I think I have milestone fatigue

Yesterday, Terry and I spent nearly seven hours at Cleveland State University for Elissa's college orientation. She signed her first-ever college housing contract, selected a meal plan, and started to make the friends who will have a lasting effect on her four-year undergraduate experience.

Tonight is Elissa's prom. She and Sean will attend the dance and then go to the after-prom activities, and they will of course remember the night for the rest of their lives.

Today is also Elissa's last day of classes as a high school student. Starting Monday she will engage in a two-week senior project working in the marketing department at Great Lakes Mall, with the goal of gaining a taste of real-life work experience.

Two weeks from today, Elissa will graduate from high school, wearing her cap and gown and walking off the stage with the diploma for which she has worked since the age of 5.

I'm not sure I can keep up with everything.

More than once, I've mentioned how much I enjoy having a senior in high school. It's a fun and exhausting experience, with enough highs and lows (both physical and emotional) to fill a thousand pages in the kids journal Terry maintains and even remembers to update every few years.

But now that we're near the end of it, I think I'm running out of steam. The last six weeks or so of senior year are so crammed with life achievements and memorable milestones, you as a parent start to take them for granted. And I suspect Elissa may be doing the same.

Yes, these are things we'll all remember forever. But right now they just seem routine. It shouldn't be that way, but when everything comes this fast and this furious, you lose a little perspective.

You know what it reminds me of? My game show experience. (NOTE: You know how I deny it every time Terry accuses me of deliberately bringing up the game show thing in conversation or on this blog? Well, she may be right on this one.)

But seriously, it reminds me of my "Millionaire" and "Price Is Right" appearances. When you're thrust into the middle of an experience like that, it doesn't seem real after awhile. Instead of trying to process the strangeness of what you're doing, your mind instead turns it into a mundane experience. "Why, yes, Bob Barker, I'm CONSTANTLY playing cheesy pricing games for the chance to win a new car and a trip to Tahiti. It gets so boring sometimes. Why do you ask?"

It's the same thing when dealing with this particular phase of my 18-year-old daughter's life, which is kind of a shame. Maybe if they spaced these things out a little more over the school year, I would appreciate them more. But then I suppose that would take something away from it all. Part of the fun, at least for the student, is the pace of events that make up your 12th-grade year.

I'm glad summer vacation is upon us, if only because it gives us a chance to catch our breaths, enjoy the warm days, and take it easy for awhile.

That is, of course, after we get past Elissa's graduation party. And soccer camp in mid-June. And the family mini-vacation we're planning. And Fourth of July activities. And our annual trip to church Bible school. And summer sports practices.

I seriously need a nap.

What's in a (baby) name?

Every year, the Social Security Administration releases lists of the most popular baby names for both genders. Every year I read these lists and immediately notice:

(1) My name is nowhere to be seen
(2) Neither are my kids' names

Well, I can't say our names are nowhere to be found. If you go far enough down the lists, you're likely to find almost any name. This year my daughter Chloe's name is #10 among girls, which is just about the highest I remember any of my kids ranking.

If Terry and I had a philosophy when it came to naming our kids, it was "nothing common but nothing weird, either." We don't have any Johns or Marys, nor do we have any Moon Units or Apples.

Speaking of John and Mary, they are now #'s 27 and 112 on their lists, respectively. Really? Wow. Growing up, I'm pretty sure I knew something like 13 different Johns and at least half as many Marys.

Anyway, we went with fairly-unique-but-not-freaky names for our kids:

• "Elissa" is a common name, but the spelling we chose isn't.
• "Chloe" is more popular now than when my 15-year-old daughter was born (and it should be noted that I still know of more pets named Chloe than humans).
• "Jared" is solid and respectable, though I wanted to go with "Jaret" after Cleveland Indians pitcher Jaret Wright. Terry quashed that idea that in a hurry.
• There aren't a lot of kids named "Melanie" these days, but we've got one of them.
• And as for "Jack," it's kind of a classic American name, but there aren't nearly as many Jacks as there are Jacobs, for example.

