My sister Ana called the other day, just to tell me how happy she is that I'm in her life.
I'm a little strange when it comes to feelings, emotions, and dairy products, but I know enough to react appropriately when really nice things are said to me. We had a great talk, beginning with me telling her that I too was happy that she and my brother Jose and all their family members were in my life. Then I told her I wasn't sure how to be a brother specifically or a family member in general.
For those of you with siblings, this might seem odd--it's all you've known. No cry for help here, it's just natural that if I was an only child raised by a single Mom, with the nearest relatives in California or England, intra-family training was limited.
I have had role models all my life; it seems rare to be an only kid with a single parent, so my friends along the way have all had brothers and sisters. When I started having girlfriends serious enough to risk inviting me to dinner and holidays, I got a dose of the large family stylings. Hell, before I knew any better, I wanted to marry an Italian girl, so I could be a part of those noisy, 100-yard-table feasts and get money in envelopes.
My wife has a sister; they get along like sisters--they call each other all the time and sometimes don't like each other, but always say I Love You. It's too late to follow their lead, mainly because they have a lifetime of history, while Ana and I and Jose barely know one another.
We have only good history, though, no complications or old battles. It doesn't feel fake to tell Ana I Love You (but I'll probably just verbally punch Jose in the arm); it's not that I should say it just because we had the same father, it just feels right. I think it helps that Ana is so nice.
Anyway, I guess I will try hard to remember all the new birthdays in my life (I'm one for two so far with Ana's family and still have to think a minute to get Carrie's and the twins' right), and call for no other reason than just to say hey. People like those things.
So, on this Thanksgiving Eve, I'm thankful for the family I've made with Carrie and the family I found and the family I was born into. I am happy that as I've seen happening every day, the kids in my house won't need lessons in family relations.
It is a daily jolt to me that an only child with one parent is now surrounded by children who have siblings and who have two parents who kiss a lot. I can't relate to how they are growing up, but boy am I glad they have each other, even when there's maiming.
Just like I feel that every time I roll around with them, wrestling, tickling, nibbling, that bonds are tightening--like being able to make cats people-friendly by handling them when they are kittens--their interaction is shaping them. They will be so scarred, I mean, close.
Close.
Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Van Halen
I'm getting heavier.
In the first month or so after the lay-off, I was losing weight because I was getting to the gym five times a week, and me and the wee ones played outside a lot.
Well, my body got used to the extra exercise, and while some of the 10-poundage I've added is muscle, because I've been lifting weights for the first time in years, the rest is good old-fashioned blubber. Another factor is that I don't have the motivation of swimming pool appearances anymore. Oh, and I don't even try to let the kids have all the Halloween candy; I've snagged most of the best mini-bars (Nestle Crunch, Snickers, Hersheys), you know, to spare their teeth.
Above all, though, having little kids is the difference between being 212 pounds and 200. I cannot waste food, and they don't eat all of theirs. This equals me eating more than I should and things I would not choose for myself.
When it was just Connor, we named me The Vulture, circling as he neared the end of his meals, then landing and tearing at the leftovers. That was just one kid, though. He, at 9 years old and 100 pounds, finishes all his food now and asks for more. Four-year-old Maggie mostly cleans her plate, too.
The 2-year-old twins, though, will be the big-rear-end of me. Like most parents I will err on the side of making more than less, so more food will be ready in case they want it; we all want them to have good appetites and chow down. Until they pack it away, though, there are leftovers, and I'm the only one who a) has a problem wasting food; b) isn't disgusted by food with teethmarks (hey, they're my flesh and blood's teeth).
Unfortunately, there are only two foods we make or buy for them that I can't stomach--cream cheese and yogurt. They typically finish all yogurt--I push half-eaten cups on them, and Target's cups are best, because they have a lid you can put back on.
When Darcy and/or Gavin ask for bagels and cream cheese, though, I get worked up: first off, you have to make sure they don't just lick that nasty white substance--no, bite it, watch Maggie, see she bites it! Second, they're still not able to finish even a half bagel. I won't eat the rest, because it's gross, and Carrie and Connor and Maggie won't, because they think half-eaten food is untouchable.
The main problem then is that there are plenty of foods I will finish: chicken nuggets, peanut-butter and honey/jelly sandwiches, homemade quesadillas (with cheddar, so good), french fries, occasional fast-food burgers, grilled pork chops, ice cream (Darcy doesn't always finish her bowl--what's a guy to do?), cereal, mini-raviolis, waffles, eggs, sausage, toast.
Sure, I could store it and heat it up for them later, but I'm only human (more and more so), and eating is easier than putting it into Tupperware or bags. Most times I don't make a meal for myself, because I know there will be plenty to finish. Plus, since I wouldn't choose to eat what they want, I don't make something different for myself that I like because that's double the work.
Lest you think we're poisoning the little darlings, or malnourishing them, there is plenty of fruit and veggies that I have to finish. Just today, there are five half-eaten apples in the fridge--they're just too big for tiny tummies to finish. Some days I'll get fed up with such a display and eat five orange slices, two half-eaten apples and half-eaten pear, whatever the mix is. Seems healthy, but if you ate 100 pounds of fruit, it would still be 100 pounds.
The only solutions are: make less per meal, change exercise routines, store and re-heat, force feed. All but the last one are better than throwing away food. I'll start with the first and second before trying the third. The fourth will be on a case-by case, mood-dependent basis.
Manja!
In the first month or so after the lay-off, I was losing weight because I was getting to the gym five times a week, and me and the wee ones played outside a lot.
Well, my body got used to the extra exercise, and while some of the 10-poundage I've added is muscle, because I've been lifting weights for the first time in years, the rest is good old-fashioned blubber. Another factor is that I don't have the motivation of swimming pool appearances anymore. Oh, and I don't even try to let the kids have all the Halloween candy; I've snagged most of the best mini-bars (Nestle Crunch, Snickers, Hersheys), you know, to spare their teeth.
Above all, though, having little kids is the difference between being 212 pounds and 200. I cannot waste food, and they don't eat all of theirs. This equals me eating more than I should and things I would not choose for myself.
When it was just Connor, we named me The Vulture, circling as he neared the end of his meals, then landing and tearing at the leftovers. That was just one kid, though. He, at 9 years old and 100 pounds, finishes all his food now and asks for more. Four-year-old Maggie mostly cleans her plate, too.
The 2-year-old twins, though, will be the big-rear-end of me. Like most parents I will err on the side of making more than less, so more food will be ready in case they want it; we all want them to have good appetites and chow down. Until they pack it away, though, there are leftovers, and I'm the only one who a) has a problem wasting food; b) isn't disgusted by food with teethmarks (hey, they're my flesh and blood's teeth).
Unfortunately, there are only two foods we make or buy for them that I can't stomach--cream cheese and yogurt. They typically finish all yogurt--I push half-eaten cups on them, and Target's cups are best, because they have a lid you can put back on.
When Darcy and/or Gavin ask for bagels and cream cheese, though, I get worked up: first off, you have to make sure they don't just lick that nasty white substance--no, bite it, watch Maggie, see she bites it! Second, they're still not able to finish even a half bagel. I won't eat the rest, because it's gross, and Carrie and Connor and Maggie won't, because they think half-eaten food is untouchable.
The main problem then is that there are plenty of foods I will finish: chicken nuggets, peanut-butter and honey/jelly sandwiches, homemade quesadillas (with cheddar, so good), french fries, occasional fast-food burgers, grilled pork chops, ice cream (Darcy doesn't always finish her bowl--what's a guy to do?), cereal, mini-raviolis, waffles, eggs, sausage, toast.
Sure, I could store it and heat it up for them later, but I'm only human (more and more so), and eating is easier than putting it into Tupperware or bags. Most times I don't make a meal for myself, because I know there will be plenty to finish. Plus, since I wouldn't choose to eat what they want, I don't make something different for myself that I like because that's double the work.
Lest you think we're poisoning the little darlings, or malnourishing them, there is plenty of fruit and veggies that I have to finish. Just today, there are five half-eaten apples in the fridge--they're just too big for tiny tummies to finish. Some days I'll get fed up with such a display and eat five orange slices, two half-eaten apples and half-eaten pear, whatever the mix is. Seems healthy, but if you ate 100 pounds of fruit, it would still be 100 pounds.
The only solutions are: make less per meal, change exercise routines, store and re-heat, force feed. All but the last one are better than throwing away food. I'll start with the first and second before trying the third. The fourth will be on a case-by case, mood-dependent basis.
Manja!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Blue Oyster Cult
If men are truly just super-sized boys, in other words, immature, then being a father of kids under the age of 18 is perfect.
You always have an excuse for making strange noises (with your mouth), singing silly songs, making faces, and acting like animals/monsters/robots--many times all at once. As an aside, if you've ever been embarassed to show public affection, kids naturally melt that inhibition.
I don't believe they bring out what was already there, though, as much as provide inspiration. They are so carefree and un-selfconscious, sometimes it's like being with a best friend---anything goes, without fear.
I loved watching Connor when he was 3 and 4 and then Maggie and now the twins: marching and singing something, with or without pants; putting on a favorite ballerina dress and immediately assuming the pirouette position; wearing said dress to the playroom at the gym, along with rain boots. Of course, while you can.
I've blogged before about the funny things toddlers do and which of them we as grown-ups could get away with in the office or at home or the park. We're so conditioned now against silliness, even though it's been proven that laughter is good for you, that it only comes out with good friends or too many drinks, and hopefully the latter with the former.
I'm sure most parents let themselves go around their children, especially when they're tykes, but we've all seen those that are so clogged up they're uncomfortable even when their kids are being goofballs.
On the other extreme, I see grandparents all the time at the playground chasing their grandkids like they were another kid. Not graceful, and let's face it, playgrounds aren't made for grown-ups to be clogging the aisles and alleys and slides and ladders, especially when it's crowded.
When I see this discomforting sight, I quickly review what I've learned about CPR, and vow to not do that when I'm a granddad. That's sitting-back-and-appreciating-the-life-you've-lived time. Grandads tell stories, and smoke pipes, and take Junior for walks in the damn forest, slowing down and stopping to catch breath every so often.
Hell, I don't climb all over the equipment now unless we're the only ones there--then it's hard to resist. No, let the kids play with other kids and hone their social and combat skills. I draw my silly line at engaging at a busy playground.
Hide and seek is just no friggin' fun when the kids are too young: "One, two, four, seventeen, eight," while they look through their hands, or they go hide and come out in 10 seconds or are discovered by a sibling who is not familiar with the rules. Acting like I'm "Gonna get ya" is a lot more fun when you're the only one who's gonna get them. Other parents are not going to see me Godzilla or Jaws or Zombie it up.
I'm going to try to make these things shorter; maybe that'll help me do them more often. Thanks for reading--now go nibble an ear while saying Yum Yum Yum Yum Yum Yum.
You always have an excuse for making strange noises (with your mouth), singing silly songs, making faces, and acting like animals/monsters/robots--many times all at once. As an aside, if you've ever been embarassed to show public affection, kids naturally melt that inhibition.
I don't believe they bring out what was already there, though, as much as provide inspiration. They are so carefree and un-selfconscious, sometimes it's like being with a best friend---anything goes, without fear.
I loved watching Connor when he was 3 and 4 and then Maggie and now the twins: marching and singing something, with or without pants; putting on a favorite ballerina dress and immediately assuming the pirouette position; wearing said dress to the playroom at the gym, along with rain boots. Of course, while you can.
I've blogged before about the funny things toddlers do and which of them we as grown-ups could get away with in the office or at home or the park. We're so conditioned now against silliness, even though it's been proven that laughter is good for you, that it only comes out with good friends or too many drinks, and hopefully the latter with the former.
I'm sure most parents let themselves go around their children, especially when they're tykes, but we've all seen those that are so clogged up they're uncomfortable even when their kids are being goofballs.
On the other extreme, I see grandparents all the time at the playground chasing their grandkids like they were another kid. Not graceful, and let's face it, playgrounds aren't made for grown-ups to be clogging the aisles and alleys and slides and ladders, especially when it's crowded.
When I see this discomforting sight, I quickly review what I've learned about CPR, and vow to not do that when I'm a granddad. That's sitting-back-and-appreciating-the-life-you've-lived time. Grandads tell stories, and smoke pipes, and take Junior for walks in the damn forest, slowing down and stopping to catch breath every so often.
Hell, I don't climb all over the equipment now unless we're the only ones there--then it's hard to resist. No, let the kids play with other kids and hone their social and combat skills. I draw my silly line at engaging at a busy playground.
Hide and seek is just no friggin' fun when the kids are too young: "One, two, four, seventeen, eight," while they look through their hands, or they go hide and come out in 10 seconds or are discovered by a sibling who is not familiar with the rules. Acting like I'm "Gonna get ya" is a lot more fun when you're the only one who's gonna get them. Other parents are not going to see me Godzilla or Jaws or Zombie it up.
I'm going to try to make these things shorter; maybe that'll help me do them more often. Thanks for reading--now go nibble an ear while saying Yum Yum Yum Yum Yum Yum.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Jigsaw
The best part about having kids is...wait, I am unable to choose among the plethora of best parts about having kids, who am I pulling the leg of?
Ok, one of the best parts of having kids is the world of media previously closed to you the single person. Cartoons, movies, music, websites--oh, the kaleidoscopic and cacophonous joys! Right?
I've done a list on this blog of favorite movies that I wouldn't have known without kids (left out Sky High--Kurt Russell is a hoot, and Kelly Preston manages to look OK). It has grown: Monster v. Aliens was pretty good--"What do they call you when they're scared, you know, 'Oh No, it's....?" "Susan."
Tonight, we cartoon. I can go old school here on cartoons, because you see, Connor was 2 when I met him, in 2003. That's only six years, I know, but that's an eternity for Nick Jr., Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. Screw Disney and WTTW for Kids, they're for the brown-nosers who want to do science experiments while dancing in their classroom of five kids. (Full disclosure: I can do the Goofy dance from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse).
Connor was all Thomas the Tank Engine and Dexter (top 3 for me) and Billy and Mandy (love Grim--"I'm bleaching ma bones, mun.") and my least favorites, the Bob Dylan of cartoons for me (meaning channel-changer), Kids Next Door and Ed, Edd and Eddy. The former wasn't funny and the latter is mean-spirited and ugly animation and not funny and has annoying voices.
Then Fairly Oddparents came along, and I met crew-cutted and muscle-bound Jordy, the Ahnold sound-alike--accent and busted syntax and malaprops. So many funny lines--I used to tell Connor to let me know when Jordy was on. Teemy Tuhnah! (that's Timmy Turner, in Jordy speak).
PowerPuff Girls? Oh yeah, we loved us some Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup, and I hope that Maggie or Darcy (or both, oh, could it be so?) get to one day take on an evil monkey named Mojo Jo Jo at least once in their lives. Har, har, maybe it's me, you say.
Teen Titans, too; thanks, Connor. Funny faces, interesting twists and topics/lessons, and of course the Japanese girl band theme song. na na na na na na na na na, Teen Titans!! Super nice cool groovy times, yeah!
I made the acquaintance of Jimmy Neutron (hot Mom, along with Dexter's), and Samurai Jack, and Johnny Bravo, too. Not nearly enough appearances by the latter two, but memorable, nonetheless. The former for the animation (Ren & Stimpy guy John Kricfalusi), mainly, and the latter, well, if you haven't seen Johnny Bravo, let me describe: hunky, blond, dumb, Elvis voice and Elvis hair that you never ever touch, always chasing the ladies.
For some reason there was a Johnny Bravo episode that included the Scooby-Doo gang. At one point Velma says "Jinkies!" as she is known to do. Johnny says--remember, in an Elvis voice-- "Jinkies? What is that, some sort of breakfast cereal?"
Even though Dexter and Samurai Jack and PowerPuff Girls are no-shows these days, I'm so glad that Connor and his pals have been and continue to be a part of my life. Disney and WTTW are favorites now (Connor's into Clone Wars now, animation-wise), with the wee ones, and if they're super-serious lab assistants by next year, so be it.
As long as they wear their safety goggles and matching hairclips (Gavin will most likely be their straitjacketed guinea pig, not a whitecoat), I'm good.
Ok, one of the best parts of having kids is the world of media previously closed to you the single person. Cartoons, movies, music, websites--oh, the kaleidoscopic and cacophonous joys! Right?
I've done a list on this blog of favorite movies that I wouldn't have known without kids (left out Sky High--Kurt Russell is a hoot, and Kelly Preston manages to look OK). It has grown: Monster v. Aliens was pretty good--"What do they call you when they're scared, you know, 'Oh No, it's....?" "Susan."
Tonight, we cartoon. I can go old school here on cartoons, because you see, Connor was 2 when I met him, in 2003. That's only six years, I know, but that's an eternity for Nick Jr., Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. Screw Disney and WTTW for Kids, they're for the brown-nosers who want to do science experiments while dancing in their classroom of five kids. (Full disclosure: I can do the Goofy dance from Mickey Mouse Clubhouse).
Connor was all Thomas the Tank Engine and Dexter (top 3 for me) and Billy and Mandy (love Grim--"I'm bleaching ma bones, mun.") and my least favorites, the Bob Dylan of cartoons for me (meaning channel-changer), Kids Next Door and Ed, Edd and Eddy. The former wasn't funny and the latter is mean-spirited and ugly animation and not funny and has annoying voices.
Then Fairly Oddparents came along, and I met crew-cutted and muscle-bound Jordy, the Ahnold sound-alike--accent and busted syntax and malaprops. So many funny lines--I used to tell Connor to let me know when Jordy was on. Teemy Tuhnah! (that's Timmy Turner, in Jordy speak).
PowerPuff Girls? Oh yeah, we loved us some Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup, and I hope that Maggie or Darcy (or both, oh, could it be so?) get to one day take on an evil monkey named Mojo Jo Jo at least once in their lives. Har, har, maybe it's me, you say.
Teen Titans, too; thanks, Connor. Funny faces, interesting twists and topics/lessons, and of course the Japanese girl band theme song. na na na na na na na na na, Teen Titans!! Super nice cool groovy times, yeah!
I made the acquaintance of Jimmy Neutron (hot Mom, along with Dexter's), and Samurai Jack, and Johnny Bravo, too. Not nearly enough appearances by the latter two, but memorable, nonetheless. The former for the animation (Ren & Stimpy guy John Kricfalusi), mainly, and the latter, well, if you haven't seen Johnny Bravo, let me describe: hunky, blond, dumb, Elvis voice and Elvis hair that you never ever touch, always chasing the ladies.
For some reason there was a Johnny Bravo episode that included the Scooby-Doo gang. At one point Velma says "Jinkies!" as she is known to do. Johnny says--remember, in an Elvis voice-- "Jinkies? What is that, some sort of breakfast cereal?"
Even though Dexter and Samurai Jack and PowerPuff Girls are no-shows these days, I'm so glad that Connor and his pals have been and continue to be a part of my life. Disney and WTTW are favorites now (Connor's into Clone Wars now, animation-wise), with the wee ones, and if they're super-serious lab assistants by next year, so be it.
As long as they wear their safety goggles and matching hairclips (Gavin will most likely be their straitjacketed guinea pig, not a whitecoat), I'm good.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
John Denver
All went well the first night of our visit to Colorado; considering the altitude, the different bed, the excitement of travel, Maggie was solid--I'm sure having three kids to play with helped immensely. I stayed up late with Ana and we talked, just like I told her was going to happen.
