I have never stopped being amazed by the concept of libraries.
You walk into the building, and there are stacks upon stacks of books, magazines, CDs, DVDs and other materials, all of them available for you to browse through. And computers, too. They have computers for you to use.
If you want, you can sit there all day and just read. Anything they have there, you can sit down and read it. For free.
And then there's the best part of all: YOU CAN TAKE VIRTUALLY ANY OF IT HOME WITH YOU. AGAIN, FOR FREE! They don't really care what you do with it, just so long as you bring it back on time and in good condition.
There's no way I'm the only person who thinks this is one of the coolest things ever, right? I mean, why aren't libraries overflowing with people taking advantage of this set-up?
Well, actually, our local library IS sometimes pretty crowded, but that's usually with people who don't have Internet access at home and are using the (FREE) broadband connections there, or with students researching papers, finishing homework, or else doing something wildly inappropriate.
I know this last part is true because my daughter Elissa has worked as a page at our local library for almost two years (NOTE: I think it's funny that they have a position called a "page" at a library. Because, you know, books have pages? That's kind of funny, isn't it? OK, moving on...)
Elissa spends a good deal of her time telling middle school-aged library patrons to be quiet or to stop fooling around. She has some great stories of things she has seen. Who knew the library was such a den of iniquity?
Because of this, and because she spends 10 to 15 mind-numbing hours per week reshelving books and DVDs, I'm afraid that Elissa does not share my passionate love of libraries. When she first got the job, I thought what a perfect fit it was. Elissa has always been a pretty voracious reader. What better job for her?
But I suppose there can be too much of a good thing. Understandably, whenever we take family trips to the library, Elissa doesn't come along with us anymore. I don't blame her, I guess.
Anyway, getting back to the wonder of libraries, I've always wanted to burn a day of vacation at the library. Like, the entire day. Just sitting there reading whatever I wanted. Or walking up and down the aisles looking at book titles I wouldn't normally notice during our 30-minute family excursions. That sounds like a serious amount of fun.
But I never do it because, you know, vacation time is precious and there are always things to do with Terry and the kids, or jobs to accomplish around the house or whatever. But one day, maybe when/if I'm ever retired, I'm going to do that.
I'm obviously not in the library business and thus I'm not familiar with the statistics, but my feeling is that libraries have way more amenities and resources available than most people ever use. These poor reference librarians, most of whom slogged through years of school to get their master's degree in library science to enter a profession in which they're chronically underpaid, are ready and waiting to help you with even the most arcane request for information. And most of the time the only thing that ever happens is that some unshaven guy in a dirty trench coat comes up and asks them where they keep the back issues of Maxim.
Still, it makes me feel good that they're there. If I ever want two paragraphs of Herodotus' description of the Greco-Persian Wars or to know the flying speed of the lesser striped swallow, they would be glad to help me. I'll never need either of these things, of course, but the fact that I COULD readily access that information with their assistance is somehow comforting.
And other than the overdue book fees, it's all free. Amazing.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Is it weird that I have good memories of high school?
I'm stunned by how bitter some people are about their high school experience. I mean, some are just seething with anger and resentment over the way they spent those last few years of secondary education. And I guess they have their reasons.
Not me, though. I loved high school. Really, it was a lot of fun. Would I go back to it? Not for a million dollars. But it was a good ride while it lasted.
I went to the same high school my two oldest kids now attend: Wickliffe High School in the thriving metropolis that is Wickliffe, Ohio. I was and still am a very proud Blue Devil. Not that I was ever really a fan of that nickname, though. I would have preferred being represented by something other than the Prince of Darkness. Unless they actually go to your school, no one roots for Beelzebub.
I graduated in 1988 in a class of 162 very different kids. We had all kinds, as evidenced by the fact that our homecoming song was by Poison, I think, while our prom song was "I Melt With You" by Modern English. Enough to satisfy the hair metal fans and the New Wave types. Good times.
Everyone has a certain image of where they fit in during high school. I was kind of a hybrid, I guess, as were most of the kids I knew. Not many were just jocks or just brains or just stoners (well, OK, the stoners -- or "burnouts," as we called them -- pretty much stuck to just the one demographic, I suppose). Most people were a mix.
I, for example, took classes with the smart kids, played football and ran track, and also played in the wind ensemble and jazz band. That was a nice blend, and it exposed me to many different kinds of kids, virtually all of whom I liked.
(By the way, depending on your point of view, that's either the best or worst thing about me: I like pretty much everyone I meet. It doesn't take much to impress me, so therefore I'm impressed by almost everyone. I think everyone has an interesting story to tell and I like hearing their stories. Unfortunately, you can't feel all that great if I consider you a friend because it's not an especially exclusive club.)
My oldest daughter, Elissa, is 18 and smack dab in the middle of the Senior Year Experience: Homecoming court, prom, student government, college tours, scholarships, etc. And I can clearly see that she's beginning to run out of gas. I'm not sure she would admit it, but I think the disease known commonly as "Senior-itis" is beginning to hit her. Not to worry, though, as she graduates just five short weeks from today, then it's on to the not-so-real life of college.
Speaking of "not-so-real life," that's also true of high school: So many look back on it with a jaded eye because it seems to have had so little to do with their lives as adults. College isn't really a reflection of real life, either, but high school is even farther removed from it. Sure, you'll always run into cliques, social pressures, petty people and politics, but generally not to the same degree as you experience them in high school.
Knowing me, all of that stuff was probably there when I was a teenager, but I was far too oblivious to notice it. Consequently, my high school memories are almost all very positive. The moral of the story being, if you live your life in ignorance, eternal bliss can be yours, kids!
Plus, I met my wife-to-be in high school. What a deal that turned out to be! I realize high school sweethearts don't marry very often anymore, so I'm extremely thankful that the same woman I loved when I was 16 years old is the woman I still love now that I'm 42. Terry is yet another great thing that came out of my high school experience.
One of the worst decisions I made during that time of my life was to run for a class officer position. I did this, admittedly, not out of any desire to serve or to give back to the school, but because I thought it would look good on a college application. And maybe it did.
But you pay for being a class officer for the rest of your life. Why? Seven letters: R-E-U-N-I-O-N. When it comes time for class reunions, you as a class officer are rightfully expected to step up and take a leadership role in organizing these shindigs. This is a huge pain.
