Everything
is measured by results these days. Conventional wisdom knows: fair play is overrated;
skill and effort are too subjective; and excuses exist only in the realm of
whiny losers. Just give us results.
Few
will admit that the end justifies the means until the end looks so good. Cheating
on the front end (deflating the football or hacking into opponent’s computers)
is cool when championship rings adorn several fingers. Cheating on the tail end (e.g. twisting the
measures) is justified as marketing. Data
driven decisions tout results but too often are based on a shallow review of
the data or downright unreliable and misleading stats. Even when everything is on the up-and-up,
results are still skewed by the powerful phenomenon of pure luck.
This
past week, I spent time with my three grown children at my home, at my
daughter’s home and via skype. If my
children are the “results” by which my parenting is measured, one could argue
that I am the greatest father of all time. My kids are awesome. Am I bragging?
You’re d@*n right. My kids are the
greatest, and if you don’t believe it, just ask me.
Amazed
by their overwhelming awesomeness, I began contemplating how my feeble parenting skills produced
such undeniably positive results. The
answer, of course, is luck. Parenting is
the hardest job on Earth. If you think
you’re an expert, just wait until you actually have children. Then, you’ll be on your knees like the rest
of us, praying and hoping they turn out all right.
There
are some gruesomely terrible parents out there, and I suppose there are some
can’t-miss, blue-chip parents. But for most of us, we struggle to do the best
we can and hope for some luck.
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