You know when it hit me? When sports announcers started describing athletes who were my age as "old men" or "crusty veterans."
That's when I realized I wasn't 25 years old anymore and never would be again.
When you're growing up, most of the people you meet are older than you. That's all you know, and therefore it becomes your default world view: "I'm a young person."
There is no definite, defined time when you cross over from "young" to "middle aged" (or, in my kids' view, just plain "old"). You can't definitely say it happens at your 30th birthday or your 35th or your 50th or whatever. It just happens gradually and at different rates for everyone.
But at some point, you inevitably become not-so-young-anymore. And that's when you start to realize that many of the people in positions of authority seem to be 12 years old. Like policemen, for example. There apparently was a worldwide effort to install adolescents as police officers and no one bothered to tell me about it.
I look at the cops driving around my city and I want to say, "That's awfully nice they let you take the big police car out, Johnny, but you better get back and do your homework."
Same thing with doctors. I was under the impression that it took a certain minimum number of years of training to become a physician. Then I underwent a very male-oriented birth control procedure and my urologist looked like he was in grade school. Seriously, I couldn't figure out why they had assigned a sixth-grade intern to perform what I considered to be a very delicate procedure.
(For the record, Dr. Schneider was very good at his job. But that doesn't change the fact that once he finished with me, he probably went home to watch reruns of the "Power Rangers.")
It's the athlete thing that really blew me away, though. I've been a sports fan my entire life, and when I was a kid, professional athletes seemed impossibly old and mature. Then I turned 18 and noticed that most of them weren't much older than me. Then I turned 30 and realized that, if I had had the talent to become, say, a professional baseball player, reporters would probably be describing me as "on the downside" of my career.
Then I hit 40 and couldn't help but observe that there aren't a lot of 40-year-old professional athletes. And the ones who are still around are able to maintain their jobs mostly thanks to very favorable genes that make them appear to be 25.
Now many of the coaches are younger than I am. My last refuge is that the owners and front-office people are generally my age or older, so I at least have those guys to make fun of and call old fogeys.
Of course, athletes work on a very compressed timeline in which today's 24-year-old phenom is tomorrow's 31-year-old veteran journeyman. The life cycle of an athlete is relatively short, and I suppose the goal is to make as much money as you can by the time you're 35 so you can figure out what to do with the next 50-plus years of your life.
Another interesting thing I've noticed is that certain ages no longer seem old to me. When I was 12, if you would have told me that a 60-year-old had just died, I would have thought, "Well, YEAH, of course he did. He was 60, for crying out loud!" Now I hear about 60-year-olds passing away and I think, "That's terrible! He was so young."
I've not quite reached the point where I regularly read the obituaries (the "Irish sports page," as I've heard them called), but I admit that I will sneak a glance now and then. Usually it's just to see if I recognize someone's parents or grandparents. It won't be too many decades before I'll be adding "classmates" and "contemporaries" to my search list.
Having a daughter going to college and a niece giving birth in the same year doesn't help, nor does the white hair that rings my head (though my standards have shifted such that just keeping my hair, whatever color it wants to be, is the main goal).
The funny thing is, 10 years from now I'll be saying how great it would be to be 42 again. After a certain point, unless you're unusually well adjusted, you're never quite satisfied with your current age. So you complain. It's what we do, especially in this youth-crazed society.
Seriously, though, a urologist shouldn't look like he just came back from a school field trip. I'm just saying.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Family Movie Night: Popcorn and trauma
Once every month or two, we try to have a Family Movie Night. Years ago when the kids were younger, this was a relatively easy thing to pull off. Now? Not so much.
You would think that getting the family together to watch a movie would be a relatively easy process. And it should be. But there are two main obstacles to making it happen:
(1) SCHEDULES: Living in our house are seven people ranging in age from 6 to 43, each of whom needs a social secretary. I cannot begin to keep track of the kids and where they are at any given time, nor can Terry, which is scary. If she gets confused by it, there's no hope for me. I'll come home from work on a Friday evening and will ask, for example, where Chloe is. And it's not uncommon for my wife to respond with something like this: "I don't know. She's either at Miranda's, at Rachel's, at Chris Dorazio's, at track practice, at soccer practice, at play practice, at the movies, at the mall, at her piano lesson, at the zoo, at the park, or in Venezuela." All of these things are equally probable, and I'm sure that Chloe told Terry where she was going before she left the house, but poor Terry can only retain so much information. Sometimes the whereabouts of her 15-year-old daughter get pushed out of her brain.
(2) MOVIE SELECTION: Even if we manage to corral everyone into our living room for a two-hour block of time, we're still faced with the dilemma of finding a movie that will appeal to kids ages 6, 11, 13, 15, and 18, as well as their 40-something parents and whatever combination of boyfriends and/or schoolmates happen to be visiting at the time. Inevitably, a few of us end up compromising our individual tastes for the good of the group. But only after 45 minutes of intense negotiation rivaled solely by Middle East peace talks for passionate opinion and violent argument.
Eventually we settle on something, pop it into the Blu-Ray player and sit down for an enjoyable night together.
HAHAHAHAHA! You know I'm kidding. This never actually happens, or at least it doesn't happen quite that easily. Once we get everyone into the house and the movie selected, there's still the process of preparing refreshments. Forty-seven bags of microwave popcorn must be popped. Drinks must be poured into cups with lids so that they won't spill onto our sectional couch (the one nice thing we own) or onto the floor, which would actually be OK because they would blend in well with the Kool-Aid stains that have been there since a Family Movie Night from 2004.
