Lemon or Yemen?

Stories from the Frontline of Fatherhood: December 30, 2005

My son gave me a surprise geography lesson the other day. At least that was what I was thinking when he popped into my office, put something he had in his hand toward me and said, “I got Yemen, dad.” This kid is young, but smart, so I quizzically looked at what he was showing me, thinking it might be a small, rough cut out of a country on the Arabian Peninsula. As we encourage the kids to encounter geography, this seemed pretty plausible especially given how eager he was to share with me.

As I looked closely, though, I saw that this boy was proudly showing me that he had a ‘lemon’ candy, not a model of Yemen. Oh well, life is sweet in many forms. The lesson in geography quickly turned in to a lesson in enunciation where that slippery ‘LLLLL’ sound is practiced without moving the teeth. Most of my kids, at some point grappled with this and a couple of others letters. Usually, they just out grew it without too much lost in translation.

Most of the time, context guides my translating, but in this instance as well a few others, context wasn’t helpful until I had more information. For instance, our Christmas tree is decorated with many store bought as well as carefully designed, child crafted ornaments. One of the child-crafted ornaments attempts to proudly summarize the holiday spirit with the neatly scripted refrain: “Nowell, Nowell, Nowell…” Perhaps the wise men had such a hard time finding water on their journey that it inspired an alternate song capturing their arid attempt to pay homage to the fountain of life. If these little ornaments weather well, maybe their authors will find them equally humorous at a later more mature time. Presently, it is a quiet, yet funny, reminder of how amazing it is that in a few short years, kids move beyond these unintended puns to master, to greater and lesser degrees, a complex and unruly system of speaking, reading, and writing.

So, the next time you hear a kid say, “I yike yams daddy.” You’ll know that he would probably like some sweet potatoes for dinner…or maybe he just thinks that Mary’s little lamb is a nice, kind creature.

Ice Cream & Christmas Presents

It has been a long week with a lot of unexpected occurrences. I’ve witnessed, almost firsthand, near tragic highway spinouts and big rig collisions. I’ve also bought a new minivan, but that’s another story. Surprisingly, in spite of all the action, I am pretty much ready for Christmas here on its eve. This is due in no small part to my wife’s thoughtful planning over the past six to eight weeks. I am hoping that my readiness for tomorrow somehow makes up for the fact that in spite of her careful planning, I managed to botch the delivery of several gifts to our neighbors.

For what it is worth, we live in a great little neighborhood where we have an occasional summer block party as well as exchange gifts over the Holidays. At this level, things are pretty benign and usually create a friendly environment year round, but perhaps I have jeopardized the peaceful arrangement this time. Perhaps, I’ve given that last bit of evidence my neighbors needed to seal their verdict: sometimes he just doesn’t seem all there.

I apparently wasn’t listening carefully or I didn’t really believe that I’d be the one directly exchanging gifts with the neighbors, especially unsupervised, when my wife gave me the rundown as to which package went with what food gift. So, when the neighbors arrived with their presents, in my haste to save time and give them their gifts from us on the spot, I skipped a few critical steps. My desire for efficiency clouded over the need for accuracy, even in this seemingly easy exchange. My wife wasn’t able to get everyone the identical gifts, so she compromised with nice yet different ones. At some point though, I got it in my head that certain colored gifts should get ice cream (I think they were bowls) and others were supposed to get hot cocoa (coffee mugs), which I incidentally forgot to pickup from the store. Anyway, when the time for exchanging gifts arrived, I winged it and just gave nearly all of them ice cream. This isn’t so bad up to this point. Our freezer was packed with ice cream, about six half gallons, which is a lot - even for our household. I assumed that nearly all of them were for gifts, but in seizing the opportunity to make some room in our freezer and save time, I gave most of the neighbors nearly full half gallon containers of ice cream.

Instead of opening up every container in their presence to check if it was a fresh, untouched carton of ice cream, I assumed a confident approach and felt the carton’s weight, observed the packaging and went from there. Well, my confident, can-do attitude has my wife making the rounds on Christmas eve asking each neighbor if she can inspect their gifted ice cream to see if they got a fresh and full carton of ice cream from her usually-competent-in-these-matters-husband.

Perhaps the neighbors haven’t dipped into their gifts yet, but then again we already did and enjoyed their ice cream so much that we decided to share it. Maybe, they’ll see it as a great assurance of quality that gifts from our house have a taste-tested seal of approval right before delivery. Maybe, I’ll just lie low for awhile and hope that this snafu blows over, but my guess is that I have made my neighbors’ Christmas richer, not creamier, by providing them with a story that they’ll never forget and never forget to pass on to their children, and their children’s children: the year their neighbor was so desperate to return one gift with another that he went to the freezer and gave them the first thing he saw, a partially consumed carton of ice cream. I sure wish I had an alibi…but I don’t.