Here's some of what I learned: everyone liked Dad, his family did indeed own the coffee plantation and he ran it, his popularity kept him from any entanglements in the violence between guerillas and the state in the 1980s, he was a womanizer, he had liver cancer and died and had a well-attended funeral.
I brought a bunch of pictures from my childhood that Ana and Jose and Ana's Aunt Marta hadn't seen, ones of Dad in his 20s, when he was with my Mom, and ones of me at ages 1,2,3. I had hoped to see some of my time in Chinameca, and others without me, but only had two to look at. One of Ana at her high school graduation and one of Dad far into his cancer, posing with Ana and Jose and the other Jose (by the third woman). I left all my pictures there, for them to scan, but brought back one of myself at age 3, looking exactly like Gavin. I was assured that Marta would send back pictures from her collection in El Salvador.
That was the only disappointment of the trip. Ana and her husband Jose and Jose my brother saw to it that I paid for nothing, and told me from moment one of the visit that theirs was my house as well. So, to summarize, my family lives in Warrenville, and can stay anytime in two houses in Chinameca (Marta's and that of my father's cousin, Rene, a developing-country economist living in Alexandria, Va., and working with UNICEF in Africa) and one in Commerce City, Colo.
On Day 2, we drove to Breckenridge to spend a few hours at a family-oriented resort Ana and her family frequent. Beautiful place, with indoor and outdoor pools and indoor/outdoor hot tubs. That day the region suffered record lows and snow (the weather canceled a playoff baseball game between the Phillies and the Rockies), and Jose took us on the scenic route because he knew I love mountains and Maggie had never really been in them. Myself, Jose, Ana, Lilo, his 8-year-old sister Maggie and 3-month-old Nicolas rode in Jose's pickup and it was scary.
I am a bad passenger in even good conditions, and was nervous because I know what mountain driving is like, and the weather was not ideal, so the anxiety was compounded. Still, what scenery to crash in, if you had to. Plus, the scenic route involved many switchbacks without guard rails overlooking hundreds-of-feet inclines. I was happy to stop at Loveland Pass (ele. 11,990 ft.) for pics and leg-stretching. Windy, cold.
Had a blast in Breckenridge, and it was interesting to be in a world-famous ski town. You could spot the hardcore skiiers a mile away, and really got that fit and beautiful and rich vibe which is apparently more friendly than that of Vail or Aspen. We stopped at a pizza place called Fatty's and the 10 of us took over a back room, ordered pop and water and two large pizzas and took a bunch of pics. When the kids got restless, I took little 3-year-old Frankie and six-year-old Lilo outside. Had a lot of fun carrying Frankie on my shoulders and running around, and it sounded like he did, too. He was my Gavin for a couple days.
At the resort, we swam and steamed and sprinted to the outdoor hot tubs and drank a couple beers in sight of a massive mountain. It was Maggie's first hot-tub experience. She thought the jets were a hoot. We let the kids play at a nearby playground before heading home, as my brother Jose confirmed on the phone our large order of pupusas for pick-up once we got back down to mile-high territory.
It was great fun, and only in retrospect did I realize that our first day at Ana's was perfect preparation for the altitude we rose to the next day. Had we gone from Chicago to Breckenridge we would have been miserable, and I recall being short of breath a couple times while carrying either Maggie or Frankie. We took the fast way back, a little bummed we wouldn't have the Rockies game to watch that night.
Pupusas are corn tortillas with cheese in the middle, at their most basic. We also had frijoles pupusas, and some with shredded meat. They are eaten with a side of vinegary cabbage and some sauce--tear off some pupusa, pinch the piece together with the cabbage and sauce and pop it in the piehole (that would be a great name for a band, huh, Piehole). I first ate them in El Salvador and since I was 11 had eaten them only once, from a Salvadoran place in Chicago, in 2000. Maggie tried some gamely, then switched to mashed potatoes.
Ana drove us to the airport early the next day. Her husband Jose woke up to say bye, and Ana included some gifts for the kids and some of her Maggie's old shoes for Maggie as well as a purse as a belated birthday gift.
For the trip home we had no window seats, but it was a ride in one those new 777s. Very sweet. Maggie was happy for the headphones and kids' music channel, while I love listening to the air-traffic control channel. Plus, you get those TVs in the seatback and can see how high and fast you're going, which is very cool right after takeoff, seeing how quickly you're climbing. I watched a Tim Gunn makeover show because he's fun to listen to.
All in all, a great trip, still trying to wrap my head around having more family. This re-connect was something I had thought about and wanted for decades, and we did it. So happy I have a family to show off, and cannot wait until Carrie and the other kids can meet the Colorado crew.
Probably, we will drive out someday, and for the grandaddy of trips, coordinate a reunion in Chinameca.
Thank you so much to my Mom, who bought us the tickets for my birthday, and who was as happy as me to have the opportunity. Also, to lovely and sassy Carrie, who rejiggered her work schedule so she could be home with the other kids that weekend. Worked her ass off for four days at her job, then a couple more at home alone. And of course to Ana, Jose, Lilo, Maggie, Marta, Jose and Margarita for warmth and fun.
Here's some of what I learned: everyone liked Dad, his family did indeed own the coffee plantation and he ran it, his popularity kept him from any entanglements in the violence between guerillas and the state in the 1980s, he was a womanizer, he had liver cancer and died and had a well-attended funeral.
I brought a bunch of pictures from my childhood that Ana and Jose and Ana's Aunt Marta hadn't seen, ones of Dad in his 20s, when he was with my Mom, and ones of me at ages 1,2,3. I had hoped to see some of my time in Chinameca, and others without me, but only had two to look at. One of Ana at her high school graduation and one of Dad far into his cancer, posing with Ana and Jose and the other Jose (by the third woman). I left all my pictures there, for them to scan, but brought back one of myself at age 3, looking exactly like Gavin. I was assured that Marta would send back pictures from her collection in El Salvador.
That was the only disappointment of the trip. Ana and her husband Jose and Jose my brother saw to it that I paid for nothing, and told me from moment one of the visit that theirs was my house as well. So, to summarize, my family lives in Warrenville, and can stay anytime in two houses in Chinameca (Marta's and that of my father's cousin, Rene, a developing-country economist living in Alexandria, Va., and working with UNICEF in Africa) and one in Commerce City, Colo.
On Day 2, we drove to Breckenridge to spend a few hours at a family-oriented resort Ana and her family frequent. Beautiful place, with indoor and outdoor pools and indoor/outdoor hot tubs. That day the region suffered record lows and snow (the weather canceled a playoff baseball game between the Phillies and the Rockies), and Jose took us on the scenic route because he knew I love mountains and Maggie had never really been in them. Myself, Jose, Ana, Lilo, his 8-year-old sister Maggie and 3-month-old Nicolas rode in Jose's pickup and it was scary.
I am a bad passenger in even good conditions, and was nervous because I know what mountain driving is like, and the weather was not ideal, so the anxiety was compounded. Still, what scenery to crash in, if you had to. Plus, the scenic route involved many switchbacks without guard rails overlooking hundreds-of-feet inclines. I was happy to stop at Loveland Pass (ele. 11,990 ft.) for pics and leg-stretching. Windy, cold.
Had a blast in Breckenridge, and it was interesting to be in a world-famous ski town. You could spot the hardcore skiiers a mile away, and really got that fit and beautiful and rich vibe which is apparently more friendly than that of Vail or Aspen. We stopped at a pizza place called Fatty's and the 10 of us took over a back room, ordered pop and water and two large pizzas and took a bunch of pics. When the kids got restless, I took little 3-year-old Frankie and six-year-old Lilo outside. Had a lot of fun carrying Frankie on my shoulders and running around, and it sounded like he did, too. He was my Gavin for a couple days.
At the resort, we swam and steamed and sprinted to the outdoor hot tubs and drank a couple beers in sight of a massive mountain. It was Maggie's first hot-tub experience. She thought the jets were a hoot. We let the kids play at a nearby playground before heading home, as my brother Jose confirmed on the phone our large order of pupusas for pick-up once we got back down to mile-high territory.
It was great fun, and only in retrospect did I realize that our first day at Ana's was perfect preparation for the altitude we rose to the next day. Had we gone from Chicago to Breckenridge we would have been miserable, and I recall being short of breath a couple times while carrying either Maggie or Frankie. We took the fast way back, a little bummed we wouldn't have the Rockies game to watch that night.
Pupusas are corn tortillas with cheese in the middle, at their most basic. We also had frijoles pupusas, and some with shredded meat. They are eaten with a side of vinegary cabbage and some sauce--tear off some pupusa, pinch the piece together with the cabbage and sauce and pop it in the piehole (that would be a great name for a band, huh, Piehole). I first ate them in El Salvador and since I was 11 had eaten them only once, from a Salvadoran place in Chicago, in 2000. Maggie tried some gamely, then switched to mashed potatoes.
Ana drove us to the airport early the next day. Her husband Jose woke up to say bye, and Ana included some gifts for the kids and some of her Maggie's old shoes for Maggie as well as a purse as a belated birthday gift.
For the trip home we had no window seats, but it was a ride in one those new 777s. Very sweet. Maggie was happy for the headphones and kids' music channel, while I love listening to the air-traffic control channel. Plus, you get those TVs in the seatback and can see how high and fast you're going, which is very cool right after takeoff, seeing how quickly you're climbing. I watched a Tim Gunn makeover show because he's fun to listen to.
All in all, a great trip, still trying to wrap my head around having more family. This re-connect was something I had thought about and wanted for decades, and we did it. So happy I have a family to show off, and cannot wait until Carrie and the other kids can meet the Colorado crew.
Probably, we will drive out someday, and for the grandaddy of trips, coordinate a reunion in Chinameca.
Thank you so much to my Mom, who bought us the tickets for my birthday, and who was as happy as me to have the opportunity. Also, to lovely and sassy Carrie, who rejiggered her work schedule so she could be home with the other kids that weekend. Worked her ass off for four days at her job, then a couple more at home alone. And of course to Ana, Jose, Lilo, Maggie, Marta, Jose and Margarita for warmth and fun.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Sly & The Family Stone
After we took Maggie's picture in the pilot's seat, we headed to get our bags. I can never remember if folks can meet you before or after baggage claim, and sure enough, there was Ana, my sister, and Lilo, my first nephew. My sister-in-law's daughter, Samantha, was my first niece.
A little background: My dear ol' Dad had kids with three women--my Mom, the mother of Ana and my brother Jose (he named all his boys Jose), and another, with whom he had the other Jose. By the grace of God go I, but the apple fell just far enough from the tree--I wasn't careful either, but apparently didn't have the same number of gold-medal swimmers (Update: well, I caught up, but not until I met Carrie, with whom I will spend the rest of my life).
I knew Ana, from my two trips to El Salvador, but barely remember her. She was 2 and 6 on my visits. Jose is only 30; because he was born after the last time I saw my Dad (1978), and Dad never mentioned him, I had no idea about him and the younger Jose until re-connecting with Ana this past winter. Ana and her husband, yes, Jose, live in the Denver burbs, with their three kids, Lilo, 5, Maggie, 8, and Nicolas, a few months. Jose moved there with his wife and three-year-old, Frankie, from Maryland a few months ago, fortunately for my visit.
I was nervous, but excited, both for traveling with our Maggie, and for seeing long-lost family. I wanted to ask lots of questions about my Dad, with whom Ana and Jose lived until he died in 1988. I wanted to see pictures I hadn't seen, especially of me on my visits to El Salvador. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be in the same room with my brother and sister and a brother-in-law and sister-in-law and nephews and a niece.
Just to be clear: I have never been angry, consciously, with my Dad for not being around. I have been sad that I would never know him as an adult, to have adult conversations with him. I believe we would have had some laughs. But not angry. All you can ever do is wonder how things would have been different. I have been curious about how he died, how he lived, whether the civil war of the 1980s affected him.
It's also a little sad to show our kids his picture, when he was in his late 20s, very handsome, good picture to have, and say "That's one of your Grandpas, Daddy's Dad." Who you'll never meet. But Ana and Jose know about that, too.
Anyway, you'd expect such a reunion to be emotional, and it was....for Ana. No surprise to my wife, I choked up exactly almost once, when talking late at night with Ana. The first night of our visit, I said something about how it had been 32 years since we last saw each other, then felt one of my lips quiver. It's always a surprise. I cleared my throat and moved on.
The next day we were talking about Dad, maybe it was earlier that first night, and I did a thing Dad used to do with his hands in front of his mouth when he was revved up, like when watching a tense sports moment on TV. It's a surprisingly loud slapping of the fingers and palms together, with the thumbs hooked under the chin and the lips manuevered to change the pitch, almost like whistling. Anyway, I did it, and Ana nearly broke down being caught by surprise at such a haunting.
Her aunt (Mom's sister) had been visiting from El Salvador to help with the baby and we arrived just in time to catch her before she went home. I'm glad we did. She was another witness to Dad's life, as well as my drinking buddy. She and I had a beer before noon the day we arrived.
Maggie and Lilo were like old friends, and played almost from the moment we got to Ana and Jose's house until we left two days later. Eight-year-old Maggie was in school when we arrived and Lilo stayed home from p.m. kindergarten. Hostess Maggie took a while to warm up to visiting Maggie, but I think the gap from 4 to 8 is wide. Eventually, they were just like cousins.
Jose and his family got to the house at dinnertime, and there was nothing to do but hug and take pictures of all combinations of family members. They call him Frankie, because his middle name is Francisco, like my Dad's (and Gavin's, though his is Francis). He's all of 6-foot-3, and to me it was like being with my Dad, height- and looks-wise. He's quiet, but playful.
His wife is named Margarita, continuing a crazy name-game: Ana and Jose's mother was named Margarita, and Ana's daughter is, too, and now Jose's wife, and of course, my Maggie is officially named Margaret. Their son Frankie (another Francisco tribute, I believe) filled up any emptiness I felt not being with the twins--he's about the same size and temperment--so I lifted, tickled, flipped and teased him most enjoyably.
When we got to the house from the airport, Ana's husband Jose was there. A trucker for years, Jose surprised me by telling me that he was my designated playmate in El Salvador, probably on my second trip. The way he described it, whenever I wanted to play some soccer on the cobblestone streets, he'd get a phone call. He's three years older than me, and while I didn't remember him, I may have tried to attack him back then: I had quite a temper as a kid, and fought at the drop of a hat, and I distinctly remember going after someone I was playing ball with.
I also used to be religious; I haven't attacked anyone in years, but I'm now indifferent to religion. I believe that's a whole different blog. And I believe that because I have so much left to write on our visit to Colorado, I'll do it in two parts.
Next: our lasagna dinner and scary but fun trip to Breckenridge, as well as another reunion--with pupusas. Thanks for your interest
A little background: My dear ol' Dad had kids with three women--my Mom, the mother of Ana and my brother Jose (he named all his boys Jose), and another, with whom he had the other Jose. By the grace of God go I, but the apple fell just far enough from the tree--I wasn't careful either, but apparently didn't have the same number of gold-medal swimmers (Update: well, I caught up, but not until I met Carrie, with whom I will spend the rest of my life).
I knew Ana, from my two trips to El Salvador, but barely remember her. She was 2 and 6 on my visits. Jose is only 30; because he was born after the last time I saw my Dad (1978), and Dad never mentioned him, I had no idea about him and the younger Jose until re-connecting with Ana this past winter. Ana and her husband, yes, Jose, live in the Denver burbs, with their three kids, Lilo, 5, Maggie, 8, and Nicolas, a few months. Jose moved there with his wife and three-year-old, Frankie, from Maryland a few months ago, fortunately for my visit.
I was nervous, but excited, both for traveling with our Maggie, and for seeing long-lost family. I wanted to ask lots of questions about my Dad, with whom Ana and Jose lived until he died in 1988. I wanted to see pictures I hadn't seen, especially of me on my visits to El Salvador. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be in the same room with my brother and sister and a brother-in-law and sister-in-law and nephews and a niece.
Just to be clear: I have never been angry, consciously, with my Dad for not being around. I have been sad that I would never know him as an adult, to have adult conversations with him. I believe we would have had some laughs. But not angry. All you can ever do is wonder how things would have been different. I have been curious about how he died, how he lived, whether the civil war of the 1980s affected him.
It's also a little sad to show our kids his picture, when he was in his late 20s, very handsome, good picture to have, and say "That's one of your Grandpas, Daddy's Dad." Who you'll never meet. But Ana and Jose know about that, too.
Anyway, you'd expect such a reunion to be emotional, and it was....for Ana. No surprise to my wife, I choked up exactly almost once, when talking late at night with Ana. The first night of our visit, I said something about how it had been 32 years since we last saw each other, then felt one of my lips quiver. It's always a surprise. I cleared my throat and moved on.
The next day we were talking about Dad, maybe it was earlier that first night, and I did a thing Dad used to do with his hands in front of his mouth when he was revved up, like when watching a tense sports moment on TV. It's a surprisingly loud slapping of the fingers and palms together, with the thumbs hooked under the chin and the lips manuevered to change the pitch, almost like whistling. Anyway, I did it, and Ana nearly broke down being caught by surprise at such a haunting.
Her aunt (Mom's sister) had been visiting from El Salvador to help with the baby and we arrived just in time to catch her before she went home. I'm glad we did. She was another witness to Dad's life, as well as my drinking buddy. She and I had a beer before noon the day we arrived.
Maggie and Lilo were like old friends, and played almost from the moment we got to Ana and Jose's house until we left two days later. Eight-year-old Maggie was in school when we arrived and Lilo stayed home from p.m. kindergarten. Hostess Maggie took a while to warm up to visiting Maggie, but I think the gap from 4 to 8 is wide. Eventually, they were just like cousins.
Jose and his family got to the house at dinnertime, and there was nothing to do but hug and take pictures of all combinations of family members. They call him Frankie, because his middle name is Francisco, like my Dad's (and Gavin's, though his is Francis). He's all of 6-foot-3, and to me it was like being with my Dad, height- and looks-wise. He's quiet, but playful.
His wife is named Margarita, continuing a crazy name-game: Ana and Jose's mother was named Margarita, and Ana's daughter is, too, and now Jose's wife, and of course, my Maggie is officially named Margaret. Their son Frankie (another Francisco tribute, I believe) filled up any emptiness I felt not being with the twins--he's about the same size and temperment--so I lifted, tickled, flipped and teased him most enjoyably.
When we got to the house from the airport, Ana's husband Jose was there. A trucker for years, Jose surprised me by telling me that he was my designated playmate in El Salvador, probably on my second trip. The way he described it, whenever I wanted to play some soccer on the cobblestone streets, he'd get a phone call. He's three years older than me, and while I didn't remember him, I may have tried to attack him back then: I had quite a temper as a kid, and fought at the drop of a hat, and I distinctly remember going after someone I was playing ball with.
I also used to be religious; I haven't attacked anyone in years, but I'm now indifferent to religion. I believe that's a whole different blog. And I believe that because I have so much left to write on our visit to Colorado, I'll do it in two parts.