Every five years or so, someone will ask me what we're planning to do for our upcoming XXth reunion (fill in your round number here). And so I call up Jodi, our class president, and we decide that, yes, something needs to be done. Then we wait a few months to see if anyone else will do it. No one ever does. So then I call her up again and we resign ourselves to our self-imposed fates.
I'm exaggerating, of course. When we had our 20th reunion a few years ago, a lot of classmates stepped up to the plate and did a great job pulling the event together. And I thought it was excellent. Everyone looked good, they were generally in good health, and as a whole we all appeared to be living fairly normal, productive lives -- something you may not have predicted had you seen us, say, back in 7th grade.
Just recently I got my first Facebook message asking whether we're having our 25th reunion next year. And my answer is...I don't know. I gotta get in touch with Jodi first, and we have to go through the obligatory procrastination period before any decisions are made. I'm sure we'll do something, though.
But I'm telling you kids: Unless you want to spend large chunks of your adult life looking through party center catering menus and researching potential DJs, do NOT succumb to the temptation of being a class officer. You'll thank me later.
Not me, though. I loved high school. Really, it was a lot of fun. Would I go back to it? Not for a million dollars. But it was a good ride while it lasted.
I went to the same high school my two oldest kids now attend: Wickliffe High School in the thriving metropolis that is Wickliffe, Ohio. I was and still am a very proud Blue Devil. Not that I was ever really a fan of that nickname, though. I would have preferred being represented by something other than the Prince of Darkness. Unless they actually go to your school, no one roots for Beelzebub.
I graduated in 1988 in a class of 162 very different kids. We had all kinds, as evidenced by the fact that our homecoming song was by Poison, I think, while our prom song was "I Melt With You" by Modern English. Enough to satisfy the hair metal fans and the New Wave types. Good times.
Everyone has a certain image of where they fit in during high school. I was kind of a hybrid, I guess, as were most of the kids I knew. Not many were just jocks or just brains or just stoners (well, OK, the stoners -- or "burnouts," as we called them -- pretty much stuck to just the one demographic, I suppose). Most people were a mix.
I, for example, took classes with the smart kids, played football and ran track, and also played in the wind ensemble and jazz band. That was a nice blend, and it exposed me to many different kinds of kids, virtually all of whom I liked.
(By the way, depending on your point of view, that's either the best or worst thing about me: I like pretty much everyone I meet. It doesn't take much to impress me, so therefore I'm impressed by almost everyone. I think everyone has an interesting story to tell and I like hearing their stories. Unfortunately, you can't feel all that great if I consider you a friend because it's not an especially exclusive club.)
My oldest daughter, Elissa, is 18 and smack dab in the middle of the Senior Year Experience: Homecoming court, prom, student government, college tours, scholarships, etc. And I can clearly see that she's beginning to run out of gas. I'm not sure she would admit it, but I think the disease known commonly as "Senior-itis" is beginning to hit her. Not to worry, though, as she graduates just five short weeks from today, then it's on to the not-so-real life of college.
Speaking of "not-so-real life," that's also true of high school: So many look back on it with a jaded eye because it seems to have had so little to do with their lives as adults. College isn't really a reflection of real life, either, but high school is even farther removed from it. Sure, you'll always run into cliques, social pressures, petty people and politics, but generally not to the same degree as you experience them in high school.
Knowing me, all of that stuff was probably there when I was a teenager, but I was far too oblivious to notice it. Consequently, my high school memories are almost all very positive. The moral of the story being, if you live your life in ignorance, eternal bliss can be yours, kids!
Plus, I met my wife-to-be in high school. What a deal that turned out to be! I realize high school sweethearts don't marry very often anymore, so I'm extremely thankful that the same woman I loved when I was 16 years old is the woman I still love now that I'm 42. Terry is yet another great thing that came out of my high school experience.
One of the worst decisions I made during that time of my life was to run for a class officer position. I did this, admittedly, not out of any desire to serve or to give back to the school, but because I thought it would look good on a college application. And maybe it did.
But you pay for being a class officer for the rest of your life. Why? Seven letters: R-E-U-N-I-O-N. When it comes time for class reunions, you as a class officer are rightfully expected to step up and take a leadership role in organizing these shindigs. This is a huge pain.
Every five years or so, someone will ask me what we're planning to do for our upcoming XXth reunion (fill in your round number here). And so I call up Jodi, our class president, and we decide that, yes, something needs to be done. Then we wait a few months to see if anyone else will do it. No one ever does. So then I call her up again and we resign ourselves to our self-imposed fates.
I'm exaggerating, of course. When we had our 20th reunion a few years ago, a lot of classmates stepped up to the plate and did a great job pulling the event together. And I thought it was excellent. Everyone looked good, they were generally in good health, and as a whole we all appeared to be living fairly normal, productive lives -- something you may not have predicted had you seen us, say, back in 7th grade.
Just recently I got my first Facebook message asking whether we're having our 25th reunion next year. And my answer is...I don't know. I gotta get in touch with Jodi first, and we have to go through the obligatory procrastination period before any decisions are made. I'm sure we'll do something, though.
But I'm telling you kids: Unless you want to spend large chunks of your adult life looking through party center catering menus and researching potential DJs, do NOT succumb to the temptation of being a class officer. You'll thank me later.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Here are the new rules...please follow them
You're probably not aware of this, but I have been elected Household Living Czar of the United States. You don't need to concern yourself with how this came to pass. Suffice it to say that I have been invested with the power to dictate certain rules and regulations governing the way Americans should live their daily lives.
Henceforth, the following decrees shall be in effect for all citizens of this great nation (NOTE TO KERRI JONES: Please feel free to adopt these in Australia as you see fit):
1. Toilet paper shall be hung OVER, not under: There will be no exceptions to this rule. How this "under" nonsense even got started is beyond me. Violators will be sentenced to watching a three-day, nonstop "Jersey Shore" marathon.
2. Fathers will cast the tiebreaking vote when the family reaches an impasse in movie selection: Family Movie Nights are ruined when you can't come to some agreement on which movie to watch. Much like the Vice President in the Senate, the father now has authority to break the tie and make the final choice. End of story. If you don't like what Dad picks, your only other option is to go and clean one of the bathrooms in the house (Mom will select which bathroom).