Even more troublesome is that while the food and drink are being prepared, some of the denizens of the house take this as a sign that it's OK to start wandering away and/or engaging in various other activities. When we all finally take our places and prepare to press "play" on the remote, we do a quick count and realize that someone isn't there. Annoyed, everyone starts screaming for that person to GET IN HERE NOW, rather than actually getting up and finding them. When the person does return to the living room, they are met with icy stares. I'm telling you, this is a tough group.
And speaking of people taking their places, this is another crucial element of the Family Movie Night experience. The sectional couch is big, but it's not going to hold everyone if we have visitors. Someone is going to have to sit on the floor, and no one really wants to. So the arguments begin over who's going to sit where, and why he keeps hogging the blanket, and how come she always gets the part of the couch that reclines, and I finally lose it and tell everyone to just SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!! SIT DOWN AND WATCH THE MOVIE! QUIT YOUR ARGUING! WE'RE HERE TO HAVE A FUN MOVIE NIGHT AND WE'RE ALL GOING TO HAVE FUN OR I SWEAR I WILL BREAK YOUR NECKS! SO SHUT UP!
Capital letters don't do justice to my fury at these moments. Daddy doesn't lose it very often, but when he does, an uneasy peace will usually settle over the room. Those left without spots on the couch resign themselves to two hours on the floor. The others munch their popcorn silently. The movie begins. And 10 minutes later, we forget there was ever any yelling and screaming, because we're all finally having fun as intended.
Except for when someone talks during the movie and the others respond with a forceful "SHHHHHH!" Those moments can be a little awkward. But again, hurt feelings heal within minutes and then we're back to enjoying ourselves.
Or at least I am. That's because I'm smart enough to stake an early claim to the nice reclining chair. No way I'm sitting for two hours on that floor.
You would think that getting the family together to watch a movie would be a relatively easy process. And it should be. But there are two main obstacles to making it happen:
(1) SCHEDULES: Living in our house are seven people ranging in age from 6 to 43, each of whom needs a social secretary. I cannot begin to keep track of the kids and where they are at any given time, nor can Terry, which is scary. If she gets confused by it, there's no hope for me. I'll come home from work on a Friday evening and will ask, for example, where Chloe is. And it's not uncommon for my wife to respond with something like this: "I don't know. She's either at Miranda's, at Rachel's, at Chris Dorazio's, at track practice, at soccer practice, at play practice, at the movies, at the mall, at her piano lesson, at the zoo, at the park, or in Venezuela." All of these things are equally probable, and I'm sure that Chloe told Terry where she was going before she left the house, but poor Terry can only retain so much information. Sometimes the whereabouts of her 15-year-old daughter get pushed out of her brain.
(2) MOVIE SELECTION: Even if we manage to corral everyone into our living room for a two-hour block of time, we're still faced with the dilemma of finding a movie that will appeal to kids ages 6, 11, 13, 15, and 18, as well as their 40-something parents and whatever combination of boyfriends and/or schoolmates happen to be visiting at the time. Inevitably, a few of us end up compromising our individual tastes for the good of the group. But only after 45 minutes of intense negotiation rivaled solely by Middle East peace talks for passionate opinion and violent argument.
Eventually we settle on something, pop it into the Blu-Ray player and sit down for an enjoyable night together.
HAHAHAHAHA! You know I'm kidding. This never actually happens, or at least it doesn't happen quite that easily. Once we get everyone into the house and the movie selected, there's still the process of preparing refreshments. Forty-seven bags of microwave popcorn must be popped. Drinks must be poured into cups with lids so that they won't spill onto our sectional couch (the one nice thing we own) or onto the floor, which would actually be OK because they would blend in well with the Kool-Aid stains that have been there since a Family Movie Night from 2004.
Even more troublesome is that while the food and drink are being prepared, some of the denizens of the house take this as a sign that it's OK to start wandering away and/or engaging in various other activities. When we all finally take our places and prepare to press "play" on the remote, we do a quick count and realize that someone isn't there. Annoyed, everyone starts screaming for that person to GET IN HERE NOW, rather than actually getting up and finding them. When the person does return to the living room, they are met with icy stares. I'm telling you, this is a tough group.
And speaking of people taking their places, this is another crucial element of the Family Movie Night experience. The sectional couch is big, but it's not going to hold everyone if we have visitors. Someone is going to have to sit on the floor, and no one really wants to. So the arguments begin over who's going to sit where, and why he keeps hogging the blanket, and how come she always gets the part of the couch that reclines, and I finally lose it and tell everyone to just SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!! SIT DOWN AND WATCH THE MOVIE! QUIT YOUR ARGUING! WE'RE HERE TO HAVE A FUN MOVIE NIGHT AND WE'RE ALL GOING TO HAVE FUN OR I SWEAR I WILL BREAK YOUR NECKS! SO SHUT UP!
Capital letters don't do justice to my fury at these moments. Daddy doesn't lose it very often, but when he does, an uneasy peace will usually settle over the room. Those left without spots on the couch resign themselves to two hours on the floor. The others munch their popcorn silently. The movie begins. And 10 minutes later, we forget there was ever any yelling and screaming, because we're all finally having fun as intended.
Except for when someone talks during the movie and the others respond with a forceful "SHHHHHH!" Those moments can be a little awkward. But again, hurt feelings heal within minutes and then we're back to enjoying ourselves.
Or at least I am. That's because I'm smart enough to stake an early claim to the nice reclining chair. No way I'm sitting for two hours on that floor.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Introducing Mom and Dad: Family CEOs
Whenever my wife and I go out to dinner (approximately once every 17 years), we do that thing parents often do where we wolf down our food and are finished with our meals in well under a half hour.
We do this, of course, because we are conditioned to do it. When you have kids, particularly little ones, eating is a process of sneaking bites of food in between tending to the needs of your offspring. At any given moment, you're likely to be cutting up someone's chicken, sopping up spilled milk from the table, or carefully removing the fork your two-year-old has cheerfully plunged into your neck.