Hopefully, our neighbors and my wife are getting a great big Christmas laugh over this because I am either too ashamed or too teary eyed from laughing that I can’t show myself in good company at the moment...Just for the record, I meant no harm. I wish them all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year nearly full of everything good, true, and beautiful.

The Scoreboard

Stories from the Frontline of Fatherhood: December 10, 2005

I help coach my son’s basketball team, and we recently had our first game of the season. As a supportive parent, I am constantly trying to gauge what is best for my kids. In organized sports, I see a lot of upside: camaraderie, discipline, confidence, and post game snacks. There is also some downside: weekend schedule conflicts, putting even more miles on the minivan, more laundry, and post game snacks. Oh, and another is, that if you are considered a supportive parent with some time on your hands, you just got a coaching hat to put on for the season if you forgot to say ‘no’ at a critical point in the conversation with the athletic director. Well, now enlisted, I am helping coach a small band of young boys, who have an incredible amount of interest in having fun, which occasionally involves playing basketball. Recently, we played a large, professionally organized team of boys, who had an incredible amount of interest in playing basketball, which occasionally involved having fun. Our team was blown away by the competition.

For some reason, I wish I could say that I sat quietly on the bench deferring to our team’s head coach to be the animated, vocal one. But, I can’t. It is a game, which I understand. They are very young kids, which I understand. Winning isn’t everything, which I understand. The trouble is, if it is a trouble, that once the game begins, the excitement of the game overwhelms all of the understanding. My voice booms supportive instruction to our team as I pace the sidelines. Observing parents wonder when I am going to suit up and start playing ball right alongside the kids. As much as I wish I could hold on to my sense of proportion, I want our team to win for the sake of the kids who I know can get it together and cinch the game.

Deciding that the neighborhood game isn’t enough or perhaps there isn’t one in the neighborhood, parents enroll their kids in organized leagues where they encounter the drama of winning and losing in a more formal setting. Perhaps they aren’t ready for it. Perhaps, this parent isn’t either. However, the playing field is full of victories that aren’t represented in the snapshot of the final score. The young boys on our team kept their hearts and minds in the game in spite of a tremendous gap in score: that, in itself, is a victory along the path to adulthood for everyone. And if that doesn’t satisfy that empty feeling in their stomach, there are always post game snacks.

Frontline...of Fatherhood

I was considering all the colorful stories that I could relate to you this week from the Frontline of Fatherhood. Then, it dawned on me that I am not clear as to what the ‘Frontline of Fatherhood’ actually is or where it is. I’ve been writing stories about somewhere, some situation, possibly a state of being, but I have not clearly defined where I am or where ‘it’ is. Perhaps, this is no great loss, but for those wondering what the ‘Frontline of Fatherhood’ is, this update is for you.

To begin, Fatherhood, if the mission has been maturely accepted, has very few boundaries. The Frontline goes everywhere the man on the Frontline goes. It is for him a state of being that defines his surroundings in light of responsibilities. The Frontline of Fatherhood is constantly engaging new men throughout the world in its daily sorties. Once engaged, it captures a man, usually an unsuspecting one, like a thief in the night. It takes him hostage and makes unreasonable and constant demands on this once fragile boy, who was until recently clueless as to how life spontaneously happens. This man, who once had an identity outside of his now ever present servitude, is forced to march, drive, judge, protect, serve, guide, perhaps even cook and clean, maybe all at the same time, for a presently clueless generation before they are struck, broadside, by the duties of adulthood.

Once engaged, the Frontline is inescapable. The demands of responsible Fatherhood are ever-present yet delicately accomplished by the men who accept the rules of engagement. Once deep in the trenches, young men on the Frontline look to the veterans for guidance and example. Meanwhile, the veterans look at one another in curious dismay and wonder how they ever managed to get as far as they have. Many other men spend years in the trenches before they even realize they have spent a better part of their adult life on the Frontline of Fatherhood. They are the primary reality for their children: they repair bikes, shuttle kids to school and/or after school activities, take out the trash on occasion; in short those on the Frontline are in at least semi-frequent contact with their offspring. This state of affairs honors no man’s rank regardless of income, race, religion, or nationality. Fatherhood overwhelms all of the restrictions of identity and requires the constant subordination of what otherwise might be construed as reasonably comfortable living conditions.

Little did they realize what lay in wait for them; little did they consider the power and cunning of their counterpart, especially given that most men made the first move of engagement. Nonetheless, they are now rank and file with countless predecessors who lay quietly in near namelessness. In the beginning, they showed up as new recruits, green behind the ears, still confident that life is according to their own design. They left the world, perhaps tired, but pleased by their efforts on the Frontline. Over time, they had accepted their fate, the responsibilities of Fatherhood manifest in their own lives. They saw clearly their own mistakes, but wasted little time as the Frontlines as Fatherhood does not give much leave-time. In the end, perhaps, they died quietly under valued and alone, unappreciated for their labors, mostly thrust upon them by nature herself. But, those for whom they labored perhaps have not been on the Frontline as of yet, so they don’t yet know what it looks like. But, once they do see it with their own eyes, in their own situation, things change. The Frontline, itself, changes for their seeing it.

