Somewhere in the Middle

Morning friend.

There is a sourdough loaf in the oven. That means it’s Saturday.

My youngest son is still asleep upstairs in a new bed that took considerably longer to build than the instructions suggested it should.

This was mainly because he takes approximately six working days to tighten a bolt and possesses an extraordinary ability to lose whichever Allen key we need while still sitting in exactly the same place.

We finished it late last night.

I'd already worked another long day and, if I'm honest, all I really wanted to do was sit down.

But the thought of him waking up in his new bed this morning was stronger than the pull of the sofa.

So we built it together.

There won't be many more nights like that.

I know that.

His older brother isn't here.

He's at Leeds Festival with his friends.

A few days ago I tried to help him pack.

This should have been a fairly straightforward exchange.

I've packed a few rucksacks in my life. Usually with ammo rather than Pot Noodles, but the principle is much the same.

Apparently this experience was neither requested nor particularly welcome.

He wanted to do it himself.

I thought I was helping.

He thought I was interfering.

Neither of us handled the gap between those two positions particularly well.

It ended in an argument.

His actions and refusal to engage in the moment hurt me.

Not because my son wants independence.

That's exactly what Sara and I have spent sixteen years trying to give him.

But independence and disrespect aren't the same thing.

And being his dad doesn't suddenly make me immune from being hurt by him.

So he left for the festival with something unresolved between us.

Yesterday he posted a video in our family group chat (ironically, and deliberately titled ‘Team Bates’).

He was in the middle of a crowd watching Kasabian.

Dancing.

Singing.

Completely lost in it.

His caption said it was the best thing he'd ever seen in his life.

For a moment I considered doing nothing.

He still owed me an apology.

Part of me wanted him to know that.

But another part of me knew something more important.

I wanted my son, standing somewhere in a field miles away from me, to know that I was thinking about him.

So I replied.

Nothing dramatic.

Just something loving - and the fact that, apart from Gary Lineker, Kasabian are the best thing to come out of Leicester. The football reference was perhaps a subconscious attempt to get back in his good books.

The argument hadn't disappeared.

The boundary hadn't moved.

I hadn't suddenly decided that what happened didn't matter.

I just didn't want my love for him to become conditional on us agreeing first.

I've been thinking about that a lot since.

For reasons far removed from parenting.

Yesterday afternoon I was reading documents connected to a legal fight that has been running through my life for a long time.

I found it difficult.

I read somebody else's description of me, my actions and my intentions and barely recognised the person they were depicting on the page.

There were moments when I felt angry.

Others, when I wondered how we could possibly prevail when the state, with all of its weight and resources, is arguing from the other end.

My solicitor said something simple.

Our argument is at the other end.

The truth often sits somewhere in the middle.

It stayed with me.

Because perhaps relationships sometimes work like that too.

Not because every disagreement has two equally valid sides.

It doesn't.

Not because truth is always the mathematical halfway point between two opposing positions.

It isn't.

But because we have a tendency, particularly when we're hurt, to retreat towards the edges.

I'm right.

You're wrong.

You started it.

You owe me.

You should understand.

I shouldn't have to.

The edges are surprisingly comfortable places to stand.

Everything looks clear from there, with our backs against the wall.

The middle is harder.

The middle asks us to hold two things at once.

My son behaved in a way I didn't like.

And I love him completely.

He needs to learn that his actions have consequences.

And I need to learn that sometimes the boy I have spent years preparing to stand on his own feet will actually insist on standing on them.

I can be hurt.

And still reach towards him.

He can be wrong.

And still be my boy.

That matters most when pride gets involved.

When somebody disappoints us.

When we misunderstand one another.

When we are both convinced we are standing in the right place.

I spent a significant part of my old career dealing with extremism.

With people whose worldview had become so absolute that there was no space left for another interpretation.

Life, and parenting young men, has taught me something different since.

The important path is often narrower.

Somewhere between holding the line and reaching out.

Between independence and connection.

Between being right and staying close.

Between protecting ourselves and keeping the door open.

I don't always find that path.

Sometimes I stand stubbornly at one end and wait for somebody else to walk towards me.

I'm getting better at noticing when I do.

Perhaps that's part of getting older.

Or being a husband.

Or raising children who need you slightly less every year.

Last night one of my sons was hundreds of metres deep into a crowd somewhere listening to Kasabian without me.

The other was sitting on his bedroom floor beside me trying to work out where he'd put the Allen key.

Two boys.

Two different distances from needing their dad.

Both still needing him.

Just differently.

And maybe that's the lesson I'm learning.

Love isn't always agreement.

It isn't surrender either.

Sometimes it is simply refusing to retreat so far towards your own end that you can no longer see the person standing at the other one.

Let's take a moment to debrief together:

Is there someone important to you where you've both retreated towards opposite ends?

And if there is, what matters more right now: winning the argument or finding a way back towards each other?

Your mission this week (if you choose to accept it):

Make one small move towards the middle.

Not because you were necessarily wrong.

Not because what happened doesn't matter.

Just because the relationship does.

That's enough for now.

More next Sunday.

Mike

Hold the Line · Do the Hard Things