So you quickly get into the habit of speed eating. There's no real enjoyment in it, just a race against the clock to stuff nutrients down your gullet before the next kid-related crisis pops up. And then suddenly the two of you are alone and you realize you're doing it even then. You laugh and remind each other that you should slow down and enjoy the experience, which you do for about 45 seconds before forgetting yourself and resuming the process of rapidly stuffing your face.
The same is true of our conversations. We occasionally go out to Starbucks to grab some coffee and just sit and talk, and it's always a lot of fun. It also always ends up centering on the kids. No matter what we do, no matter what stimulating topic we may start out on, the little tax deductions are eventually the subject at hand.
This is because you, as a parent, are essentially the CEO of a small company. You have been charged with overseeing an organization whose sole task is to produce independent, self-sustaining, functional human beings with the potential and even desire to contribute meaningfully to society. This is your mission and vision. It is your primary role in life and it can be difficult to push it to the back of your mind for even a few minutes.
So no matter what, when you and your co-executive get together, there is always some piece of company strategy or bit of operational concern that bears discussion. And that's what you inevitably focus on because it's your job.
If I were addressing the shareholders of Tennant Enterprises in a "state of the company" speech, I think I would tell them something like this:
"Welcome to all of you! Your investment in our little firm is greatly appreciated, and today I want to update you on our progress.
"As you know, Tennant Enterprises, run by myself and my co-CEO and Chief of Domestic Operations, Terry, continues to be organized into five operational arms. Each of these corporate divisions is thriving, I am happy to report, but not without some bumps along the way.
"Our most well-established division, Elissa, turned 18 years old over the weekend, a cause for great celebration. She has enjoyed a long run of high productivity and has returned generous dividends to each of you, our stockholders. But as you know, she is just months away from entering College Mode, a notorious profit-sucker. Be prepared for a long period of depressing balance sheets and negative growth, at the end of which we anticipate that this division will be ready to be spun off on its own.
"The Chloe Department continues to be one of the most intriguing concerns in the corporate world. Volatile and often unpredictable, it can be difficult to manage effectively. But in the end, it always returns value. Our investment here has paid off handsomely and the years ahead are bright. This division has entered into a pseudo-merger with Dorazio Corp., an Asian athletic equipment manufacturer.
"Humming along quietly in the background is our Jared affiliate. Huge growth here and quite unexpected in that no other arm of the company has quite the length and breadth of this division. We're not sure where this comes from, though we have repeatedly asked the Chief of Domestic Operations to conduct a sort of corporate DNA test, which she refuses to do. We're getting very suspicious. In any case, the outlook is bright, assuming this division eventually emerges from its 13-year-old boy fog of confusion.
"The Melanie Sector is in many ways still searching for its identity, but it excels in virtually every industry in which it dabbles. It can be easy to get lost in the confusion when you're the fourth of five divisions in a large corporation, but this area does a nice job of staking its own claims. We would be quite pleased if the employees would remember to turn out the lights in their room every once in awhile, but all in all, top marks.
"And finally we have our Jack detachment. Incredible return on investment here so far in terms of development and knowledge acquisition, to the point that we are concerned as to whether this division's potential can be channeled for good rather than for a hostile takeover of the world. For now, there is little chance for real harm while the employees are engaged in obtaining kindergarten core competencies, but we would suggest watching this one closely in the years to come.
"So again, we say thank you for the faith and trust you have placed in our company. The ultimate goal is for these five subdivisions to eventually become freestanding corporations, at which point we can all cash out and move to Florida. But something tells us we have a long way to go before that happens. Good luck and good night."
We do this, of course, because we are conditioned to do it. When you have kids, particularly little ones, eating is a process of sneaking bites of food in between tending to the needs of your offspring. At any given moment, you're likely to be cutting up someone's chicken, sopping up spilled milk from the table, or carefully removing the fork your two-year-old has cheerfully plunged into your neck.
So you quickly get into the habit of speed eating. There's no real enjoyment in it, just a race against the clock to stuff nutrients down your gullet before the next kid-related crisis pops up. And then suddenly the two of you are alone and you realize you're doing it even then. You laugh and remind each other that you should slow down and enjoy the experience, which you do for about 45 seconds before forgetting yourself and resuming the process of rapidly stuffing your face.
The same is true of our conversations. We occasionally go out to Starbucks to grab some coffee and just sit and talk, and it's always a lot of fun. It also always ends up centering on the kids. No matter what we do, no matter what stimulating topic we may start out on, the little tax deductions are eventually the subject at hand.
This is because you, as a parent, are essentially the CEO of a small company. You have been charged with overseeing an organization whose sole task is to produce independent, self-sustaining, functional human beings with the potential and even desire to contribute meaningfully to society. This is your mission and vision. It is your primary role in life and it can be difficult to push it to the back of your mind for even a few minutes.
So no matter what, when you and your co-executive get together, there is always some piece of company strategy or bit of operational concern that bears discussion. And that's what you inevitably focus on because it's your job.
If I were addressing the shareholders of Tennant Enterprises in a "state of the company" speech, I think I would tell them something like this:
"Welcome to all of you! Your investment in our little firm is greatly appreciated, and today I want to update you on our progress.
"As you know, Tennant Enterprises, run by myself and my co-CEO and Chief of Domestic Operations, Terry, continues to be organized into five operational arms. Each of these corporate divisions is thriving, I am happy to report, but not without some bumps along the way.
