I Care Too Much

I recently attended a video conference at work aimed at new hires hosted by the U.S. Ambassador to Slovenia, Joseph A. Mussomeli. Other employees like me had emailed in random questions for the ambassador to answer. Do you have any tips on how to deal with a difficult supervisor? Do you have any tips on writing a good performance review? Blah blah. Etc. (I try not to pay too much attention to questions like these, because a) I don’t think I would have gotten to where I am now not knowing the answer to questions like these and b) if I haven’t figured it out by now, I’m never going to.) Someone asked the ambassador if he had any tips on interacting with superiors or with subordinates. Ambassador Mussomeli admitted that he when he started supervising others he was not good at it. Though, at the same time, he realized it was not because he faulted the ability or desire to lead or mentor. He was a good father and he was good at leading and mentoring his own children.

So what was the difference?

Caring.

He cared….loves, probably more apt…his children and did not feel the same way about his subordinates. So, on a conscious level, he realized he had to ‘care’ about his subordinates in order to better lead and mentor them. It is sad that he had to come to this realization in order to learn to be a better supervisor. Though impressive that, even at a high level of the organization, he recognized one of his failings and sought to actively improve upon it. So, as he told himself, if he loved and cared for those working for them with the same level of respect and admiration than he had for his own children, he would become a better mentor to them and leader of them. This is, in fact, exactly what happened, as many will attest to, including some—but it was suggested during the video conference, not all—in Ljubljana.

I think of myself as an incredibly laid-back, hard to stress out person. I think this has changed somewhat after becoming a father. I find myself losing my temper more quickly and in situations in which I know, pre-fatherhood, I would never have been so uptight (although one or two longeneckes helps a lot).

For a long time, I attributed this to lack of sleep. As many of you know, Peter only recently…like this week…sleeps all the way from the time we put him down to sleep around 8:00 until 6:00 in the morning. Prior to that he had this habit—perpetuated by my extremely low tolerance for hearing my boy cry (said tolerance further lowered by lack of sleep)—of getting up at 5:00 in the morning for a sip of milk which in my bleary-eyed quasi-slumber I was only too happy to grant him if it meant he would sleep another 30 minutes or hour. This lack of sleep was further compounded by the fact that since Sam has been in a big boy bed for most of the last year, he pays his parents occasional visits in the middle of the night. This didn’t use to be a big problem for me, because he used to always seek entry into our bed via his mother’s side, which got me off the hook for having to decide whether or not to grant him passage. Nowadays, for whatever reason, he’s started sneaking in on my side…maybe because my side of the bed is closer to the door and, thusly, his room…maybe because he figured out that I’m the one who will usually grant him passage either because I’m the softy or I’m too tired to argue (whereas the other gatekeeper started turning him away)…who knows…?

But I know I can’t blame it all on lack of sleep, because as tired as I might feel in the morning, I still get 6 or 7 good hours of sleep which any sleep deprivation research institute will probably tell you is sufficient. I now believe the problem is I care too much.

I care too much how Sam behaves because I want him to grow up to be the best little boy and most respectful and thoughtful young man he can be. I care because I want him and his little brother to get along like Elise and her brothers do and like my brothers and I wish we did. I care because I don’t want him to wallop on his little brother, kick him, head butt him, push him over or take trains or Matchbox cars from him. I care because I want him to listen to me. Not because I am on a power trip or feel the need to control him, but because I have important (and not so important) things to show and tell him. I am realizing that I don’t think I would get so mad if I didn’t care. Sometimes, I just want him to listen to me. It doesn’t matter what I’m saying.

Elise has called me on it on many occasions as we are trying to implement a consistent system of ‘managing’ Sam’s energy, energy that is akin to that produced by a small star going supernova, the turbines on a jet fighter, nuclear fission or a pack of wild mustangs. She has a calm and predicative system of escalating warnings (much like the Defcom 1 countdown in “War Games” or the color-coded terrorist warnings announced over airport intercoms) followed by measured counting. She tells me I act like everything is hunky-dory, until I suddenly fly off the handle and start throwing things (including select epithets) like an Olympic shotputter. So, when I found myself in the later frame of mind, I try making a conscious decision to either implement the measured counting or walk from the room. I’ve been walking from the room a lot lately.

When all is said and done, I would rather care too much than care too little. I knew it was going to be hard work being a parent. I think a lot of people think the bulk of the work occurs in the first three years with washing bottles, changing diapers, sharing sleepless nights. I think that is what I thought. But I would argue that this is only the tip of the iceberg, that the real parental lifting starts at three. This is go-time. This is when what you say and do really matters. This is when he will look at what I do and how I react in certain situations and possibly mold his future actions and reactions to mimic mine. Which is scary to think.

That being said, there is one characteristic that I know he already has from Elise and I…he cares too much and feels too deeply. These aren’t bad things.