Backwards Hats
Traditions are like inside jokes - so much better when shared with people you love. Some traditions are passed down from family. You don’t really have a choice in the matter. No matter how much you protest, they are happening because the people responsible for keeping you alive say so. Whether they caused smiles or frowns, they became a part of your DNA.
The most obvious ones happened around holidays. Like the Christmas trip where you had to pile into a crowded bedroom and sleep with your snoring cousins. Sometimes traditions weren’t attached to a time of year. These were the little familiar rhythms and tics your family operated by. Where you sat when you watched shows together, or the bakery you visited every time they made that pumpkin bread in the fall. When you stop and think about it, there were a lot of patterns happening in your life that you were barely aware of.
One of my favorites from growing up was quite subtle. When I played basketball with my dad, the tradition was turning our hats backwards. My dad was one of those guys that wore a hat all the time. Like a uniform, it was always on. One of the only times I would see my dad without a hat was another one of those repeat events - Easter. That was fun, not only because my sisters and I would dress up, but I got to see my dad wear a shirt with buttons.
The way basketball went down was like this. I would ask my dad to play, or I would catch him out shooting and run to join. As soon as he got to the hoop, he would turn his hat backwards. This was the only time I ever saw this, so it became something special. Being a kid, I barely ever wore a hat. But I wanted to be just like my dad. So when he hit the court, I would run to my room, and grab my own hat just so I could turn it backwards. Twins, albeit very different sizes.
I remember a day when I couldn’t find my hat. I told my dad to wait, but he wanted to play. He told me to just come over and shoot, and not worry about the hat. As a completely rational response, I broke down and ran into the woods. I must have been around 9 or 10, so the extent of this new life in the wilderness only lasted a few minutes. When I walked back in the house, my dad met me with another hat. We went outside, flipped the brims, and started playing.
In retrospect, I now totally understand my dad’s initial reaction. This happens to me all the time now. My daughter wants to do something, so I fire up my initiative engine and report to her requested play place. But as soon as I get there, she thinks of twenty things she needs to gather before we can start. And she also needs an outfit change. I am of course tired, patience waning. So I gently suggest we start playing without all the hoopla. My daughter reacts with her own version of running away into the forest. Life is over, dad is a meany, and the tea party is ruined!
That’s one of the funny things about being a parent, when you can see both sides of a situation with equal clarity. You remember how you felt as a kid. The importance of certain things. The singularity of existence. Your world only consists of a few things, so when one of them is postponed or canceled, a huge part of you just vanishes.
As an adult, you have one thousand things on your mind at all times. Bills, report cards, work deadlines, strained relationships, leaky faucets, retirement stressing, mouths to feed, etc. When the prioritization of these things won’t allow you to focus on your child’s current activity, their world is crushed. But you know the truth - it actually doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. You don’t need a hat to play basketball. I’ve never spotted one in the NBA.
Knowing how it feels on both sides helps anchor your humanity. When you make a choice to forgo mowing the lawn this week in order to take your kid swimming, you are more engaged with your life. It helps you be present. That is one of the most valuable things to me in life - presence. Can I just be where I am? Can I just enjoy the company of people I love with a mind that isn’t elsewhere?
Some days this is easier than others. What I know is that traditions, both big and small, help me step away from a frazzled mind. They force me to watch my child with fully open eyes. Come to think of it, that in and of itself is a tradition my dad taught me without my noticing.
