I feel confident that those gathered were in two distinct camps: Those who thought a father was abandoning his young son and those with children.
It all started last weekend, when my wife and daughter skipped town. (Day at the track or whiskey run. Can’t really recall.) Anyhow, The Dude and I would be batching it for the weekend, which meant it was time for us just to hang out. It was the first time in about a year that just the two of us had the run of the house. One morning, we decided it would be a cool thing to head out to Hopelands Gardens and feed the ducks. At least, that was my suggestion to Parker. Parker is a major league contrarian right now, so he firmly stated that we were NOT going to feed the ducks, but rather the fish and turtles. Very well, I thought. You take it up with the ducks when they eat your turtle/fish food.
As anyone who has (or has had) a 3-year-old knows, you get to this point where whatever you say, he will say the opposite. We have these sorts of riveting conversations:
ME: Parker, do you want oatmeal?
PARKER: No. Dog.
ME: You want a dog for breakfast?
PARKER: Yes.
ME: We don’t eat dogs.
PARKER: YES WE DOOOOOOO!!!!!!
When he can’t convince you that we do, in fact, eat dogs for breakfast, he launches into the Why? campaign.
ME: Parker, you know we have oatmeal for breakfast.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because that’s what we bought.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because that’s what you picked out at the grocery store.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because … you decided on that.
PARKER: Why?
ME: I HAVE NO CLUE!!! Eat your oatmeal!!!
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because you’ll starve otherwise.
PARKER: Why?
Eventually, you just start giving nonsensical answers to distract/confuse him long enough to get through breakfast.
ME: Come on, man. Eat.
PARKER: Why?
ME: Because, last time there was a meteor shower, two tigers were found with oatmeal, and that means you have to eat it or you can’t go to the zoo again.
PARKER: Uh….
So we headed out to the pond (stuffed fully with oatmeal), bag of bread in hand. It’s always entertaining to me when kids feed animals at ponds. For one thing, they take it very personally if a turtle opts not to eat the bread offered up, as though it is somehow a personal affront to the child. “Daddy - he won’t take it!!!!” Apparently, as a father, my role is to wade into the water and force a turtle to eat bread.
So after about an hour and a loaf of bread, I decided it was time to head home. We made our way back to the car, and about halfway there, Parker decided that, in fact, it was NOT time to go home. He stopped dead in his tracks, digging his feet into the ground and producing the kind of resistance normally reserved for one of those pickup truck commercials that shows you its towing moxie. He made it clear that he needed to see the ducks again.
At that point is when I made my pronouncement. “Fine. Go see the ducks. I’m going home.”
After about two steps toward the car, Parker screamed at the top of his lungs, “DADDY DON’T LEAVE ME!!!!!” and began sprinting my way.
Now, you nonparents out there (and in particular those at Hopelands that day), surely thought I was the worst parent on the planet, preying on my child’s fears of abandonment. You, however, would be wrong.
I was simply engaged in a game of behavioral chess with my son. He knows I am not going to leave him. He was making his stubborn show, and I was countering with the checkmate parenting move of calling his bluff. Had he turned and made a beeline to the ducks, yes, I would have retrieved him. But when it comes down to a showdown of stubbornness, son, let me tell you - I’ve seen stubborn, and you’ve only scratched the surface.
He fussed for a minute, but after I got him in the car, he knew he had been bested. It’s hard to be 3 at times, so as a parent I have to know how to handle situations like this. Once he calmed down, I praised him for getting himself composed. “You’re doing great, son,” I told him. “In fact, so great, it’s time for lunch. How about dog?”
Friday, July 28, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Talking 'bout my generation
I want the 80s back.
I’m not trying to be one of those people. You know, the ones who bark that their generation is the only generation to make a lick of difference in the world. Sure, plenty of generations did, in fact, make a big difference in the world. But it wasn’t me and my fellow children of the 80s. While teens of other generations fought wars, led cultural revolutions, or were the poster children for modern medical breakthroughs, me and my fellow 80s kids, well, wore bad clothes and listened to bad music. Change was not our strong suit. Bad taste was.