Next: our lasagna dinner and scary but fun trip to Breckenridge, as well as another reunion--with pupusas. Thanks for your interest
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Boxtops
I don't mind telling you, I typically have a love/hate relationship with flying. But it was all love last weekend, when I flew with Maggie.
I was a little globetrotter when I was younger--to England a few times, and El Salvador twice--and I don't remember being scared or even nervous. Maybe it has something to do with getting older, having things to lose, or having control of some aspects of your life and then once you buckle up in a plane you have none. A former girlfriend told me turbulence was just like a bumpy road; yeah, I said, but you probably won't fall five miles off the road.
When you fly alone, there's a lot of time for reflection, and the wonder of flying never leaves me. Not so much about how this really heavy machine can get up and stay up, but all the great sights you just don't see anywhere else: breaking through rainy gray clouds to brilliant blue; the giant cauliflower caverns of storm clouds; lightning; seeing just how fast planes go when you see another one pass by 30,000 feet in the air, because you can never tell how fast your own plane is flying; the geometry of fields and towns; the clusters of lights.
Part of that reflection and beauty is tied into mortality. Whatever will happen will happen once the wheels roll, and there's nothing you can do about it. My thoughts always turn to the life I've lived, what I would leave behind, how I would call my wife and kids and mom if there was time and an inevitable conclusion.
I think about how I would respond if I survived impact--when I was single I thought I'd save a kid's life and forfeit mine (as long as burning alive wasn't an issue), but now I have kids, and the kids I don't know would have to call for some single guy if it came to them or me.
Flying was brand new though last weekend, my first time flying alone with a child of mine. Maggie had flown four times before, but was so little, she doesn't remember. It is usually very cool to be with someone when that person is doing something for the first time, and I had a blast explaining everything--moving walkways and escalators (had to pick her up, though she did try both); e-ticket machine; security process (no problems going to Denver, but she freaked on the way home); then boarding and buckling up.
We had window seats on the outbound trip, though partially obscured by an engine. Unfortunately it was rainy and overcast, and the three factors limited the fun of having a window. Maggie didn't care, and the takeoff, something I would normally be squirmy about, especially in soggy weather, was spent vicariously taking off for the first time with her.
It wasn't long before the pilot, who liked to share all he knew rather than keep us blissfully ignorant, told us that the ride would be rough for half the trip. The weather moving through, and the proximity of a 700-mph jet stream.
Great. The cow spends his dull life happily because he doesn't know he's destined for a bash on the skull and a Happy Meal box. I get to imagine just what this guy means by 'rough' while we're still climbing. Then we find out, and I believe it was the worst I've been in, as far as dipping and yawing.
My brain wrung out the memories of last year's flight from Rio to Paris that broke up in turbulence, and the flights to Hawaii that end up with holes in the roof. Sure, these planes are built for it, but that wing seems like it's going to snap! I had to be cool under pressure for Maggie, though, because right then she was.....yelling, "Whoo, whoa, whoa, uh-ohhh, whoa!" Laughing and enjoying.
I told her it was like a roller-coaster ride, and she said she liked roller-coasters (though she's never been on one). She made it better for me, and I stopped imagining myself covering her with my body as we went down, in a futile but necessary attempt to trade my life for hers.
No drinks were spilled and it finally calmed long enough for us to make beaded jewelry for her cousins Lilo and Maggie on our tray tops. I got a great shot of Maggie in the pilot's seat on the way out.
The way home was much less eventful--we flew on a new and beautiful 777; aisle seats; headphones (hers: kids' music; mine: air-traffic channel); seat-back TVs (some Disney Channel show; Tim Gunn's show), shortbread cookies, cranapple juice, and not one bump.
More on what happened between flights later. Hint--it was very cool.
I was a little globetrotter when I was younger--to England a few times, and El Salvador twice--and I don't remember being scared or even nervous. Maybe it has something to do with getting older, having things to lose, or having control of some aspects of your life and then once you buckle up in a plane you have none. A former girlfriend told me turbulence was just like a bumpy road; yeah, I said, but you probably won't fall five miles off the road.
When you fly alone, there's a lot of time for reflection, and the wonder of flying never leaves me. Not so much about how this really heavy machine can get up and stay up, but all the great sights you just don't see anywhere else: breaking through rainy gray clouds to brilliant blue; the giant cauliflower caverns of storm clouds; lightning; seeing just how fast planes go when you see another one pass by 30,000 feet in the air, because you can never tell how fast your own plane is flying; the geometry of fields and towns; the clusters of lights.
Part of that reflection and beauty is tied into mortality. Whatever will happen will happen once the wheels roll, and there's nothing you can do about it. My thoughts always turn to the life I've lived, what I would leave behind, how I would call my wife and kids and mom if there was time and an inevitable conclusion.
I think about how I would respond if I survived impact--when I was single I thought I'd save a kid's life and forfeit mine (as long as burning alive wasn't an issue), but now I have kids, and the kids I don't know would have to call for some single guy if it came to them or me.
Flying was brand new though last weekend, my first time flying alone with a child of mine. Maggie had flown four times before, but was so little, she doesn't remember. It is usually very cool to be with someone when that person is doing something for the first time, and I had a blast explaining everything--moving walkways and escalators (had to pick her up, though she did try both); e-ticket machine; security process (no problems going to Denver, but she freaked on the way home); then boarding and buckling up.
We had window seats on the outbound trip, though partially obscured by an engine. Unfortunately it was rainy and overcast, and the three factors limited the fun of having a window. Maggie didn't care, and the takeoff, something I would normally be squirmy about, especially in soggy weather, was spent vicariously taking off for the first time with her.
It wasn't long before the pilot, who liked to share all he knew rather than keep us blissfully ignorant, told us that the ride would be rough for half the trip. The weather moving through, and the proximity of a 700-mph jet stream.
Great. The cow spends his dull life happily because he doesn't know he's destined for a bash on the skull and a Happy Meal box. I get to imagine just what this guy means by 'rough' while we're still climbing. Then we find out, and I believe it was the worst I've been in, as far as dipping and yawing.
My brain wrung out the memories of last year's flight from Rio to Paris that broke up in turbulence, and the flights to Hawaii that end up with holes in the roof. Sure, these planes are built for it, but that wing seems like it's going to snap! I had to be cool under pressure for Maggie, though, because right then she was.....yelling, "Whoo, whoa, whoa, uh-ohhh, whoa!" Laughing and enjoying.
I told her it was like a roller-coaster ride, and she said she liked roller-coasters (though she's never been on one). She made it better for me, and I stopped imagining myself covering her with my body as we went down, in a futile but necessary attempt to trade my life for hers.
No drinks were spilled and it finally calmed long enough for us to make beaded jewelry for her cousins Lilo and Maggie on our tray tops. I got a great shot of Maggie in the pilot's seat on the way out.
The way home was much less eventful--we flew on a new and beautiful 777; aisle seats; headphones (hers: kids' music; mine: air-traffic channel); seat-back TVs (some Disney Channel show; Tim Gunn's show), shortbread cookies, cranapple juice, and not one bump.
More on what happened between flights later. Hint--it was very cool.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Jim Croce
Gavin wanted a box down from a shelf in the playroom today, and was emphatic on his choice. Not that one, that one, uh-huh.
It had the spy gear in it; cell phones, walkie talkies, science-fiction-style squirt guns. A little later, Darcy got hold of the guns, and as I was changing her diaper, grabbed for them and told me "I like guns."
Now, she also tells me occasionally, out of the blue, "I love you Daddy," so she's hardly flighty, choosing every word carefully. So, what to do? I mean, we have to encourage the young ones when they have interests, right?
I kid because I care. Darcy hasn't gotten her due yet in this space, but she is the main ingredient in one of my favorite sounds. Her giggle is so sweet, and it's guaranteed when I nuzzle her neck and say "yumyumyumyum."
She's got this crazy curly hair, like Cindy-Lou Who, and neither Carrie nor I have it. So curly you don't even think about combing or brushing it when it's dry. People say she looks just like Maggie, except that she's as fair as Maggie is dark, and I see that. Funny thing is, Darcy means "dark one," in some Irish language, and because of Maggie, I thought we'd be safe choosing that name. When we pin back the hair and let that little cherub face shine, she's adorable. And when she's upset, what a bottom lip!
The contrast from her days of infancy is remarkable. She hardly ever smiled and not only that, she would stare at you as if you'd just said that up was down. A lawyer we predicted she'd be; no humor, all business. Now?
What a goof, making faces, noises, smiles, laughs, a smile to a frown in a flash, and of course, that giggle. And when she cries a little too much and I show exasperation, she'll sob, "I'm sorry, Daddy," which worries me because I don't want her to feel like everything's her fault, especially when she's been the victim of a Gavin crime. When we implore him to apologize to her (he's 80% of the reason she cries)--"Say you're sorry"--half the time she'll be the one who says it. "No, not you, him."
I'm still amazed, because of her rosy cheeks, that she's a skinny minny, too; I sometimes have a mental image of her as a little chubster, but she's all ribs and spidery blue veins (thanks to the pale skin).
We love her boldness, but just like Connor had with a security blanket, named Bee Bee, Darcy has Bunny. It's white, and she has to have it to sleep with or when she's really upset. She gnaws on it occasionally, and when she was still in a crib, one of her favorite games was to push it through the bars toward me to have me take a bite. I would pretend to taste and pretend it was disgusting, and she would laugh and laugh and push it to me again.
Our house is always on Bunny Alert, when she's crabby-tired, and we panic when we can't find her. Yes, her; we asked Darcy, and she says Bunny is a her. That thing gets yucky, like a canine chew toy, and gets periodic washing-machine baths, which have to be timed correctly so she's ready for the next bedtime. I'm sure it's the next Typhoid Mary.
In summary, Darcy is pretty much game for anything, and I think will be the girl from Indiana Jones who drinks the yak-master under the table in her Tibetan tavern, dirty-old-man laughing all the while, strapped with a 44-gun in her pocketful of fun.
It had the spy gear in it; cell phones, walkie talkies, science-fiction-style squirt guns. A little later, Darcy got hold of the guns, and as I was changing her diaper, grabbed for them and told me "I like guns."
Now, she also tells me occasionally, out of the blue, "I love you Daddy," so she's hardly flighty, choosing every word carefully. So, what to do? I mean, we have to encourage the young ones when they have interests, right?
I kid because I care. Darcy hasn't gotten her due yet in this space, but she is the main ingredient in one of my favorite sounds. Her giggle is so sweet, and it's guaranteed when I nuzzle her neck and say "yumyumyumyum."
She's got this crazy curly hair, like Cindy-Lou Who, and neither Carrie nor I have it. So curly you don't even think about combing or brushing it when it's dry. People say she looks just like Maggie, except that she's as fair as Maggie is dark, and I see that. Funny thing is, Darcy means "dark one," in some Irish language, and because of Maggie, I thought we'd be safe choosing that name. When we pin back the hair and let that little cherub face shine, she's adorable. And when she's upset, what a bottom lip!
The contrast from her days of infancy is remarkable. She hardly ever smiled and not only that, she would stare at you as if you'd just said that up was down. A lawyer we predicted she'd be; no humor, all business. Now?
What a goof, making faces, noises, smiles, laughs, a smile to a frown in a flash, and of course, that giggle. And when she cries a little too much and I show exasperation, she'll sob, "I'm sorry, Daddy," which worries me because I don't want her to feel like everything's her fault, especially when she's been the victim of a Gavin crime. When we implore him to apologize to her (he's 80% of the reason she cries)--"Say you're sorry"--half the time she'll be the one who says it. "No, not you, him."
I'm still amazed, because of her rosy cheeks, that she's a skinny minny, too; I sometimes have a mental image of her as a little chubster, but she's all ribs and spidery blue veins (thanks to the pale skin).
We love her boldness, but just like Connor had with a security blanket, named Bee Bee, Darcy has Bunny. It's white, and she has to have it to sleep with or when she's really upset. She gnaws on it occasionally, and when she was still in a crib, one of her favorite games was to push it through the bars toward me to have me take a bite. I would pretend to taste and pretend it was disgusting, and she would laugh and laugh and push it to me again.
Our house is always on Bunny Alert, when she's crabby-tired, and we panic when we can't find her. Yes, her; we asked Darcy, and she says Bunny is a her. That thing gets yucky, like a canine chew toy, and gets periodic washing-machine baths, which have to be timed correctly so she's ready for the next bedtime. I'm sure it's the next Typhoid Mary.
In summary, Darcy is pretty much game for anything, and I think will be the girl from Indiana Jones who drinks the yak-master under the table in her Tibetan tavern, dirty-old-man laughing all the while, strapped with a 44-gun in her pocketful of fun.
Friday, September 25, 2009
John Cougar Mellencamp
Of all the things little ones do--little ones meaning between 2 and 5--let's you and I consider the ones we could imagine ourselves doing as adults, at least on a semi-regular basis.
I got this idea while watching Maggie and the twins get around; they run everywhere, on the balls of their feet, whether they've just been told to go to the kitchen to get candy or to go tell Mommy "Good morning," or to put a shirt in the hamper.
Why don't we, their parents, run everywhere? It's not even a full sprint, more like a skip/jog. Is it because our bodies are too big and our work and living spaces too small? We would crash into each other at the office, spilling the Anderson report or bruising the boss?
At home, well, I'm unemployed, so instead of an important project with many loose pieces of paper, I might run into Carrie and drop a bunch of dishes with sauce on them. I know the kids would love it. I believe this is one I can try, insulated by the lack of a boss or tight cubicle-centric layouts. I will skip/jog around the house, doing the daily chores, and will let you know how it goes.
Back to the premise: Let's use the process of elimination. I'll bring up a handful of preschooler pecadillos, then let's imagine us doing them as modus operandi.
1. Picking nose un-self-consciously when not alone.
I won't do it, but we've all seen grown-ups dig away and have been amazed at their public display. Let's say No.
2. Making noises and gesturing instead of using words when they want something.
I do it, but only with my wife. I'm sure most of us do (but not with my wife). So, Yes.
3. Kicking, hitting, biting others.
Again, only with my wife, and probably with others in self-defense. No.
4. Running around naked, regardless of company. Not walking. Running.
I never streaked, and I guess at 43, never will. I have no regrets. Though the body is a beautiful thang, what a wonder is man, and all that, it's a social restraint that is probably never going to be loosened. No.
5. Contorting body while watching TV/movies.
You laughed at this one, didn't you? Upside down; ass in the air; shoulders on the couch while bridging with feet on the floor; writhing into all the above in one 15-minute cartoon. I go from sitting up to laying down or vice versa. I used to do push-ups and sit-ups during commercials, but that was 30 years ago. No.
6. Taking baths together.
Yes.
Please add your own in the comments because this is fun. Happy Autumn.
I got this idea while watching Maggie and the twins get around; they run everywhere, on the balls of their feet, whether they've just been told to go to the kitchen to get candy or to go tell Mommy "Good morning," or to put a shirt in the hamper.
Why don't we, their parents, run everywhere? It's not even a full sprint, more like a skip/jog. Is it because our bodies are too big and our work and living spaces too small? We would crash into each other at the office, spilling the Anderson report or bruising the boss?
At home, well, I'm unemployed, so instead of an important project with many loose pieces of paper, I might run into Carrie and drop a bunch of dishes with sauce on them. I know the kids would love it. I believe this is one I can try, insulated by the lack of a boss or tight cubicle-centric layouts. I will skip/jog around the house, doing the daily chores, and will let you know how it goes.
Back to the premise: Let's use the process of elimination. I'll bring up a handful of preschooler pecadillos, then let's imagine us doing them as modus operandi.
1. Picking nose un-self-consciously when not alone.
I won't do it, but we've all seen grown-ups dig away and have been amazed at their public display. Let's say No.
2. Making noises and gesturing instead of using words when they want something.
I do it, but only with my wife. I'm sure most of us do (but not with my wife). So, Yes.
3. Kicking, hitting, biting others.
Again, only with my wife, and probably with others in self-defense. No.
4. Running around naked, regardless of company. Not walking. Running.
I never streaked, and I guess at 43, never will. I have no regrets. Though the body is a beautiful thang, what a wonder is man, and all that, it's a social restraint that is probably never going to be loosened. No.
5. Contorting body while watching TV/movies.
You laughed at this one, didn't you? Upside down; ass in the air; shoulders on the couch while bridging with feet on the floor; writhing into all the above in one 15-minute cartoon. I go from sitting up to laying down or vice versa. I used to do push-ups and sit-ups during commercials, but that was 30 years ago. No.
6. Taking baths together.
Yes.
Please add your own in the comments because this is fun. Happy Autumn.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Johnny Cash
So, what is a good parent?
We've all wondered if we are or were. If we've turned out mildly successful in our careers, and humane and of course very attractive, we don't wonder if our parents were good at raising us because it doesn't matter now. If things have gone horribly wrong, then we can blame our upbringing.
Since we are parents, we can question ourselves, however, while we're parenting. I think it might be easier for me to start with the basics, or what does NOT qualify as good parenting. Don't pat yourselves on the back if you are:
Feeding it/them.
Making sure it/they are not wounded each day.
Buying it/them things.
Not losing it/them.
Having it/them get things for you from the kitchen as a way of teaching them selflessness.
Any of the above or combinations--even all of them on the same day--are essential, but should in no way be considered good parenting.
I worry, because we may not turn out to be the couple that can completely pay for the kids' education or leave them an estate; we may be the couple who heads for the Peace Corps right after the twins' high-school graduation party. We can sour-grape it with tales of how we ourselves worked through college or took out loans or both, and by cracky, our kids will learn the value of hard work, too.
Yeah, well, I can tell you that if we have the money in 14 years, we will pay for their education (Connor's all set, because his dad is a veteran of a foreign war). Will we buy them new cars, pay their insurance, fill their tanks?-Ha! Not even if we don't have the money will we do that.....um.
You get the point. We know that being good parents has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the quality of time spent, the lessons taught, the experiences shared, the options broadened. The devil as always is in the details:
How much TV?
Does the punishment fit the crime?
Let them fail or shield them from disappointment? (That's easy).
Spring Break 2023: Angola, or Burma?
How hard to push--what's the line between fun and striving for improvement?
Will that get infected?
Chicken nuggets again, or healthier, like fish sticks?
Let them entertain themselves, using their imagination, or provide the entertainment?
Is letting them play at the park quality time between me and them? Or do I have to interact?
I suppose that all-encompassing saying, "Everything in moderation" covers a lot of this, and makes you sound wise at parties. But dammit, these kids are our future (income)! Easy old proverbs are not good enough!
Here's the bottom line: if you ask yourself these questions, you're a good parent. If you answer them, you're a good parent with a little too much time on your hands. And if you are reading this, you're well-informed, make things move and shake, the who's who reading the what's what, and of course, very attractive.
Be fun, have safe.
We've all wondered if we are or were. If we've turned out mildly successful in our careers, and humane and of course very attractive, we don't wonder if our parents were good at raising us because it doesn't matter now. If things have gone horribly wrong, then we can blame our upbringing.
Since we are parents, we can question ourselves, however, while we're parenting. I think it might be easier for me to start with the basics, or what does NOT qualify as good parenting. Don't pat yourselves on the back if you are:
Feeding it/them.
Making sure it/they are not wounded each day.
Buying it/them things.
Not losing it/them.
Having it/them get things for you from the kitchen as a way of teaching them selflessness.