"Our most well-established division, Elissa, turned 18 years old over the weekend, a cause for great celebration. She has enjoyed a long run of high productivity and has returned generous dividends to each of you, our stockholders. But as you know, she is just months away from entering College Mode, a notorious profit-sucker. Be prepared for a long period of depressing balance sheets and negative growth, at the end of which we anticipate that this division will be ready to be spun off on its own.
"The Chloe Department continues to be one of the most intriguing concerns in the corporate world. Volatile and often unpredictable, it can be difficult to manage effectively. But in the end, it always returns value. Our investment here has paid off handsomely and the years ahead are bright. This division has entered into a pseudo-merger with Dorazio Corp., an Asian athletic equipment manufacturer.
"Humming along quietly in the background is our Jared affiliate. Huge growth here and quite unexpected in that no other arm of the company has quite the length and breadth of this division. We're not sure where this comes from, though we have repeatedly asked the Chief of Domestic Operations to conduct a sort of corporate DNA test, which she refuses to do. We're getting very suspicious. In any case, the outlook is bright, assuming this division eventually emerges from its 13-year-old boy fog of confusion.
"The Melanie Sector is in many ways still searching for its identity, but it excels in virtually every industry in which it dabbles. It can be easy to get lost in the confusion when you're the fourth of five divisions in a large corporation, but this area does a nice job of staking its own claims. We would be quite pleased if the employees would remember to turn out the lights in their room every once in awhile, but all in all, top marks.
"And finally we have our Jack detachment. Incredible return on investment here so far in terms of development and knowledge acquisition, to the point that we are concerned as to whether this division's potential can be channeled for good rather than for a hostile takeover of the world. For now, there is little chance for real harm while the employees are engaged in obtaining kindergarten core competencies, but we would suggest watching this one closely in the years to come.
"So again, we say thank you for the faith and trust you have placed in our company. The ultimate goal is for these five subdivisions to eventually become freestanding corporations, at which point we can all cash out and move to Florida. But something tells us we have a long way to go before that happens. Good luck and good night."
Monday, March 26, 2012
The art of dadness
It's tricky being a father in the 21st century.
Guys in my generation are influenced by two very different styles of parenting: On one hand, most of us had fathers who were of the old school. They were generally good dads, but they left the majority of parenting duties to their wives. Their involvement in the child-rearing process was fairly limited to serving as procreators, disciplinarians and financial backers. And in some cases, not much else.
On the other hand, we ourselves are raising kids at a time when fathers are (happily) expected to be far more hands-on. Unlike many of our dads, we were right there to witness the birth of our children, which as Sting once very aptly said makes the whole thing "much more bloody and profound." In that alone we are sometimes more closely connected to our kids from the very start than our fathers might have been.
We are also rightly expected to take part in all day-to-day aspects of parenting. This is eminently fair but also sometimes a little challenging. The only role models we had for this growing up were our moms, since our dads were so often out working or doing other manly, dad-like things and were therefore absent from the minutiae of having kids. Consequently, a lot of us are simply carbon copies of our mothers when it comes to parenting style.
Women, for the most part, are pretty understanding of this ongoing conflict in our lives and as a gender have been remarkably tolerant of our fatherly shortcomings. One side effect of this is that the bar is set fairly low for modern dads, and anything we do right is met with cheers and applause.
Seriously, it's not that difficult to be considered a good dad nowadays. You show up to little league games, change a few diapers, stay home and watch the kids when your wife goes out and, presto, you're suddenly a candidate for Father of the Year. I've always thought the standards should be a lot higher than that. If we're going to be what we're supposed to be as dads, I think someone needs to push us a little harder.
And speaking of watching the kids, you know what has always bothered me? When someone sees me alone with my children and asks whether I'm "babysitting" them. As if they don't actually belong to me and I'm just pretending to be a parent for a bit while my wife is out shopping. The two irksome implications of that question are:
(1) The responsibility for watching the kids really falls on my wife and I'm graciously offering to do her job for her, and
(2) I'm incompetent and can't be trusted to do this for too long.
In all fairness, I don't think people who ask whether I'm "babysitting" my kids mean anything negative by it, and usually they're of an older generation that simply had a different approach to parenting. But it still bothers me.
I am of the opinion that fathers are invaluable. That's not at all to say that single mothers can't raise quality kids. They do it all the time, and they amaze me. (I know some great single fathers, too.) I'm just saying that a dad brings something to the equation that's hard for a parent of the other gender to match, just as a father on his own by definition can't give his kids everything a mother can.
I am very blessed to serve on the board of directors of The City Mission, an incredible organization in Cleveland that helps people whose lives are in crisis. Next month, the Mission will conduct a day-long event called "Where's Papa? A Symposium on Father Absence." The speaker, Dr. David Stoop, has written more than 20 books that deal with parenting, and specifically with the role of fathers in raising children.
I presume that Dr. Stoop is going to point to the dozens of studies showing the negative social, developmental and financial impact of absent fathers on our society. But beyond that, I just hope that in some small way the event lends credence to the idea that dads are worth something. Popular culture has done a lot to denigrate the role of fathers, and we're often viewed as optional accessories. As I said, this in no way detracts from the efforts of single parents, but I like to think that what we do as fathers is vastly important, and always will be.
I had a great dad. He was goofy, and he had his quirks and faults, but not for a second – not for a single second – did I ever doubt that he loved me and cared for my well-being. The effect of that simple fact on my life has been immeasurably positive, and I want my kids to enjoy the same thing.
Because let's face it: We can't rely on moms to tell stupid jokes, make bad puns, wear hideously mismatched outfits in public, and fall asleep on the couch with their hands in their pants. These are time-honored dad traditions, and by God, I will do everything in my power to uphold them.
Guys in my generation are influenced by two very different styles of parenting: On one hand, most of us had fathers who were of the old school. They were generally good dads, but they left the majority of parenting duties to their wives. Their involvement in the child-rearing process was fairly limited to serving as procreators, disciplinarians and financial backers. And in some cases, not much else.