So I apologize in advance if I am overreacting the recent surge in popularity of “80s parties.” For those of you not familiar with them, it’s when people get together, wear clothes reminiscent of the 1980s, maybe throw in “Breakfast Club” and crank up some Men at Work or Spandau Ballet. Seems harmless enough, right?
Wrong. You see, for those of from the 80s, all we have is our memories. We don’t have lasting cultural change. The big sweeping impacts that were courtesy of the 80s came from adults. (Specifically, I credit/blame the adults for cocaine, AIDS and Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker.) The fact that one of the lasting footprints from our generation is the Rubik’s cube can tell you we weren’t exactly upending the world.
The 80s were my formative years. In 1984, my sisters went to see Duran Duran, Men at Work, Culture Club and Hall & Oates in concert. (My parents were cruel, so I had to hang out with my dad outside of the concert, and wait until the ticket takers were no longer caring. I saw the end of some great concerts.) For you young folks who love 80s bashes now, you might think that’s just absolutely retro to see those bands. For those of you older than I, you are wondering what in the world a Duran Duran is. Well, excuse me for not having the Beatles or Elvis during my youth. We played the cards we were dealt, and those cards included Soft Cell and a-ha.
Again, I know you are wondering why it would bother me that someone would latch on to my generation. And the reasoning is simple -- because despite our quaintness, we were a historically lame generation. The 1960s and 1970s have always been popular retro decades, and the people from those generations are certainly secure enough in their place in cultural character not to care if you go wear bell bottoms. But for crying out loud, these people made it into the history books, while we made it into “The Wedding Singer.”
I guess I just don’t see why our 1980s and our “Weird Science” attachments have to be shared. You’ve got your own decade. Were the 90s so bad that you have to revert to Jams, Members Only and white Topsiders?
When you delve a little deeper into my unfortunate psyche, I think you will find another reason that I am a little territorial when it comes to the 80s is my resemblance to one of the more recognizable faces of the 1980s to my generation, Anthony Michael Hall. While I may not look a lot like him now, my high school yearbook photo could have been a publicity still from “Sixteen Candles.” I was Farmer Ted. (Note to those of you who have not seen “Sixteen Candles”: Farmer Ted was the character played by Hall, and is listed in the credits simply as “The Geek.”) Sadly, when I say I was Farmer Ted, I mean I WAS Farmer Ted. I had a shirt in high school with it on the back. There was no escaping it. I was..The Geek.
So all I am saying is give us back our little slice of nonhistory. We tried to make a major impact on the world, but we were too stinking busy buying Swatches and watching little kids get pulled out of wells. We didn’t bring a lot of important change to the world, and for that, we’re sorry. All we did is produce bad music, garish clothing and the occasional good sports highlight (here I am thinking The Catch).
I am sure the 1990s had plenty of things you can latch on to. Heck, my youth spilled over into the 90s, and so I know there are plenty of things as cultural insignificant as the 80s to latch onto. Look hard. You can find them. Make them yours. You’ll be proud that you did. Andthen protect it from those kids of the 00s.
I’m not trying to be one of those people. You know, the ones who bark that their generation is the only generation to make a lick of difference in the world. Sure, plenty of generations did, in fact, make a big difference in the world. But it wasn’t me and my fellow children of the 80s. While teens of other generations fought wars, led cultural revolutions, or were the poster children for modern medical breakthroughs, me and my fellow 80s kids, well, wore bad clothes and listened to bad music. Change was not our strong suit. Bad taste was.
So I apologize in advance if I am overreacting the recent surge in popularity of “80s parties.” For those of you not familiar with them, it’s when people get together, wear clothes reminiscent of the 1980s, maybe throw in “Breakfast Club” and crank up some Men at Work or Spandau Ballet. Seems harmless enough, right?
