LAST week my daughter asked me, "Dad, how many cigarettes do you have to smoke before you get hooked?"
Alarms blared. I glimpsed the flashing, neon script on the wall. I told her it wasn't a fixed number; it's a slippery slope and before one knows it they're addicted. I told her she shouldn't toy with smoking: It's a stupid habit, expensive, bad for your health, your skin, etc. Oh yes, I trotted out the whole litany of familiar negatives.
Of course this advice falls under the classic parenting technique of, "Do as I say not as I do."
Because I love to smoke. I've been a smoker for 20 years and I've no intention of quitting soon. When asked about stopping I aways say, "My mother didn't raise a quitter." I even recently took up pipe smoking, expanding my arsenal.
I feel strongly about smoker's rights, too, and I was outraged when they banned smoking from restaurants, then bars, in New York City. Indeed, I find this growing anti-libertarian trend in America abhorrent and one more reason, in an ever-increasing list, I'm glad to be living in Bulgaria where one can smoke damn near everywhere. (I recently saw an ashtray in a doctor's office. Yes, I imagine doctors performing brain surgery here with a cigarette dangling from their mouth and it's an image, I confess, I find perversely charming.)
So how can I forbid my daughter, Seana, to smoke? Well, I didn't forbid her smoking. I just strongly advised her against taking it up. My father did the same with me.
My father was a three-pack-a-day smoker. I remember helping him bundle his cigarette coupons. Chesterfield-yes he smoked "Chestys," no-filter-attached a coupon to each pack redeemable for steak knives, sweaters, and whatnot, a kind of proto-Joe Camel dollar. He had three garbage bags stuffed full of them. After bundling a few stacks of a hundred (no bigger then a matchbox when put together), I gave up. I don't remember what ever happened to those coupons, a record of his extraordinary proficiency as a smoker. Probably my old man lost out on a Corvette or, at least, the luxury golf cart.
I do remember his apartment was like a smoke aquarium. I remember my eyes stung from smoke when I stepped out of the shower. I remember I vowed never to start and I remember his lectures on how I shouldn't (similar in tone and language to my own with Seana and, probably, delivered with a cigarette in his hand). I remember, too, his resigned look when I finally did start, first lighting up in front of him at the age of 17. What could he say? His obvious hypocrisy made any words on the matter immaterial.
My wife was quick to point out my equal hypocrisy. My wife took up smoking when she was Seana's age, 14. She smokes like a fireman and, though she's never directly encouraged Seana to smoke, it doesn't present any problem for her if she does. She told me she's enamored with the idea of someday sitting down at a cafe with Seana, chatting woman to woman, as they both smoke. Fine, so I'm a hypocrite. Like father like son.
All parenting involves a certain amount of hypocrisy and it's most apparent when it comes to the "Three Kings" (smoking, drinking and the other ...king). Any adult worth sharing a table with has cultivated some vices over the years and, if they're parents, more often that not, they don't want their kid to adopt the same ones. How many compulsive gamblers or heroin addicts would encourage their kids to follow in their footsteps? Of course one can talk against habit X till they're blue in the face but, as the adage goes, what we do has far more impact on our kids than what we say.
This is not an advice column. I can't, in good faith, present any facile solutions to the hypocrisy-parent issue. Still, I think hiding your vices from your children is a mistake just as quitting them for your children is not the answer-unless of course they're seriously interfering with your ability to parent. I will only suggest the obvious, oft-repeated, thing. Keep your relationship with your teen as open as possible.
Our smoke aquarium is a very liberal household. We've always endeavored to be as candid as possible with Seana and, for now, she's open and comfortable talking about almost anything with us. True, it's not always easy to hear what's going on in her world-and it will surely get more ticklish as she steps up through her teens-but it's better than not knowing. I'm constantly reminded 14 is not only an arduous age but an impatient one, too. An awkward tension exists, then, between being a child and an adult. The colossal peer pressure aside, teens, on the cusp of what they imagine to be sweet autonomy, hurry to grasp at what they consider emblems of adulthood: Yes, the Three Kings-I suppose I should be grateful, for now, I'm writing this column about smoking and not certain other kings.
So far, it seems those alarm bells of last week were false ones. For now, my daughter doesn't smoke, beyond the few curiosity cigarettes with friends. If she decides to start, I won't punish her. No, I won't lock here in the closet with a pack of cigarettes, forcing her to smoke them all before she comes out. I won't even take away her allowance. I'll feel a little sad, a little disappointed, and I'll probably say something sharp and ironic. Then I'll see if there's room for me at that cafe table, to sit and talk over coffee and a cigarette.