On the other hand, we ourselves are raising kids at a time when fathers are (happily) expected to be far more hands-on. Unlike many of our dads, we were right there to witness the birth of our children, which as Sting once very aptly said makes the whole thing "much more bloody and profound." In that alone we are sometimes more closely connected to our kids from the very start than our fathers might have been.
We are also rightly expected to take part in all day-to-day aspects of parenting. This is eminently fair but also sometimes a little challenging. The only role models we had for this growing up were our moms, since our dads were so often out working or doing other manly, dad-like things and were therefore absent from the minutiae of having kids. Consequently, a lot of us are simply carbon copies of our mothers when it comes to parenting style.
Women, for the most part, are pretty understanding of this ongoing conflict in our lives and as a gender have been remarkably tolerant of our fatherly shortcomings. One side effect of this is that the bar is set fairly low for modern dads, and anything we do right is met with cheers and applause.
Seriously, it's not that difficult to be considered a good dad nowadays. You show up to little league games, change a few diapers, stay home and watch the kids when your wife goes out and, presto, you're suddenly a candidate for Father of the Year. I've always thought the standards should be a lot higher than that. If we're going to be what we're supposed to be as dads, I think someone needs to push us a little harder.
And speaking of watching the kids, you know what has always bothered me? When someone sees me alone with my children and asks whether I'm "babysitting" them. As if they don't actually belong to me and I'm just pretending to be a parent for a bit while my wife is out shopping. The two irksome implications of that question are:
(1) The responsibility for watching the kids really falls on my wife and I'm graciously offering to do her job for her, and
(2) I'm incompetent and can't be trusted to do this for too long.
In all fairness, I don't think people who ask whether I'm "babysitting" my kids mean anything negative by it, and usually they're of an older generation that simply had a different approach to parenting. But it still bothers me.
I am of the opinion that fathers are invaluable. That's not at all to say that single mothers can't raise quality kids. They do it all the time, and they amaze me. (I know some great single fathers, too.) I'm just saying that a dad brings something to the equation that's hard for a parent of the other gender to match, just as a father on his own by definition can't give his kids everything a mother can.
I am very blessed to serve on the board of directors of The City Mission, an incredible organization in Cleveland that helps people whose lives are in crisis. Next month, the Mission will conduct a day-long event called "Where's Papa? A Symposium on Father Absence." The speaker, Dr. David Stoop, has written more than 20 books that deal with parenting, and specifically with the role of fathers in raising children.
I presume that Dr. Stoop is going to point to the dozens of studies showing the negative social, developmental and financial impact of absent fathers on our society. But beyond that, I just hope that in some small way the event lends credence to the idea that dads are worth something. Popular culture has done a lot to denigrate the role of fathers, and we're often viewed as optional accessories. As I said, this in no way detracts from the efforts of single parents, but I like to think that what we do as fathers is vastly important, and always will be.
I had a great dad. He was goofy, and he had his quirks and faults, but not for a second – not for a single second – did I ever doubt that he loved me and cared for my well-being. The effect of that simple fact on my life has been immeasurably positive, and I want my kids to enjoy the same thing.
Because let's face it: We can't rely on moms to tell stupid jokes, make bad puns, wear hideously mismatched outfits in public, and fall asleep on the couch with their hands in their pants. These are time-honored dad traditions, and by God, I will do everything in my power to uphold them.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Wemberly Worried, and other stories from the realm of memories
Standing in our upstairs hallway is a 6-foot bookshelf filled from top to bottom with children's books. Most of the time I don't pay it much attention, because most of the time I don't read children's books.
Which is kind of sad. There was a time when I read to at least one of the kids virtually every night, but now there's not much need. Even the youngest one, six-year-old Jack, has pretty much been reading to himself since he was four, though he and I will still occasionally snuggle in bed and plow through a few books together.
I just went upstairs and took a long look at that bookshelf. I stood there for a good 10 minutes going through the book titles, so many of which are tied to certain memories or to certain times of our life as a family.
There were the Magic Castle Reader books, including my favorite, "A Dragon In A Wagon (A Book About Ways to Travel)." All of the Magic Castle Reader books have that subtitle: "A Book About ______." I used to read "A Dragon In a Wagon" to Elissa, back in the days when I would also put her to bed by making an "Elissa Sundae." This was an elaborate process in which she would lay down and I would cover her with various imaginary ice cream toppings, then finish it off by burying my face in her belly and giving her a first-class zerbert while pretending to eat the sundae. And she would laugh and laugh. I was pretty funny back then.
My other favorite Magic Castle Reader book was "How Many Ways Can You Cut a Pie? (A Book About Math)," in which Squirrel promises to give her friends a portion of the acorn pie she is making if she wins the local pie contest. The idea was to teach fractions, of course. I'm not sure any of the kids or I learned much about fractions, to be honest, but the book always managed to make me hungry for pecan pie.
I also saw "Wemberly Worried" on that bookshelf. You may be familiar with "Wemberly Worried." It's a story about a mouse named Wemberly who worries about everything, including her impending first day of nursery school. We have a couple of worriers in our brood, so any book that gets across the message "it's never as bad as you think it's going to be" is welcome. I remember reading that one to Melanie a few times.
You know what else was there? "Sammy the Seal." I don't know that I ever read "Sammy the Seal" to my kids, but I distinctly remember my mom reading it to me. That was when I was probably 4 or 5. By the time I was in first grade, we had a ritual every night where she would tuck me into bed and I would tell her which book I wanted to read before turning off my light for the night.