Nature or Nurture?

Stories from the Frontline of Fatherhood: December 2, 2005

I reinstalled some software on my computer the other day and was surprised a few days later to notice a prompt for me to ‘change my personality’ at the login prompt. I guess one can change the little picture next to the login prompt, which represents, at least in the computer world, a change of personality. At first, I must admit I was taken back by the boldness of my computer. Since when do I need to change my personality? I know I have my faults, but I consider that kind of question more suitable for my wife or friend to pose than my close personal computer. Either way, the whole encounter got me to wondering whether or not it, or to what degree, I actually have the ability or freedom to ‘change my personality.’ As a MiniVanDad, I looked for the clues to any possible answers right under my nose, literally, in my little ones that I am guiding into adulthood and their own subsequent freedom…to change!?

I have several kids and they all have their own temperaments, their own character that reveals their essence. At times, I request strongly that they modify that character, but do I ask the impossible? In some instances, I probably do. For instance, one of my sons was helping me with an electrical repair that presented itself after dark on a school night. A light switch had gone bad in one of the kids’ rooms, bedtime was drawing near, and mommy kindly recommended that we get an electrician to fix that light the following day. (It had been faulty for weeks.) Well, that’s when MiniVanDad mobilized. After assessing the situation, I figured it was a bad switch and I seemed to recall an extra switch I had in the garage, so I got to work with the help of a trusted assistant. Well, the son I enlisted to help (I needed him to hold the flashlight on the switch box while I replaced the switches) is a pretty sharp kid, talkative, and very inquisitive about how things work. So, after some admonitions to hold the flash steady so I could actually work without the strobe effect, I was pleasantly surprised and grateful for his quiet assistance…that is, until his mind started processing the task at hand. It didn’t hurt that I left the circuit breaker open so I could get some distant lighting from a nearby hallway. Some sparks twinkled in the semi dark work environment. Some sparks went off in my son’s inquisitive mind.

Now for the drilling: “So dad, you’re really good at fixing things,” he says.

“Yeh, it comes from watching my dad when he asked me to help him,” I said. Then I wanted to back up and say it is also part of my tendency. I can fix things pretty well…well, most of the time. Sparks twinkle.

“Why is it twinkling, dad?” inquires son.

“Well, I need the light from the hallway, so I didn’t turn off the electricity to this switch,” I said.

“Oh, you mean that’s electricity?” asks son.

“Yes,” I expediently reply as I get a little jolt from touching the switch side with my thumb.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Well, I just got shocked,” says MiniVanDad thinking maybe he doesn’t need that hallway light as much as he thought.

His eyes light up, but not from a fixed switch. He knows he is real-time, right at the action when it is happening. He is quiet. I am working as quickly and cautiously as my skill and tools allow, which in my opinion isn’t quick enough. I’d like to light up this room, chalk up another small success for the day, get the kids to bed, and kick up my feet for a minute and a half before it is my bedtime and before it all starts over again tomorrow. But I stay patient knowing another jolt awaits a careless hand. I work in steady silence.

Another question rises from the voice behind the flashlight.

“How did you get shocked?” asks good, helping, loyal son.

“Well, I touched this side of the switch while the wire was connected, then brushed this other wire with my hand,” I informatively reply.

Then from out of the darkness, I receive: “Would you get shocked if I touched one wire and you touched the other wire and then we touched our hands together?”

“I am not sure,” I reply knowing that if any other child were now assisting me I’d more likely get “Can I go now?” or “Do I get money for helping you?”

Had I enlisted another child, I probably would have dismissed them due to their general unhelpfulness and work some other way to illuminate my semi-dark environment, but this kid is dogged. Once he gets his mind rolling, he is unstoppable; if I asked him to stop asking those kinds of questions, I’d be asking him to switch off a part of him that lights his existence. I’d be asking him to be someone other than he inherently is. It is just how he’s wired.

I’ll keep watch over his tendency to see how he grows into himself and tries to direct his inherent-ness. If he is even a little like his dad, he may lament his inability to change in response to his repeated shortcomings. He may be able to observe himself patiently, adapting himself slowly to a truer form of himself, accepting that the spark that lights his way will jolt him if he is too hasty.

Doggie Treats

I have a new baby and a new dog. Neither were really my idea, but here I am with two new dependent and intellectually challenged creatures for which I am to some degree responsible. I’ll admit my timing is probably a little off, having two new additions so close together. In spite of it all, I’ve been trying to take life in stride and make the best of things, that is, until today.

