DadCentric

The Wishing Tree and Buckets in Bloom

By the time a branch appeared the tree was well over nine feet tall. The trunk was wide and bare. There were initials carved years deep proclaiming varying depths of love. The tree was full of leaves and wishes.

"We just found it there," she said. The little girl, a classmate of my six-year-old son, held a bucket in her hand that was wrapped in string and packed full with colorful bits of paper.

"Can we keep it?" asked one of the children gathered around her.

"I want one," said another.

The bucket had been hanging from the old tree by a long piece of string, and the rainbow of hand-cut leaves that it held within, each, in turn, held their own piece of magic — for every single note was a child's wish, grown from whispers and wandering thought, written down with careful hand, and tied somewhat gingerly to the hopes of the wild.

"If you keep it then their wishes won't come true," said all of the parents, more or less, and we told our children to go play in the grass so that we could discuss what should be done, for picking (as we had) the unripe dreams of tender youth was not something to be considered lightly.

"I'll take it back to the wishing tree," I said. "If that's alright."

The others nodded and I carried the bucket of wishes across the park, a group of curious children skipping at my side, and together we reached the tree and looked long upon it.

"It was tied right here," said the little girl. "I could reach it."

The tree did not seem the obvious choice for the hanging of anything, for it was still as it was described before, and not much had changed during the minutes that followed, but who am I to decide which tree may dream the dreams of children? The choice had been made by those that made it, and we would respect it accordingly.

I assigned each child a turn at wrapping the string as high as they could, until at last the two ends met, and there, against the trunk so wide and bare, we pinned, once again, the wishes of children we did not know, just as we had found them.

We walked back into the world much as we had left it, but a little less wishless and far more full of wonder.

Through The Garten And Out The Other Side

And just like that, Kindergarten was over. 

It went by faster than it seemed it was going while it was happening, which is the way of time travel as I understand it. The only part of it that seemed to be zipping by were the minutes every weekday morning as I rushed to get the kid fed and out the door, a routine which over time made time feel like it was dragging by even though it was slipping right through my fingers. Strange stuff, that time.

Our school year started out about as smooth as the business end of a belt sander, but in the end, it turned out pretty swell. We lucked out getting the kid into a good school in a class with the kind of teacher where you’re just like, holy crap, these big people who teach little people are amazing people. As an added bonus, we got to make friends with some other parents. And best of all, the kid excelled all over the damn place. Watching him demonstrate all his new abilities - reading, writing, art, math - was absolutely like watching a flower burst and bloom. It’s an oft-used metaphor, which is why I turned it into a simile; that and the fact that it’s true.

Hell, he already knows as much Spanish as I do after four years of “studying” it. By the end of the first half of first grade, he’ll totally have surpassed me on that front. Believe me when I say that we feel very fortunate how this whole school thing has worked out so far. 

I had been meaning to go have lunch with him at his school all year long, but time being the tricky stuff that it is kept fooling me into thinking I still had plenty of it to waste. Finally, last week, realizing that the close of the school year was barreling down the tracks, I figured I’d better go on and get around to it if I ever wanted it to happen. I halfway expected him to be a bit embarrassed to have his old man show up on his turf like that, even though I’d asked him beforehand if it’d be cool with him if I stopped by. When his class marched out of their room like a line of ducklings, I was pleasantly surprised when his face lit up at the sight of mine. He held my hand all the way to the cafeteria. 

“Is that your dad?” some kid asked.

“Nah, I’m just some dude.” 

You ever sat down for a meal with a table full of kindergarteners with barely a week until summer vacation? The table, the floor, the whole building quakes with energy. 

Yesterday on the last day of the school year, he told me that he wanted to “look good.” He didn’t expand on what he meant by that, but I helped him comb his hair up nice and handsome before we walked out the door. I’ve tried to use the morning drive to school to expand his musical education, so I had London Calling going in the CD player. He was a bit quiet back there in his seat, which wasn’t totally out of character. 

When we arrived at school, there was a line of cars at the curb just like every morning. Usually, he waits until I get up closer to the door before unbuckling himself, but on this morning, the morning of the last day of school, he unsnapped it as soon as I came to a stop. His eyes were fixed on something up ahead. He grabbed his bag, hopped out of the car, and ran up the sidewalk without his usual wave, just in time to greet a little girl stepping down out of the truck in front of us. They walked into school together, talking and laughing. 