3. If something doesn't fit into the cupboard, take the time to make it fit: We keep our cereal in a cabinet over the stove. The way we have this cabinet set up, you can comfortably store three, maybe four boxes of cereal. Oftentimes, some denizens of the house who shall remain nameless but are NOT me or my wife will try to jam in a fifth or even sixth box of cereal. They are satisfied if the extra box stays up there without falling back out, even if it means that it's protruding six inches out of the cabinet and the door won't close. This is unacceptable. It is beyond unacceptable. Either rearrange the contents of the cabinet such that your cereal will fit in there, or take the unnecessary box out and put it back into the basement. One or the other. Penalty for failure to comply is that we'll stuff YOU into the cereal cabinet.
4. Water stays in the shower or gets cleaned up: This isn't difficult. If you take a shower and water somehow gets onto the bathroom floor, clean it up. And then pick the wet towels up off the floor and dispose of them properly. That's it. That's all you have to do. I can draw you a diagram with detailed instructions, if it will help.
5. Turn the lights off. Turn the lights off! TURN THE LIGHTS OFF!: My children are quite clearly aware that light switches can be used to illuminate a room. Just flip the switch up and, presto, you have light! It's really quite the invention. But I have failed to teach them that the switch is, in fact, bidirectional. If you push it down, the lights go off. Amazing, I know! As far as my kids know, a light switch only needs to be used once, and then you should keep it on forever.
6. All family members must learn the function of coat hooks: When we added a mud room onto our house, we had these really nice cubbies and coat hooks installed to store everyone's jackets, shoes, school supplies, etc. In an attempt not to wear the coat hooks out, apparently, certain members of my family elect not to use them, opting instead for the increasingly popular Throw It On the Floor method of garment storage. No. Just, no.
7. Everyone is to gain an understanding of how refrigerators work: Two important things to remember - (a) The refrigerator does not spontaneously produce food every time you open the door. What was in there five minutes ago is what's in there now. No need to check again. (b) The refrigerator refrigerates food. That means it keeps it cold. It operates much more efficiently when the refrigerator door is in the closed position and the cold air inside is not allowed to escape. A minor and perhaps obvious point, but one that still clearly needs to be made in 95% of American households.
8. Practice the basic elements of HVAC economics: Why yes, I suppose we COULD turn on the central air since you're feeling a touch warm. OR....and I know this is crazy....you could simply open a window, which as it turns out is free. Or change into a short-sleeved shirt (also free). The air conditioning system, sadly, is not free. "Free" always trumps "not free."
9. I don't need to see your used toothpaste: You're brushing your teeth. That's good. Over the years I think we've managed to buy our kids' dentist a boat and two summer homes on Cape Cod. But when you're finished brushing, the idea is to spit the toothpaste into the sink and make sure every molecule of it goes down the drain. If you simply spit randomly into the sink and walk away, the next morning there will be a wall of disgusting dried toothpaste in the sink. And nobody wants to see that. Not even me, the guy who cleaned a variety of horrible bodily emissions off of you for the first 2-3 years of your life.
10. If you ask for it, eat it: "Mommy, can I have some pancakes?" "Sure, honey. I'll get you some." Mommy fixes the pancakes and serves them to the requesting child. "There you go, three pancakes just the way you like them!" "Oh. Uh, I don't think I really want them. I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought." Five minutes later, Mommy is flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for an attorney to represent her in her upcoming trial for assault and battery on a minor.
Henceforth, the following decrees shall be in effect for all citizens of this great nation (NOTE TO KERRI JONES: Please feel free to adopt these in Australia as you see fit):
1. Toilet paper shall be hung OVER, not under: There will be no exceptions to this rule. How this "under" nonsense even got started is beyond me. Violators will be sentenced to watching a three-day, nonstop "Jersey Shore" marathon.
2. Fathers will cast the tiebreaking vote when the family reaches an impasse in movie selection: Family Movie Nights are ruined when you can't come to some agreement on which movie to watch. Much like the Vice President in the Senate, the father now has authority to break the tie and make the final choice. End of story. If you don't like what Dad picks, your only other option is to go and clean one of the bathrooms in the house (Mom will select which bathroom).
3. If something doesn't fit into the cupboard, take the time to make it fit: We keep our cereal in a cabinet over the stove. The way we have this cabinet set up, you can comfortably store three, maybe four boxes of cereal. Oftentimes, some denizens of the house who shall remain nameless but are NOT me or my wife will try to jam in a fifth or even sixth box of cereal. They are satisfied if the extra box stays up there without falling back out, even if it means that it's protruding six inches out of the cabinet and the door won't close. This is unacceptable. It is beyond unacceptable. Either rearrange the contents of the cabinet such that your cereal will fit in there, or take the unnecessary box out and put it back into the basement. One or the other. Penalty for failure to comply is that we'll stuff YOU into the cereal cabinet.
4. Water stays in the shower or gets cleaned up: This isn't difficult. If you take a shower and water somehow gets onto the bathroom floor, clean it up. And then pick the wet towels up off the floor and dispose of them properly. That's it. That's all you have to do. I can draw you a diagram with detailed instructions, if it will help.
5. Turn the lights off. Turn the lights off! TURN THE LIGHTS OFF!: My children are quite clearly aware that light switches can be used to illuminate a room. Just flip the switch up and, presto, you have light! It's really quite the invention. But I have failed to teach them that the switch is, in fact, bidirectional. If you push it down, the lights go off. Amazing, I know! As far as my kids know, a light switch only needs to be used once, and then you should keep it on forever.
6. All family members must learn the function of coat hooks: When we added a mud room onto our house, we had these really nice cubbies and coat hooks installed to store everyone's jackets, shoes, school supplies, etc. In an attempt not to wear the coat hooks out, apparently, certain members of my family elect not to use them, opting instead for the increasingly popular Throw It On the Floor method of garment storage. No. Just, no.
7. Everyone is to gain an understanding of how refrigerators work: Two important things to remember - (a) The refrigerator does not spontaneously produce food every time you open the door. What was in there five minutes ago is what's in there now. No need to check again. (b) The refrigerator refrigerates food. That means it keeps it cold. It operates much more efficiently when the refrigerator door is in the closed position and the cold air inside is not allowed to escape. A minor and perhaps obvious point, but one that still clearly needs to be made in 95% of American households.
