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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...