His hair looked great.

The Peanut of Doom

"Daddy, When I'm a grown up, you'll be really old?"

"Yep. When you're 25, I'll be . . . 59."

"Wow. That's really old."

"Yup. And when you're 39 like me, I'll be 78."

"Really?"

"Yup. And when you're 78,I'll be . . . 117."

"That's older than a hundred!"

"Yup, it is." 

"Daddy, I don't ever want to die."

This issue has been popping up of late. Worrying about mortality. It was bound to happen. She's already five years old, after all. Only 45 years to go until she's AARP eligible.

I blame the cats. Two of them had to be euthanized in the past two years. At first, she accepted what we told her. That they went to a quiet place where they could rest and be comfortable and not hurt or be sick anymore. 

Then one day she realized they weren't ever coming back and she cried in the backseat of the car for a good 15 minutes. Lately, she's started to worry about her own--and her parents--mortality more. Every once in a while she'll just come out with it. She'll ask what happens if we die. Or tell me she doesn't ever want us to die. We're on the same page with that, she and I. 

She lost a great-grandmother this past year, too. They weren't close, but we did see MaPa not long before she died. She didn't go the same way as the cats, though. 

I was a bit of a mortality worry wart when I was young. I don't know if it started at five necessarily, but I do remember laying awake at night worrying about it when I was around seven. The year I lost my great-grandmother, come to think of it.

We're not heaven and hell folk around here. But neither do we want to look at our 5 year old princess ballerina angel and tell her that "everything dies, it's called entropy, there is nothing but the void, please finish your asparagus." Hence the quiet place. I thought that might get us through for a few more years, but I guess not. 

One thing we try to do is remain calm when the issue is brought up. I've also been trying to remember some of the things people told me when I was younger: 

"You live on in your memories."

That one sucks. When you're a kid engaged in an existential crisis, "memories" don't cut it. At least they didn't for me. My ego said "fuck that, I don't want to live on. I want to live. I want to live and breathe and have birthday parties and get hugs and presents."

"When you die, the energy and electricity in your body dissipates and then co-mingles with all energy, because energy can never be destroyed."

My parents hung around with a lot of hippies. And when I was in college (read: smoking weed), that one was pretty comforting. However, my daughter doesn't to my knowledge smoke weed, and again, dissipated energy doesn't get to play with new toys.

So I guess for now we'll stick with the Quiet Place (that looks so ominous when it's capitalized). That and of course we tell her not to worry. That she is not going anywhere anytime soon and neither are we. That we'll be here with her and her brother for a long time yet. Which reminds me, it's time to take my cholesterol medication. 

 

Subjecting One's Family to Misery to Honor Fallen Soldiers: Hot or Not Hot?

I walk inside the house with the first suitcase, set it in our room, and then stop in front of the thermostat.  It's on its vacation setting of 80 degrees; I move it down to its usual resting place at 72. 

Nothing.

We unload the minivan.  I again pause in the hallway next to the thermostat to make sure it's on and set to "auto."  It is.

I go to the basement to see if condensation is flowing out of the pump thing and all over the floor like it was a couple weeks ago.  It isn't.

My bride leaves to teach a class; it's just the 4 children and I.  I help them bathe and get ready for bed. 

30 minutes later, I check on them.  They're covered in sweat; it's over 85 in the house.  2 of the 3 littles (our term for the under 6 crowd in our house) are awake; I get them ice water.  I find the little fan that kept me company for 6 months in Iraq during my last deployment and plug it into the wall in the girls' room.

Nothing.

I throw the fan into the kitchen trash can and take wash cloths soaked in cold water and put them on each child's forehead before scheduling 2 HVAC experts to come to the house asap tomorrow. 

I text my bride:

Me:  Can you stop and get some fans on your way home?  We're fucking miserable up in here.
Her:  Where?  Target's already closed.  Open windows.
Me:  Kids' rooms' windows are like 3'' off the ground.  Didn't some kid get stolen via an open window once?
Her: 
Me:  We'll make do, I reckon.
Her:  Use some of your Marriott points to get us into the Courtyard down the street!
Me:  Seems like the pussy way out, don't you think?  It's Memorial Day!
Her:  Your children aren't soldiers.
Me:  True.  Let's revisit this tomorrow after HVAC guys come assess.

