On Jul 7, 2010, at 5:59 PM, William T Goodall wrote:
[Re: Dave]
I think, from conversations and emails, that you and I
are closer in fundamental values, even when we differ from time to
time on
how best to achieve goals we mutually agree upon.
That's cruel. Dave doesn't deserve to tainted with your poisonous
agenda.
Thanks, William, but I am aligned with many parts of Dan's
"agenda" (as you
call it), and if I need to defend myself, I'll do it myself. I think
you've
seen me do so in the past. You and I have not always seen eye to eye, so
your coming to my aid seems a bit off-kilter, perhaps even disingenuous?
Not so much meant to support me as to take a dig at Dan.
Anyway, I had time to read the full NYMag article this evening, and the
author is very aware of the fact that it's not a simple matter of
"pleasurable activities" vs. parenting:
"I think this boils down to a philosophical question, rather
than a psychological one," says Gilovich. "Should you value
moment-to-moment happiness more than retrospective evaluations
of your life?" He says he has no answer for this, but the
example he offers suggests a bias. He recalls watching TV with
his children at three in the morning when they were sick. "I
wouldn't have said it was too fun at the time," he says. "But
now I look back on it and say, 'Ah, remember the time we used to
wake up and watch cartoons?'" The very things that in the moment
dampen our moods can later be sources of intense gratification,
nostalgia, delight.
It's a lovely magic trick of the memory, this gilding of hard
times. Perhaps it's just the necessary alchemy we need to keep
the species going. But for parents, this sleight of the mind and
spell on the heart is the very definition of enchantment.
Having a child diagnosed with brain cancer, watching him recover from
the
surgery and each round of brutal chemotherapy, then seeing him die is no
one's idea of "moment-to-moment happiness", but it forged a bond between
my wife and me that is far stronger than the silly hearts-and-flowers
bullshit that advertises itself as love.
Not so very long after Kevin's death — about the time, in fact, that it
takes for a child to gestate — Peggy and I decided to have a child
again, knowing how badly wrong it can go. That child is now 13 years
old, and while there's no pleasure in fighting him about brushing his
teeth or cleaning his room or washing his hair or doing his homework,
the reward — which I cannot quantify any better than the Cornell
psychologist quoted above — is worth far more than any Rockwellian
"goin' down t' the fishin' hole" portrait of fatherhood.
Dave
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