Speaking of Jacob, it was #1 on the boys list for the 13th year in a row. Sophia is tops on the girls list. The article I read said that while the boys list tends to be pretty stable, the girls list changes constantly. I wonder why that is. Maybe parents strive to give girls unique and flowery names while thinking boys are better served by solid, timeless names.

I have always liked my name for the same reason I like my kids' names: It's common without being too common. I'm too lazy to look this up, but I think "Scott" has only appeared on the list of most popular boys names once or twice, that coming back in the late 60s/early 70s. And even then it came in around #10.

I never considered naming either of my boys after me, though Scott is Jared's middle name. I figured it was a good thing for the oldest boy to carry at least a little piece of his father around with him (whether he likes it or not).

As for the actual naming process, Terry and I always took a pretty collaborative approach. If one of us liked a name and the other one didn't, it would fall out of consideration. We preferred a united front when it came to baby names, though in case of a tie I do think the woman should get 51% veto power. This is only fair given the relative distribution of work when it comes to pregnancy and birth. Thankfully, Terry never chose to exercise her veto power, though I would not have begrudged her that right had she chosen to invoke it.

In the end, a name should be something both parents agree upon, while also having at least a small chance of being something the child himself or herself will like when they get older. Too many parents follow the first part of that rule while ignoring the second, which is why every kindergarten class ends up with at least one "Clementine Forsythia Stankowski," or some such hippie-inspired moniker.

Haven't these people ever heard of John or Mary?

At the old ball game

Getting emotional about baseball is one of the worst cliches of the middle-aged man. Many of us get all blubbery about it for a variety of reasons, the most common of which is that it was the one thing that connected us to our fathers.

That's very true for me, though it wasn't the only thing my dad and I bonded over. We shared a common love for electronic gadgets, stand-up comedy and boxing, among other things. But baseball was pretty high on the list, too.

My dad played years and years of softball, both fast pitch and slow pitch. I was bat boy for a team in the 70s for which my dad was player-manager. Emphasis on "manager" there, as he would only play when absolutely necessary. He also spent years as a softball umpire and fanatical follower of the sport, so he and I spent a lot of time at softball diamonds.

One of the great things about going to softball tournaments with him was the concession stand. He would pretty much buy me whatever I wanted from the concession stand, though fortunately for him I was usually more interested in playing in the dirt or exploring the park.

This, you understand, was back when no one really thought twice about letting an 8- or 9-year-old run off on their own in a public park. You couldn't do that now, and maybe my dad shouldn't have done it then. But he did, and I was fine. And the memories are incredible.

When it comes to baseball, what I really remember about my dad is going to Cleveland Indians games with him. We went to quite a few Indians games back in The Day, and they were almost all bad. Seriously, the Tribe was horrible in those days. Going to a game and seeing them win was a rare and enjoyable treat.

Like a lot of guys (and girls, too, I'm sure), I have especially vivid memories of my first major league game. It was May 1978, and the Indians were playing the Baltimore Orioles. Getting the chance to actually go to old Cleveland Municipal Stadium was exciting, but the undisputed highlight was walking up the tunnel and seeing that field for the first time.

Oh my, was that something. TVs weren't exactly high-definition back then, so I had no idea how green and neatly kept the grass was. And the dirt was so well-manicured. And there was Andre Thornton, my favorite player. HE WAS ACTUALLY STANDING 50 FEET AWAY FROM ME. So were Duane Kuiper, Buddy Bell, Rick Manning and all of the other players on what was, for most everyone else in the world, a mostly forgettable team.

But they were MY team. And baseball at the time was MY game. And I was there with MY dad, who of course bought me a hot dog and a soda. I had such a great time.

You're probably expecting this story to end with an Indians loss, which in the context of my career as a Tribe fan would make perfect sense.  But they actually won. If I remember correctly, Kuiper had a couple of hits and the Indians chased Baltimore starter Dennis Martinez from the game early, like in the third or fourth inning, and we won, 7-5.

Ironically, Martinez would come to Cleveland and pitch for the Indians an amazing 17 years later as a 40-year-old veteran. He was key to the Indians' 1995 World Series run. But that particular night in the spring of 1978, Dennis lost, and there was at least one 8-year-old boy and his father in the stands who couldn't have been happier.