Today, my wife and older kids got in the holiday spirit and spent several hours making Christmas cookies. As I haven’t the ability to witness patiently children ‘helping in the kitchen,’ I wasn’t home when all this baking frenzy occurred; I tend to remove myself from the scene for everyone’s benefit. Besides, it is amazingly satisfying to come into a freshly cleaned kitchen, shiny kids, and fresh baked cookies without having to see all the mess that happened in the middle. Well, this time, when I sensed it was safe, I sauntered into the kitchen to survey the newly baked delectables as well as the damage left in the wake of kids in the kitchen. This time, though, I was pleasantly surprised: everything was in order, the kids were quietly at play, and the scent of freshly baked cookies filled the air. However, there was something oddly absent, and it was an essential ingredient, the essential ingredient. Where were the cookies? On the cooling rack, were four golden brown sugar cookies. But only four? All that work for only four cookies seemed quite puzzling. After I left the kitchen, I met my wife in the living room, where she blankly stated that they had baked nearly three dozen cookies, and the dog had thoughtfully left us four.

Apparently, the dog considered all the holiday cheer and industry were for his benefit. Why not spread peace on earth and good will to all…dogs? For one, they often come to dinner early and uninvited. In this instance, it was dessert, but the point is the same. The clueless beast considered them doggie treats disguised as Christmas cookies. “What a plan,” thought the beast. “Such thoughtful owners I have and leaving them right here on the kitchen counter for me to snack them at will. I love the holidays!”

Well, the dog is presently in the dog house, but with some time he’ll be released for a repeat performance. Little does he realize that if he doesn’t learn some table manners quickly, he’ll find his days of catching scraps from our table numbered. As for the other new addition, he is a certain keeper; lucky for us, with some time and attention, he’ll most likely learn good manners, exceedingly better than the dog’s.

Introduction to the Blog

I would like to tell you my story. It is a story full of adventure and intrigue. It is a story of super human determination against a well connected worldwide network of corruption and self indulgence. However, if I told you this story, it wouldn’t be mine. I’ve watched with interest many James Bond movies: his great escapes, his suave ways, and his world of tuxedoed gentlemen of international influence. (I’ve even made my own attempts at James Bond suave on my beautiful wife, with admittedly varying success.) I’ve watched in admiration as Van Damme’s cool, compassionate, fighting characters display virility and versatility in dire situations. For better or for worse, my story is not nearly as exciting.
No, I will not be picking up any high end sports cars or gadgets from a guy with a one letter name anytime soon. The closest explosion I’ve witnessed wasn’t a building, car, or even a small bomb; it was a blown out diaper.

You see, I am one of the many middle aged guys out there, who have courageously put off the dreams of their youth for the realities and demands of their present mission, responsible fathering. A mission, which at any given moment could require the ability to administer justice swiftly and fairly in a cluttered courtroom filled with self interest and complicated politics. A mission which could require amazing physical maneuvers like navigating a toy room scattered with noise-making, light-generating, and otherwise booby trapped devices in the middle of the night during a power outage. It could also require high-level, moment’s notice special operations like the swift delivery of coveted edibles or search and rescue of recently misplaced but highly valued toys to despairing young innocents. You see, I am a Mini-Van-Dad, not a mini-van Damme, and although my surroundings are humble and my tools are unrefined, I am a hero. One of many unsung heroes who have sacrificed prestige, position, respect, even a hot shower and two moments of uninterrupted silence to raise a small part of the next generation.

Being a Mini-Van-Dad was something I never imagined, that is, until I bought my first minivan. It was quite the experience for a young twenty something, coming to terms, once and for all, with the practical, useful, and boring. It was that unavoidable moment of responsibility, urging me nearer to the precipice of adulthood. I was being drawn into a whole new realm of far-sightedness and keenness for the practical. Besides, when I test drove the minivan, I was mildly impressed. Shortly before the purchase and the arrival of our second child, I had clearly stated to my father, that I had looked at many cars, trucks, SUVs and was uncertain which I would buy, but I was absolutely certain it would not be a minivan. Those station wagons of the nineties were not for me, for my dad’s son. This made it all the sweeter for my father when he came to visit a few weeks later as I pulled up to the airport passenger pickup area in our brand new base model American Minivan. It seats seven in a pinch, so I brought the whole family to the airport to get him and my mother.

His smile spoke a thousand words as he relished the moment. His look also communicated a fondness for a son who was willing to put aside his stubbornness and sense of style for the sake of his family. My dad had nobly put these aside, and much more, years before to raise and support his own little ones. Almost eight years later, I still have the same minivan, same wife, and though I occasionally wonder, I am mostly sure I still have the same kids, and I am a better man for it.

Welcome to the blog.