Any of the above or combinations--even all of them on the same day--are essential, but should in no way be considered good parenting.
I worry, because we may not turn out to be the couple that can completely pay for the kids' education or leave them an estate; we may be the couple who heads for the Peace Corps right after the twins' high-school graduation party. We can sour-grape it with tales of how we ourselves worked through college or took out loans or both, and by cracky, our kids will learn the value of hard work, too.
Yeah, well, I can tell you that if we have the money in 14 years, we will pay for their education (Connor's all set, because his dad is a veteran of a foreign war). Will we buy them new cars, pay their insurance, fill their tanks?-Ha! Not even if we don't have the money will we do that.....um.
You get the point. We know that being good parents has nothing to do with money and everything to do with the quality of time spent, the lessons taught, the experiences shared, the options broadened. The devil as always is in the details:
How much TV?
Does the punishment fit the crime?
Let them fail or shield them from disappointment? (That's easy).
Spring Break 2023: Angola, or Burma?
How hard to push--what's the line between fun and striving for improvement?
Will that get infected?
Chicken nuggets again, or healthier, like fish sticks?
Let them entertain themselves, using their imagination, or provide the entertainment?
Is letting them play at the park quality time between me and them? Or do I have to interact?
I suppose that all-encompassing saying, "Everything in moderation" covers a lot of this, and makes you sound wise at parties. But dammit, these kids are our future (income)! Easy old proverbs are not good enough!
Here's the bottom line: if you ask yourself these questions, you're a good parent. If you answer them, you're a good parent with a little too much time on your hands. And if you are reading this, you're well-informed, make things move and shake, the who's who reading the what's what, and of course, very attractive.
Be fun, have safe.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Elvin Bishop
Things I stopped doing once I got married:
*Dating women I wasn't married to.
Things I stopped doing when Maggie was born:
*Wondering if I was sterile.
*Wondering what it felt like to be a Dad.
Things I stopped doing once I got a full-time job:
*Watching Maggie and Connor (when he got home at noon from kindergarten).
Things I stopped doing once the twins came along:
*Sleeping all night.
*Wanting to go on business trips (poor Carrie had all four 24/7 while I was gone; sometimes the trip was so cool [snorkeling, spa, great dinners] I tried not to talk about it).
*Wanting more kids.
*Wanting fewer kids.
*Taking my time while changing a baby (Gavin got me good with his attachment once. Once.).
Things I stopped doing when I got laid off and became a Senyor Madre:
*Keeping up with The New Yorker (I am now three months behind; business trips and lunchtimes kept me at a month behind).
*Earning money.
*Wondering why my wife would call me every day around 4 p.m. exasperated, and be mad at me for getting to drive to work and back all alone.
*Wishing I had more time with the cuties and to play catch with the Conman.
*Worrying about my weight and gut (getting to gym 5 times a week now).
*Sitting on my ass five days a week.
*Listening to internet radio.
*Wearing pants.
*Wishing I could start a blog.
Ok, gotta go continue the job hunt. This time I think I'll scare one out of the tall grass right into the waiting pack.
On the advice of a teacher friend, I have begun applying to ESL jobs even though I am five classes short of the ESL certification, and will not have completed them until next summer. There is that much of a shortage, he says, as if that wasn't apparent by the fact that National Louis U. is offering ESL classes at two-thirds less than regular courses.
You can tell I'm excited.
*Dating women I wasn't married to.
Things I stopped doing when Maggie was born:
*Wondering if I was sterile.
*Wondering what it felt like to be a Dad.
Things I stopped doing once I got a full-time job:
*Watching Maggie and Connor (when he got home at noon from kindergarten).
Things I stopped doing once the twins came along:
*Sleeping all night.
*Wanting to go on business trips (poor Carrie had all four 24/7 while I was gone; sometimes the trip was so cool [snorkeling, spa, great dinners] I tried not to talk about it).
*Wanting more kids.
*Wanting fewer kids.
*Taking my time while changing a baby (Gavin got me good with his attachment once. Once.).
Things I stopped doing when I got laid off and became a Senyor Madre:
*Keeping up with The New Yorker (I am now three months behind; business trips and lunchtimes kept me at a month behind).
*Earning money.
*Wondering why my wife would call me every day around 4 p.m. exasperated, and be mad at me for getting to drive to work and back all alone.
*Wishing I had more time with the cuties and to play catch with the Conman.
*Worrying about my weight and gut (getting to gym 5 times a week now).
*Sitting on my ass five days a week.
*Listening to internet radio.
*Wearing pants.
*Wishing I could start a blog.
Ok, gotta go continue the job hunt. This time I think I'll scare one out of the tall grass right into the waiting pack.
On the advice of a teacher friend, I have begun applying to ESL jobs even though I am five classes short of the ESL certification, and will not have completed them until next summer. There is that much of a shortage, he says, as if that wasn't apparent by the fact that National Louis U. is offering ESL classes at two-thirds less than regular courses.
You can tell I'm excited.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Lord Tracy
You know that movie "I Love You, Man"?
A guy about to get married realizes he doesn't have enough good guy friends to stand up for him, so he starts searching, going on man-dates. Hilarity ensues.
If Carrie and I don't run an intervention soon, that guy will be Gavin. Believe me, I know, I was the same when I was single (I still don't have many close friends, but I have four kids, so it doesn't matter). Not sure why, maybe being raised by a single Mom, and not having the influence of a man/Dad after the age of 7, but I have always felt more comfortable and confident with women.
It caused me some concern, feeling like an outsider in terms of groups of guys, but I don't think much pain or damage. I was naturally a loner and so it was wash. However, because I spent much of my free time as an adult pursuing and obtaining women, I caused plenty of pain, so I think it's fair to Gavin to perhaps guide him from his preference for the company of boobs and ponytails.
I get it--he has a twin sister and another 15 months older, and spends a lot of time with them. So, at home he's with them, and when we go to play- and park-dates, he's used to playing with them, and they are then playing with other girls. He likes to snuggle up to any grown-up bosom that will have him. No mystery or cause for alarm there, right?
We've been in situations though when a new girl or gaggle of girls makes the scene, he turns into Austin Powers. He nearly had a girl five or six years older bugged out at one park because of his persistence. At another park, two or three third-grade classes from a nearby school swarmed the playground, and damned if he didn't find a harem to wander into the middle of.
Today, he was the only boy (besides Connor) at a little get-together at a good friend's house. So to be fair, he had no choice, but yet the image of him one-on-one with a slightly older girl he had never met, lounging in a sun-dappled spot like an old-time picnic date, took on extra significance due to his reputation.
There's nothing else for it, then. We must create more opportunities for him to play with me and Connor and other boys. If it has to be one of those boys' groups involving drums and tree bark soup and screaming, well, it won't be that much different than every day for Gavin. If we need to start a "Mine, No, Mine" boys-only, toy-tug-o-war playgroup, so be it.
I know Gavin has the raw materials--all I have to do is lay down near him and he's on me for some bashin' about (as my English ancestors would say). He and I and Connor went at it today. And one of my favorite sequences was at one of Connor's preseason football games, when older boys let him in their sideline grab-ass group.
The youngest kid was 5, next-youngest maybe 7, the elders were 10-ish. Somehow related to players or coaches on Connor's team, they did the usual--threw a ball, tackled each other with and without the ball, sat around. Gavin wanted to play with them, and waded right in. He was so young that they couldn't be mean, so cute they just wanted to treat him like a teddy bear.
They let him tackle them, and do chokeholds, and at one point, Gavin wanted to give them a chance at chokeholding him. So he sat in a boy's lap, just like he used to do when it was reading time. Yes, I was a proud papa; partly for his fearlessness, partly for his desire to do guy things.
He'll be alright. He has a brother. His sisters get tired of his bullying and exclude him from time to time. And, I'm here for the long haul, too.
A guy about to get married realizes he doesn't have enough good guy friends to stand up for him, so he starts searching, going on man-dates. Hilarity ensues.
If Carrie and I don't run an intervention soon, that guy will be Gavin. Believe me, I know, I was the same when I was single (I still don't have many close friends, but I have four kids, so it doesn't matter). Not sure why, maybe being raised by a single Mom, and not having the influence of a man/Dad after the age of 7, but I have always felt more comfortable and confident with women.
It caused me some concern, feeling like an outsider in terms of groups of guys, but I don't think much pain or damage. I was naturally a loner and so it was wash. However, because I spent much of my free time as an adult pursuing and obtaining women, I caused plenty of pain, so I think it's fair to Gavin to perhaps guide him from his preference for the company of boobs and ponytails.
I get it--he has a twin sister and another 15 months older, and spends a lot of time with them. So, at home he's with them, and when we go to play- and park-dates, he's used to playing with them, and they are then playing with other girls. He likes to snuggle up to any grown-up bosom that will have him. No mystery or cause for alarm there, right?
We've been in situations though when a new girl or gaggle of girls makes the scene, he turns into Austin Powers. He nearly had a girl five or six years older bugged out at one park because of his persistence. At another park, two or three third-grade classes from a nearby school swarmed the playground, and damned if he didn't find a harem to wander into the middle of.
Today, he was the only boy (besides Connor) at a little get-together at a good friend's house. So to be fair, he had no choice, but yet the image of him one-on-one with a slightly older girl he had never met, lounging in a sun-dappled spot like an old-time picnic date, took on extra significance due to his reputation.
There's nothing else for it, then. We must create more opportunities for him to play with me and Connor and other boys. If it has to be one of those boys' groups involving drums and tree bark soup and screaming, well, it won't be that much different than every day for Gavin. If we need to start a "Mine, No, Mine" boys-only, toy-tug-o-war playgroup, so be it.
I know Gavin has the raw materials--all I have to do is lay down near him and he's on me for some bashin' about (as my English ancestors would say). He and I and Connor went at it today. And one of my favorite sequences was at one of Connor's preseason football games, when older boys let him in their sideline grab-ass group.
The youngest kid was 5, next-youngest maybe 7, the elders were 10-ish. Somehow related to players or coaches on Connor's team, they did the usual--threw a ball, tackled each other with and without the ball, sat around. Gavin wanted to play with them, and waded right in. He was so young that they couldn't be mean, so cute they just wanted to treat him like a teddy bear.
They let him tackle them, and do chokeholds, and at one point, Gavin wanted to give them a chance at chokeholding him. So he sat in a boy's lap, just like he used to do when it was reading time. Yes, I was a proud papa; partly for his fearlessness, partly for his desire to do guy things.
He'll be alright. He has a brother. His sisters get tired of his bullying and exclude him from time to time. And, I'm here for the long haul, too.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Terence Trent D'Arby
I renewed my teaching certificate last night, mainly because I owe it to my family to do whatever it takes to get a job.
I left my first full-time teaching gig in 2004 after three months; I was miserable--not used to so much planning, dealing with kids who took joy out of educating kids who did care, personal life unsettled, sleeping on the floor of my sublet apartment in Oswego, with a U-Haul moving blanket as a cover and having to wake each day at 5:30 or 6.
I was unmarried, no one else depended on my paycheck, so I quit. The principal thought it was the damndest thing he'd seen in all his years, and even mentioned it at a year-end faculty meeting.
I pursued teaching high-school kids because I wanted to teach them how to write journalistically. I envisioned being the school-paper coach/sponsor and teaching a journalism class. Those jobs are out there, but unless you can wait for one to come open, you have to take a job as an English teacher. I may have been a good writer/sportswriter, but it was not because I could diagram sentences, identify clauses and participles or had read any classic pieces of literature.
I got a summer-school job in Deerfield/Highland Park teaching journalism--perfect, but only a summer job. The full-time job I took that fall had block scheduling and my duties were a couple Olde English classes (Beowulf, Canterbury Tales, etc.), and a class for below-grade-level sophomores.
The sophomores were kids who had rough backgrounds or just didn't care and were used to being treated as reputations rather than people. Though they were potentially the most challenging, they were of course the most interesting and lively; at least it was all out in the open with them, unlike snotty, intelligent kids who were more interested in socializing or sleeping than learning. The exhausting part of those kids is that you have to bring all the effort--they don't meet you halfway. You have to stay on them about paying attention, as well as teach them.
I suppose the caveat is that I don't really remember what it was like to be a high-school student. I got good grades, but I don't remember if I was a handful behaviorally. I don't think so, but off the field, so to speak, I certainly was, totaling two cars. I could have applied myself instead of coasting, but I got an ACT score of 29, so I'm not sure what better grades could have gotten me.
Would have been nice to know I was Hispanic, for scholarships and such, but it didn't occur to either me or my Mom. Just didn't have an early ambition from myself or Mom to get after an Ivy League education and didn't have a clue about a major until spring of my senior year. I just always knew I would go to college and needed good-enough grades. Wanted to play some football, too.
So, we tell our kids all the things we know they should do to maximize their time in school and opportunities available, knowing full well that we didn't always follow any of that advice (if it was given). Part of knowing yourself is knowing your weaknesses, and part of wanting your children to succeed is turning them from the mistakes or oversights of your own youth.
This is not hypocrisy, more like do as I say not as I do/did. We're not discussing smoking here. I am after Connor all the time about doing an assignment right the first time or spending more time correcting it; or to be more and better organized; or to care more, which will show itself by remembering to bring things home and take things back to school.
The anger comes from fear, fear that you might not figure out how to impart a love of reading or how to relax for test-taking or make them see the common sense of being prepared and studying; fear that if study habits don't start early they might never, and with three more kids behind him, there will be a day in five or six years that all four kids will have homework, projects, papers, and extracurriculars.
We need self-sufficiency and responsibility from them, and unfortunately for Connor, we're learning how to establish that with him. In the end, maybe we're learning nothing, because every kid is different. Perhaps we will tell all of them what we tell Connor--we don't demand you be the smartest, but we will demand that you do your best. Plenty of gifted kids are left in the chalkdust by kids who work harder.
I know that my brief experience as a high-school teacher makes me place a high priority at least on making sure he/they respect teachers, pay attention, participate, be courteous. How to make them love to learn, that is the intangible.
So, I'm approaching the possibility of teaching again, but from circumstances that couldn't be more different. Married, four kids, mortgage on a house in a great place to raise a family. I'm finally settled, just not career-wise, so I'm ahead of where I was in 2004. Way ahead, as you can see by the pics to the left.
When I was interviewing for the job I was just laid off from, I was also in the running, and quite promisingly, I thought, for a local high school that needed someone to revive the school paper and teach a journalism class and some English classes. Pay would have been almost 20K more than the job I quit. But the horror of teaching English was too fresh and when the magazine job offered me, I took it.
I may take the classes necessary to teach English as a Second Language, perhaps get some Hispanic Scholarship Fund money to help pay for it. I'd like that, maybe in middle school, like sixth grade. When I substitute-taught, I'd try to choose elementary assignments as much as possible, but when it came time to pick a level in which to teach I picked high school because of what I wanted to teach. It would be too many classes to switch my certificate to elementary, so that's out, but ESL in middle school. I could do that.
I mean well, I really do. I have a great track record of doing what I need to get what I want--being a sportswriter at a good-sized daily (never spent a day at a weekly); getting a teaching certificate and job--so gumption is not the problem. The main obstacle to employment is that my skill set is ancient in today's technologically-charged society, and the openings for what I do best are not plentiful and are thus set upon by a herd of those either perfect for the job or willing to accept lower pay.
The last severance check comes next week, and my healthcare ends at the end of the month. I admit I'm still excited by the unknown, and against all logic, not worried.
I left my first full-time teaching gig in 2004 after three months; I was miserable--not used to so much planning, dealing with kids who took joy out of educating kids who did care, personal life unsettled, sleeping on the floor of my sublet apartment in Oswego, with a U-Haul moving blanket as a cover and having to wake each day at 5:30 or 6.
I was unmarried, no one else depended on my paycheck, so I quit. The principal thought it was the damndest thing he'd seen in all his years, and even mentioned it at a year-end faculty meeting.
I pursued teaching high-school kids because I wanted to teach them how to write journalistically. I envisioned being the school-paper coach/sponsor and teaching a journalism class. Those jobs are out there, but unless you can wait for one to come open, you have to take a job as an English teacher. I may have been a good writer/sportswriter, but it was not because I could diagram sentences, identify clauses and participles or had read any classic pieces of literature.
I got a summer-school job in Deerfield/Highland Park teaching journalism--perfect, but only a summer job. The full-time job I took that fall had block scheduling and my duties were a couple Olde English classes (Beowulf, Canterbury Tales, etc.), and a class for below-grade-level sophomores.
The sophomores were kids who had rough backgrounds or just didn't care and were used to being treated as reputations rather than people. Though they were potentially the most challenging, they were of course the most interesting and lively; at least it was all out in the open with them, unlike snotty, intelligent kids who were more interested in socializing or sleeping than learning. The exhausting part of those kids is that you have to bring all the effort--they don't meet you halfway. You have to stay on them about paying attention, as well as teach them.
I suppose the caveat is that I don't really remember what it was like to be a high-school student. I got good grades, but I don't remember if I was a handful behaviorally. I don't think so, but off the field, so to speak, I certainly was, totaling two cars. I could have applied myself instead of coasting, but I got an ACT score of 29, so I'm not sure what better grades could have gotten me.
Would have been nice to know I was Hispanic, for scholarships and such, but it didn't occur to either me or my Mom. Just didn't have an early ambition from myself or Mom to get after an Ivy League education and didn't have a clue about a major until spring of my senior year. I just always knew I would go to college and needed good-enough grades. Wanted to play some football, too.
So, we tell our kids all the things we know they should do to maximize their time in school and opportunities available, knowing full well that we didn't always follow any of that advice (if it was given). Part of knowing yourself is knowing your weaknesses, and part of wanting your children to succeed is turning them from the mistakes or oversights of your own youth.
This is not hypocrisy, more like do as I say not as I do/did. We're not discussing smoking here. I am after Connor all the time about doing an assignment right the first time or spending more time correcting it; or to be more and better organized; or to care more, which will show itself by remembering to bring things home and take things back to school.
The anger comes from fear, fear that you might not figure out how to impart a love of reading or how to relax for test-taking or make them see the common sense of being prepared and studying; fear that if study habits don't start early they might never, and with three more kids behind him, there will be a day in five or six years that all four kids will have homework, projects, papers, and extracurriculars.
We need self-sufficiency and responsibility from them, and unfortunately for Connor, we're learning how to establish that with him. In the end, maybe we're learning nothing, because every kid is different. Perhaps we will tell all of them what we tell Connor--we don't demand you be the smartest, but we will demand that you do your best. Plenty of gifted kids are left in the chalkdust by kids who work harder.
I know that my brief experience as a high-school teacher makes me place a high priority at least on making sure he/they respect teachers, pay attention, participate, be courteous. How to make them love to learn, that is the intangible.
So, I'm approaching the possibility of teaching again, but from circumstances that couldn't be more different. Married, four kids, mortgage on a house in a great place to raise a family. I'm finally settled, just not career-wise, so I'm ahead of where I was in 2004. Way ahead, as you can see by the pics to the left.
When I was interviewing for the job I was just laid off from, I was also in the running, and quite promisingly, I thought, for a local high school that needed someone to revive the school paper and teach a journalism class and some English classes. Pay would have been almost 20K more than the job I quit. But the horror of teaching English was too fresh and when the magazine job offered me, I took it.