Alarms blared. I glimpsed the flashing, neon script on the wall. I told her it wasn't a fixed number; it's a slippery slope and before one knows it they're addicted. I told her she shouldn't toy with smoking: It's a stupid habit, expensive, bad for your health, your skin, etc. Oh yes, I trotted out the whole litany of familiar negatives.
Of course this advice falls under the classic parenting technique of, "Do as I say not as I do."
Because I love to smoke. I've been a smoker for 20 years and I've no intention of quitting soon. When asked about stopping I aways say, "My mother didn't raise a quitter." I even recently took up pipe smoking, expanding my arsenal.
I feel strongly about smoker's rights, too, and I was outraged when they banned smoking from restaurants, then bars, in New York City. Indeed, I find this growing anti-libertarian trend in America abhorrent and one more reason, in an ever-increasing list, I'm glad to be living in Bulgaria where one can smoke damn near everywhere. (I recently saw an ashtray in a doctor's office. Yes, I imagine doctors performing brain surgery here with a cigarette dangling from their mouth and it's an image, I confess, I find perversely charming.)
So how can I forbid my daughter, Seana, to smoke? Well, I didn't forbid her smoking. I just strongly advised her against taking it up. My father did the same with me.
My father was a three-pack-a-day smoker. I remember helping him bundle his cigarette coupons. Chesterfield-yes he smoked "Chestys," no-filter-attached a coupon to each pack redeemable for steak knives, sweaters, and whatnot, a kind of proto-Joe Camel dollar. He had three garbage bags stuffed full of them. After bundling a few stacks of a hundred (no bigger then a matchbox when put together), I gave up. I don't remember what ever happened to those coupons, a record of his extraordinary proficiency as a smoker. Probably my old man lost out on a Corvette or, at least, the luxury golf cart.
I do remember his apartment was like a smoke aquarium. I remember my eyes stung from smoke when I stepped out of the shower. I remember I vowed never to start and I remember his lectures on how I shouldn't (similar in tone and language to my own with Seana and, probably, delivered with a cigarette in his hand). I remember, too, his resigned look when I finally did start, first lighting up in front of him at the age of 17. What could he say? His obvious hypocrisy made any words on the matter immaterial.
My wife was quick to point out my equal hypocrisy. My wife took up smoking when she was Seana's age, 14. She smokes like a fireman and, though she's never directly encouraged Seana to smoke, it doesn't present any problem for her if she does. She told me she's enamored with the idea of someday sitting down at a cafe with Seana, chatting woman to woman, as they both smoke. Fine, so I'm a hypocrite. Like father like son.
All parenting involves a certain amount of hypocrisy and it's most apparent when it comes to the "Three Kings" (smoking, drinking and the other ...king). Any adult worth sharing a table with has cultivated some vices over the years and, if they're parents, more often that not, they don't want their kid to adopt the same ones. How many compulsive gamblers or heroin addicts would encourage their kids to follow in their footsteps? Of course one can talk against habit X till they're blue in the face but, as the adage goes, what we do has far more impact on our kids than what we say.
This is not an advice column. I can't, in good faith, present any facile solutions to the hypocrisy-parent issue. Still, I think hiding your vices from your children is a mistake just as quitting them for your children is not the answer-unless of course they're seriously interfering with your ability to parent. I will only suggest the obvious, oft-repeated, thing. Keep your relationship with your teen as open as possible.
Our smoke aquarium is a very liberal household. We've always endeavored to be as candid as possible with Seana and, for now, she's open and comfortable talking about almost anything with us. True, it's not always easy to hear what's going on in her world-and it will surely get more ticklish as she steps up through her teens-but it's better than not knowing. I'm constantly reminded 14 is not only an arduous age but an impatient one, too. An awkward tension exists, then, between being a child and an adult. The colossal peer pressure aside, teens, on the cusp of what they imagine to be sweet autonomy, hurry to grasp at what they consider emblems of adulthood: Yes, the Three Kings-I suppose I should be grateful, for now, I'm writing this column about smoking and not certain other kings.
So far, it seems those alarm bells of last week were false ones. For now, my daughter doesn't smoke, beyond the few curiosity cigarettes with friends. If she decides to start, I won't punish her. No, I won't lock here in the closet with a pack of cigarettes, forcing her to smoke them all before she comes out. I won't even take away her allowance. I'll feel a little sad, a little disappointed, and I'll probably say something sharp and ironic. Then I'll see if there's room for me at that cafe table, to sit and talk over coffee and a cigarette.
