Some men aspire to leave legacies, yet fail in building memories

From birth to death men are a disadvantaged lot in the area of building memories. We don’t have the facility for child incubation, the connectivity of the umbilical cord, and certainly not the mammary tools that have established bonds between mother and child.

Of course that in itself is no guarantee that women don’t have to work at building memories with their offspring, if that we’re the case we wouldn’t be reading or watching movies like Mommy Dearest.

My very good friend Tony decided to go on road trips with his family in an effort to build memories and enjoy life. Out of those trips came a "love letter" from a son to his father.

The letter expressed the youngest son’s frustration about being too young to earn a living so his almost "lolo" Dad could simply retire, how the bunso saw his father’s frustration at having a diminished capacity to earn more money. He wrote about the character he saw in his father that he only learned to appreciate during the road trips and best of all, how he so much want to be just like his Dad.

Our initial reaction to such a letter is heartfelt warmth, the emotional tingle, and parental pride. But try to step back and "analyze" this picture for all the hidden lessons.

My friend Tony is in his late fifties, maybe even early sixties. Hard to tell since the guy is as strong as an ox but blessed with a mane of white hair that adds depth to his wisdom. (Did you know that in Europe people, specially women, like men with white hair?) His children are all grown up enough to proclaim independence. A couple of them are married.

For many that would be the goal, get the kids married off, retire and be happy. As if the whole point to having kids was to enjoy them as toddlers the same way we enjoy puppies and when they’re no longer "cute", just get on with the business of raising them and making them useful.

I noticed that parents who transitioned from treating their kids from "cute" to "grown-up" have more than better relationships. To begin with, drop the "kids" term. They are your children, not offspring of a goat. Call them by the name you gave them, not by some silly nickname Filipinos create.

A child’s name is part of his or her destiny. A title, a declaration of a destiny or character we desire for our children. Nicknames may be cute but it dilutes or diminishes the very first title we receive in life.

The day our daughter declared she was no longer a baby or a little girl was the day she was treated as a grown-up at five years old. If she was expected to follow rules then she was entitled to an explanation.

From time to time we have terms of endearment for her but only when she’s endearing. Otherwise she is called Hannah.

Tony’s bunso was not oblivious to his father’s frustration, mortality, and angst. Neither was my daughter who once told her mom: "I wish Papa didn’t have to work so hard so he wouldn’t be so tired all the time". We always say they’re too young to understand, but they do. We’re just too "old" to listen.

Now back to Tony, road trips and letters.

One morning, you wake up and you realize the monotone hairstyle has turned two tone. For some there’s no hairstyle to talk about. The once smooth skin can now be part of your kid’s science projects on wave and ripple effects. Your breakfast is now two-part: one part edible, one part hospital. Your age is now the US speed limit.

And so you embark on building memories with the family. This is something the laborer/worker ant parent can’t comprehend.

I once asked a regional director: If he died, what would be his net worth? We figured it would be around P300 million. Take away inheritance tax, lawyer’s fees, accountant’s fees, and his wife would end up with 90 million, while each of his three kids would get 30 million plus or minus.

Throw in a gigolo, a couple of bad investments, a few bad habits, or maybe another Asian crisis. How difficult would it be to lose 300 million.

Ask anyone who’s gone through death and inheritance and you’ll quickly learn how valuable photographs, letters and intangible things like memories can be. Like a good education, good memories help us become better people.

Same as an education, you have to work at building memories. Anthony Pangilinan who represents John Maxwell Training Program taught me a very good strategy.

While we were giving a seminar series down south, Cebu I think, I noticed he had his six-year old daughter with him, but not his wife Maricel or even a yaya. I suggested that he was going to be in for a juggling act between work and watching his daughter.

Anthony agreed but I pointed out that it was a minor difficulty compared to the wonderful opportunity to build memories. On this trip, his daughter did not have to compete with other siblings for dad’s attention.

Having your child on the trip also prevents unwanted company or unhealthy activity, it also meant that Maricel would have one less to worry about and maybe a few hours more to do things she wanted.

Since that eye opening lesson from Anthony, I try my best to include my wife and daughter on such trips. I also factor in related activity to the itinerary like staying at a resort instead of a hotel, going to a theme park or half a day at the beach, or a trip to a zoo or an aquarium park.

Just a minor inconvenience. Even if it cost a little more than you were planning on, remember you’re building memories, not spending money.

Going back to Tony and the "love letter", parents love to talk about their children’s expression of love. How memorable, how great, etc.

Just the other night I got a text from a widowed friend asking if I could write a letter to her daughter on behalf of her dead father.

Ever since I learned to read, I remember opening a small Chinese camphor box, full of love letters my Dad had written to my Mother Marita. They expressed love, poetry, quotes from classic literature.

I never needed a camphor box for my dad’s letters to me. I only got two, both "xeroxed" as part of our inheritance. The weird part is they’re love letters complaining about how hard his life was and how the boys (it’s always the boys’ fault, never the girls’!) carelessly wrecked or ruined his car or his power tools.

On a good day, I smile knowing he loved us, wanted us to have things he never had as a child and how he wanted to instill in us an appreciation for hard earned things. On a bad day I do my monologue with him and point out the fact that I got two love letters and all he did was bitch.

If you’re going to write love letters or bitch letters, please consider the possibility that these may be the only things that you’ll really leave behind. Will they be read over and over again and bring joy and a feeling of being loved, or will your letters be an eternal testament to what a pain in the butt you were.

Dad always had a weird way of expressing his love, but the point I’m making is he was a journalist and a very good photographer. You’d think he could have at least written each of us a letter for every 58 years he lived, or left behind tons of pictures and negatives, but he didn’t.

Neither did my friend’s husband who asked me to be the surrogate letter writer to her daughter. Please go build your memories, don’t ask someone else.