8. Practice the basic elements of HVAC economics: Why yes, I suppose we COULD turn on the central air since you're feeling a touch warm. OR....and I know this is crazy....you could simply open a window, which as it turns out is free. Or change into a short-sleeved shirt (also free). The air conditioning system, sadly, is not free. "Free" always trumps "not free."
9. I don't need to see your used toothpaste: You're brushing your teeth. That's good. Over the years I think we've managed to buy our kids' dentist a boat and two summer homes on Cape Cod. But when you're finished brushing, the idea is to spit the toothpaste into the sink and make sure every molecule of it goes down the drain. If you simply spit randomly into the sink and walk away, the next morning there will be a wall of disgusting dried toothpaste in the sink. And nobody wants to see that. Not even me, the guy who cleaned a variety of horrible bodily emissions off of you for the first 2-3 years of your life.
10. If you ask for it, eat it: "Mommy, can I have some pancakes?" "Sure, honey. I'll get you some." Mommy fixes the pancakes and serves them to the requesting child. "There you go, three pancakes just the way you like them!" "Oh. Uh, I don't think I really want them. I guess I'm not as hungry as I thought." Five minutes later, Mommy is flipping through the Yellow Pages looking for an attorney to represent her in her upcoming trial for assault and battery on a minor.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
I am a lawn warrior
I'm not a gardening type of guy. Many people plant vegetables or do yardwork to relax, but I would rather stick a hot poker in my eye than engage in either of those activities (NOTE: I feel the same way about golf. Remind me to blog about that at some point.)
The extent of my involvement in yard maintenance extends to just two activities. One is mulching. Once a year, I'll trot out the wheelbarrow and haul vast quantities of mulch to various designated spots so that my wife can spread it around and make our yard look halfway presentable.
The other is lawn mowing. I love lawn mowing. Seriously, cutting the grass is the one outdoor chore I don't mind in the least. I take my lawn very seriously.
Not to the point that I apply fertilizer and pull weeds and stuff like that, mind you. Just the actual once-a-week pleasure of firing up my Toro lawnmower and trimming the grass. I love doing it.
For one thing, the results are immediate. It takes me an hour or so to do our entire lawn, and right when I'm finished I can enjoy the finished product. Plant a garden and you're looking at months of work before you can enjoy a tomato on your salad or a slice of zucchini bread. I'm not at all down with the delayed gratification thing.
I have taught three of my children to mow the lawn, and I'm proud to say they're all top-flight grass-cutters. My lawn mowing philosophy, which I have passed on to them, rests on three basic principles:
* Make the first pass straight and the rest will follow suit.
* Outline your mowing area first, then you'll have easily visible boundaries in which to work.
* Mow low, don't listen to the lawn guy.
That last point is important to me. We've had our lawn guy, Bob, for about 20 years now. He charges ridiculously low rates and does a good job keeping the dandelions and other weeds out of our grass. Every time he comes over and applies some sort of toxic chemical to my yard, he leaves behind a note that includes a few handy lawn care tips.
Invariably, one of those tips is "mow on highest setting." I disagree with this. Vehemently. If I were to mow my lawn on the highest setting every time, the grass wouldn't even look like it had been cut. And plus, if we get a rainy spell and I can't get to cutting the grass at the regularly scheduled time, it will be a foot high by the time it dries out.
No, sorry Bob, that's not how we do it. We start out at a medium setting in the spring and gradually work our way down, so that by July we're on the second- or third-lowest setting allowed. I never quite go all the way down because, while I like my grass low, I don't need it to look like the 18th green at Augusta. (Another golf reference. I'm not sure how that got in there.)
Plus, you want to be careful that the grass doesn't get burned out. We tend to have wet springs and dry summers here in Northeast Ohio. If you cut the grass too low, it all turns brown at some point and then you look like one of those People Who Don't Care. And I desperately want to avoid all appearances of not caring.
Because that's why we cut our grass, right? Sure, there's an element of self-satisfaction to a well-maintained lawn, but more importantly, it makes the neighbors think we're responsible people. And it keeps us on the right side of several city ordinances. We do it mostly to impress others.
I draw up a weekly to-do list, and every week between April and late October or so, one of the items on the list is "mow lawn." Always. And I relish it. When it's time to cut the grass, I become Tom Cruise in "Top Gun" (minus the high cheekbones and occasionally insane on-camera behavior). I'll put on the shades, strap on the iPod, and prepare to do battle with the evil forces of unkempt vegetation. If I had a cool flight suit to complete the ensemble, I would wear that, too.
CHRISTMAS GIFT IDEA FOR MY WIFE: If you were to buy me some sort of fighter pilot flight suit tailored to my exact size and shape, maybe with the words "Lawn Warrior" embroidered on the back, this is an item I would not refuse. I'm just saying.
If you're a suburban dad, one of the mowing issues with which you have to wrestle is whether or not to cut the grass with your shirt off. I tend to be a shirt-on kind of guy. For one thing, I'm a perfectionist, and because I don't have the abs of, say, a Channing Tatum, I would just as soon keep my shirt on, thank you very much.
But the same can't be said of all suburban dads. I admire the ones who clearly don't care at all. They'll do anything outdoors if it gives them a chance to take their shirts off. The result is that, while I may have more overall dignity than they do, they at least don't have the farmer's tan I sport annually at the community pool.
Then there's the problem of obstacles. Before each grass-cutting session, I will take a walk around the front and back yards to see if there's anything that will get in the way of my mowing pleasure. If I find something -- a toy, for example -- I will either yell into the house and get the offending child to come out and remove the obstacle, or I'll remove it myself, grumbling the whole time and making mental notes to exact revenge on the heathen who left it there.
And then we're off and running. As I said, it takes me an hour to cut the grass, and the whole time I'll listen to music on the iPod and generally just enjoy the exercise and the opportunity to be alone for awhile. After I'm finished, I bring out the edger and edge along the driveway. Then I'll sweep up the grass clippings that have made their way onto the asphalt, and voila: a neat, clean lawn for another week.
The sight of it makes me inordinately happy. You don't need to tell me how strange this is. I already know.
The extent of my involvement in yard maintenance extends to just two activities. One is mulching. Once a year, I'll trot out the wheelbarrow and haul vast quantities of mulch to various designated spots so that my wife can spread it around and make our yard look halfway presentable.