She would find the book on my bookshelf, give it to me, remind me to go to bed right after I finished reading it, and leave the room. I would then read the book she gave me, plus another one, and another one, and sometimes one more. And then I would turn out the light and go to sleep. I thought I was pulling one over on her, but now that I look back on it, I'm guessing she had a pretty good idea of what I was doing.
On the bottom shelf I found "The Monster at the End of This Book," a classic Sesame Street story in which Grover spends the whole time pleading with you not to turn the pages because there's a monster at the end of the book. Which of course made the kids want to turn the pages even more. Grover tries gluing down the pages and everything else he can think of to keep you from getting to the end of the book. And when you do get there, the monster turns out to be Grover himself. I think we read that one approximately 57 million times.
I could go on and on. All of us parents can do that when we sift through old books and toys, I'm sure. Like I've said before, I have no real desire to go back to the past, but if anyone is interested in having me read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" to them, you're welcome to come over any night.
Which is kind of sad. There was a time when I read to at least one of the kids virtually every night, but now there's not much need. Even the youngest one, six-year-old Jack, has pretty much been reading to himself since he was four, though he and I will still occasionally snuggle in bed and plow through a few books together.
I just went upstairs and took a long look at that bookshelf. I stood there for a good 10 minutes going through the book titles, so many of which are tied to certain memories or to certain times of our life as a family.
There were the Magic Castle Reader books, including my favorite, "A Dragon In A Wagon (A Book About Ways to Travel)." All of the Magic Castle Reader books have that subtitle: "A Book About ______." I used to read "A Dragon In a Wagon" to Elissa, back in the days when I would also put her to bed by making an "Elissa Sundae." This was an elaborate process in which she would lay down and I would cover her with various imaginary ice cream toppings, then finish it off by burying my face in her belly and giving her a first-class zerbert while pretending to eat the sundae. And she would laugh and laugh. I was pretty funny back then.
My other favorite Magic Castle Reader book was "How Many Ways Can You Cut a Pie? (A Book About Math)," in which Squirrel promises to give her friends a portion of the acorn pie she is making if she wins the local pie contest. The idea was to teach fractions, of course. I'm not sure any of the kids or I learned much about fractions, to be honest, but the book always managed to make me hungry for pecan pie.
I also saw "Wemberly Worried" on that bookshelf. You may be familiar with "Wemberly Worried." It's a story about a mouse named Wemberly who worries about everything, including her impending first day of nursery school. We have a couple of worriers in our brood, so any book that gets across the message "it's never as bad as you think it's going to be" is welcome. I remember reading that one to Melanie a few times.
You know what else was there? "Sammy the Seal." I don't know that I ever read "Sammy the Seal" to my kids, but I distinctly remember my mom reading it to me. That was when I was probably 4 or 5. By the time I was in first grade, we had a ritual every night where she would tuck me into bed and I would tell her which book I wanted to read before turning off my light for the night.
She would find the book on my bookshelf, give it to me, remind me to go to bed right after I finished reading it, and leave the room. I would then read the book she gave me, plus another one, and another one, and sometimes one more. And then I would turn out the light and go to sleep. I thought I was pulling one over on her, but now that I look back on it, I'm guessing she had a pretty good idea of what I was doing.
On the bottom shelf I found "The Monster at the End of This Book," a classic Sesame Street story in which Grover spends the whole time pleading with you not to turn the pages because there's a monster at the end of the book. Which of course made the kids want to turn the pages even more. Grover tries gluing down the pages and everything else he can think of to keep you from getting to the end of the book. And when you do get there, the monster turns out to be Grover himself. I think we read that one approximately 57 million times.
I could go on and on. All of us parents can do that when we sift through old books and toys, I'm sure. Like I've said before, I have no real desire to go back to the past, but if anyone is interested in having me read "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" to them, you're welcome to come over any night.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Ten random thoughts on a Wednesday
(1) A while back, I made mention of my fascination with the Duggar family of "19 Kids and Counting" fame. Or is it 20? I don't know. Anyway, the point is, there's a new kid on the huge family TV block: The Bates. Their show, which is on TLC just like the Duggars, is called "The Bates Family: Baby Makes 19." I caught part of an episode recently and actually liked it (and them). But do they meet the basic criteria for reality TV families with lots of kids? Well, let's see: Are they white? Check. Do they live in the South? Check. Are they very religious? Check. Do they give their kids names that all begin with the same letter? BUZZ! Ohhhhh no, I'm sorry. Your family is very Duggar-like, but Jim Bob and Michelle still reign over this particular corner of the TV universe.
(2) On the subject of lunch meat: Am I the only person in the universe who likes Dutch loaf? It seems like I am. And if I am, why do they still make it? I appreciate the effort, but we hardly ever buy it, so really fellas, maybe you should concentrate on some other processed, food-like item. I'm not worth the effort.
(3) I would give almost anything right now to see an episode of the old "Hollywood Squares." I'm talking 70s-era "Hollywood Squares" hosted by Peter Marshall with Paul Lynde in the center square. That was good TV.
(4) I can't believe our telephones used to have cords. Remember that? You would answer the phone in the kitchen and you actually had to carry on your conversation in the kitchen because the cord would only go so far. If you had one of those fancy extended cords, you might be able to make it into the living room, but that was about it. Cordless phones are one of the most underrated inventions of the last half century.
(5) This is true: When I was little – like 5 or 6 years old – I learned all of the U.S. presidents in order. We had the 1964 edition of the World Book Encyclopedia, and I read the article on "Presidents" so many times that the pages eventually became ripped and dog-eared. My dad thought this was hilarious and would have me recite the presidents to anyone who cared to listen. What a freak I was. Anyway, I must have displayed this talent in school at some point, because one time Mrs. Potts put up a timeline of presidents on her classroom wall, and she invited me to come in and look at it. She wasn't even my teacher. I had no idea what my reaction was supposed to be. So I stared at it for awhile, said something to the effect that I liked it, then returned to my own 2nd-grade class. What exactly were they expecting from me? This is still baffling.