I still love baseball, of course. The Indians still are, and always will be, my favorite team. They haven't won a World Series since 1948, but year after year I put my faith in them, thinking the Law of Averages will serve up a championship at some point in my lifetime (when in fact that makes no mathematical or statistical sense at all...there's no guaranteeing the Indians will EVER win another World Series, in my lifetime or otherwise).

My dad passed away 12 years ago, so it has been a long time since I got the chance to go to a game with him. I miss him. And come to think of it, given how relatively few Indians games we get to these days, I miss baseball, too. Which I suppose is OK. The best games are always the ones with the best memories attached to them anyway.

It's not my fault, says the youngster before me

I'm fairly certain my children will all end up being lawyers. And good ones, too. As far as they're concerned, none of them has ever actually been guilty of doing anything wrong.

It is not uncommon for me to have conversations that go like this:


ME: So let me get this straight...You're about to get on the bus without having written your English paper, which is due in 30 minutes because you have that class first period, and this happened DESPITE the fact that both your mother and I reminded you of it eight times each last night?

CHILD: Yes.

ME: And further, it is your contention that this circumstance is actually not your fault in any way?

CHILD: Yes.

ME: I see. While I doubt I really want to hear the answer, can you enlighten me as to why, pray tell, it is NOT your fault the English paper wasn't written?

CHILD: Mommy didn't wake me up early to write it.

ME: That's it? That's your reason? Did you ASK Mommy to wake you up early so you could write it?

CHILD: No, but she should have known.

ME: Really? So your mother should, for all intents and purposes, have anticipated your stunning irresponsibility and should have taken it upon herself – without you at least having made the request, mind you – to wake you up early to write a paper that should have been written a week ago? Is that what you're telling me here?

CHILD (entirely straight-faced): Well, yeah. Why is this so hard for you to understand?

ME: <speechless>


The thing is, they say this stuff with such conviction and force, they almost end up winning me over. I start to think, "Oh well, now I see. I guess I'll just write a note asking the teacher to excuse him from the assignment because his parents were negligent."

Fortunately, the forces of common sense generally prevail in my mind and I can only wonder where I went wrong with these children. Because you see, they BELIEVE this stuff. They perceive nothing wrong with leaving messes for their mother to clean up because, clearly, that's her JOB, right? She's their personal maid servant, and if she can't see that, well, then the problem is clearly with Mommy and not with them.

I will walk into the basement and find empty plates and cups left by someone who was probably down there earlier in the day (or even the night before) watching TV and having a snack. I will ascertain who this person is, go upstairs, and order them into the basement to clean up the mess. They'll do it, but only after giving me a look that says, "You want me to do what? Clean up after myself? Well, that's just unacceptable. What am I, your slave? You should have asked Mommy to do it."

Terry, for her part, has done very well over the years in that she has never actually murdered any of her children. And believe me, she may not admit it, but I know the thought has crossed her mind. I've seen that look in her eyes...it's a look you don't want to receive from anyone, let alone your mother. It's a look that says the electric chair may very well be worth it if only for the chance to strangle the 14-year-old before her.

In the interest of fairness, I should note that my children really are good kids, despite their father's influence. And this sort of thing doesn't happen all of the time. But it happens just often enough that Terry and I will have serious conversations that include the sentence, "Maybe five kids wasn't the best idea."

My only real hope, at this point, is that we can get through the next 15 years or so without Terry causing serious bodily harm to one of them. Keep Terry felony-free, that's pretty much all I'm aiming for between now and, say, 2030. If we can get there, I'll have done my job.

You've got your ball, you've got your chain...

I like people who like their spouses.

That's the way it should be, right? I mean, YOU made the choice to marry this person. Did you ever sit down for a second and think, "Wait, can I see myself enjoying him/her for the rest of my life?" There's a certain amount of pre-wedding due diligence you need to undertake that goes beyond what color the reception centerpieces will be.

Now of course, I understand we're all going to be irritated with our spouses from time to time. Why, I think Terry has been mad at me a time or two...or three...during the last 20 years. But I'm talking big picture here. On the whole, can you see yourself enjoying this person's company over the long haul? Do you WANT to be around them?