I may take the classes necessary to teach English as a Second Language, perhaps get some Hispanic Scholarship Fund money to help pay for it. I'd like that, maybe in middle school, like sixth grade. When I substitute-taught, I'd try to choose elementary assignments as much as possible, but when it came time to pick a level in which to teach I picked high school because of what I wanted to teach. It would be too many classes to switch my certificate to elementary, so that's out, but ESL in middle school. I could do that.
I mean well, I really do. I have a great track record of doing what I need to get what I want--being a sportswriter at a good-sized daily (never spent a day at a weekly); getting a teaching certificate and job--so gumption is not the problem. The main obstacle to employment is that my skill set is ancient in today's technologically-charged society, and the openings for what I do best are not plentiful and are thus set upon by a herd of those either perfect for the job or willing to accept lower pay.
The last severance check comes next week, and my healthcare ends at the end of the month. I admit I'm still excited by the unknown, and against all logic, not worried.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Jeff Healey Band
Hey, I forgot to celebrate my 20th post!
I think one of these days I'm going to leave in all the typos. I never learned to type the right way--took one class at U. of Idaho, and five years later started a career in writing really fast and accurately. One of those things where you get good at doing something the wrong way, like folks who couldn't find anything if they cleaned their desks. Since I've been blogging and commenting on FB and my favorite sports blog, The Big Lead, I can't accurately keep up with my thoughts.
But not tonight. No, tonight I want you to focus on something serious without being distracted by missplelings and impoprer usage or contractions that aren;t done good.
Of course, I'm referring to Things Parents Say or Do When They're Trying to Fake Being Interested in What Their Kid(s) are Saying/Doing.
You may not feel comfortable admitting it, but you've got me to admit it for you, and better, to analyze and take it deep.
You love your computer and TV time; you work long hours and want to zone out or catch up when you get home. Or you're job-hunting and don't want to wait until 9 pm, when it's quiet and you are free.
But those little ones have an eager wish to play with you or have you read to them or show you what they're building/drawing or fascinate you with something SpongeBob said/did. What to do (in case you're a newbie)?
Here are some of my sayings and actions, which buy time or make them think you woke up or came home feeling refreshed and ready for many hours of quality time (works best with 3-and-under):
"And what do you think of that?"
"And then what happened?"
"Oh yeah?"
"No way"
Get on floor and wrestle and tickle for a minute, then get back to your PC/book/show.
"Stop it!"
"No hitting!"
"That's the trigger guard."
"Wow, what is that, a spaceship?"
"Oh, a doggie. That is the best doggie I've seen in the past two minutes."
"What is that guy doing?"
"Oh, what is that girl doing?"
You see, not so hard. And one day it occurs to you that these are things that you do with grown-ups all day at work, anyway.
Get out there and give it a go. I'll be here if you need me.
I think one of these days I'm going to leave in all the typos. I never learned to type the right way--took one class at U. of Idaho, and five years later started a career in writing really fast and accurately. One of those things where you get good at doing something the wrong way, like folks who couldn't find anything if they cleaned their desks. Since I've been blogging and commenting on FB and my favorite sports blog, The Big Lead, I can't accurately keep up with my thoughts.
But not tonight. No, tonight I want you to focus on something serious without being distracted by missplelings and impoprer usage or contractions that aren;t done good.
Of course, I'm referring to Things Parents Say or Do When They're Trying to Fake Being Interested in What Their Kid(s) are Saying/Doing.
You may not feel comfortable admitting it, but you've got me to admit it for you, and better, to analyze and take it deep.
You love your computer and TV time; you work long hours and want to zone out or catch up when you get home. Or you're job-hunting and don't want to wait until 9 pm, when it's quiet and you are free.
But those little ones have an eager wish to play with you or have you read to them or show you what they're building/drawing or fascinate you with something SpongeBob said/did. What to do (in case you're a newbie)?
Here are some of my sayings and actions, which buy time or make them think you woke up or came home feeling refreshed and ready for many hours of quality time (works best with 3-and-under):
"And what do you think of that?"
"And then what happened?"
"Oh yeah?"
"No way"
Get on floor and wrestle and tickle for a minute, then get back to your PC/book/show.
"Stop it!"
"No hitting!"
"That's the trigger guard."
"Wow, what is that, a spaceship?"
"Oh, a doggie. That is the best doggie I've seen in the past two minutes."
"What is that guy doing?"
"Oh, what is that girl doing?"
You see, not so hard. And one day it occurs to you that these are things that you do with grown-ups all day at work, anyway.
Get out there and give it a go. I'll be here if you need me.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Elvis Presley
Well, the quest for a pet is ongoing. Kids and wife want a dog, I want a cat and a dog or a dog.
The problem with cats is that Carrie is allergic; we'd have to add to the pet expense a daily supply of Claritin, plus I'd have to vacuum at least once a week. I have no problem with those requirements, especially for the joy that is a mini-tiger.
I know the cliche is that guys dislike cats, but I think it's like having the savannah right in your home. They do everything their larger cousins do, without the fear of them eating you. I had two cats when I was single, and we tried to make that work when I moved in with Carrie, but I wasn't willing to clean as much as Carrie needed me to, and we gave them to the county shelter, where they were probably euthanized because people don't want eight-year-old cats who grew up together.
I cried that day, and Carrie will tell you that far from being a sign of my humanity and soft center, that only proved that I'll cry about animals and not people.
But I digress.
I decided against a cat right now because of the kitty-litter situation: we have no good place to put the box, and I'm just not going to leap over tall buildings to make this work. Let's face it, unless you have a great out-of-the-way place for the box, you can't subject people to a carton of sand-covered lumps of poop and pee.
We go back and forth on the dog issue. We have a townhouse with only a slight backyard, not fenced in. We have three kids easily knocked over. We have one person pulling in income, so dollar-priority should go to humans. We have one Senyor Madre watching all the kids, and if we get a puppy, which everyone wants because they're oh-so-cute (as they chew furniture and pee and poop everywhere), it will be similar to having another toddler. As has been recorded on this here blog, just three days ago, SM has yet to potty-train the 2-year-old twins.
Hey, what's one more?
Not exactly. So we won't mind getting an older dog. Thus, with our options expanded, Carrie took Maggie and Connor to the county shelter a couple weeks ago and was over the moon about a 1-year-old Shepard mix. The ideal dog for us will be no larger than medium, short-haired, quiet, friendly and laid-back. The shelter requires a family to all meet the animal before adopting, so I went, fearing that this Shepard would be a German black and brown monster with a Luger and cross-eyes.
In fact, Kirby was the kind of dog you see riding in the back of a single, unshaved guy's 1963 Bronco, as they head out for an adventure in the canyons during a jeans or deodorant commercial. He was beautiful, handsome, smart-looking, friendly.....and oh-so-energetic. No one but me would be able to walk it, and the lady at the shelter said she had a feeling that without a fenced-in yard and 4 kids, Kirby would be hell, bursting through the door as soon as there was a crack, and heading for the, well, the canyon.
It was hard to do, but I had to say no. He would knock down all of the kids in his amiable glee, and it wouldn't be fair to him to spend more than 15 minutes straight indoors. Plus, at 70-80 pounds, he would eat more than the twins combined. Next. Thankfully, only one of the kids is old enough to care much--in fact the twins never even knew about Kirby or the pet search.
I'd love an old hound dog, the kind from the movie Best in Show; it will have a southern accent and say funny things like "I'm gonna trade you for a dog and shoot the dog," and "It's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock." It will move only when hungry or needing to go outside to do his biz. We will call him the name reserved for whatever pet, which is Maggie's favorite word: Bamboo.
The problem with cats is that Carrie is allergic; we'd have to add to the pet expense a daily supply of Claritin, plus I'd have to vacuum at least once a week. I have no problem with those requirements, especially for the joy that is a mini-tiger.
I know the cliche is that guys dislike cats, but I think it's like having the savannah right in your home. They do everything their larger cousins do, without the fear of them eating you. I had two cats when I was single, and we tried to make that work when I moved in with Carrie, but I wasn't willing to clean as much as Carrie needed me to, and we gave them to the county shelter, where they were probably euthanized because people don't want eight-year-old cats who grew up together.
I cried that day, and Carrie will tell you that far from being a sign of my humanity and soft center, that only proved that I'll cry about animals and not people.
But I digress.
I decided against a cat right now because of the kitty-litter situation: we have no good place to put the box, and I'm just not going to leap over tall buildings to make this work. Let's face it, unless you have a great out-of-the-way place for the box, you can't subject people to a carton of sand-covered lumps of poop and pee.
We go back and forth on the dog issue. We have a townhouse with only a slight backyard, not fenced in. We have three kids easily knocked over. We have one person pulling in income, so dollar-priority should go to humans. We have one Senyor Madre watching all the kids, and if we get a puppy, which everyone wants because they're oh-so-cute (as they chew furniture and pee and poop everywhere), it will be similar to having another toddler. As has been recorded on this here blog, just three days ago, SM has yet to potty-train the 2-year-old twins.
Hey, what's one more?
Not exactly. So we won't mind getting an older dog. Thus, with our options expanded, Carrie took Maggie and Connor to the county shelter a couple weeks ago and was over the moon about a 1-year-old Shepard mix. The ideal dog for us will be no larger than medium, short-haired, quiet, friendly and laid-back. The shelter requires a family to all meet the animal before adopting, so I went, fearing that this Shepard would be a German black and brown monster with a Luger and cross-eyes.
In fact, Kirby was the kind of dog you see riding in the back of a single, unshaved guy's 1963 Bronco, as they head out for an adventure in the canyons during a jeans or deodorant commercial. He was beautiful, handsome, smart-looking, friendly.....and oh-so-energetic. No one but me would be able to walk it, and the lady at the shelter said she had a feeling that without a fenced-in yard and 4 kids, Kirby would be hell, bursting through the door as soon as there was a crack, and heading for the, well, the canyon.
It was hard to do, but I had to say no. He would knock down all of the kids in his amiable glee, and it wouldn't be fair to him to spend more than 15 minutes straight indoors. Plus, at 70-80 pounds, he would eat more than the twins combined. Next. Thankfully, only one of the kids is old enough to care much--in fact the twins never even knew about Kirby or the pet search.
I'd love an old hound dog, the kind from the movie Best in Show; it will have a southern accent and say funny things like "I'm gonna trade you for a dog and shoot the dog," and "It's raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock." It will move only when hungry or needing to go outside to do his biz. We will call him the name reserved for whatever pet, which is Maggie's favorite word: Bamboo.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Soundgarden
"The Devil's comin' to breakfast, and there's bacon in your pants."
Not sure where I heard that, but it describes my situation. Now that I am home full-time and the twinny twin twins are not yet potty-trained, that chore falls to me. There will be no way to hide failure and success is to be expected, not lauded. I think a plausible goal is by their 3rd birthday; that's four months off.
Here's the status update, by twin:
Gavin is much closer than Darcy. We thought he was well on his skinny-ass way a few months ago, peeing and pooping in the portable potties, but it was a false start. We decided to get after it again, with both of them, just the other day. Carrie's idea was to bribe them with M&Ms--you go 1 or 2, you get a handful.
The boy is happy to sit and dribble the minimum, and I can't say "Not enough" or the whole idea will break down. So, he's gotten five or six batches of candy-coated chocolate, but has not yet told us that he has to go. I say "Peepee, poopie, potty?" at least 1003 times a day, or just grab and place them.
Darcy watches all this, and even thinks she should get M&Ms when the others do (we let Maggie have them as an example--she's happy to demonstrate on one of the portajohns that she used back in the day). Darcy Parcy Puddin and Pie simply is not interested.
I'll ask her, and place her, but she can't even manage a drop just for the goodies. Today, I put her on the Diego potty and instead of giving her a book, I put her within reach of the blackboard. She cleaned the board and drew on it, but didn't emit waste. I may have a pic of this later--very excited to be able to send Carrie all my phone-camera pics because she just got a Blackberry, making e-mailing the pics to our PC much easier. Some of the best pics of the kids from the past couple years are on my phone.
But I digress.
Anyway, I can argue about how much housework I (don't) get done because I would rather play with the kids, or cruise Facebook or a sports blog, or go to the gym, but I can find no way to slough off responsibility for potty-training. Connor just one day did it, after months of hand-wringing from myself and Carrie, and I'm sure that's what will happen here.
Carrie says Maggie was very good about it, and I just don't remember, though I'm sure she was. Plus, Carrie was the one home when Maggie was at this stage, so whether Maggie was special or Carrie has the touch and attentiveness, or both, I have the Diaper Dandies, and only one is playing ball(s).
So, the M&M thing is probably going to be shelved, with no foreseeable replacement incentive. Darcy doesn't care right now about being "a big girl" or wearing panties. Gavin is just excited to see his schlong and please his dad, so he doesn't need the candy. I can't be mad at them....I wouldn't take a dump for M&Ms, either, to be honest with you.
If I could get them interested in bourbon, though, we could really bond...
Not sure where I heard that, but it describes my situation. Now that I am home full-time and the twinny twin twins are not yet potty-trained, that chore falls to me. There will be no way to hide failure and success is to be expected, not lauded. I think a plausible goal is by their 3rd birthday; that's four months off.
Here's the status update, by twin:
Gavin is much closer than Darcy. We thought he was well on his skinny-ass way a few months ago, peeing and pooping in the portable potties, but it was a false start. We decided to get after it again, with both of them, just the other day. Carrie's idea was to bribe them with M&Ms--you go 1 or 2, you get a handful.
The boy is happy to sit and dribble the minimum, and I can't say "Not enough" or the whole idea will break down. So, he's gotten five or six batches of candy-coated chocolate, but has not yet told us that he has to go. I say "Peepee, poopie, potty?" at least 1003 times a day, or just grab and place them.
Darcy watches all this, and even thinks she should get M&Ms when the others do (we let Maggie have them as an example--she's happy to demonstrate on one of the portajohns that she used back in the day). Darcy Parcy Puddin and Pie simply is not interested.
I'll ask her, and place her, but she can't even manage a drop just for the goodies. Today, I put her on the Diego potty and instead of giving her a book, I put her within reach of the blackboard. She cleaned the board and drew on it, but didn't emit waste. I may have a pic of this later--very excited to be able to send Carrie all my phone-camera pics because she just got a Blackberry, making e-mailing the pics to our PC much easier. Some of the best pics of the kids from the past couple years are on my phone.
But I digress.
Anyway, I can argue about how much housework I (don't) get done because I would rather play with the kids, or cruise Facebook or a sports blog, or go to the gym, but I can find no way to slough off responsibility for potty-training. Connor just one day did it, after months of hand-wringing from myself and Carrie, and I'm sure that's what will happen here.
Carrie says Maggie was very good about it, and I just don't remember, though I'm sure she was. Plus, Carrie was the one home when Maggie was at this stage, so whether Maggie was special or Carrie has the touch and attentiveness, or both, I have the Diaper Dandies, and only one is playing ball(s).
So, the M&M thing is probably going to be shelved, with no foreseeable replacement incentive. Darcy doesn't care right now about being "a big girl" or wearing panties. Gavin is just excited to see his schlong and please his dad, so he doesn't need the candy. I can't be mad at them....I wouldn't take a dump for M&Ms, either, to be honest with you.
If I could get them interested in bourbon, though, we could really bond...
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Off Broadway
Let me just say off the top, learning that my PC has headphone jacks is boss. Sunny Day Real Estate, now Zero 7, shuffle off to Buffalo, can I get a witness?
We're on the verge of football season, and I'm on the fence about whether to go all Mr. Marinovich on Gavin, the 2-year-old twin. For those of you unfamiliar with the Marinovich tale (I really only know the generalities), the elder Marinovich began shaping his son Todd to be a big-time QB when the boy was 2. Fitness regimen, special nutrition, wouldn't be surprised if there was film study.
The kid won a full ride to USC, was the Trojans' starter, and made it to the NFL, where he flopped. Smoked a lot of marijuana, might have been arrested. Became someone I had to explain to you.
That's not the plan for Gavvy Gav, as we call him around here. Pronounced like it's spelled. Protect this House!
It all began when I suspected he was a bit of a rockhead--seemed unfazed by the same collisions that have his sisters in tears and in need of a hug and a booboo kiss. Plus, he doesn't fall down as much as his twin, Darcy, and has got one heck of an open-mouthed stare that athlete-students get in Geometry class.
Then one day last week, Maggie calls me from upstairs after I hear one of the three cry....OK, scream. She says that Gavin's bleeding. I ask what color. No, seriously, she says she bonked his nose with her head. I run upstairs and he's on the stuffy chair, bare-chested, blood smeared across his face and hands, eating the fruit snacks I had given him minutes before.
Right then, I knew he'd be No. 56. That's right, linebackers wear that number.
There will still be reading and writing and math-ing, and for now we'll keep it to sprints, plyometrics, and yelling 'Strong Right!' 10 random times per day. But come Jan. 6 (or 7th?), his third birthday, the backpedaling, tip drills and supplements begin. He will be thereafter described as having a "high motor", good "awareness in space" and "blood in his eye".
On Jan. 10, we'll add (I use "we" referring to the organ-eye-zation, not so much my wife) the raising and lowering of a running-back pinata over a tree limb. The key to this will be that when he finally rips it to shreds there will be no candy inside. He'll never forget that moment, and we believe his trademark sack dance could involve whacking an unseen target with an imaginary stick, then weeping.
He will be known as Bushwhacker, and the troubled past that will make him a Sunday Conversation on Thursdays will be his relationship with his father, a former sportswriter who wanted one last scoop to get him back to the bigtime.
As Gavin progresses, there will be Jeep-pulling playdates, strength-training advisers, bike-helmet stickers for random acts of aggression, surprise challenges by the old man: "Is he keeping or pitching?" or "Race you to the last protein shake," or "What if the ref isn't looking?" I can picture the slow-motion montage of this period in the movie of his life, "Tackling Dummy."
In seventh grade, he can learn to read from playbooks, learn to write with pretend appeals of league suspensions and learn his numbers from a book I found called Fun With Incentive Clauses. He won't be anybody's fool.....until age 48, when he will mumble orders (like Ozzy Osbourne--he's so funny!) to his butler, maid and the person who will hold up his lower lip up so he can swallow soup.
There will be no money from speaking engagements, but wow, his memories of his career will fade in and out. I will say in interviews that I had little to do with his brutality, that he deserves all the credit. His name will live on in the social-services camps he will found.
Bushwhacker Academy for Troubled Youth Who are Good at Football.
That's all I've got for tonight. Bobby Womack's seeing a yawning me to the door....
We're on the verge of football season, and I'm on the fence about whether to go all Mr. Marinovich on Gavin, the 2-year-old twin. For those of you unfamiliar with the Marinovich tale (I really only know the generalities), the elder Marinovich began shaping his son Todd to be a big-time QB when the boy was 2. Fitness regimen, special nutrition, wouldn't be surprised if there was film study.
The kid won a full ride to USC, was the Trojans' starter, and made it to the NFL, where he flopped. Smoked a lot of marijuana, might have been arrested. Became someone I had to explain to you.
That's not the plan for Gavvy Gav, as we call him around here. Pronounced like it's spelled. Protect this House!