(6) I've been going around telling people that my 13-year-old son Jared is 6 feet tall. It turns out I'm a liar. Jared recently contracted strep throat and had to see the doctor, and they officially measured him at 5 feet, 11 3/4 inches. This makes me feel infinitely better about my 5-foot, 9 3/4-inch self.
(7) Speaking of my strange body, I know I've whined to you before about my freakishly small hands, but now it's getting out of control. My 11-year-old daughter Melanie's fingers are longer than mine. I'm a 42-year-old man, for Pete's sake. What is wrong with me?
(8) Rush is one of those bands I'm supposed to like, as a rock/pop music fan, but I just don't. I feel bad about this, but there's nothing I can do about it.
(9) About a month ago, I came out of my office and was walking to my car when I was approached by a young man in a wheelchair. He asked me for some spare change. I told him I didn't have any, which was 100% true. I usually don't carry cash (though I should). He said that's OK and shook my hand. But instead of releasing my hand, he then put it up to his lips and kissed it. Really. I'm generally not a germaphobe, but believe me when I tell you that I advanced directly to the nearest bottle of Purell with all due haste.
(10) I have never – really, never – met a girl named Vicky whom I didn't like. Same thing with guys named Dave.
(2) On the subject of lunch meat: Am I the only person in the universe who likes Dutch loaf? It seems like I am. And if I am, why do they still make it? I appreciate the effort, but we hardly ever buy it, so really fellas, maybe you should concentrate on some other processed, food-like item. I'm not worth the effort.
(3) I would give almost anything right now to see an episode of the old "Hollywood Squares." I'm talking 70s-era "Hollywood Squares" hosted by Peter Marshall with Paul Lynde in the center square. That was good TV.
(4) I can't believe our telephones used to have cords. Remember that? You would answer the phone in the kitchen and you actually had to carry on your conversation in the kitchen because the cord would only go so far. If you had one of those fancy extended cords, you might be able to make it into the living room, but that was about it. Cordless phones are one of the most underrated inventions of the last half century.
(5) This is true: When I was little – like 5 or 6 years old – I learned all of the U.S. presidents in order. We had the 1964 edition of the World Book Encyclopedia, and I read the article on "Presidents" so many times that the pages eventually became ripped and dog-eared. My dad thought this was hilarious and would have me recite the presidents to anyone who cared to listen. What a freak I was. Anyway, I must have displayed this talent in school at some point, because one time Mrs. Potts put up a timeline of presidents on her classroom wall, and she invited me to come in and look at it. She wasn't even my teacher. I had no idea what my reaction was supposed to be. So I stared at it for awhile, said something to the effect that I liked it, then returned to my own 2nd-grade class. What exactly were they expecting from me? This is still baffling.
(6) I've been going around telling people that my 13-year-old son Jared is 6 feet tall. It turns out I'm a liar. Jared recently contracted strep throat and had to see the doctor, and they officially measured him at 5 feet, 11 3/4 inches. This makes me feel infinitely better about my 5-foot, 9 3/4-inch self.
(7) Speaking of my strange body, I know I've whined to you before about my freakishly small hands, but now it's getting out of control. My 11-year-old daughter Melanie's fingers are longer than mine. I'm a 42-year-old man, for Pete's sake. What is wrong with me?
(8) Rush is one of those bands I'm supposed to like, as a rock/pop music fan, but I just don't. I feel bad about this, but there's nothing I can do about it.
(9) About a month ago, I came out of my office and was walking to my car when I was approached by a young man in a wheelchair. He asked me for some spare change. I told him I didn't have any, which was 100% true. I usually don't carry cash (though I should). He said that's OK and shook my hand. But instead of releasing my hand, he then put it up to his lips and kissed it. Really. I'm generally not a germaphobe, but believe me when I tell you that I advanced directly to the nearest bottle of Purell with all due haste.
(10) I have never – really, never – met a girl named Vicky whom I didn't like. Same thing with guys named Dave.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Put me in, coach (or at least give me a brownie)
For more than a decade now, I have been a volunteer youth sports coach. This is an important position in which parents and kids alike rely on you to teach valuable qualities such as teamwork, discipline, and sportsmanship.
I'm kidding, of course. Not about being a youth sports coach, but about what parents and young athletes care most about. What they care about can be summarized as follows:
PARENTS: Winning, their child's playing time, and the soaring cost of youth sports participation
KIDS: Snack
I can understand the parents' priorities, because in addition to being a coach, I'm also the parent of young athletes. But I've never been able to explain the kids' fascination with their postgame or post-practice snack.
This is especially true with my U8 soccer team. These are kids in kindergarten, first and second grades. My halftime instructional/pep talks usually go something like this:
ME: "OK, guys, gather around me! Good job in the first half! We did a lot of good things and I really like how you guys hustled out there. Just a couple of problems, though. Let's watch our passing, and let's make sure we keep good spacing between us and our teammates, OK? Any questions? Yes, Johnny?"
JOHNNY: "Who brought snack?"
ME (taken aback even though I've been asked this question 8 bajillion times during my coaching career): "Snack? Um, I don't know. I'll have to check the list."
At this point, one of the other kids raises his/her hand and volunteers that his/her mom is, in fact, the one who brought snack today. This is followed by a barrage of excited questions from the other kids: What did your mom bring? Is there enough for us to have seconds? Did she bring those little packets of Oreos, too? And on and on and on...I quickly move to restore order:
ME: "Hey, hey, hey! Guys! Pay attention! Listen, we'll all get snack after the game is over. But right now we have another half of soccer to play and we need to work on our defense." (Johnny raises his hand again. I eye him warily before acknowledging his presence.) "Uh, yeah? Johnny?"