The other is lawn mowing. I love lawn mowing. Seriously, cutting the grass is the one outdoor chore I don't mind in the least. I take my lawn very seriously.
Not to the point that I apply fertilizer and pull weeds and stuff like that, mind you. Just the actual once-a-week pleasure of firing up my Toro lawnmower and trimming the grass. I love doing it.
For one thing, the results are immediate. It takes me an hour or so to do our entire lawn, and right when I'm finished I can enjoy the finished product. Plant a garden and you're looking at months of work before you can enjoy a tomato on your salad or a slice of zucchini bread. I'm not at all down with the delayed gratification thing.
I have taught three of my children to mow the lawn, and I'm proud to say they're all top-flight grass-cutters. My lawn mowing philosophy, which I have passed on to them, rests on three basic principles:
* Make the first pass straight and the rest will follow suit.
* Outline your mowing area first, then you'll have easily visible boundaries in which to work.
* Mow low, don't listen to the lawn guy.
That last point is important to me. We've had our lawn guy, Bob, for about 20 years now. He charges ridiculously low rates and does a good job keeping the dandelions and other weeds out of our grass. Every time he comes over and applies some sort of toxic chemical to my yard, he leaves behind a note that includes a few handy lawn care tips.
Invariably, one of those tips is "mow on highest setting." I disagree with this. Vehemently. If I were to mow my lawn on the highest setting every time, the grass wouldn't even look like it had been cut. And plus, if we get a rainy spell and I can't get to cutting the grass at the regularly scheduled time, it will be a foot high by the time it dries out.
No, sorry Bob, that's not how we do it. We start out at a medium setting in the spring and gradually work our way down, so that by July we're on the second- or third-lowest setting allowed. I never quite go all the way down because, while I like my grass low, I don't need it to look like the 18th green at Augusta. (Another golf reference. I'm not sure how that got in there.)
Plus, you want to be careful that the grass doesn't get burned out. We tend to have wet springs and dry summers here in Northeast Ohio. If you cut the grass too low, it all turns brown at some point and then you look like one of those People Who Don't Care. And I desperately want to avoid all appearances of not caring.
Because that's why we cut our grass, right? Sure, there's an element of self-satisfaction to a well-maintained lawn, but more importantly, it makes the neighbors think we're responsible people. And it keeps us on the right side of several city ordinances. We do it mostly to impress others.
I draw up a weekly to-do list, and every week between April and late October or so, one of the items on the list is "mow lawn." Always. And I relish it. When it's time to cut the grass, I become Tom Cruise in "Top Gun" (minus the high cheekbones and occasionally insane on-camera behavior). I'll put on the shades, strap on the iPod, and prepare to do battle with the evil forces of unkempt vegetation. If I had a cool flight suit to complete the ensemble, I would wear that, too.
CHRISTMAS GIFT IDEA FOR MY WIFE: If you were to buy me some sort of fighter pilot flight suit tailored to my exact size and shape, maybe with the words "Lawn Warrior" embroidered on the back, this is an item I would not refuse. I'm just saying.
If you're a suburban dad, one of the mowing issues with which you have to wrestle is whether or not to cut the grass with your shirt off. I tend to be a shirt-on kind of guy. For one thing, I'm a perfectionist, and because I don't have the abs of, say, a Channing Tatum, I would just as soon keep my shirt on, thank you very much.
But the same can't be said of all suburban dads. I admire the ones who clearly don't care at all. They'll do anything outdoors if it gives them a chance to take their shirts off. The result is that, while I may have more overall dignity than they do, they at least don't have the farmer's tan I sport annually at the community pool.
Then there's the problem of obstacles. Before each grass-cutting session, I will take a walk around the front and back yards to see if there's anything that will get in the way of my mowing pleasure. If I find something -- a toy, for example -- I will either yell into the house and get the offending child to come out and remove the obstacle, or I'll remove it myself, grumbling the whole time and making mental notes to exact revenge on the heathen who left it there.
And then we're off and running. As I said, it takes me an hour to cut the grass, and the whole time I'll listen to music on the iPod and generally just enjoy the exercise and the opportunity to be alone for awhile. After I'm finished, I bring out the edger and edge along the driveway. Then I'll sweep up the grass clippings that have made their way onto the asphalt, and voila: a neat, clean lawn for another week.
The sight of it makes me inordinately happy. You don't need to tell me how strange this is. I already know.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Why I hate war but love reading about it
If you're someone who flies with any regularity, try this:
The next time you're sitting in the gate area waiting to board a plane, look around at what everyone else is reading. And specifically, look at what the middle-aged males are reading. Three-quarters of the time, if they're reading a book rather than a newspaper, it's going to be some sort of nonfiction history. And most of the time, that means military history.
As a group, we guys in our 40s and 50s LOVE us some military history. The Civil War is a big one. Lots and lots of Civil War books to be seen at airports. Many of these readers, I've noticed from their accents, are southern. Which means for them, they're not "Civil War" books at all, but rather "War of Northern Aggression" books. No event in American history has been debated, discussed and generally dissected more than the Civil War, especially among those who are still fighting it for one reason or another.
You'll also see a lot of guys with books on World War II. There's a more direct connection there, since many of our fathers and grandfathers actually fought in "Dubya-Dubya Two," as Archie Bunker always called it. A lot of men can picture themselves as GIs slogging it out at Guadalcanal or fighting the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge.
Which I think is sort of the point. I believe one of the main attractions of military history for men of my generation (or maybe any generation) is that they see war as a manly, virtuous thing. When you sit at a desk all day, there can be a part of you that longs to do something macho. And what's more macho than carrying a rifle and killing foreigners?
My war of choice is World War I. At last count, I had read, cover to cover, 25 to 30 different books related to the First World War. I've done sermons at church that tie into it, and I genuinely want a membership to the Great War Society (yes, there is such a thing).
But if you have any compassion at all, to be a student of World War I necessarily means that you are anti-war. No one with a shred of decency can read about the slaughter of millions of young men on the battlefields of France and Russia and think that war is anything but vulgar.
