Modern Communication

I still shake my head when I remember a scene I walked in on recently at my place.

Megan had invited a friend over for the night, and when I came through the front door after work, I found all three of the girls in the living room. Kylee was exhibiting a skill, that to this day still amazes me, where someone can listen to an i-pod and watch television simultaneously. Megan was sitting at the desk, intensely focused on the desktop screen and typing away. Not more than ten feet away in a chair was her friend, my laptop perched on her outstretched legs and typing furiously.

"What's up girls?"

"We're talking."

"Oh." The quiet in the room, other than the sound of the television and the faint music I could hear from Kylee's i-pod, puzzled me. I pressed.

"Talking?"

"Yeah, we're IM'ing."

Amazing. Two people found it more interesting to reach out through keyboards and the vast distances of cyberspace in order to connect with each other in the same room and just a short few feet from each other.

Even better: I walked into Megan's room one night and found her and a friend lounged across her bed, close enough to touch, texting each other on their cell phones.

Megan's cell phone and her texting have been a difficulty for me. On one hand, I like the fact that it makes her more available (when she chooses to answer it). I know it to be a constant fixture in her hand, so I know that wherever she is, it's with her and I can be with her also. But I have also found it disappointing how much of a distraction it can be. On the way somewhere together in the car she will flip it open every few seconds to either answer or initiate some message. When she is not actually texting, I sense that she is mentally involved in some conversation that is happening with some invisible person somewhere out there, wherever "there" may be, and only physically present with us in the car.

Technology and every year of age brings a different kind of challenge in talking, teaching, or listening to my kids. I remember a vow I made to myself when I was first a father, that I would work hard at a relationship with the girls and that it would be based on solid, trusting, and open communication between us. I had grand visions; I pictured a future where the girls and I could talk about anything. I imagined evenings around the dinner table where we would all share the good or bad about our daily routines. I hoped for moments where I would be superbly intuitive and get a flood of emotional outpouring from them when I asked what might be troubling them. There would be teen years ahead where I would be as close a confidante for them as any friend they had at school or elsewhere. I saw myself explaining the "why" behind every parental direction, advice, or rule. I was certain that I could do it differently than anything I had ever seen before in my life.

But in my earnest desire I failed to recognize a couple of things, things that I had been taught or told and could have done better to remember. The first of those things was that I was going to be a product of my own environment, and would be prone to making similar mistakes just by virtue of the example I grew up with. So when the moment of frustration arrived where I, for the first time, heard myself proclaim “Because I said so!” as a response to the repeated objections Megan threw at me about why her bed had to be made or her room cleaned, I was instantly thrown into an out-of-body experience, watching myself do the same things I saw my father or mother do or say when I was a kid.

I actually took a moment to reflect on the first time that happened, and asked myself what I could have said or done differently. I had a hard time finding any answers. I retraced all the steps of the discussion and tried to understand each turn of emotion and what was said, looking for how I could have gained Megan’s commitment rather than her compliance. Within a few minutes time I decided that I was a complete failure as a father, that the free world was in jeopardy and Armageddon loomed on the immediate horizon. Then, almost as easily, I remembered that I was also human and that I would never be a perfect father, nor would Megan ever be the perfect daughter. That helped.

But the other thing I failed to remember was something I learned in college communication courses, that every communication involves a transmission and a reception. The space between the two is called interference, and with good reason. Any number of things can get in the way of the message as it traverses that space and distort the intention or the perception. I always thought I could overcome that one by trying to explain everything, by being the kind of father that took the time to also give the “why.” I didn’t anticipate the “why” coming back at me as argument.

I later dissected the same conversation and came up with what each of us might have heard at a certain point:

Me: “Megan, you need to make your bed and clean your room, please.” (Heard: I am your father and I want you to do this thing for me even though it means absolutely nothing to you.)

Megan: “Why? It’s just going to get messed up again in a few hours!” (Heard: What is important to you means absolutely nothing to me, and I don’t care if that hurts your feelings. And, oh, by the way, I AM TESTING YOUR AUTHORITY HERE!)

Later, after I had left the room and Megan in it, I came up with all sorts of good reasons for her “why.” I am pretty good at that, winning arguments by myself after the fact. I wanted her to learn and exercise responsibility and cleanliness. I wanted her to show discipline. I wanted her to take pride in her belongings and environment and take care of it. These were things I thought she needed to learn. But none of that came out or came through in the “Because I said so!” I eventually declared, and every way I tried to explain those things to her before we reached that point failed.

At some point I came around to the question I had to ask of myself: was this important for Megan to learn, or was it more important to me to have done? Was this an important battle to fight, or was it an opportunity for understanding, compromise, or a learning moment for the both of us to share. I imagined a conversation where I shared all of these questions with Megan and the two of us talked through it, laughing it off and understanding each other better.

Then I realized I was in Fantasy Father Land again and came to my senses. It wasn't going to happen. I've tried something similar before, and every time I have prefaced some conversation with Megan with "something I'd like to talk to you about" I've gotten the immediate eye roll. She listened and heard me during those conversations, but I am pretty sure she also mentally composed her next text message at the same time.

As trite as it sounds, it is still true that some things never change. And where communication is concerned, some lessons may be best learned by only one of us: the one who is supposed to be the smarter and more mature of the two.