I go on weather.com and enter my zip code.  I click "tomorrow."  86 degrees.  30% chance of rain.  65% humidity. 

I text her again:

Me:  If it's not a quick fix, I'm down with a hotel tomorrow night.  Tomorrow is just Tuesday. 
Her:  Thank God for "just Tuesday," then.

 

 source

You're Gonna Drive Your Kids around on Those Tires?

I'm in the middle of the five eastbound lanes of the 8 (we live in SoCal, where the freeways have definite articles), doing about 75 and starting to think about moving over to the right in preparation for my upcoming exit.  I check my right side-view mirror, then do an over-the-shoulder head-check to make sure there's nothing in my blind spot.  Textbook, Driver's Ed circa 1983.

I can't see anything coming up on my right, and I click the turn indicator on. As I do, I become aware of something gaining on me to my left.  It's a noise.

The unmistakable sound of tires screeching grows louder on the left, and finally its source becomes visible, first in my side-view mirror, and then through the window.  It's a sleek black Beemer, going fast enough that it's about to pass me.  Sideways.

I move over one lane to the right as quickly as I can, careful not to get all squirrelly with panic.  I'm sure that the Beemer is going to launch off of the asphalt and roll like a kicked-can, but it doesn't.  The last I see of the mangled car is its taillights as it slams against the median barrier.

My wife, in the seat next to me, gasps.  She's a gasper.

"It's all right," I say, in an unconvincing staccato.  Probably 2 seconds have passed since I first heard the tires screech.

But now, out of the corner of my eye, I see a white smear hurtling towards us.  It comes into focus in my rear-view mirror: an SUV in mid-spin.  I'm also aware of a red vehicle pinballing back and forth behind that one.  Like the Beemer, the white SUV seems to be gaining on us, even though it's going backwards.  I accelerate for all my little minivan is worth and move over the two more lanes to the shoulder.

"It's all right. It's all right," I keep saying.

The Norelco Challenge

Beards are weird.

And they are not for everyone.

But one key element seems to be grooming.

Just let it go and you look like a homeless person, but step into the DNRRDBSP and it's a whole 'nother world. Now that I've got a decent amount of facial hair, I'm actually looking forward to using the Norelco beard and stubble trimmer. 

Because variety is the spice of life.

I've dabbled with goatees in the past but maintenance always seemed to be a chore. Which seems to be the case with beards: You either grow it wildly like those beer drinkers and hell raisers in ZZ Top or get all salon-style like Paul Mitchell and groom the shit out of it.

I'm excited to experiment. I may stumble upon a new look. Who knows.

And one last thing: Go Devils.

Friday Fun: Star Wars Is 35 Years Old Today

 

35 years ago today, the original Star Wars debuted. If that makes you feel old, join the club. And if you've somehow managed to avoid seeing it, here's a summary.

Source

Grounded for Days and a Lifetime for the Lessons

Grounded

verb [ trans. ]
• (often be grounded) prohibit or prevent (a pilot or an aircraft) from flying : a bitter wind blew from the northeast, and the bombers were grounded.
• informal (of a parent) refuse to allow (a child) to go out socially as a punishment : he was grounded for hitting her on the head.

 ____________________

It happens. One minute the children are sweet and carefree, the sunshine of youth like a halo upon their hair, and then, just as you are lulled by cheerful song into long, lazy smiles, they turn on you. It's a fact. You can look it up.

Perhaps you are quick to anger. Perhaps you never do. You may talk and reason. You may spank. The options for addressing a child's negative behavior are as plentiful as they are personal, and like any heated issue it makes for compelling conversation at cocktail parties, especially after everyone has been drinking heavily (call a cab!).

I've dabbled here and there, trying to find what works best for my kids. I'm not big on punishment for the sake of punishment, but I do feel that certain behaviors need to be corrected and that, as a parent, it is my job to see that it happens. I tend to traffic more in consequences than castigation.

For instance, I recently wrote a piece about my son and the Jekyll to Hyde journey that his need for video games leads him down. It's not a pretty path, and frankly, it is unacceptable. There was a process, negotiations that broke down, and one day, when enough was enough, the video game system was taken away. He was grounded.