It all began when I suspected he was a bit of a rockhead--seemed unfazed by the same collisions that have his sisters in tears and in need of a hug and a booboo kiss. Plus, he doesn't fall down as much as his twin, Darcy, and has got one heck of an open-mouthed stare that athlete-students get in Geometry class.
Then one day last week, Maggie calls me from upstairs after I hear one of the three cry....OK, scream. She says that Gavin's bleeding. I ask what color. No, seriously, she says she bonked his nose with her head. I run upstairs and he's on the stuffy chair, bare-chested, blood smeared across his face and hands, eating the fruit snacks I had given him minutes before.
Right then, I knew he'd be No. 56. That's right, linebackers wear that number.
There will still be reading and writing and math-ing, and for now we'll keep it to sprints, plyometrics, and yelling 'Strong Right!' 10 random times per day. But come Jan. 6 (or 7th?), his third birthday, the backpedaling, tip drills and supplements begin. He will be thereafter described as having a "high motor", good "awareness in space" and "blood in his eye".
On Jan. 10, we'll add (I use "we" referring to the organ-eye-zation, not so much my wife) the raising and lowering of a running-back pinata over a tree limb. The key to this will be that when he finally rips it to shreds there will be no candy inside. He'll never forget that moment, and we believe his trademark sack dance could involve whacking an unseen target with an imaginary stick, then weeping.
He will be known as Bushwhacker, and the troubled past that will make him a Sunday Conversation on Thursdays will be his relationship with his father, a former sportswriter who wanted one last scoop to get him back to the bigtime.
As Gavin progresses, there will be Jeep-pulling playdates, strength-training advisers, bike-helmet stickers for random acts of aggression, surprise challenges by the old man: "Is he keeping or pitching?" or "Race you to the last protein shake," or "What if the ref isn't looking?" I can picture the slow-motion montage of this period in the movie of his life, "Tackling Dummy."
In seventh grade, he can learn to read from playbooks, learn to write with pretend appeals of league suspensions and learn his numbers from a book I found called Fun With Incentive Clauses. He won't be anybody's fool.....until age 48, when he will mumble orders (like Ozzy Osbourne--he's so funny!) to his butler, maid and the person who will hold up his lower lip up so he can swallow soup.
There will be no money from speaking engagements, but wow, his memories of his career will fade in and out. I will say in interviews that I had little to do with his brutality, that he deserves all the credit. His name will live on in the social-services camps he will found.
Bushwhacker Academy for Troubled Youth Who are Good at Football.
That's all I've got for tonight. Bobby Womack's seeing a yawning me to the door....
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Led Zeppelin
I put away the baby monitors a couple weeks ago, and could have done it a few months ago, really. The one we still used was in Darcy's and Maggie's room, and for a long time now if one of them has a late-night issue, she will just come downstairs. No crying, just all of a sudden one, usually Darcy, would be at our bedside.
It was a milestone I believe gets overshadowed by the biggies--potty training, walking, self-feeding, talking. I did a lot of thinking about that thing, though. While it was in use, it could be a way to stay remotely connected to the wee ones, and when we played soothing music all through the night, we were soothed as well.
We heard them play together and say funny things, and I couldn't wait for Carrie to forget I could hear her as she made a comment about me to the sidekicks--but I only ever heard what was meant to be heard. I also had plenty of chilling imaginations about it, and if I were more driven, ambitious, less lazy, would have written a story or perhaps a play or screenplay.
Because we around here are into ghost pictures and the aural equivalent known as EVPs (less so than pics--those sounds are hard to stomach alone), it was easy to conjure the monitor as the basis for a horror tale.
You know, Young family, full of love and child-centered fun, with early examples of the monitor in the daily routine, hearing some regular mundane stuff over the monitor, complete with some of the family hearing another member fart over the monitor and cracking up together. That's the good vibe before the devil comes to breakfast.
Then it gets good: we see the bedroom with the couple asleep, as soothing music wafts over the monitor. La la la la la la grunt growl warped voice snort..but not loud enough for the couple to wake. Yes, there's something uncuddly in the baby's room.
I actually just paused to get up to turn on the light, as I blog on the computer that is up in our loft, right next to the playroom, which is darker than the loft lit only by Sportscenter. You guessed it, I scared myself.
Not sure if it gets all standard-horror formula from there, but that's the beginning. Could probably get a half-hour of a movie just from that. Probably progress to conversations between the kids/babies and the Terrible Teddy, a la the pig from Amityville Horror.
The point is, sounds of horror are as scary or scarier than the sights. One of the most frightening scenes to me from the Exorcist is when the young priest is playing and rewinding recordings of Regan (and her guest) alone. Could not have done it. The garbled, twisted, demonic voice....
The baby monitor was interesting because I remember it picking up people's cell phones comversations as well, just like a pair of wireless headphones I thought I just had to have and used three times. I once listened to a pair of high-school girls having a high-school-girl phone chat for a good 10-15 minutes. They swore like, oh my God, twice.
So, to recap, no more monitors to eavesdrop on the kids or my wife or neighbors, and I am certain that I will see in 6 months a blockbuster horror flick involving a baby monitor and I will have no legal recourse to capture any of the proceeds.
But you will know, and that will be enough for me.
It was a milestone I believe gets overshadowed by the biggies--potty training, walking, self-feeding, talking. I did a lot of thinking about that thing, though. While it was in use, it could be a way to stay remotely connected to the wee ones, and when we played soothing music all through the night, we were soothed as well.
We heard them play together and say funny things, and I couldn't wait for Carrie to forget I could hear her as she made a comment about me to the sidekicks--but I only ever heard what was meant to be heard. I also had plenty of chilling imaginations about it, and if I were more driven, ambitious, less lazy, would have written a story or perhaps a play or screenplay.
Because we around here are into ghost pictures and the aural equivalent known as EVPs (less so than pics--those sounds are hard to stomach alone), it was easy to conjure the monitor as the basis for a horror tale.
You know, Young family, full of love and child-centered fun, with early examples of the monitor in the daily routine, hearing some regular mundane stuff over the monitor, complete with some of the family hearing another member fart over the monitor and cracking up together. That's the good vibe before the devil comes to breakfast.
Then it gets good: we see the bedroom with the couple asleep, as soothing music wafts over the monitor. La la la la la la grunt growl warped voice snort..but not loud enough for the couple to wake. Yes, there's something uncuddly in the baby's room.
I actually just paused to get up to turn on the light, as I blog on the computer that is up in our loft, right next to the playroom, which is darker than the loft lit only by Sportscenter. You guessed it, I scared myself.
Not sure if it gets all standard-horror formula from there, but that's the beginning. Could probably get a half-hour of a movie just from that. Probably progress to conversations between the kids/babies and the Terrible Teddy, a la the pig from Amityville Horror.
The point is, sounds of horror are as scary or scarier than the sights. One of the most frightening scenes to me from the Exorcist is when the young priest is playing and rewinding recordings of Regan (and her guest) alone. Could not have done it. The garbled, twisted, demonic voice....
The baby monitor was interesting because I remember it picking up people's cell phones comversations as well, just like a pair of wireless headphones I thought I just had to have and used three times. I once listened to a pair of high-school girls having a high-school-girl phone chat for a good 10-15 minutes. They swore like, oh my God, twice.
So, to recap, no more monitors to eavesdrop on the kids or my wife or neighbors, and I am certain that I will see in 6 months a blockbuster horror flick involving a baby monitor and I will have no legal recourse to capture any of the proceeds.
But you will know, and that will be enough for me.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
N.W.A.
Putting Maggie and Darcy to bed tonight, I was creeped out by Darcy's eyes rolling back in her head as she fell asleep while I read Little Bear's Visit. Sort of like when you see a boxer or a QB knocked unconscious--that noone's-there stare that is so scary.
Tangent alert!
This makes me think of all the drinking incidents when I was very much younger, when there was a period you don't remember, a blackout, yet you are told the next day things you did and said. It boggled my mind that a person could do and say but not remember.
Tangent alert!
That calls to mind the terror we've all known imagining a kind of sleepwalking during which we commit heinous crimes and are imprisoned for them. I'm not cut out for a stretch in the pokey.
When I lived in Naperville in my early years at the Daily Herald, I bought a bunch of hockey-goalie equipment on my credit card. At the time I had a part-time job at a Naperville coffee shop, from which some checks had been stolen. Apparently I was a suspect, and when I attained that status courtesy of the shop's owners, the police checked my recent consumer activity, and noticed the chunk I had charged for the sporting gear. Ding ding!
Two detectives came to my apartment, asked me to come in for questioning and fingerprints and and a handwriting sample, and flat-out told me they thought I did it.
That was one of those moments people describe as the ground shifting beneath them, complete with a swirling room. It felt unreal to be told a detective was certain I was guilty of a crime I knew I hadn't committed, to the point that I started wondering and fretting that indeed I had stolen checks and cashed them in a horror-novel case of Jekyll and Hyde. What if?
I never heard from the police after that, causing me to almost call them and rage in vain at how they could incite so much grief and then not let the accused know the coast was clear. I did let the shop's owners know how I felt, though. That was a good job, once you figured out how to make lattes and cappuccinos, getting the foam just right. I must have gained 10 pounds drinking cafe mochas (hot chocolate made with coffee instead of water and topped with whip cream).
Back to original thought alert!
It wasn't the first time I had watched a kids' eyes roll up, but I didn't have a blog the other times. It's not so creepy that I don't enjoy it, because it signals a worn-out child and a soon-to-be-free adult. It makes you want to capture that moment when you yourself fall asleep, the time right after the last thing you remember. I had a knee surgery once, the only time I've been put under. That was weird, and you think about the terror some people undergoing serious surgeries experience, as their anesthesia-countdown backwards from 100 could be their last action in this realm.
Everyone's eyes roll up, not just kid's, and it's jolting on those occasions when you are falling asleep in public to think what you must look like to others. You think that staying awake is all you have to do, but barely remaining conscious has a facial expression all its own and it ain't pretty: almost-closed eyes, a head that snaps up for all to see when you nearly doze off, and if you're really unlucky, drool is involved. There's a word that sounds like its meaning, drool. Like squat. Ugliest word in the English language.
Retroactive tangent alerts!
Tangent alert!
This makes me think of all the drinking incidents when I was very much younger, when there was a period you don't remember, a blackout, yet you are told the next day things you did and said. It boggled my mind that a person could do and say but not remember.
Tangent alert!
That calls to mind the terror we've all known imagining a kind of sleepwalking during which we commit heinous crimes and are imprisoned for them. I'm not cut out for a stretch in the pokey.
When I lived in Naperville in my early years at the Daily Herald, I bought a bunch of hockey-goalie equipment on my credit card. At the time I had a part-time job at a Naperville coffee shop, from which some checks had been stolen. Apparently I was a suspect, and when I attained that status courtesy of the shop's owners, the police checked my recent consumer activity, and noticed the chunk I had charged for the sporting gear. Ding ding!
Two detectives came to my apartment, asked me to come in for questioning and fingerprints and and a handwriting sample, and flat-out told me they thought I did it.
That was one of those moments people describe as the ground shifting beneath them, complete with a swirling room. It felt unreal to be told a detective was certain I was guilty of a crime I knew I hadn't committed, to the point that I started wondering and fretting that indeed I had stolen checks and cashed them in a horror-novel case of Jekyll and Hyde. What if?
I never heard from the police after that, causing me to almost call them and rage in vain at how they could incite so much grief and then not let the accused know the coast was clear. I did let the shop's owners know how I felt, though. That was a good job, once you figured out how to make lattes and cappuccinos, getting the foam just right. I must have gained 10 pounds drinking cafe mochas (hot chocolate made with coffee instead of water and topped with whip cream).
Back to original thought alert!
It wasn't the first time I had watched a kids' eyes roll up, but I didn't have a blog the other times. It's not so creepy that I don't enjoy it, because it signals a worn-out child and a soon-to-be-free adult. It makes you want to capture that moment when you yourself fall asleep, the time right after the last thing you remember. I had a knee surgery once, the only time I've been put under. That was weird, and you think about the terror some people undergoing serious surgeries experience, as their anesthesia-countdown backwards from 100 could be their last action in this realm.
Everyone's eyes roll up, not just kid's, and it's jolting on those occasions when you are falling asleep in public to think what you must look like to others. You think that staying awake is all you have to do, but barely remaining conscious has a facial expression all its own and it ain't pretty: almost-closed eyes, a head that snaps up for all to see when you nearly doze off, and if you're really unlucky, drool is involved. There's a word that sounds like its meaning, drool. Like squat. Ugliest word in the English language.
Retroactive tangent alerts!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Sundays
If you hang on each Senyor Madre post, I apologize--I was finishing some freelance work the past couple days. I will however stop doing such things if you'd be willing to send $100 each month (times 13 followers, even my wife) to the address I will provide when you agree and contact me.
Otherwise, I need to contribute something more than keeping the kids alive, the house and furniture intact and spreading domestic tales of joy with this here blog.
Back to business, then.
I have confidence that Darcy will be smart, and I'll tell you why. The other day at a park, I asked her if she wanted to play catch with me. I bring along a football to park outings involving Connor in case the ConMan wants to chuck it around. She is very game, and put her arms in the basket position we have drilled each morning at 4:30.
I tossed it and hit her in the face. After I comforted her--hug, some words--she went to play with the equipment and her siblings. Later, I asked her if she wanted to play catch. She said "No."
So, she's all set for a life of enlightenment, trial and error, risk and reward, living and learning. Her twin, um........I believe that if Gavin touched an oven in use that he would not repeat it...once he let it go. He has a high pain thresh-hold is the point I'm trying to make. He's my Goon-in-training.
I'll leave fourth-grade Connor out of this, restricting it to the toddlers. The ConMan gets good grades and is sociable and sensitive and funny--a completed work if you will. Maggie, though, not sure what to do.
She's reading already, has been since she turned 3, though a lot better as she nears 4. She has since about then been doing things on her own on the PC as well--finding her sites, clicking on them, playing games, etc.
I'll type this once--this is not bragging on my kid. I know plenty of kids can read at this age, and use a PC, but I have only one of them, and we have to worry about how to handle precociousness. Add fertilizer or let it grow organically?
No, I haven't researched anything. I'm afraid because child development is the kind of field with five different theories. I'm sure I will push--maybe find a group her age that also reads, maybe start one (yeah, right). I'm trying to get her to work on writing now, but she's resisting, and that'll be cute for another day or so, then the food-rationing will begin.
She starts preschool again next Monday, and it is a good one, focused on education, not just play and crafts. We've been messing around with Spanish since she was walking--"Cuidado!"--but not in a get-after-it way. She gave my heart a skip today though when she said "Fresa."
It's fun just letting her be a 3-year-old girl, so that is the other part of the tug-of-war. Just would hate to let a good thing fade away.
Her progress is no mystery--we had time and space to focus on her before the twinny twin twins, and like most folks, we prioritized book time. I am sure that the time spent on Starfall.com made the key difference (besides the genetic aspect of superior intellect of course), however. Sounding out letters in words is real.
Excuse me if I'm stating the obvious, but I don't remember doing this with Connor, so this seems like my first toddler educational venture. He fooled me one time, when he was 3 or 4. We were playing Cariboo, and he pointed at the word "airplane" and said "airplane." I screamed, "Carrie, he just read a word!" Then I noticed that a picture of an airplane was right under the word.
So, I don't think we'll turn into the Rick Moranis character from "Parenthood"--I so much enjoy a child who beats his bucket-covered head against the wall that I could not in good conscience over-manage any of them. We'll see.
As for the twins, they have had less attention paid to their phonetics and such, but they'll have each other to cheat off. Not playing favorites, you understand, just trying to keep all my shit in one sock, as my old friends used to say.
Otherwise, I need to contribute something more than keeping the kids alive, the house and furniture intact and spreading domestic tales of joy with this here blog.
Back to business, then.
I have confidence that Darcy will be smart, and I'll tell you why. The other day at a park, I asked her if she wanted to play catch with me. I bring along a football to park outings involving Connor in case the ConMan wants to chuck it around. She is very game, and put her arms in the basket position we have drilled each morning at 4:30.
I tossed it and hit her in the face. After I comforted her--hug, some words--she went to play with the equipment and her siblings. Later, I asked her if she wanted to play catch. She said "No."
So, she's all set for a life of enlightenment, trial and error, risk and reward, living and learning. Her twin, um........I believe that if Gavin touched an oven in use that he would not repeat it...once he let it go. He has a high pain thresh-hold is the point I'm trying to make. He's my Goon-in-training.
I'll leave fourth-grade Connor out of this, restricting it to the toddlers. The ConMan gets good grades and is sociable and sensitive and funny--a completed work if you will. Maggie, though, not sure what to do.
She's reading already, has been since she turned 3, though a lot better as she nears 4. She has since about then been doing things on her own on the PC as well--finding her sites, clicking on them, playing games, etc.
I'll type this once--this is not bragging on my kid. I know plenty of kids can read at this age, and use a PC, but I have only one of them, and we have to worry about how to handle precociousness. Add fertilizer or let it grow organically?
No, I haven't researched anything. I'm afraid because child development is the kind of field with five different theories. I'm sure I will push--maybe find a group her age that also reads, maybe start one (yeah, right). I'm trying to get her to work on writing now, but she's resisting, and that'll be cute for another day or so, then the food-rationing will begin.
She starts preschool again next Monday, and it is a good one, focused on education, not just play and crafts. We've been messing around with Spanish since she was walking--"Cuidado!"--but not in a get-after-it way. She gave my heart a skip today though when she said "Fresa."
It's fun just letting her be a 3-year-old girl, so that is the other part of the tug-of-war. Just would hate to let a good thing fade away.
Her progress is no mystery--we had time and space to focus on her before the twinny twin twins, and like most folks, we prioritized book time. I am sure that the time spent on Starfall.com made the key difference (besides the genetic aspect of superior intellect of course), however. Sounding out letters in words is real.
Excuse me if I'm stating the obvious, but I don't remember doing this with Connor, so this seems like my first toddler educational venture. He fooled me one time, when he was 3 or 4. We were playing Cariboo, and he pointed at the word "airplane" and said "airplane." I screamed, "Carrie, he just read a word!" Then I noticed that a picture of an airplane was right under the word.
So, I don't think we'll turn into the Rick Moranis character from "Parenthood"--I so much enjoy a child who beats his bucket-covered head against the wall that I could not in good conscience over-manage any of them. We'll see.
As for the twins, they have had less attention paid to their phonetics and such, but they'll have each other to cheat off. Not playing favorites, you understand, just trying to keep all my shit in one sock, as my old friends used to say.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Love
Not sure I have one theme tonight, so as reporters sometimes refer to a column with brief vignettes, I'll empty the notebook.....
**I cut Gavin's nails tonight, while he slept. It's the only way I could, and from the combination of negligence, being too tired and forgetting, and his belligerence, they had grown into some weapons which ever other member of the family had felt; some sported scratches.
I don't know, now that I think of it, if we should have gotten some kind of shots, or put him down. Anyway, once he was snoring (or purring, really) I picked up the hand that was closest to me and hacked away. It's nerve-racking, because you can't feel what you're cutting, like when you do your own.
Got that hand done, and figured I'd be happy with that and get the rest later. Carrie asked me to check to make sure I left his closet light on a couple hours later, so I got my chance to finish and sure enough his other hand was available.