Wrong. You see, for those of from the 80s, all we have is our memories. We don’t have lasting cultural change. The big sweeping impacts that were courtesy of the 80s came from adults. (Specifically, I credit/blame the adults for cocaine, AIDS and Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker.) The fact that one of the lasting footprints from our generation is the Rubik’s cube can tell you we weren’t exactly upending the world.
The 80s were my formative years. In 1984, my sisters went to see Duran Duran, Men at Work, Culture Club and Hall & Oates in concert. (My parents were cruel, so I had to hang out with my dad outside of the concert, and wait until the ticket takers were no longer caring. I saw the end of some great concerts.) For you young folks who love 80s bashes now, you might think that’s just absolutely retro to see those bands. For those of you older than I, you are wondering what in the world a Duran Duran is. Well, excuse me for not having the Beatles or Elvis during my youth. We played the cards we were dealt, and those cards included Soft Cell and a-ha.
Again, I know you are wondering why it would bother me that someone would latch on to my generation. And the reasoning is simple -- because despite our quaintness, we were a historically lame generation. The 1960s and 1970s have always been popular retro decades, and the people from those generations are certainly secure enough in their place in cultural character not to care if you go wear bell bottoms. But for crying out loud, these people made it into the history books, while we made it into “The Wedding Singer.”
I guess I just don’t see why our 1980s and our “Weird Science” attachments have to be shared. You’ve got your own decade. Were the 90s so bad that you have to revert to Jams, Members Only and white Topsiders?
When you delve a little deeper into my unfortunate psyche, I think you will find another reason that I am a little territorial when it comes to the 80s is my resemblance to one of the more recognizable faces of the 1980s to my generation, Anthony Michael Hall. While I may not look a lot like him now, my high school yearbook photo could have been a publicity still from “Sixteen Candles.” I was Farmer Ted. (Note to those of you who have not seen “Sixteen Candles”: Farmer Ted was the character played by Hall, and is listed in the credits simply as “The Geek.”) Sadly, when I say I was Farmer Ted, I mean I WAS Farmer Ted. I had a shirt in high school with it on the back. There was no escaping it. I was..The Geek.
So all I am saying is give us back our little slice of nonhistory. We tried to make a major impact on the world, but we were too stinking busy buying Swatches and watching little kids get pulled out of wells. We didn’t bring a lot of important change to the world, and for that, we’re sorry. All we did is produce bad music, garish clothing and the occasional good sports highlight (here I am thinking The Catch).
I am sure the 1990s had plenty of things you can latch on to. Heck, my youth spilled over into the 90s, and so I know there are plenty of things as cultural insignificant as the 80s to latch onto. Look hard. You can find them. Make them yours. You’ll be proud that you did. Andthen protect it from those kids of the 00s.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Spark an interest
I figure it is just a matter of time until I am called to head up a pit crew for a NASCAR team.
The reason for this, of course, is that my legendary mechanic skills have probably already reached the highest levels of auto repair, after my heroic triumph as a mechanic.
Granted, some of the naysayers out there say what I did was not car repair, but rather maintenance. To which I say: Pshaw. I changed out three – THREE – of my car’s spark plugs. That, my friend, is as complicated as it gets.
OK, it’s as complicated as I get. I don’t do car repairs. I have the folks at the auto store change out my wiper blades. I have no idea how oil gets changed. I am not even sure if I have a tire gauge.
Recently, my neighbor said that my car needed new spark plugs. I, of course, assumed this was a joke. I laughed, slapped him on the back and said, “Spark plugs. Good one.”
Apparently, spark plugs are in fact part of a car, and apparently a critical part. He said that changing spark plugs was easy, and that if I picked up four at the store, we could do it in no time.
I am not sure why, but I decided to comply. I went the auto parts store, and recalled the numerous times I have sounded like a complete moron asking for something. So I decided to lay it all out for the guy behind the counter. “Hi, I know nothing about cars, but my neighbor said I need four spark plugs.” The guy stared at me with a rather sad look. I think he felt sorry for me, and certainly for my children.
