See these shoes? Walk in 'em.

There was this kid that was kinda in my circle in high school, Steve Noxon. Blonde, natural athlete, well-off family, moderate academic success, the most conceited, self-important Aryan I ever met. We mocked him constantly behind his back, but likely all would have been willing to be him (as long as the douchebagness wasn’t an essential part of the package).

Steve’s birthday was early enough in the year that he was able to take Driver’s Ed during the second semester of sophomore year, and had his license at least six months ahead of me.

So, one night, after I’ve had my license maybe a month or so, Steve is in my car during the endless circling of the satellite suburbs looking for non-existent parties that passed for our Friday nights, and he’s talking about driving, because he noticed that I used two hands to turn.

“When you’ve been driving long enough, you’ll start turning with one hand. Trust me. Trust me.” (And, yes, he did say it twice – on this my memory is crystal clear.)

My car at the time? A 1980 Chevy Citation with rotting floorboards and no power steering. Not just regular non-powered steering like my current beloved Escort Pony, but what had been power steering and no longer worked.

I tried to explain this to Noxon, that spindly-armed distance runner that I was I couldn’t reliably turn the wheel with one hand. Wasn’t feasible. Not a matter of experience but the reality of a shitty car. He kept slowly shaking his head, eyes closed, repeating his mantra, emphasis on the first word, “Trust me. Trust me.”

He was absolutely sure that his experience afforded him an insight I simply could not understand. I bristled against it then, and every other time I encountered that notion, in situations of far greater import than some Stepford son’s assessment of my driving. All variations on a set of themes – you can only understand when you are older/wiser/more experienced. I hated that, always wanted to believe that I could bridge those gaps through intellect.

That belief may well define being young.

But, here’s the thing. The experience thing? It’s true. Often. Like, all the time. Some things you can only understand in the doing. Like having kids. You can’t understand having a child until you do, every parallel, every analogy you try to draw that shows you do in fact understand comes up short.

Makes you angry to hear it if you don’t have kids, and nod knowingly if you do. That’s just the way of these things.

I’m thinking about this because of the anti-spanking law introduced into the California legislature. BY A WOMAN THAT DOES NOT HAVE CHILDREN. Obviously, I think that point important.

Granted, the law itself isn’t terribly heinous (but the early ones never are, are they, you slippery, slippery slope). It makes punishable, up to a felony, corporal punishment of any child under three. Even most spanking advocates acknowledge that corporal punishment isn’t effective, and is likely harmful, for kids under three.

But, the very idea of the law galls me, because I feel an incursion here, one which is all the more infuriating because it is being launched by a woman who has not walked in my shoes. I don’t spank, but that is my choice. On one level, it only holds meaning because it is a choice. The galling part, though, is that this woman believes she has the insight to legislate a relationship she hasn’t had.

And, I don’t think this intrusion into parenting is limited to this incident. As this Salon writer so accurately points out, there is a great deal of public anxiety being a parent today. I feel it all the time, perhaps more acutely because I am a stay-home-daddy and therefore stick out, invite observation and critique. I raise my voice, even a little, to Olivia in a public face, and I can feel the stares, and I know it isn’t the other parents that are, in that moment, the most judgmental. Strangers have felt somehow both allowed and compelled to give me parenting advice numerous times, none of it welcome, and more than once from people that admitted they don't have kids themselves. Yet, they, liken this woman, feel a need and a right to decide what good parenting is, where the lines should be drawn.

And, let me be absolutely clear here, WITHOUT PUTTING UP WITH AND SURVIVING THROUGH ALL THE SHIT PARENTING THROWS AT YOU.

Where does the rationale for this law lead next? Will there be an anti-cavity law, so I can fear even more that Dum-Dum Livvie begged me for, and eventually cleaned her room to earn? How about psychological health standards that set tone, pitch and volume standards for verbal discipline? Maybe I could just outsource discipline to a consultant familiar with community standards?

Look, I accept the public interest in the health and well-being of every child, but I’d like to see that feeling exercised in better funding for schools and outreach to at-risk youth. But, that isn’t the way we play it these days, because that involves giving, making an investment with only a hope of return. Much easier to say the problem and solution lies with people whose lives you’ve never lived.

Fund and empower CPS. Encourage open dialogue about how best to meet kids’ needs. Be willing to extend yourself, agree to fund schools and outreach to at-risk youth, because while the return on investment can’t be guaranteed, we all benefit from a society that produces healthy children. Help parents as a whole, but for the love of all that is good and holy allow them autonomy in dealing with their own children.

If we actually love all kids the way parents love their own instead of blustering and trying to legislate good parenting, we’ll be better equipped to find and save those kids that really need our protection.

In related news, Salon, whose reporting I usually love, has broken the startling news that the Ashley Treatment is controversial, thus allowing numerous medical experts who have never met Ashley or her parents the chance to see their names in print condemning said parents as appalling mutilators. Well done, Slate. Good to see progressive media is still cannibalistic media.