Mission accomplished. The family is safer than it was.
**Carrie and I got over the Battlestar Galactica hump we'd been climbing lately. We've had such fun with Blockbuster.com and watching TV series. Deadwood, Rome, Carnivale, Weeds, Dexter, Big Love, Tell Me You Love Me, Sopranos--all great experiences and windows into our murky souls.
Co-workers at my last job highly recommended BG and one of them had the first season, so we bit, and really enjoyed it. We're on the last season now; it had started to lag, we felt, but there was no way we were going to quit this far along. Tonight we saw enough to restore the faith and inject the adrenaline needed for the remaining three episodes.
So say we all. Frackin' skinjobs. Godsdammit.
Wow. Imagine if I was writing about Deadwood.
**Carrie, with the three small ones draped on her for their daily feeding, dropped a piece of chip with hummus on it. I picked it up and stuck it on her right arm, because hummus is sticky. Gavin looked at it and said, "What's happening?" I told him it was a festering sore, and to eat it. So he picked it off her arm and ate it.
If we ever have any infected scabs around here, we might have to rein in the sense of humor.
**I'm very excited to update the iPod today. First off, Carrie showed me how, so I don't have to ask her to do it anymore. Second, I now have most of my favorite Beatles and Elvis songs on there. I'm all for taking chances on music and being Obscure Band guy (Comet Gain, Cat Power, Battles, and Mew also made their Joe's iPod debut) but those two influenced much of what we all know and love and it's damn fine sing-along music.
A year or so ago, I made a video of Maggie (on our youtube channel, vezina11) singing the Beatles' "All My Lovin'," which she knew so well because I would sing it to her at bedtime each night. I started singing it because once you say "Close your eyes" to a child, the rest of the song surfaces, so I went with it.
I found when singing to her in the hospital days after she was born that the lyrics to love songs can work really well with newborns. "Reminiscing" by the Little River Band has always been a schlocky surprise favorite to myself, sort of like "At This Moment" by Can't Think of His Name Right Now.
I sang Reminiscing to her over and over, and who among you parents can argue with words like "I wanna build my world around you," and "I wanna make you understand I'm talking about a lifetime plan," and "On the way back home I promised you'd never be alone."
Fifteen months later, the twins helped us make good on that promise.
**I cut Gavin's nails tonight, while he slept. It's the only way I could, and from the combination of negligence, being too tired and forgetting, and his belligerence, they had grown into some weapons which ever other member of the family had felt; some sported scratches.
I don't know, now that I think of it, if we should have gotten some kind of shots, or put him down. Anyway, once he was snoring (or purring, really) I picked up the hand that was closest to me and hacked away. It's nerve-racking, because you can't feel what you're cutting, like when you do your own.
Got that hand done, and figured I'd be happy with that and get the rest later. Carrie asked me to check to make sure I left his closet light on a couple hours later, so I got my chance to finish and sure enough his other hand was available.
Mission accomplished. The family is safer than it was.
**Carrie and I got over the Battlestar Galactica hump we'd been climbing lately. We've had such fun with Blockbuster.com and watching TV series. Deadwood, Rome, Carnivale, Weeds, Dexter, Big Love, Tell Me You Love Me, Sopranos--all great experiences and windows into our murky souls.
Co-workers at my last job highly recommended BG and one of them had the first season, so we bit, and really enjoyed it. We're on the last season now; it had started to lag, we felt, but there was no way we were going to quit this far along. Tonight we saw enough to restore the faith and inject the adrenaline needed for the remaining three episodes.
So say we all. Frackin' skinjobs. Godsdammit.
Wow. Imagine if I was writing about Deadwood.
**Carrie, with the three small ones draped on her for their daily feeding, dropped a piece of chip with hummus on it. I picked it up and stuck it on her right arm, because hummus is sticky. Gavin looked at it and said, "What's happening?" I told him it was a festering sore, and to eat it. So he picked it off her arm and ate it.
If we ever have any infected scabs around here, we might have to rein in the sense of humor.
**I'm very excited to update the iPod today. First off, Carrie showed me how, so I don't have to ask her to do it anymore. Second, I now have most of my favorite Beatles and Elvis songs on there. I'm all for taking chances on music and being Obscure Band guy (Comet Gain, Cat Power, Battles, and Mew also made their Joe's iPod debut) but those two influenced much of what we all know and love and it's damn fine sing-along music.
A year or so ago, I made a video of Maggie (on our youtube channel, vezina11) singing the Beatles' "All My Lovin'," which she knew so well because I would sing it to her at bedtime each night. I started singing it because once you say "Close your eyes" to a child, the rest of the song surfaces, so I went with it.
I found when singing to her in the hospital days after she was born that the lyrics to love songs can work really well with newborns. "Reminiscing" by the Little River Band has always been a schlocky surprise favorite to myself, sort of like "At This Moment" by Can't Think of His Name Right Now.
I sang Reminiscing to her over and over, and who among you parents can argue with words like "I wanna build my world around you," and "I wanna make you understand I'm talking about a lifetime plan," and "On the way back home I promised you'd never be alone."
Fifteen months later, the twins helped us make good on that promise.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Detroit Cobras
One of my favorite quotes was/is "Ships are safe in the harbor, but that's not what ships are made for."
It is less a guiding principle the past five years than it used to be, when I had much more freedom (to charge cool trips on the Visa) and little purpose. I reactivated it again today, though, and not in a small way.
I got out the Play-doh.
I thought Carrie would be impressed, and I was right. Actually, between you and me, I think she was a little aroused by her beloved getting all crafty. I've told her before I'm just not going to glue, stick, cut, fold, draw, paint, shake, bend, tape, or mutilate quite the way she did when she was Mrs. Mom. Not gonna do it.
I'll take the kids to the park, with none of her girlfriends to help out, and have no problem getting them in and out of the gym and the pool; I've started bathing them; diapers?--please, I've been changing those for years; I'll whip up some cereal, with milk, and cut up an apple, too. Been known to do a little laundry.
But I hate messes, and crafting=unnecessary cleaning. So, coloring books and crayons have been about it since Daddy took over field ops. Occasionally, I'll draw some lines on a piece of paper and harangue Maggie into improving her fine motor skills with scissors. Nothing wet, though, no way, uh-uh.
Tinker Toys, multi-colored blocks, Lincoln Logs, movie after movie, yes; finger paint, Elmer's, creativity, no.
Carrie pleaded with me a couple times, saying the kids need stimulation, what are you going to do in the winter (um, go outside, sled, make snowballs, push each other down), yadda yadda....but honesty is the bedrock of some relationships, I mean our relationship, and I said, "Sorry, it's probably not going to happen."
A couple of weeks ago, Carrie accidentally bought a pack of 24 cans of Play-doh while grocery shopping with Maggie. I don't like Play-doh, mainly because of its smell. And once you get all the spaghetti-making machines and hamburger-grinders going, that crap gets everywhere.
But, I did it. After all, technically, it's not even moist, right? So, down went the plastic tablecloth, and Gavin, Maggie and Darcy each got two or three colors (Connor was with a same-aged buddy blowing shit up in the loft). Once I showed the darlings how to squoosh it, they were naturals. I helped them along by showing them you could tear off pieces and make multiple lumps, or you could flatten the main lump with your hand for a pancake--but don't eat it! Ha ha ha.
The craziness picked up when I couldn't find Carrie's cookie-cutter shapes collection, so I started handing out things that were definitely not sharp knives. And when I gave them the mashed-potato implement, the one with the flat surface and multiple holes, the shrieking commenced.
The only break in the fun was when one of them would drop a chunk on the floor, and I would get in their face and yell until they picked it up. In this way, there was hardly any mess at the end, and I think we'll do it again in October.
It is less a guiding principle the past five years than it used to be, when I had much more freedom (to charge cool trips on the Visa) and little purpose. I reactivated it again today, though, and not in a small way.
I got out the Play-doh.
I thought Carrie would be impressed, and I was right. Actually, between you and me, I think she was a little aroused by her beloved getting all crafty. I've told her before I'm just not going to glue, stick, cut, fold, draw, paint, shake, bend, tape, or mutilate quite the way she did when she was Mrs. Mom. Not gonna do it.
I'll take the kids to the park, with none of her girlfriends to help out, and have no problem getting them in and out of the gym and the pool; I've started bathing them; diapers?--please, I've been changing those for years; I'll whip up some cereal, with milk, and cut up an apple, too. Been known to do a little laundry.
But I hate messes, and crafting=unnecessary cleaning. So, coloring books and crayons have been about it since Daddy took over field ops. Occasionally, I'll draw some lines on a piece of paper and harangue Maggie into improving her fine motor skills with scissors. Nothing wet, though, no way, uh-uh.
Tinker Toys, multi-colored blocks, Lincoln Logs, movie after movie, yes; finger paint, Elmer's, creativity, no.
Carrie pleaded with me a couple times, saying the kids need stimulation, what are you going to do in the winter (um, go outside, sled, make snowballs, push each other down), yadda yadda....but honesty is the bedrock of some relationships, I mean our relationship, and I said, "Sorry, it's probably not going to happen."
A couple of weeks ago, Carrie accidentally bought a pack of 24 cans of Play-doh while grocery shopping with Maggie. I don't like Play-doh, mainly because of its smell. And once you get all the spaghetti-making machines and hamburger-grinders going, that crap gets everywhere.
But, I did it. After all, technically, it's not even moist, right? So, down went the plastic tablecloth, and Gavin, Maggie and Darcy each got two or three colors (Connor was with a same-aged buddy blowing shit up in the loft). Once I showed the darlings how to squoosh it, they were naturals. I helped them along by showing them you could tear off pieces and make multiple lumps, or you could flatten the main lump with your hand for a pancake--but don't eat it! Ha ha ha.
The craziness picked up when I couldn't find Carrie's cookie-cutter shapes collection, so I started handing out things that were definitely not sharp knives. And when I gave them the mashed-potato implement, the one with the flat surface and multiple holes, the shrieking commenced.
The only break in the fun was when one of them would drop a chunk on the floor, and I would get in their face and yell until they picked it up. In this way, there was hardly any mess at the end, and I think we'll do it again in October.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Cult
One of the aspects of being a father of and to four kids--by now, I have spent more time with Connor than has his Dad--is watching the whole brother-sister dynamic.
I grew up an only child, raised by a single Mom, who had to work late quite a bit when she waitressed, and stopped hiring babysitters to save money as soon as she felt it safe. Let's say I was 9 or 10 when that bridge was crossed.
Not to go on about this, but that situation builds independence, comfort with oneself, selfishness, self-confidence to a sometimes-arrogant degree, and lots of masturbation opportunities. I can only say that I'm curious as to a different existence--two parents, siblings--but not unhappy with how things turned out. I'm sure everyone can say the same because you'll never know.
I played catch with myself, tossing a football and running under it outside; being tackled by the couch inside, and turned out to be a pretty good wide receiver. Had an All-Star Baseball board game for which I invented leagues and kept stats (Ron Guidry threw the only no-hitter in the thousands of games I staged), and an electric football game.
Yes, I had friends, but by the age of 11 (when I read Helter Skelter, twice), I had no problem choosing my company over others', and that holds true today. I would rather be alone than with anyone but family and good friends, or at a party. As my followers are aware, "You know, parties are fun."
Carrie has a sister, but I can't type about her experiences and thoughts on this matter, except to say that one sister is not four kids, so she has to marvel as well.
At times I imagine being a child psychologist, behind the one-way mirror, the main difference is they have no emotional connection. We've all done it--watched a child or two while they're distracted, eating an apple and watching a cartoon. I usually feel honored (the agnostic equivalent of feeling blessed) to be able to see them hug without being prompted because of an indiscretion or injury, or grab one another for a dance, or the nirvana of seeing them make each other laugh.
Of course, the fighting is a given for those who spend so much time together. I'm referring to the kids. I remember doing many stories on wrestlers, and invariably one had started in the sport because of an older brother's involvement, and usually accomplished more due to his learning and beatings suffered at the hands of the mentor. Cliches included grappling in the house escalating to some sort of unplanned remodeling, and gruff affection and awkward acknowledgement of the others' skill and success.
That was the extent of my sibling understanding before Connor-Maggie, then Connor-Maggie-Darcy-Gavin. At its most basic, they always have playmates and chew toys and venting targets and dance partners and will be the ones who taught each other to share and empathize and sympathize and compete, manipulate and defend, listen and collaborate.
Just today Carrie and I were laughing because Gavin has started to come between us when we kiss or cuddle up. They all have for awhile, but it's usually to join in when it takes place in the kitchen, standing--lift and snuggle.
Lately, Gavin is not sharing his Mom, and today I remarked that he should watch it because I'll be bigger than him for another 15 years maybe. Carrie said by then she won't be his target as much as his sisters' friends. Oh, to be Gavin, when Maggie and Darcy's BFFs are around.
We don't put Darcy and Gavin near each other at mealtimes; if it isn't their play, it's their battles, that hinder their feeding. Maggie sometimes seems 5 years older than them, not 15 months--she is the "teacher" on the computer, as they do an educational website, and of course has much more to say about what she wears. Still, the other night, I put Gavin to bed and when I came out of his room, the girls were having a pajama party on Maggie's bed, with a book involved. Contented sigh.
As for Connor, he's all about being the much older brother. They love him and miss him, and vice versa. I hope he shows Gavin how to build Legos and Bionicles, like Connor's Dad showed him. Connor rolls around with them, and helps us parent whether or not we ask him to, and corrals them and laughs at what they say and do. It's got to be good for his soul, I would think.
I am on the lookout and hearout for any special language or hand signals that the twins are supposed to have. All I can detect is this weird thing they do with their middle fingers, followed by laughter and shaking their heads dismissively. Otherwise, they just play together and whale on each other with all of their natural weapons.
Gavin has worn dresses and has put hair things in his hair, perhaps had his nails painted. It's cool.
I said, it's cool. OK?
I grew up an only child, raised by a single Mom, who had to work late quite a bit when she waitressed, and stopped hiring babysitters to save money as soon as she felt it safe. Let's say I was 9 or 10 when that bridge was crossed.
Not to go on about this, but that situation builds independence, comfort with oneself, selfishness, self-confidence to a sometimes-arrogant degree, and lots of masturbation opportunities. I can only say that I'm curious as to a different existence--two parents, siblings--but not unhappy with how things turned out. I'm sure everyone can say the same because you'll never know.
I played catch with myself, tossing a football and running under it outside; being tackled by the couch inside, and turned out to be a pretty good wide receiver. Had an All-Star Baseball board game for which I invented leagues and kept stats (Ron Guidry threw the only no-hitter in the thousands of games I staged), and an electric football game.
Yes, I had friends, but by the age of 11 (when I read Helter Skelter, twice), I had no problem choosing my company over others', and that holds true today. I would rather be alone than with anyone but family and good friends, or at a party. As my followers are aware, "You know, parties are fun."
Carrie has a sister, but I can't type about her experiences and thoughts on this matter, except to say that one sister is not four kids, so she has to marvel as well.
At times I imagine being a child psychologist, behind the one-way mirror, the main difference is they have no emotional connection. We've all done it--watched a child or two while they're distracted, eating an apple and watching a cartoon. I usually feel honored (the agnostic equivalent of feeling blessed) to be able to see them hug without being prompted because of an indiscretion or injury, or grab one another for a dance, or the nirvana of seeing them make each other laugh.
Of course, the fighting is a given for those who spend so much time together. I'm referring to the kids. I remember doing many stories on wrestlers, and invariably one had started in the sport because of an older brother's involvement, and usually accomplished more due to his learning and beatings suffered at the hands of the mentor. Cliches included grappling in the house escalating to some sort of unplanned remodeling, and gruff affection and awkward acknowledgement of the others' skill and success.
That was the extent of my sibling understanding before Connor-Maggie, then Connor-Maggie-Darcy-Gavin. At its most basic, they always have playmates and chew toys and venting targets and dance partners and will be the ones who taught each other to share and empathize and sympathize and compete, manipulate and defend, listen and collaborate.
Just today Carrie and I were laughing because Gavin has started to come between us when we kiss or cuddle up. They all have for awhile, but it's usually to join in when it takes place in the kitchen, standing--lift and snuggle.
Lately, Gavin is not sharing his Mom, and today I remarked that he should watch it because I'll be bigger than him for another 15 years maybe. Carrie said by then she won't be his target as much as his sisters' friends. Oh, to be Gavin, when Maggie and Darcy's BFFs are around.
We don't put Darcy and Gavin near each other at mealtimes; if it isn't their play, it's their battles, that hinder their feeding. Maggie sometimes seems 5 years older than them, not 15 months--she is the "teacher" on the computer, as they do an educational website, and of course has much more to say about what she wears. Still, the other night, I put Gavin to bed and when I came out of his room, the girls were having a pajama party on Maggie's bed, with a book involved. Contented sigh.
As for Connor, he's all about being the much older brother. They love him and miss him, and vice versa. I hope he shows Gavin how to build Legos and Bionicles, like Connor's Dad showed him. Connor rolls around with them, and helps us parent whether or not we ask him to, and corrals them and laughs at what they say and do. It's got to be good for his soul, I would think.
I am on the lookout and hearout for any special language or hand signals that the twins are supposed to have. All I can detect is this weird thing they do with their middle fingers, followed by laughter and shaking their heads dismissively. Otherwise, they just play together and whale on each other with all of their natural weapons.
Gavin has worn dresses and has put hair things in his hair, perhaps had his nails painted. It's cool.
I said, it's cool. OK?
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Soul Asylum
"And so it begins," Carrie said, and so it does.
I asked Maggie who took the foam letters out of the mat we have, strewing them across the floor, and she said Darcy. We asked Darcy, and she said, "Maggie did it." Only 15 years to go....
To pick up on a path I didn't take the other night, when I twisted the legend of Barbie, some of my favorite movies are ones I would never have seen without children in my life. The list includes:
*Shrek (only the first);
*Monsters Inc.;
*Finding Nemo;
*Nightmare Before Christmas;
*Robots;
*Iron Giant
*Scary Godmother (only the first);
*Aladdin;
*Lion King;
*Emperor's New Groove
*Toy Story (the first)
*Bug's Life
In the interest of space and time--I'm starting to conquer both--I'll stop there. My standards are only that there are memorable lines (meaning I repeat them around the house) and/or characters. I don't need to like the whole movie; some of them I lose interest in after a rock-em, sock-em first hour, like Robots or Shrek or Lion King, even. In order, here are why I picked some of the above, most of which you know, a couple of which I hope you try.
Shrek's strength is its fearless embrace of the gross--his opening bath and evening meal are rife with yukky detail, and some dialogue is similar. Describing the goo inside eyeballs, Shrek says, "It's quite good on toast." Bonus: I like to try to imagine Cameron Diaz once the princess enters the tale.
Monsters Inc. is probably my favorite, overall. There are stretches of the others that I must see, but MI lasts for me usually until they are banished to the snowy area. The oft-repeated lines and exchanges are too many to mention, but off the top:
--"I'm watching you Wiesowski, always watching."
--"Hi Sully Wully." "Uh, Hi, Celia...Weelia."
--"You and me, me and you, both of us together (sung)"
--"Kitty!"