When I got back to the house, my neighbor was ready to tackle the problem. He brought over a tool chest that weighed slightly less than Buick. And in the chest were about 400,000 socket attachments. He fiddled with piece after piece until he found the exact perfect combination. I think he may have been bluffing, because all of the pieces looked the same to me.
After we popped the hood, he gave me a basic primer on what we would be doing. He popped a cap off of the first one, slipped the socket down into the cylinder, and, after a few turns, pulled out a spark plug. Easy as that. I decided I would contribute by opening a beer.
Turns out, I would have more responsibility than that. “Here,” my neighbor said, handing me the socket. My first inclination was to set in back in the tool chest, because I could think of no other reason he would hand it to me. Apparently, I was supposed to take it from there.
So I just decided to follow his lead. I popped off the cap and slid the socket down in the cylinder. As I was about to loosen the spark plug, my neighbor said, “Be gentle. You don’t want to break it.” He told me it would be “bad.”
At this point, I felt like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, “fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing.”
If you recall, in Ghostbusters, “bad” was defined thusly: “Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.”
While I don’t think we were going to that extreme, it would certainly involve WAY more than me, a neighbor, a socket set and some beer. The main tool needed to repair that would be a checkbook.
So I was gentle. Very gentle. Like I was holding a duckling gentle. And, I am pleased to say, I did not break anything. The spark plugs came right out, and the new ones went right in. After the fourth one was installed, I was so pleased with myself I hopped in the car and cranked it. To my somewhat amazement, it cranked right up. I got out of the car to share a testosterone moment when my neighbor said, “Hey, one thing – generally, when you have a four cylinder, you want all four to work.” The little cap thing that goes over the spark plugs is, apparently, also critical. Or at least advised.
And while some of you may still say that what I did was mere maintenance, I maintain that, when you sum up my entire history of working on cars, this is by far the most extensive thing I have done under the hood, thereby qualifying it as repair. It was a learning experience, and I am glad I took part in it. Next time, I know exactly what I’ll do. I’ll see if they can change them at the auto parts store.
The reason for this, of course, is that my legendary mechanic skills have probably already reached the highest levels of auto repair, after my heroic triumph as a mechanic.
Granted, some of the naysayers out there say what I did was not car repair, but rather maintenance. To which I say: Pshaw. I changed out three – THREE – of my car’s spark plugs. That, my friend, is as complicated as it gets.
OK, it’s as complicated as I get. I don’t do car repairs. I have the folks at the auto store change out my wiper blades. I have no idea how oil gets changed. I am not even sure if I have a tire gauge.
Recently, my neighbor said that my car needed new spark plugs. I, of course, assumed this was a joke. I laughed, slapped him on the back and said, “Spark plugs. Good one.”
Apparently, spark plugs are in fact part of a car, and apparently a critical part. He said that changing spark plugs was easy, and that if I picked up four at the store, we could do it in no time.
I am not sure why, but I decided to comply. I went the auto parts store, and recalled the numerous times I have sounded like a complete moron asking for something. So I decided to lay it all out for the guy behind the counter. “Hi, I know nothing about cars, but my neighbor said I need four spark plugs.” The guy stared at me with a rather sad look. I think he felt sorry for me, and certainly for my children.
When I got back to the house, my neighbor was ready to tackle the problem. He brought over a tool chest that weighed slightly less than Buick. And in the chest were about 400,000 socket attachments. He fiddled with piece after piece until he found the exact perfect combination. I think he may have been bluffing, because all of the pieces looked the same to me.
After we popped the hood, he gave me a basic primer on what we would be doing. He popped a cap off of the first one, slipped the socket down into the cylinder, and, after a few turns, pulled out a spark plug. Easy as that. I decided I would contribute by opening a beer.
Turns out, I would have more responsibility than that. “Here,” my neighbor said, handing me the socket. My first inclination was to set in back in the tool chest, because I could think of no other reason he would hand it to me. Apparently, I was supposed to take it from there.