And yet I'm fascinated by it. When I read about trench warfare and what it was like to go "over the top" with 60 to 80 pounds of gear on your back into heavy machine gun fire and poison gas shells, I invariably try and put myself into that situation. I wonder if I would have had what it took to attack knowing the odds of my survival were slim. Knowing that a single bullet to the gut could mean a slow and painful death in No Man's Land. I want to see how I would measure up.
Because that's how we guys are raised, you understand. It's always about passing tests and showing you're tough and all of that. Some boys are smart enough to avoid that stuff and seem to understand their inherent self-worth without having to prove it by fighting.
I didn't get into many fights myself, but I still did pretty much whatever anyone dared me to do. I guess I felt better about myself when I passed whatever "test" was put in front of me. Many times, the "test" was something stupid and dangerous. And I still did it. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
The point is, part of my fascination with war is wondering how I would handle it. And at the same time, I feel incredibly blessed that I've never had to find out. Nor would I ever want my sons to experience it. When it comes to All Things Soldier, I walk a fine line between obsession and repulsion.
When I used to hang around airports, I often wondered if the guys reading those war books were thinking the same thing I was. If they were wondering, "Oh sure, I can write up a memo and do a sales forecast, but how would I react if a 6-foot-4 German came at me with a bayonet? Would I be man enough to handle it?"
Such a strange and pointless way of thinking, I know. What does it matter? If my boys are going to wonder about their manhood, I would rather they ask themselves how they would handle their anger in an argument with their girlfriend or wife. Or how they would react to the sorts of moral and ethical dilemmas that define who we really are. I would rather they ask how tough they are in spirit rather than in fist.
But still, I have to admit, whenever I read one of my Great War books, I always end up mentally putting myself in those filthy, stinking trenches. And the answer to how I would perform in battle really matters to me. I wish it didn't, but it does. I have a sinking suspicion it always will.
The next time you're sitting in the gate area waiting to board a plane, look around at what everyone else is reading. And specifically, look at what the middle-aged males are reading. Three-quarters of the time, if they're reading a book rather than a newspaper, it's going to be some sort of nonfiction history. And most of the time, that means military history.
As a group, we guys in our 40s and 50s LOVE us some military history. The Civil War is a big one. Lots and lots of Civil War books to be seen at airports. Many of these readers, I've noticed from their accents, are southern. Which means for them, they're not "Civil War" books at all, but rather "War of Northern Aggression" books. No event in American history has been debated, discussed and generally dissected more than the Civil War, especially among those who are still fighting it for one reason or another.
You'll also see a lot of guys with books on World War II. There's a more direct connection there, since many of our fathers and grandfathers actually fought in "Dubya-Dubya Two," as Archie Bunker always called it. A lot of men can picture themselves as GIs slogging it out at Guadalcanal or fighting the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge.
Which I think is sort of the point. I believe one of the main attractions of military history for men of my generation (or maybe any generation) is that they see war as a manly, virtuous thing. When you sit at a desk all day, there can be a part of you that longs to do something macho. And what's more macho than carrying a rifle and killing foreigners?
My war of choice is World War I. At last count, I had read, cover to cover, 25 to 30 different books related to the First World War. I've done sermons at church that tie into it, and I genuinely want a membership to the Great War Society (yes, there is such a thing).
But if you have any compassion at all, to be a student of World War I necessarily means that you are anti-war. No one with a shred of decency can read about the slaughter of millions of young men on the battlefields of France and Russia and think that war is anything but vulgar.
And yet I'm fascinated by it. When I read about trench warfare and what it was like to go "over the top" with 60 to 80 pounds of gear on your back into heavy machine gun fire and poison gas shells, I invariably try and put myself into that situation. I wonder if I would have had what it took to attack knowing the odds of my survival were slim. Knowing that a single bullet to the gut could mean a slow and painful death in No Man's Land. I want to see how I would measure up.
Because that's how we guys are raised, you understand. It's always about passing tests and showing you're tough and all of that. Some boys are smart enough to avoid that stuff and seem to understand their inherent self-worth without having to prove it by fighting.
I didn't get into many fights myself, but I still did pretty much whatever anyone dared me to do. I guess I felt better about myself when I passed whatever "test" was put in front of me. Many times, the "test" was something stupid and dangerous. And I still did it. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
The point is, part of my fascination with war is wondering how I would handle it. And at the same time, I feel incredibly blessed that I've never had to find out. Nor would I ever want my sons to experience it. When it comes to All Things Soldier, I walk a fine line between obsession and repulsion.
When I used to hang around airports, I often wondered if the guys reading those war books were thinking the same thing I was. If they were wondering, "Oh sure, I can write up a memo and do a sales forecast, but how would I react if a 6-foot-4 German came at me with a bayonet? Would I be man enough to handle it?"
Such a strange and pointless way of thinking, I know. What does it matter? If my boys are going to wonder about their manhood, I would rather they ask themselves how they would handle their anger in an argument with their girlfriend or wife. Or how they would react to the sorts of moral and ethical dilemmas that define who we really are. I would rather they ask how tough they are in spirit rather than in fist.
But still, I have to admit, whenever I read one of my Great War books, I always end up mentally putting myself in those filthy, stinking trenches. And the answer to how I would perform in battle really matters to me. I wish it didn't, but it does. I have a sinking suspicion it always will.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Psychoanalysis through band instruments
We play musical instruments in our house. All of us (well, except Jack, but give him a few years). It's what we do.
It started 30-plus years ago when Terry and I began playing the flute and saxophone, respectively. In fact, it was in the high school band room during second-period study hall my sophomore year that we met. Music has been a big thing for us since the start of our relationship.
Then along came the kids and, one by one, they've been picking up instruments. Even little Jack can bang out some tunes on the piano, and he plays a mean game of Wii Music.
I've always thought that a person's choice of instrument says something about them. Like flutists tend to be quiet and shy, while tubists are loud and brash. I've seen too many exceptions to that rule over the years to put a lot of stock in it, but I choose to continue believing it for two reasons:
(1) It's much easier to believe stuff you want to believe, rather than paying attention to facts.
(2) On a related note, it's much easier to blog about stuff you want to believe than the stuff you have observed to be true.
In that vein, let me offer you this little psychological profile of the people in my family based solely upon the instruments they play:
What It Says About Her: Flutists (we would also have accepted "flautists") want to play music but don't want to draw too much attention to themselves. This is Terry. She is certainly no spotlight-seeker, but she does enjoy the opportunity to play her flute when it presents herself. She is, to me, the quintessential flute player.