JOHNNY: "How come Mackenzie's mom forgot to bring snack last week? I was really sad that I didn't get any snack."
MACKENZIE (clearly offended by this attack on her mother): "She just forgot, OK? Don't YOU ever forget anything? You're not so perfect! She felt really bad that she forgot to bring snack. She said something about having all these darned kids and not being able to remember which one is supposed to be where at what time, and that my stupid soccer coach keeps signing her up for snack when she has no time to go out and buy anything because she's a single mom and works three jobs. And then she cried. She does that a lot. Anyway, I'm telling her you said that!"
ME (again attempting to restore order): "GUYS! GUYS! GUYS! Can we not talk about snack now? Anyone who mentions snack again before the end of the game won't get any snack at all, do you hear me? Now let's get back out onto the field and have some fun!"
JOHNNY (more to himself than anyone else): "I just really wanted snack, is all."
What I've learned over the years is that when kids show up for, say, a soccer practice or game, the last thing they actually want to do that day is play soccer. They would rather play on the playground. Or try another sport. Or look at dandelions. Or stand on their head. Or anything else except play soccer.
So therefore you have to keep things moving and interesting. Instead of boring drills, we engage in a variety of games and activities that are tangentially related to the sport of soccer but surreptitiously teach them the necessary foot skills. We move from one to another in rapid-fire fashion, because no matter how well-behaved the kids generally are (and they really are good kids, almost every one of them), the minute they put those shin guards on, they all suddenly have the attention span of Corky from "Life Goes On."
The parents are actually good people, too. Understandably, they are concerned that their child derives the highest possible benefit from their soccer or baseball experience, and they can be touchy if they perceive the slightest injustice in the amount of playing time allotted to the little tike. Many of them firmly believe their 7-year-old has the talent to earn a Division I college athletic scholarship, and that you as the volunteer coach are the only thing standing in the way.
But parents really are integral to the world of youth sports, fulfilling a variety of useful functions.
The most important of which, of course, is bringing snack.
I'm kidding, of course. Not about being a youth sports coach, but about what parents and young athletes care most about. What they care about can be summarized as follows:
PARENTS: Winning, their child's playing time, and the soaring cost of youth sports participation
KIDS: Snack
I can understand the parents' priorities, because in addition to being a coach, I'm also the parent of young athletes. But I've never been able to explain the kids' fascination with their postgame or post-practice snack.
This is especially true with my U8 soccer team. These are kids in kindergarten, first and second grades. My halftime instructional/pep talks usually go something like this:
ME: "OK, guys, gather around me! Good job in the first half! We did a lot of good things and I really like how you guys hustled out there. Just a couple of problems, though. Let's watch our passing, and let's make sure we keep good spacing between us and our teammates, OK? Any questions? Yes, Johnny?"
JOHNNY: "Who brought snack?"
ME (taken aback even though I've been asked this question 8 bajillion times during my coaching career): "Snack? Um, I don't know. I'll have to check the list."
At this point, one of the other kids raises his/her hand and volunteers that his/her mom is, in fact, the one who brought snack today. This is followed by a barrage of excited questions from the other kids: What did your mom bring? Is there enough for us to have seconds? Did she bring those little packets of Oreos, too? And on and on and on...I quickly move to restore order:
ME: "Hey, hey, hey! Guys! Pay attention! Listen, we'll all get snack after the game is over. But right now we have another half of soccer to play and we need to work on our defense." (Johnny raises his hand again. I eye him warily before acknowledging his presence.) "Uh, yeah? Johnny?"
JOHNNY: "How come Mackenzie's mom forgot to bring snack last week? I was really sad that I didn't get any snack."
MACKENZIE (clearly offended by this attack on her mother): "She just forgot, OK? Don't YOU ever forget anything? You're not so perfect! She felt really bad that she forgot to bring snack. She said something about having all these darned kids and not being able to remember which one is supposed to be where at what time, and that my stupid soccer coach keeps signing her up for snack when she has no time to go out and buy anything because she's a single mom and works three jobs. And then she cried. She does that a lot. Anyway, I'm telling her you said that!"
ME (again attempting to restore order): "GUYS! GUYS! GUYS! Can we not talk about snack now? Anyone who mentions snack again before the end of the game won't get any snack at all, do you hear me? Now let's get back out onto the field and have some fun!"
JOHNNY (more to himself than anyone else): "I just really wanted snack, is all."
What I've learned over the years is that when kids show up for, say, a soccer practice or game, the last thing they actually want to do that day is play soccer. They would rather play on the playground. Or try another sport. Or look at dandelions. Or stand on their head. Or anything else except play soccer.
So therefore you have to keep things moving and interesting. Instead of boring drills, we engage in a variety of games and activities that are tangentially related to the sport of soccer but surreptitiously teach them the necessary foot skills. We move from one to another in rapid-fire fashion, because no matter how well-behaved the kids generally are (and they really are good kids, almost every one of them), the minute they put those shin guards on, they all suddenly have the attention span of Corky from "Life Goes On."
The parents are actually good people, too. Understandably, they are concerned that their child derives the highest possible benefit from their soccer or baseball experience, and they can be touchy if they perceive the slightest injustice in the amount of playing time allotted to the little tike. Many of them firmly believe their 7-year-old has the talent to earn a Division I college athletic scholarship, and that you as the volunteer coach are the only thing standing in the way.
But parents really are integral to the world of youth sports, fulfilling a variety of useful functions.
The most important of which, of course, is bringing snack.
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