So I just decided to follow his lead. I popped off the cap and slid the socket down in the cylinder. As I was about to loosen the spark plug, my neighbor said, “Be gentle. You don’t want to break it.” He told me it would be “bad.”
At this point, I felt like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters, “fuzzy on the whole good/bad thing.”
If you recall, in Ghostbusters, “bad” was defined thusly: “Try to imagine all life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light.”
While I don’t think we were going to that extreme, it would certainly involve WAY more than me, a neighbor, a socket set and some beer. The main tool needed to repair that would be a checkbook.
So I was gentle. Very gentle. Like I was holding a duckling gentle. And, I am pleased to say, I did not break anything. The spark plugs came right out, and the new ones went right in. After the fourth one was installed, I was so pleased with myself I hopped in the car and cranked it. To my somewhat amazement, it cranked right up. I got out of the car to share a testosterone moment when my neighbor said, “Hey, one thing – generally, when you have a four cylinder, you want all four to work.” The little cap thing that goes over the spark plugs is, apparently, also critical. Or at least advised.
And while some of you may still say that what I did was mere maintenance, I maintain that, when you sum up my entire history of working on cars, this is by far the most extensive thing I have done under the hood, thereby qualifying it as repair. It was a learning experience, and I am glad I took part in it. Next time, I know exactly what I’ll do. I’ll see if they can change them at the auto parts store.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Sing a song
I can’t sing. Well, I can sing, but you don’t want to hear it. When I was in high school, for our senior class play, I had the role of someone who was supposed to sing off key. That aspect was removed from the play. I apparently even sing off key wrong. That is how bad I am.
So I pretty much don’t sing, unless I am by myself in the car and there is a chance for me to make a fool of myself at the stop light. Generally, it will be one of those moments where I think I’m all alone, and SURELY no one will actually see me singing along to the Huey Lewis/Gwyneth Paltrow remake of “Cruisin” when just as I horribly croon “ I love it when we’re cruisin’ together” I look over and see that the car next to me is filled with ex-girlfriends, high school crushes, former coaches, etc. And before you criticize me for that particular song, I guarantee each and every one of you has your guilty pleasure song. Sure, you may be super cool and hip and keep the latest cool bands in your CD case, but you just know as soon as, say, The Monkees “Daydream Believer” comes on, you suddenly turn into the Karaoke Kid, so don’t you judge me.
I even avoid singing in church. I used to do this low, humming lip sync that my wife informed me was even more annoying than bad singing. I’ve heard before that there is no such thing as bad singing in church. I beg to differ, as does anyone who has ever sat near me.
But my inability to sing well makes it all the more strange that my daughter is a nonstop singer. Loves it. It sounds great to me, but of course, with parents, everything their children do is adorable and perfect:
PROUD PARENT: Awwww!!! Look what little Suzie did!!!
EVERYONE: Ewwww.
But there she goes, singing along. She wakes up in the morning, and we hear her singing. She goes to have breakfast, she sings. She gets dressed ... well, you get the trend. It is all singing, all the time for her.
She also uses singing as a bit of a calming mechanism. The more stressed or scared she gets, the louder the singing gets. For example, we took her little brother to the doctor for shots. He was not pleased with this, and decided to engage the nurse in hand-to-hand combat. Allie’s response? Sing a VERY loud song that she made up on the spot. She just stared ahead, belting out some song about a princess. I can imagine her getting pulled over for speeding in 20 years.
COP: License and registration, ma’am.
ALLIE: POLLY WOLLY DOODLE ALL THE DAY!!!
COP: Pardon?
ALLIE: MY GAL SAL, SHE’S A SPUNKY GAL!!!
COP: OK, step out of the car.
My wife and I pretty much just let her go wild with the singing. It’s obviously something that she really loves, and with things like that, if it makes them happy, let them go. True, that cannot be an overriding philosophy for children. There are a lot of things that would make my children happy that they are not going to get. I am sure they would love cookies for dinner and a 10 p.m. bedtime, but that ain’t happening. At least not unless their mother goes out of town.