What Instrument She Should Have Played: Actually, the flute fits her to a tee. But if I had to pick another instrument for Terry, it would be the clarinet. Clarinetists are a lot like flute players.
What It Says About Me: Sax players all secretly want to be guitar players or rock drummers. When faced with the choice of picking a band instrument, if they can't bring themselves to play the drums, they go with the coolest, most rock-sounding instrument they can think of. Of course, this analysis used to hold a lot of weight back when there were actually sax solos in pop songs. There hasn't been a decent, original saxophone solo in a Top 40 song since, I would guess, 1989.
What Instrument I Should Have Played: Bassoon, apparently. One time I performed at solo and ensemble content and that's actually what the judge wrote on my evaluation sheet: "You should be playing the bassoon." I had no idea how to take this remark.
Instrument: Oboe
What It Says About Her: Few oboists actually start out as oboists. Most start on the clarinet or another instrument and somehow find their way to the oboe a few years later. Elissa is an exception. She started directly on the oboe, a notoriously difficult instrument to play, in 4th grade. This might suggest that she loves challenges and always picks the most difficult road. And that would be exactly true of Elissa if not for the fact that it's not. In her case, I think it was more her crazy dad convincing her to play an out-of-the-way instrument just so, eight years later, she could get a college scholarship. I feel bad about this in retrospect.
What Instrument She Should Have Played: The triangle. Seriously, Elissa would rock the triangle like no other, um, trianglist has in history.
Instrument: Baritone horn
What It Says About Her: When the kids first start band, they attend a Meet the Instrument Night where they can explore each instrument up close and personal, and even try to make a sound out of it. I accompanied Chloe to this event, where once again I pushed for a less-popular instrument with the thought of a college scholarship or at least being a section of the band unto herself. Chloe is a person unto herself. She's unique. The choice of a big, low brass instrument just confirms that.
What Instrument She Should Have Played: Trumpet. No doubt about it, there's a trumpet player inside of Chloe. I should have pushed her in that direction. The trumpet is a featured instrument that often carries the melody. Chloe would have loved that. And she CAN actually play her sister's trumpet, not surprisingly. She also plays piano, harmonica, and probably the lute, for all I know.
Instrument: Saxophone
What It Says About Him: See the analysis of Jared's father above.
What Instrument He Should Have Played: Something for tall people. The kid is 6 feet tall in seventh grade. String bass, maybe?
Instrument: Trumpet
What It Says About Her: See, this is where the theory really breaks down. I tend to think of trumpet players as loud, flashy people. That's not Melanie. She's a relatively quiet, beautiful person (not that trumpet players aren't beautiful, mind you). But maybe she uses the trumpet to project or amplify her true self. As I've said before, being the fourth of five kids ain't an easy job, folks. The fact that Mel does so well in life is darn impressive to me. And the fact that she took up the trumpet and can actually play the thing is even more remarkable. I can't get a sound out of it.
What She Should Have Played: I would have bet large amounts of cash that Melanie would play the flute like her mother. But short of that, I can see her as a violinist, you know? Quiet, gorgeous and necessary.
What He Says He Wants to Play When He Gets Older: Drums
My Reaction to That: Oh, good Lord, no...
It started 30-plus years ago when Terry and I began playing the flute and saxophone, respectively. In fact, it was in the high school band room during second-period study hall my sophomore year that we met. Music has been a big thing for us since the start of our relationship.
Then along came the kids and, one by one, they've been picking up instruments. Even little Jack can bang out some tunes on the piano, and he plays a mean game of Wii Music.
I've always thought that a person's choice of instrument says something about them. Like flutists tend to be quiet and shy, while tubists are loud and brash. I've seen too many exceptions to that rule over the years to put a lot of stock in it, but I choose to continue believing it for two reasons:
(1) It's much easier to believe stuff you want to believe, rather than paying attention to facts.
(2) On a related note, it's much easier to blog about stuff you want to believe than the stuff you have observed to be true.
In that vein, let me offer you this little psychological profile of the people in my family based solely upon the instruments they play:
TERRY
Instrument: FluteWhat It Says About Her: Flutists (we would also have accepted "flautists") want to play music but don't want to draw too much attention to themselves. This is Terry. She is certainly no spotlight-seeker, but she does enjoy the opportunity to play her flute when it presents herself. She is, to me, the quintessential flute player.
What Instrument She Should Have Played: Actually, the flute fits her to a tee. But if I had to pick another instrument for Terry, it would be the clarinet. Clarinetists are a lot like flute players.
ME
Instrument: SaxophoneWhat It Says About Me: Sax players all secretly want to be guitar players or rock drummers. When faced with the choice of picking a band instrument, if they can't bring themselves to play the drums, they go with the coolest, most rock-sounding instrument they can think of. Of course, this analysis used to hold a lot of weight back when there were actually sax solos in pop songs. There hasn't been a decent, original saxophone solo in a Top 40 song since, I would guess, 1989.
What Instrument I Should Have Played: Bassoon, apparently. One time I performed at solo and ensemble content and that's actually what the judge wrote on my evaluation sheet: "You should be playing the bassoon." I had no idea how to take this remark.
ELISSA
Instrument: Oboe
What It Says About Her: Few oboists actually start out as oboists. Most start on the clarinet or another instrument and somehow find their way to the oboe a few years later. Elissa is an exception. She started directly on the oboe, a notoriously difficult instrument to play, in 4th grade. This might suggest that she loves challenges and always picks the most difficult road. And that would be exactly true of Elissa if not for the fact that it's not. In her case, I think it was more her crazy dad convincing her to play an out-of-the-way instrument just so, eight years later, she could get a college scholarship. I feel bad about this in retrospect.
What Instrument She Should Have Played: The triangle. Seriously, Elissa would rock the triangle like no other, um, trianglist has in history.
CHLOE
Instrument: Baritone horn
What It Says About Her: When the kids first start band, they attend a Meet the Instrument Night where they can explore each instrument up close and personal, and even try to make a sound out of it. I accompanied Chloe to this event, where once again I pushed for a less-popular instrument with the thought of a college scholarship or at least being a section of the band unto herself. Chloe is a person unto herself. She's unique. The choice of a big, low brass instrument just confirms that.
