not about “winning.” In fact, when you “win,” you usually don’t really win. (You actually lose.) And when they “win,” they don’t really win. (They actually lose.) The best outcome is a tie. If you can both walk away equally satisfied — or even equally dissatisfied — that’s the real challenge. And the real win.
Life Lesson:
Sometimes a tie is really a win.
Clearly, someone didn’t think this one through. It’s as inevitable as heartbreak in Hollywood. Puppies grow up to be dogs. Kittens grow up to be cats. And our family’s pet ducklings — Huey, Dewey, and Louie — grew up to be ducks.
What did we know about nature? We were a middle-class Jewish family living in a middle-class neighborhood in Inglewood, California, in the early 1960s. And we had just acquired three adorable hatchlings which we kept in a box in our garage. What could possibly go wrong?
It all started so perfectly idyllic. My dad tenderly teaching us how to provide them with food, water, and shelter. My younger siblings and I chasing the pocket-sized birdlings around the lawn of our little backyard. Their awkward waddling on those little flat feet and those high-pitched quackettes. And when we held them in our tiny hands, carefully cradling the soft puffs of yellow down against our bare skin…well, it was almost too much bliss for a child to bear. I thought it would last forever.
But of course, it didn’t. One day my dad took me aside. “David, our pets are growing up. We have given them a wonderful home, but they need to be with their friends and start families of their own. They will always love us, and we will always love them, but soon it will be time for them to return to their place in nature.”
Well, the only thing even close to “nature” in our neighborhood was Alondra Park — which happened to have a large pond populated with a multitude of assorted ducks. One fateful day, with mixed emotions my dad and I packed up Huey, Dewey, and Louie in the back of our white Pontiac station wagon and shepherded them to their new home.
When we arrived, my dad and I gently guided them to the pond, then turned to head back to the car. But something was very wrong…We noticed our faithful pets waddling in tight formation right behind me. “Daaad!” I wailed. “They’re following me!” And so it went. Back to the pond. Back to the car. Back to the pond. Back to the car. But each time, with increased urgency. I was beside myself. Finally, we made a break for it. My dad scurried me to the car, we flung ourselves into the seats, and sped off, tears pouring down my face, and my poor dad looking absolutely miserable.
Despite what “they say,” these ducks did not take to water…nor anything else in this foreign land. And despite the best of my dad’s intentions, his mission was doomed to fail long before it even began.
It wasn’t until many years later when I was studying for a psychology class in college that I first read about “imprinting” in birds — how young hatchlings become instinctively attached to the first animal or object that they see near them, which they then identify as their parent. This is how they learn to navigate through life, by observing how the trusted parent behaves. Evidently, little Huey, Dewey, and Louie were simply doing what their DNA instructed them to do: They had imprinted on me — I had unknowingly become their parent. And that day in Alondra Park, when faced with the uncertainty of their new environment, they diligently shadowed me, imitating my every move, searching for direction from their trusted parent.
But imprinting can occur in other species too. In puppies. In kittens. And, in a way, in kids. Looking back on it, I had imprinted on my dad. By observing how he behaved, I absorbed the values of caring for the helpless and vulnerable. Of respecting nature. Of saying good-bye to things you love because it’s best for them…even if it hurts. And most important, trying to do the right thing when life goes awry…in fact, especially when life goes awry.
Life Lesson:
Doing the right thing can be painful.
It was a stressful morning at “The Happiest Place on Earth.” The lines were long, and the tempers were short. Although it was still morning, the heat was already sweltering, and the air was thick with the bedlam of manic kids and the already-frayed nerves of beleaguered parents. And this was just waiting to buy a ticket.
My family — parents, siblings, and I — had woken up early that day to make the expedition from Los Angeles to Anaheim in our station wagon. Brimming with excitement, we trekked our way through the never-ending parking lot toward the grand entrance. We ever-so-slowly snaked our way toward the turnstile. The anticipation was excruciating. Then, just beyond the bars of the front gate, we finally caught our first magnificent glimpse: Lo and behold, The Magic Kingdom!
But thwarting our passage into the Promised Land was The Chaos Family: three unruly youngsters and two haggard parents. The oldest kid — he looked to be about seven, maybe a couple of years younger than I — was being particularly rambunctious. His arms, legs, hands, and mouth all seemed to be traveling in different directions simultaneously. (And this was years before ADD had become all the diagnostic rage.)
The mother was clearly on her last nerve. In sheer desperation, she snapped, “If you don’t behave, we are not going to Disneyland!” The kid froze in his tracks and locked eyes with his mother…for all of about one second. During that momentary sliver of time, it was truly remarkable how much that kid conveyed without ever uttering a single word: “Yeah right, Mom.” “Oh, this again.” “How stupid do you think I am?” “That’s pathetic.” “Did somebody say something?” He then promptly returned to his business of being an out-of-control, unruly kid — as if the exchange never even happened.
Once I became a parent myself, I grew to have much more empathy for that poor mother. I now know what it’s like to feel utterly desperate, frenzied, and powerless. But I also
understand — even somehow admire — her kid’s reaction. In his eyes, she had long since lost all credibility. And with it, his respect. Empty threats are worse than none at all. And that brief but powerful look he shot her…I never want to be looked at like that. Sadly, however, it really doesn’t matter what I want. Being a parent, you somehow just find a way to get used to it.
Life Lesson:
Empty threats are worse than none at all.