Allie doesn’t care where she is when she’s singing, but we do try and temper it somewhat when we’re out in public. And it’s a delicate balancing act to explain to her that the song she is singing is very nice, but that maybe not EVERYONE at the restaurant wants to hear “Over the Rainbow.” Of course, she will then look at us with this confused look. “Why would you NOT want to hear ‘Over the Rainbow’?” At that point, I excuse myself to the restroom and let my wife handle it.
Hopefully, she will continue to enjoy singing. It seems to relax her, and she certainly gets into it. Not very often you find things in life that bring that double dose to you. I have decided that my role in song is to be a fan of my daughter’s. I don’t think there will be any duets with Dad in her future. I guess I’m just no Huey Lewis. But really, who is?
So I pretty much don’t sing, unless I am by myself in the car and there is a chance for me to make a fool of myself at the stop light. Generally, it will be one of those moments where I think I’m all alone, and SURELY no one will actually see me singing along to the Huey Lewis/Gwyneth Paltrow remake of “Cruisin” when just as I horribly croon “ I love it when we’re cruisin’ together” I look over and see that the car next to me is filled with ex-girlfriends, high school crushes, former coaches, etc. And before you criticize me for that particular song, I guarantee each and every one of you has your guilty pleasure song. Sure, you may be super cool and hip and keep the latest cool bands in your CD case, but you just know as soon as, say, The Monkees “Daydream Believer” comes on, you suddenly turn into the Karaoke Kid, so don’t you judge me.
I even avoid singing in church. I used to do this low, humming lip sync that my wife informed me was even more annoying than bad singing. I’ve heard before that there is no such thing as bad singing in church. I beg to differ, as does anyone who has ever sat near me.
But my inability to sing well makes it all the more strange that my daughter is a nonstop singer. Loves it. It sounds great to me, but of course, with parents, everything their children do is adorable and perfect:
PROUD PARENT: Awwww!!! Look what little Suzie did!!!
EVERYONE: Ewwww.
But there she goes, singing along. She wakes up in the morning, and we hear her singing. She goes to have breakfast, she sings. She gets dressed ... well, you get the trend. It is all singing, all the time for her.
She also uses singing as a bit of a calming mechanism. The more stressed or scared she gets, the louder the singing gets. For example, we took her little brother to the doctor for shots. He was not pleased with this, and decided to engage the nurse in hand-to-hand combat. Allie’s response? Sing a VERY loud song that she made up on the spot. She just stared ahead, belting out some song about a princess. I can imagine her getting pulled over for speeding in 20 years.
COP: License and registration, ma’am.
ALLIE: POLLY WOLLY DOODLE ALL THE DAY!!!
COP: Pardon?
ALLIE: MY GAL SAL, SHE’S A SPUNKY GAL!!!
COP: OK, step out of the car.
My wife and I pretty much just let her go wild with the singing. It’s obviously something that she really loves, and with things like that, if it makes them happy, let them go. True, that cannot be an overriding philosophy for children. There are a lot of things that would make my children happy that they are not going to get. I am sure they would love cookies for dinner and a 10 p.m. bedtime, but that ain’t happening. At least not unless their mother goes out of town.
Allie doesn’t care where she is when she’s singing, but we do try and temper it somewhat when we’re out in public. And it’s a delicate balancing act to explain to her that the song she is singing is very nice, but that maybe not EVERYONE at the restaurant wants to hear “Over the Rainbow.” Of course, she will then look at us with this confused look. “Why would you NOT want to hear ‘Over the Rainbow’?” At that point, I excuse myself to the restroom and let my wife handle it.
Hopefully, she will continue to enjoy singing. It seems to relax her, and she certainly gets into it. Not very often you find things in life that bring that double dose to you. I have decided that my role in song is to be a fan of my daughter’s. I don’t think there will be any duets with Dad in her future. I guess I’m just no Huey Lewis. But really, who is?
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