--"Chalooby, baby."
--"Googly Bear!"
Finding Nemo I was just quoting today: "You know, parties are fun," as only Albert Brooks could say it. The sharks scene is chock full: "I never knew my father!" "What's a couple of bites like you doing in a place like this?" Dory brings a lot, as almost everything she says related to her short-term memory loss is funny. In the fish tank, the initiation is good--"Shark Bait hoo ha ha." "Shark Bait, newcomer of orange and white." The old man halibut chasing the kids in a circle, because of his unique eye arrangement. The dentist comes through with "Gotta see a man about a wallaby."
I can't say enough about Nightmare Before Christmas. It won't scare your kids as much as you think. The songs are awesome, the freaky animation and design and characters are a treat. So many fantastic lines are from the songs, several of which stick in your head like brain paste. Spoken lines: the wheelchair inventor/doctor's "Sally? Oh, gone agayne!" "Frog's Breath? Nothing's more suspicious than frog's breath." "You're mine you know, I made you." His words are striking as much for what they say as their cadence. The Mayor: "Jack, Jack? I can't make decisions, I'm only an elected official." The whole scene when Jack gets the town together to explain Christmas is so tasty--when he explains stockings, and a Halloween character asks if there are feet in them still.
Robots I hardly remember any lines from, but it's so fun to watch. The animation and drawing is so cool, and the scene when Rodney travels to the big city in a crazy contraption with I think the Robin Williams character is amazing. Memorable action and lines come from the parents putting Rodney together, meshing baby routines with assembling a machine and the scene where the gatekeeper rudely mocks and dismisses an eager and naive Rodney is great. "Come back five years ago."
We've had an Iron Giant revival around here in the past month--the twins love it. Brad Bird is a genius. Highlights include the government agent's various nicknames for Hogarth--Slugger, Chief, Scout, Buddy, Pal--shown in a montage. When Hogarth says grace while trying to shoo the robot's hand you'll chuckle mightily. Same when Hogarth drinks espresso for the first time. His ultra-Twinkies are very cool, too. Bonus is the Cold War history lesson. Highly recommended.
Scary Godmother may be the most obscure here, but it's a hoot. A younger girl is thrown into a supposedly haunted house so she will want to go home so the older kids can trick or treat faster. As she cries, her Scary Godmother appears and whisks the girl to the godmother's house in an alternate reality. There is about to be a party, and the guests are a foppish, self-important, always hungry and verbose werewolf; a flamingly gay skeleton; a vampire family; a many-eyed monster named Bugaboo. The skeleton alone makes this well worth the rental--his gayness is never explained, even in the bonus features with the cast and crew, but there is no other description for his voice and the things he says. I'm guilty of stereotyping, but there are stereotypes for a reason. There are memorable lines every other minute. Highly recommended.
Aladdin and Lion King might not be here except they share awesome villains--Skar and Jafar. So professionally evil. The exchange between Jafar and Princess Jasmine after Aladdin's arrest makes me swoon every time. His long face, cheshire-cat grin, skeletal fingers. "Your father has charged me with keeping the peace in Agraba." "What was the charge?" Why, kidnapping the prin-cess, of course." "I was running away!" "Oh, how dreadfully upsetting, had I but known." When he puts his hands on Jasmine, finger by finger, like a spider's walk, to comfort her, it's delicious. Skar's exhanges with Simba and his dad, especially preying on Simba's innocence and trust--stylish and wicked.
Emperor's New Groove is good for the dumb guy who serves the evil queen. Funny portrait of a big-hearted musclehead.
The first Toy Story has a couple great songs, and the opening hour is golden. "Last Tuesday's Plastic Awareness meeting was, I think, a big success." "You're mocking me, aren't you?" "Please be a Mrs. Potatohead, please be a Mrs. Potatohead."
Maybe someday I'll do the same with cartoons of the last seven or so years that I wouldn;t have enjoyed without kids. I'm a better man for all of it, and more fun at parties, too, because, "You know, parties are fun."
I asked Maggie who took the foam letters out of the mat we have, strewing them across the floor, and she said Darcy. We asked Darcy, and she said, "Maggie did it." Only 15 years to go....
To pick up on a path I didn't take the other night, when I twisted the legend of Barbie, some of my favorite movies are ones I would never have seen without children in my life. The list includes:
*Shrek (only the first);
*Monsters Inc.;
*Finding Nemo;
*Nightmare Before Christmas;
*Robots;
*Iron Giant
*Scary Godmother (only the first);
*Aladdin;
*Lion King;
*Emperor's New Groove
*Toy Story (the first)
*Bug's Life
In the interest of space and time--I'm starting to conquer both--I'll stop there. My standards are only that there are memorable lines (meaning I repeat them around the house) and/or characters. I don't need to like the whole movie; some of them I lose interest in after a rock-em, sock-em first hour, like Robots or Shrek or Lion King, even. In order, here are why I picked some of the above, most of which you know, a couple of which I hope you try.
Shrek's strength is its fearless embrace of the gross--his opening bath and evening meal are rife with yukky detail, and some dialogue is similar. Describing the goo inside eyeballs, Shrek says, "It's quite good on toast." Bonus: I like to try to imagine Cameron Diaz once the princess enters the tale.
Monsters Inc. is probably my favorite, overall. There are stretches of the others that I must see, but MI lasts for me usually until they are banished to the snowy area. The oft-repeated lines and exchanges are too many to mention, but off the top:
--"I'm watching you Wiesowski, always watching."
--"Hi Sully Wully." "Uh, Hi, Celia...Weelia."
--"You and me, me and you, both of us together (sung)"
--"Kitty!"
--"Chalooby, baby."
--"Googly Bear!"
Finding Nemo I was just quoting today: "You know, parties are fun," as only Albert Brooks could say it. The sharks scene is chock full: "I never knew my father!" "What's a couple of bites like you doing in a place like this?" Dory brings a lot, as almost everything she says related to her short-term memory loss is funny. In the fish tank, the initiation is good--"Shark Bait hoo ha ha." "Shark Bait, newcomer of orange and white." The old man halibut chasing the kids in a circle, because of his unique eye arrangement. The dentist comes through with "Gotta see a man about a wallaby."
I can't say enough about Nightmare Before Christmas. It won't scare your kids as much as you think. The songs are awesome, the freaky animation and design and characters are a treat. So many fantastic lines are from the songs, several of which stick in your head like brain paste. Spoken lines: the wheelchair inventor/doctor's "Sally? Oh, gone agayne!" "Frog's Breath? Nothing's more suspicious than frog's breath." "You're mine you know, I made you." His words are striking as much for what they say as their cadence. The Mayor: "Jack, Jack? I can't make decisions, I'm only an elected official." The whole scene when Jack gets the town together to explain Christmas is so tasty--when he explains stockings, and a Halloween character asks if there are feet in them still.
Robots I hardly remember any lines from, but it's so fun to watch. The animation and drawing is so cool, and the scene when Rodney travels to the big city in a crazy contraption with I think the Robin Williams character is amazing. Memorable action and lines come from the parents putting Rodney together, meshing baby routines with assembling a machine and the scene where the gatekeeper rudely mocks and dismisses an eager and naive Rodney is great. "Come back five years ago."
We've had an Iron Giant revival around here in the past month--the twins love it. Brad Bird is a genius. Highlights include the government agent's various nicknames for Hogarth--Slugger, Chief, Scout, Buddy, Pal--shown in a montage. When Hogarth says grace while trying to shoo the robot's hand you'll chuckle mightily. Same when Hogarth drinks espresso for the first time. His ultra-Twinkies are very cool, too. Bonus is the Cold War history lesson. Highly recommended.
Scary Godmother may be the most obscure here, but it's a hoot. A younger girl is thrown into a supposedly haunted house so she will want to go home so the older kids can trick or treat faster. As she cries, her Scary Godmother appears and whisks the girl to the godmother's house in an alternate reality. There is about to be a party, and the guests are a foppish, self-important, always hungry and verbose werewolf; a flamingly gay skeleton; a vampire family; a many-eyed monster named Bugaboo. The skeleton alone makes this well worth the rental--his gayness is never explained, even in the bonus features with the cast and crew, but there is no other description for his voice and the things he says. I'm guilty of stereotyping, but there are stereotypes for a reason. There are memorable lines every other minute. Highly recommended.
Aladdin and Lion King might not be here except they share awesome villains--Skar and Jafar. So professionally evil. The exchange between Jafar and Princess Jasmine after Aladdin's arrest makes me swoon every time. His long face, cheshire-cat grin, skeletal fingers. "Your father has charged me with keeping the peace in Agraba." "What was the charge?" Why, kidnapping the prin-cess, of course." "I was running away!" "Oh, how dreadfully upsetting, had I but known." When he puts his hands on Jasmine, finger by finger, like a spider's walk, to comfort her, it's delicious. Skar's exhanges with Simba and his dad, especially preying on Simba's innocence and trust--stylish and wicked.
Emperor's New Groove is good for the dumb guy who serves the evil queen. Funny portrait of a big-hearted musclehead.
The first Toy Story has a couple great songs, and the opening hour is golden. "Last Tuesday's Plastic Awareness meeting was, I think, a big success." "You're mocking me, aren't you?" "Please be a Mrs. Potatohead, please be a Mrs. Potatohead."
Maybe someday I'll do the same with cartoons of the last seven or so years that I wouldn;t have enjoyed without kids. I'm a better man for all of it, and more fun at parties, too, because, "You know, parties are fun."
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Judas Priest
Happy 50th Birthday, Barbie!
Connor and I and the twins took Maggie to the library this morning to celebrate Barbie's half-century of perpetual readiness for anything. There were 29 other girls signed up so Bad Daddy couldn't get Darcy in at the last minute--thank Schenker she's 2 and easily distracted.
I didn't see what went on in the party room, for some reason shades were drawn on my side of the library, and watching a pair of 2-year-olds and a 9-year-old made it unlikely that I would go around to where the view was clear. Of course, I forgot to bring a camera, so there was no photo op with cardboard Barbie princess at the end.
We left with as many as we came with, narrowly averting an extra half-hour as the twins raced into the labyrinth as I was checking out some research documents--Star Wars comic book, two Goosebumps videos, Sky High (pretty good if I may interject in my own blog) and the second Narnia flick. Me and Connor caught up before they went opposite ways, but not before making a spectacle of ourselves for the millionth time.
Later, Connor said something like, "It's weird how she's 50 but is still slim and beautiful." His dad was there to take him to football, so we had a laugh about Barbie's probable use of surgery and chemicals to maintain her plastic playfulness. Still, what if the makers of Barbie had made Barbie in stages......
--At 18, Barbie heads to college in fabulous outfits, including sweatpants for 8 a.m. classes, oversized t-shirts given her by Ken sometime around 4 a.m.. Comes with a gift certificate to buy new, larger-sized pants at the end of the first semester.
--At 24, Barbie sets out to show the boys in the boardroom that she's blond and thin, and has many changes of clothes for every occasion, including texting and receiving texts. LO Elle!
--At 27, Barbie leaves behind the rat race to concentrate on her attempts to have Barbie Babies with, who else, GI Joe! All that ticking was distracting her from breaking the glass ceiling, so it's time to break out of the work world and join a genetic-customization and fertility support group. So difficult to reproduce with no bits and pieces. Jeans and ponytails and a smile we see right through!
--Now 34, with two nappy-headed blond boys with Kung-Fu Grip and camoflauge wardrobes for every day of the week, Barbie is frightened. She sports pastel body-armor and has started a Family Scrap club in her women's group. Cute night-vision goggles and concealed meat tenderizer mark her as a suburban MIBNMW--Mother I'd Better Not Mess With.
--At 41, Barbie knows peace, and has the scars to show it. Comes with tan vials, dark sunglasses, very-raised eyebrows, wrinkle-free skin (as always) and pink corkscrew.
--Now 50, and still vital, with a nod to her "I've still got it" cameo on Toy Story 2, Barbie looks forward to 50 more years of trials and tribulations, joy and happiness, lace and velcro. The latest generation of girlie-girls pays homage, and Barbie feels young again.
I've got to go, before I erase all that and start over with something that is a way better idea. Carrie awaits downstairs, I believe in a mood similar to liking me a lot. See you Saturday
Connor and I and the twins took Maggie to the library this morning to celebrate Barbie's half-century of perpetual readiness for anything. There were 29 other girls signed up so Bad Daddy couldn't get Darcy in at the last minute--thank Schenker she's 2 and easily distracted.
I didn't see what went on in the party room, for some reason shades were drawn on my side of the library, and watching a pair of 2-year-olds and a 9-year-old made it unlikely that I would go around to where the view was clear. Of course, I forgot to bring a camera, so there was no photo op with cardboard Barbie princess at the end.
We left with as many as we came with, narrowly averting an extra half-hour as the twins raced into the labyrinth as I was checking out some research documents--Star Wars comic book, two Goosebumps videos, Sky High (pretty good if I may interject in my own blog) and the second Narnia flick. Me and Connor caught up before they went opposite ways, but not before making a spectacle of ourselves for the millionth time.
Later, Connor said something like, "It's weird how she's 50 but is still slim and beautiful." His dad was there to take him to football, so we had a laugh about Barbie's probable use of surgery and chemicals to maintain her plastic playfulness. Still, what if the makers of Barbie had made Barbie in stages......
--At 18, Barbie heads to college in fabulous outfits, including sweatpants for 8 a.m. classes, oversized t-shirts given her by Ken sometime around 4 a.m.. Comes with a gift certificate to buy new, larger-sized pants at the end of the first semester.
--At 24, Barbie sets out to show the boys in the boardroom that she's blond and thin, and has many changes of clothes for every occasion, including texting and receiving texts. LO Elle!
--At 27, Barbie leaves behind the rat race to concentrate on her attempts to have Barbie Babies with, who else, GI Joe! All that ticking was distracting her from breaking the glass ceiling, so it's time to break out of the work world and join a genetic-customization and fertility support group. So difficult to reproduce with no bits and pieces. Jeans and ponytails and a smile we see right through!
--Now 34, with two nappy-headed blond boys with Kung-Fu Grip and camoflauge wardrobes for every day of the week, Barbie is frightened. She sports pastel body-armor and has started a Family Scrap club in her women's group. Cute night-vision goggles and concealed meat tenderizer mark her as a suburban MIBNMW--Mother I'd Better Not Mess With.
--At 41, Barbie knows peace, and has the scars to show it. Comes with tan vials, dark sunglasses, very-raised eyebrows, wrinkle-free skin (as always) and pink corkscrew.
--Now 50, and still vital, with a nod to her "I've still got it" cameo on Toy Story 2, Barbie looks forward to 50 more years of trials and tribulations, joy and happiness, lace and velcro. The latest generation of girlie-girls pays homage, and Barbie feels young again.
I've got to go, before I erase all that and start over with something that is a way better idea. Carrie awaits downstairs, I believe in a mood similar to liking me a lot. See you Saturday
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
George Thorogood
Unemployment is not counter-intuitively desirable, like obesity or burping--it's not a sign of wealth or appreciated in some cultures. It's just never been all that cool, unless you are the offspring of wealthy parents. So, I'm trying to find full-time work.
An executive of the company that laid me off told me I'd have to work as hard at finding a job as I did when I had a job. He knew from experience...and never checking to see how hard I worked when I had a job. Awww, that's just some fun I threw in there to keep investigative prospective employers sharp for red flags. Did you catch it?
Anytime this out-of-work subject comes up, I think about the scene from Dudley Moore's "Arthur" (my middle name, BTW). Not sure this is verbatim, but when the interviewer tells our slurring hero that the company is looking for someone who is punctual, hard-working, and a team player, Arthur enthusiastically replies, "Well, hire me and I'll help you find him."
I'm looking for that job, too. I've noticed that there are a lot of jobs available for things I have no clue about--software engineers, associate professors, HVAC technicians. I just know if someone took a chance on me, I could be their CFO or CIO or ER surgeon, with a little paid training, ya know? But, this job market is unfriendly to inexperienced folks with lots of self-confidence, so what are you gonna do?
At least I'll never tell an interviewer, "I like people." Why is that such a sought-after trait? What about, "I don't harm people I don't like"? Or, even, "I let people talk to me, if it's about the job"?
We're all still getting used to the role reversal around here; I stay home and Carrie, who had not had a full-time job at a workplace since 2006, is now oot and aboot. The twins bawled for many minutes when she left in the morning the first couple of weeks, and now occasionally ask, "Where's that lady who sleeps here?"
I take all the credit for their adaptation, but I don't recommend to everyone in a similar situation my tough-love regimen of duct-tape, Sportscenter and ice cream for breakfast. Our kids are just special, I guess, and please don't assume it's easy being respected and adored.
My spirits are still high, but it's not even two months since the change--still getting severance, landed a freelance gig, got the secret e-mail address for upcoming football gambling, etc. I sent an idea to T-Shirt Hell a couple weeks ago and can't believe I haven't won 10 free shirts and 200 bucks yet. "I Just Got Laid" it would say in big letters. "Off" would be underneath, in tiny letters.
A portion of the sales proceeds would go to my charity, The Hire Me and I'll Help You Find Him Foundation. In lieu of sales, please send letters of recommendation to the comments section below.
An executive of the company that laid me off told me I'd have to work as hard at finding a job as I did when I had a job. He knew from experience...and never checking to see how hard I worked when I had a job. Awww, that's just some fun I threw in there to keep investigative prospective employers sharp for red flags. Did you catch it?
Anytime this out-of-work subject comes up, I think about the scene from Dudley Moore's "Arthur" (my middle name, BTW). Not sure this is verbatim, but when the interviewer tells our slurring hero that the company is looking for someone who is punctual, hard-working, and a team player, Arthur enthusiastically replies, "Well, hire me and I'll help you find him."
I'm looking for that job, too. I've noticed that there are a lot of jobs available for things I have no clue about--software engineers, associate professors, HVAC technicians. I just know if someone took a chance on me, I could be their CFO or CIO or ER surgeon, with a little paid training, ya know? But, this job market is unfriendly to inexperienced folks with lots of self-confidence, so what are you gonna do?
At least I'll never tell an interviewer, "I like people." Why is that such a sought-after trait? What about, "I don't harm people I don't like"? Or, even, "I let people talk to me, if it's about the job"?
We're all still getting used to the role reversal around here; I stay home and Carrie, who had not had a full-time job at a workplace since 2006, is now oot and aboot. The twins bawled for many minutes when she left in the morning the first couple of weeks, and now occasionally ask, "Where's that lady who sleeps here?"
I take all the credit for their adaptation, but I don't recommend to everyone in a similar situation my tough-love regimen of duct-tape, Sportscenter and ice cream for breakfast. Our kids are just special, I guess, and please don't assume it's easy being respected and adored.
My spirits are still high, but it's not even two months since the change--still getting severance, landed a freelance gig, got the secret e-mail address for upcoming football gambling, etc. I sent an idea to T-Shirt Hell a couple weeks ago and can't believe I haven't won 10 free shirts and 200 bucks yet. "I Just Got Laid" it would say in big letters. "Off" would be underneath, in tiny letters.
A portion of the sales proceeds would go to my charity, The Hire Me and I'll Help You Find Him Foundation. In lieu of sales, please send letters of recommendation to the comments section below.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
.JPG)