I'm aware we all change over time. And I suppose there's a lot of wisdom in something my sister Judi once told me: "The things you thought were cute or endearing about your significant other early on are exactly the things that are likely to irritate you later."

I've known my wife for 26 years. That's about 62% of my lifespan to this point. Neither of us is the same person we were at age 16 when we met, but then again, who is EVER the same person in their 40s that they were in their teens? Essential personality traits may not change, but your attitude, your outlook, your goals, and your general approach to life certainly will.

I'm very blessed in that Terry and I started as fairly similar people and have essentially changed in the same direction over the years. We're extremely compatible. We make each other laugh every day, without exception. As I've often said, absolutely no one in the world thinks we're funnier than we do. We crack ourselves up.

I want to be around other people who are similarly blessed. I like those whose spouse is clearly their best friend. I can relate to them far better than to those who whine about their better (or worse) halves all the time.

I read those letters in Dear Abby from husbands complaining their wives have gained 100 pounds since they got married and they're ready to leave them. And I think, "I'm sure you're looking like an underwear model yourself these days, eh, Ace?"

And even if Ace IS sporting a six-pack, there needs to be some substance behind the "for better or for worse" portion of the wedding vow he made.

I certainly don't claim to be an expert in this area, nor am I a licensed marriage counselor or anything. But I do have a theory about marital discord. My theory is that, as a race, we human beings don't do nearly enough walking in other people's shoes. We're way too quick to assume that someone who hurts us does so out of spite, or out of selfishness, or out of a desire to intentionally cause us pain.

In fact, in my experience, people most of the time are not driven by hateful or hurtful motives. Selfish motives, certainly, but not necessarily spiteful. So when our spouse does something that makes us angry, we often automatically assume they did it because they don't care. When in fact what they did was likely driven by some personal need or desire of which we may not be aware.

Before we get mad at our husband or wife, we would all be a lot better off if we took 30 seconds to ask ourselves, "Why would she have done that? What could have driven that behavior?" And if we can't figure out the answer, then we should ask our spouse. Not get mad at them, not shout at them. But just ask, "Why?"

Quite often, the answer will surprise you. Or at least it will make you take a step back and think, "Ohhhhh, OK, I see. What he did was definitely hurtful to me, but he either didn't realize it would be hurtful, or else there was some other circumstance affecting him I didn't know about."

Do I practice what I'm preaching here? Sometimes. Not nearly enough, but sometimes. I go from the basic premise that Terry loves me and isn't intentionally going to hurt me. That doesn't mean she WON'T hurt me, but I at least know that's not what she's trying to do. So when she does something to make me mad, there's almost always something else going on with her that I need to take into account.

If you're going to be married for the rest of your life (and please, people, can we all at least TRY to work from that premise?), you should be happy with the person who's taking the journey with you, don't you think? Maybe, if we walk that proverbial mile in our spouse's shoes, we can all get a little closer to that goal.

Do the iPod Shuffle with me again

A few months ago we played a game here on the blog where everyone would grab their iPods, play them in "shuffle" mode, and report back the first five songs that came up. Song-by-song commentary is more than welcome. I'll start, but you are highly encouraged to give us your list in the comments below or on Facebook, if you happen to be accessing this post from there.

Scott's iPod Shuffle Results - 5/9/12

(1) "Keeping the Faith" - Billy Joel:  This is from 1983, I think, when Billy was in his 50s/60s mode and tried to resurrect the music of that era all by himself (well, with help from The Stray Cats, I guess). I've always thought Billy Joel has been unfairly maligned as a soft rock/schmaltz artist because some of his hits - like "Just the Way You Are" - have a lounge singer feel to them. In reality, he's an amazing musician whose music has spanned everything from doo wop to hard rock. Not my favorite Billy Joel tune, but a worthy representative.