That was the easy part.

The hard part is the learning of lessons and determing whether or not such behavior has, or can be, corrected. The terms regarding the loss and return of his gaming system were simple, he will get it back when he is ready. He cannot earn it by chores (which is a whole different post), time served, or random stints of kindness. Rather, he needs to show that he can survive without the game and the trappings of it. He cannot whine and yell that he will no longer whine and yell. It's all so Kung Fu.

The concept is easy enough to grasp for an almost 9-year-old, but the practice is much harder. That doesn't change with age.

It is a far cry from the discipline I received as a child, which occasionally came at the end of the belt, but also included such outside the box thinking as the cutting of my hair (I had a sweet rattail in 8th grade, followed by an equally impressive mullet), taking down all of my KISS posters (my entire room was covered), and not being able to wear my purple Converse for an allotted period of time. I'm sure there were others.

While I applaud the attempts at originality, the restrictions, as they were called, rarely fit the crime. Basically, they were just things that I loved but really embarrassed my parents, and when they saw an opportunity to get rid of said things, they took it. Well played, Mom and Dad.

We, however, are striking at the source, and it does not embarrass me at all.

The grounding will pass in a matter of weeks. The lessons, I hope, will shape a lifetime.

There is something to learn for all of us.

This Memorial Day, Hug a Military Family

Monday is Memorial Day, the day our nation remembers those who died sacrificing their lives to protect our livelihood and freedom.

Some of those people were parents at the time; some never had the chance.

I am not a believer in going to war except under extreme circumstances, but I do believe in the people who are compelled to do their duty for our country every day so I can continue to have that opinion right here in the comfort of my home.

This weekend, keep in your thoughts: those who have served and who are still serving; those who gave their lives and those whose lives we'd want to witness again stateside, like our own DadCentric colleague and friend, Warren aka Mr. Big Dubya; and keep in your thoughts the families -- the parents, the spouses, the siblings and especially the children -- left behind to mourn or to wait.

So if you get the chance, hug a military family. They'll need it more than ever.

(WARNING: You will need a heart of stone and a case of tissue to get through more than a minute or two of this 10-minute compilation mostly of kids running into the arms of their military dads returning home from duty without tearing up.) 

Incisions

What happened was fairly straightforward; rugby is, after all, a no-bullshit game. Run straight, avoid the tackle, pass the ball, kick the ball, score. We were running a drill, four guys against two defenders, the object being to advance the ball and pass to the next guy before getting hammered. I got the first part right. While I was lying on the ground, screaming "FUCK" at the top of my lungs, my right knee exploding in pain, two things occured to me. One: this is what happens when your right foot is planted and a 200 pound guy runs into you - you go one way, your knee goes the other. The other: the sound your knee makes, as the ACL is being torn in two, is very similar to that sound you hear in your head when you accidentally bite into the cartilage on a chicken drumstick. That wet crunch.

****

The surgery did not go well.

I'm not sure how long it's supposed to take for one to wake up from anesthesia, but I'm pretty sure it's not three hours. 

What I remember: lying on the operating table, the doctor sticking something into my arm, waking up in the recovery room, throwing up in an impossibly small plastic bowl. My right knee encased in a massive bandage, my right leg sheathed in a plastic and metal brace. Run, Forrest, I think. There won't be any of that. Not for another six months. My right leg is now for all intents and purposes a useless thing, a blood-filled bag of bones and deflated muscles and shredded tissue hanging from my hip. I throw up again. And again. And again.

****

The Oxy they gave me wears off at about 3:00 each morning. The throbbing rousts me from chemical-fueled nightmares. I take some more and lie there, staring at the clock, grinding my teeth. 3:01. 3:02. 3:03. 

****

"How's your leg, Daddy?" It occurs to me that I'd written thousands of words about Lucas by the time he'd reached age four. I can probably count the number of posts I've written about her on one hand. How'd she'd get to be four? She's growing up. Which of course means that I'm growing old. She pats me on the hand. It's a strange affectation, and like so many things - her knowledge of Katy Perry lyrics, her ability to read words like "s'mores" - I wonder where she learned it. I give her a strained smile. "It's ok", I say. "Getting better." My right leg itches, like it's been injected with ants and they're still alive, desperately trying to chew their way out.