Kicking Trees: An Introvert on Parenting An Introvert

My mom dropped me off early for first grade, like she always did. The other early-arriving kids scampered across the vast asphalt playground. Most gathered around the hoop of swinging rings, like they always did. I walked slowly toward The Rings, took a long look, and retreated to a grassy patch of trees. Alone, I kicked the trees. Like I always did.

My mom followed me in her minivan one day. Like any parent whose kid starts at a new school, she was curious about what I did after the drop-off. Kicking trees by myself was not what she wanted to see — poor little guy. I spotted her and, startled, offered a feeble wave. A little embarrassed, she waved back and sped off.

I was embarrassed too. What a loser! She caught me in the midst of my tree-kicking routine. I knew I was supposed to play with the other kids. Everyone lined up to take their turn on The Rings. Everybody who was anybody did The Rings. But not me. I wanted to kick the trees. I’d make stories up in my head as I wandered around in the shade. Most of all, I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone out there. I didn’t feel sad or lonely. I was happy and safe. Sure, there was a twinge of guilt, a gnawing feeling that I should want to play with the other kids. I didn’t really want to be the weird, tree-kicking kid. But being out there with nothing but my thoughts was natural. Out there, I was free from the pressure to perform on The Rings without falling, and free from the eyes of all those classmates staring at me. As a first grader, I was ok with that, even if it was a little weird.

Shy, Like His Dad

I don’t kick trees anymore, but I’m still the same kid with the same social tendencies. I’ve worked through being labeled “quiet” or “shy” for decades. Thankfully, I don’t think of myself as being weird anymore. Now I’m unique. Special. A proud, one-of-a-kind individual. But I’ve had plenty of discomfort on my road to self-confidence, and plenty of replays of The First Grade Ring Saga to work through along the way. This summer, I started having flashbacks to The Rings and tree-kicking when my oldest son started acting in all too familiar ways. He’s a little shy, just like his old man. And like my mom 30+ years ago, I started to worry about him.

I first realized he might be a tree-kicker when we attended our friend’s daughter’s first birthday party. As we approached a group of people social-distance-partying in the front yard, I felt a tug on my pant leg. “Daddy, please pick me up.”

It was R, my two-year-old. Weird. He knew most of the people at the party. In the car, he jabbered on and on about how excited he was to celebrate the baby’s birthday. He talked about it all day. On typical days out in public, he surprised strangers on the street with clear, full sentences. He’d always been an independent, talkative kid. When Beast Wife or I left him with a babysitter, he never cried. But this time, for some reason, he buried his face into my leg. He avoided eye contact, even with people he’d met many times before. He ran away from the crawling birthday girl in terror. He begged me to pick him up again and again. I shrugged it off, chalking it up to the pandemic, the lack of interaction outside the house, the unnatural hype of the birthday party, or maybe just a clingy phase.

But it happened again a few weeks later, and it was getting worse. This time, at another front-yard pandemic party, R openly resisted. He screamed his refusal from the car seat, desperate tears welling up in his eyes. He anchored himself to the sidewalk as our friends peered at us across the street, wondering what was going on. He tried to run away again, sprinting down the sidewalk in a foreign neighborhood. I chased him down and carried his 30lb frame across the street. I held him for ten minutes, pointing out people he knew in the crowd. After bribing him with a cupcake, he finally warmed up and started acting like himself.

I sighed. It’s only a matter of time before I catch him kicking trees. Poor little guy.

I wasn’t too surprised. Beast Wife and I had a feeling that R’s demeanor would end up like mine. Evidence from the past two years popped up with newfound clarity. There was that Christmas Eve party, when R squeezed his way through a crowd of 50 relatives to find me and, looking up longingly said, “Daddy, may I please go home?” (We’d been there 20 minutes). There was that time we put him in the swings at a park in Ojai. R smiled and laughed, a vivid memory only because R rarely smiled and never laughed! There were his daily naps when he’d just lay there in his crib, clearly awake, talking to himself, making up stories, and singing songs, with no intention of calling for us to come get him. As we watch his younger brother, K, grow up, we can’t help but notice how different they are. K smiles at anything with a face. He laughs frequently and easily. He doesn’t like to be alone. He’s a people person.

R is not.

This worried Beast Wife. Her world was full of invigorating social interactions, big family gatherings, and friends for miles. She wanted her son to dive into that world with her. Instead, she cringed at how that world would look to him, a sad little kid, filled with anxiety and stress in the places where she found the most joy. It’s an extrovert’s world out there, and Beast Wife fits in perfectly. Her oldest son might not.

I was less worried. After all, I’ve turned out ok. A kicker of trees can survive in this world. Beast Wife was right, though: it won’t be easy for him. It wasn’t easy for me. Instead of worry, I felt guilt. It’s my fault. I’ve passed down my most awkward genes to my innocent son. Poor little guy. Worse, maybe it’s not my awkward nature, it’s my awkward nurture! As the stay-at-home dad, I’ve spent hours with him setting an awkward example. Surely he can tell that I avoid engaging with other parents at the park. Maybe he mimics my body language at parties and large family functions (my sons have been known to mimic my “body language”). He must notice my change in countenance when Beast Wife suggests we ruin a weekend of solitude by actually seeing other people. Maybe he can see through the pandemic smoke screen I use to nix play dates and public appearances from our calendar. I’m that tree-kicking kid again, and I’m thinking about all my friends on The Rings off in the distance. “I’m supposed to be over there. But I’m not. And now I’m bringing my son down with me.”