(2) "Roxanne" (Live) - The Police:  Sting wrote this song in Paris circa 1977 about a fictional French prostitute. It ends up being a much nicer song than the subject matter would suggest. I just counted and found that I have eight different versions of this tune on my iPod. This one was recorded at a concert in Atlanta in the early 80s, but my favorite was when Sting sang it with just a guitar and Branford Marsalis on soprano saxophone at Live Aid in 1985.

(3) "Dark Blue" - Jack's Mannequin:  The only non-80s song on my list. Interesting. My daughters were really into this tune when it came out six or seven years ago. It reminds me of summer 2008, when I took Elissa and her friend Jackie to see The Warped Tour in Cleveland. Warped Tour is a collection of bands that tours the country every summer. In my day, we would have classified these sorts of bands as "punk," I guess, but there's really a mix of ska, alternative, and genres I can't even identify. It was hilarious being one of the only people older than 25 there. I was also was of the few non-tattooed attendees. I may as well have been wearing sandals with black socks.

(4) "Hip to Be Square" - Huey Lews & The News:  Terry and I saw Huey and his band live in concert in 1990. It was really loud. You wouldn't expect a Huey Lewis concert to be loud. But it was. There's a great tenor sax solo in this song. I wish there were more tenor sax solos in popular music these days.

(5) "Mandolin Rain" - Bruce Hornsby & The Range:  This isn't the song that most people associate with Bruce Hornsby (that would be "The Way It Is"), but I think it's the best of his popular songs. Great piano, great chorus. If I could sing, this is one of the songs you would hear me warbling up on stage at some karaoke bar.

The end of the innocence (but not yet)

I came home from work the other night in a hurry. It was a little before 6:30, and we had our end-of-the-season party for Jack's soccer team starting at 7. I'm the coach, so I of course wanted to get there on time.

As I rushed into our bedroom to change clothes, I saw Jack sitting at the computer playing a game. He turned around when I came in, and you could literally see the twinkle in his eyes. What he said made me want to hug him.

"I'm so excited for our party!" he told me, and you could see he meant it, too. "I told my friends at school all about it!"

These end-of-the-season parties are, you understand, not elaborate affairs. I reserve a pavilion at one of our city parks, and the parents and kids gather there to munch on pizza and desserts, drink lemonade, and enjoy one last evening together before going their separate ways for the summer.

We also have a little program where I call the kids up one at a time, talk about what good players they are, and present each with a signed certificate awarding them with a unique title. For example, one is deemed "Most Valuable Offensive Player," while another might be "Ms. Versatility" (for the girl who plays all of the positions well) or "Most Improved Boy."

I gave Jack the "Iron Man Award," which I bestow each year on the boy who plays the hardest, always gets up when he's knocked down, and gives his all each and every time he's on the field. We have the "Iron Woman Award," too.

But Jack didn't know he was going to get that particular honor. All he knew was that he was going to be in a place where he and his soccer friends could eat junk food together, play on the playground, and just enjoy being around each other. And he was openly, genuinely excited at this prospect.

I'm sure there was a time in my life when that would have thrilled me, too, but it has been so long that I can't remember. My 6-year-old couldn't wait to get to the park, though, and my heart broke for him.

That may not seem like a particularly heartbreaking moment, I realize. And right now it's not. But I know that in just a few short years, getting excited about a soccer pizza party is going to be the farthest thing from cool, and that the 11-year-old version of Jack will never walk around school telling his friends how excited he is about it, lest he run the risk of being made fun of.

I understand that, and I certainly lived it myself many years ago. But part of me still wants to hug him. Part of me wants to hold him tight for just a few seconds and whisper in his ear, "Don't ever, ever lose that enthusiasm. Don't ever let anyone else tell you what's worth getting excited about and what isn't. Don't ever let the rest of the world dictate to you what's cool. Because you know what, buddy? You're right...soccer pizza parties ARE awesome."

Come to think of it, I will tell him that. And he'll agree with me, I suspect, though there's probably no avoiding the I-just-want-to-fit-in-and-not-be-different years that are coming. Virtually all of us go through them. The trick is coming back full circle and eventually allowing ourselves to be whatever we want to be, regardless of what anyone else thinks or says.

That night, if only for the 90 minutes the pizza party lasted, that was the lesson I learned from my little boy.