I can relate to this article written by another introvert struggling with his perceived impact on an introverted son. His conclusion is that parenting encourages deep, personal introspection in service of guiding your kids the right way. While focusing on R’s personality and how to properly socialize him, I’m forced to also re-think my path from tree-kicking weird kid to… brooding, anti-social adult? Uh oh.

“Brooding, anti-social adult” is an exaggeration, but it did take some work for me to understand, to accept, and to take pride in my personality. I have Susan Cain’s bestselling book Quiet to thank for pointing me in the right direction. I have yet to read a more validating or relatable piece of writing. I inhaled the pages and pages describing people that sounded so much like me. I wasn’t the only one who’s been told he needs to speak up, to talk more, or to talk louder. “About what?” I used to think, my mind suddenly blank. I wasn’t the the only one who’s been told I needed to “break out of my shell” like I’m some awkward baby chick. I wasn’t the only one who sometimes grew anxious about team environments or group projects that everyone else seemed to look forward to. Even as an adult, I’m not the only one who dreads mingling at parties, unstructured group discussions in meetings, or the “around-the-room” updates common in so many staff meetings where each person is expected to say something smart, one by one. Cain’s book helped me to see my personality as a source of untapped strength, rather than as something I needed to change.

Still, she asserted that we live in a world that values extroverted characteristics. And if someone like me wanted to be heard or wanted to contribute my strengths to the world, I’d have to act like an extrovert sometimes. Quiet helped me identify ways to do that, leading me to develop confidence as a well-adjusted, self-aware, not-brooding-all-the-time, reasonably social, introvert. For example, I’ve discovered that I’m more comfortable in social situations when I have a role to play. I like to host the parties. I want to run the meetings. I try to avoid the “around-the-room” part of the staff meetings if I can (you know, like by becoming a stay-at-home dad), or at least I’ll prepare something smart to say ahead of time. I’ve learned that I don’t have to be the loudest in the room to be a leader or to build trust with people. R will have to learn this too. And, lucky for him, his dad may be the perfectly awkward example he needs most.

Don’t Call Me Shy

As with any parenting topic, there are endless stacks of reading I could do to prepare myself for this challenge. I want to help R get to a place where he takes pride in his unique self, even if the world doesn’t recognize it. I started by re-reading Chapter 11 of Quiet, which discusses parenting a quiet kid. Kid-less me certainly skimmed this chapter when I read it the first time. But this time, with an introverted kid under my wing, I was enthralled. One paragraph in particular hit me hard:

“If you want your child to learn these skills, don’t let her hear you call her ‘shy’: she’ll believe the label and experience her nervousness as a fixed trait rather than an emotion she can control. She also knows full well that ‘shy’ is a negative word in our society. Above all, do not shame her for her shyness.”

Susan Cain. Quiet (Crown Publishers, 2012), 249.

Crap. At that birthday party, with R wrapped around my leg in fear, I felt a need to explain. He’s so talkative and engaging at home. Everyone’s looking at him (at us!) and wondering what’s wrong. I stumbled over my words, because I didn’t want to use the s-word. I’d been called that so many times as a kid, and it never felt good. Still, I was under pressure, in an uncomfortable environment (mingling at a party!!!), and couldn’t think of another way to say it. “He’s a little shy,” I said. I cringed.

The first step I’ll take to parent R better is to get rid of that word. From this day forward, I will no longer use the word “shy” (unless I’m playing Mario Kart). Quiet suggested saying “That’s his style” instead, a much more badass way to describe behavior that feels far from badass. “That’s his style” also gives him some ownership over the way his personality may awkwardly manifest itself. So that’s what I’ll say the next time he’s begging to be picked up at a party, hiding behind me, or, in his most recent manifestation of anxiety around our neighborhood, sprinting inside the house, slamming, and locking the door. “That’s his style. Now please excuse me while I climb through our window.”

The second step I’ll take is to share my struggles with him. If it is true that his personality is trending toward introversion, I’m more excited than worried. Actually, I’m fired up. Believe it or not, this is an area of parenting where I’m well-equipped for a change! Here’s my chance to connect with my son on a deep, personal level, and to show him true empathy, built on decades of feeling awkward and misunderstood (an introvert’s bread and butter). Here’s my chance to defend who he is, armed with the tools and the words I wish I had to defend myself when I was his age. Woe to that teacher or coach who tells him to break out of his shell! Beware the awkward wrath of a Tree-Kicking Dad, all you well-meaning extroverts! Also, here’s my chance to push him in the right ways, at the right speeds, so that he can thrive in the World of Extroverts. My parents were great at this. They knew I struggled socially, so I never recall them pushing me too hard. But they did push me. I still remember my dad forcing me to approach an old baseball coach of mine at the batting cages one day. I had to initiate contact, and I had to shake his hand. My dad might as well have told me, “Listen son, just act like you’re an extrovert this one time. It won’t change who you are. But it’ll change how people think about you, in a small, positive way.” Some day, I’ll give R that same challenge. We’ll laugh about how easy it is to fool those silly, vain extroverts.

Then, exhausted, we’ll each go kick a tree for awhile.

Featured image is a derivative of “Person In Black Hoodie Riding Swing While Raining” by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com.