What Instrument She Should Have Played: Trumpet. No doubt about it, there's a trumpet player inside of Chloe. I should have pushed her in that direction. The trumpet is a featured instrument that often carries the melody. Chloe would have loved that. And she CAN actually play her sister's trumpet, not surprisingly. She also plays piano, harmonica, and probably the lute, for all I know.
JARED
Instrument: Saxophone
What It Says About Him: See the analysis of Jared's father above.
What Instrument He Should Have Played: Something for tall people. The kid is 6 feet tall in seventh grade. String bass, maybe?
MELANIE
Instrument: Trumpet
What It Says About Her: See, this is where the theory really breaks down. I tend to think of trumpet players as loud, flashy people. That's not Melanie. She's a relatively quiet, beautiful person (not that trumpet players aren't beautiful, mind you). But maybe she uses the trumpet to project or amplify her true self. As I've said before, being the fourth of five kids ain't an easy job, folks. The fact that Mel does so well in life is darn impressive to me. And the fact that she took up the trumpet and can actually play the thing is even more remarkable. I can't get a sound out of it.
What She Should Have Played: I would have bet large amounts of cash that Melanie would play the flute like her mother. But short of that, I can see her as a violinist, you know? Quiet, gorgeous and necessary.
JACK
What He Says He Wants to Play When He Gets Older: Drums
My Reaction to That: Oh, good Lord, no...
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
The father's long journey
On Tuesdays, Terry babysits a 2-year-old girl named Ava. Ava gets dropped off around 7 in the morning and doesn't leave until 5 or 5:30 in the afternoon, so we see a lot of her when she's here.
Like many 2-year-olds, Ava takes afternoon naps. I am insanely jealous of Ava for this. I would give almost anything (and I'm not kidding) for the privilege of taking afternoon naps. Or morning naps. Or just about any kind of nap to supplement the sleep I get at night.
Anyway, Ava takes naps. She does this in a playpen Terry keeps in our walk-in closet. She puts Ava down in there, turns on a fan for white noise, and usually has a few hours to herself after that. Ava is an expert sleeper, at least when she really wants to be.
A lot of times after Ava leaves, I'll come home from work and the playpen will still be set up in the closet. Often I'll just grumble about it and walk around the playpen as I take off my work clothes and put on whatever clothes are needed for that evening's activities.
But other times I'll stow the playpen away myself, thus taking at least one small thing off of Terry's seemingly endless to-do list. It's one of those Pack and Play models that folds up into a relatively compact 3-foot rectangle. We've had it since 1994, the year my oldest daughter was born. I have put up and taken down that playpen so many times in the ensuing 18 years, I'm pretty sure I could do it in my sleep (and I probably have done just that at some point when one of our kids or another was keeping us up nights).
I generally don't think anything of it, because this is a chore that literally takes all of 60 seconds to complete. But the other day I was taking down the playpen and it felt strange to me. Really strange. Like it belonged to someone else.
Never mind that this playpen is ours and always has been ours. Never mind that Terry is probably the only person who has lugged it around more than I have, or that all five of my kids have slept and/or played in it at some point in their lives. It just didn't feel like it had anything to do with me.
Nowadays, almost nothing related to my kids' babyhood feels connected to me. I come across an old baby toy and it seems like it's from someone else's life altogether. I feel so far removed from baby toys and bottles and playpens and strollers and pacifiers and diapers and the whole thing that it's hard to believe I helped raise five kids. You could almost convince me we didn't have any of them when they were babies, and that instead someone dropped each of them off at our house when they turned 6 years old.
I know that's not true, of course. There is photographic evidence that I have been, in fact, a father of newborns. And infants and toddlers, too. There are all sorts of pictures of me holding babies, burping babies, feeding babies, sleeping with babies on my chest, etc. And I remember it all. But still, there's this strange feeling that it happened to someone else years and years and years ago. I'm only 42. Why do I feel like this?
I guess it's because I'm inundated with Older Kid Experiences now: middle school, high school, driving lessons, college tours, etc. We still have little Jack tying us back to pre-adolescence, but as far as I can tell, it has been 100 years since he was born. It's all just so distant.
Since I've become aware of this strange feeling, I've been hoping my brain could make some sense of it. After all, I've been a father for less than 20 years. That's really not all that long, when you think about it. It's not like I'm an 80-year-old grandpa whose parenting years are far, far behind him. I'm still in the middle of this great test, and I'll continue being in the middle of it for many more years.
But still, I feel...finished with part of it, I guess. Maybe this is God's way of telling me, "Good job, young man. (NOTE: To God, we're all young.) You got through this much of it just fine, like I said you would. Remember all those times you doubted whether you could take one more night of walking the floor with a crying baby? Those days at work when you wondered whether you would make ends meet? Those times when you questioned whether you were any good at being a dad? I know you still ask those questions. But I want you to realize how far you've come, and I want you to realize that you'll make it to the end.
"And most of all, I want you to continue relying on Me. I know sometimes you forget I'm there, and that's OK. For a little while, at least. I'll always be there to nudge you and remind you where your strength comes from. So just keep on going. You'll always be a parent, just like I will always be Your Father, and you still have a long way to go. But having come this far should tell you that you're in good hands."
Yeah, that's probably it.
Like many 2-year-olds, Ava takes afternoon naps. I am insanely jealous of Ava for this. I would give almost anything (and I'm not kidding) for the privilege of taking afternoon naps. Or morning naps. Or just about any kind of nap to supplement the sleep I get at night.
Anyway, Ava takes naps. She does this in a playpen Terry keeps in our walk-in closet. She puts Ava down in there, turns on a fan for white noise, and usually has a few hours to herself after that. Ava is an expert sleeper, at least when she really wants to be.
A lot of times after Ava leaves, I'll come home from work and the playpen will still be set up in the closet. Often I'll just grumble about it and walk around the playpen as I take off my work clothes and put on whatever clothes are needed for that evening's activities.
But other times I'll stow the playpen away myself, thus taking at least one small thing off of Terry's seemingly endless to-do list. It's one of those Pack and Play models that folds up into a relatively compact 3-foot rectangle. We've had it since 1994, the year my oldest daughter was born. I have put up and taken down that playpen so many times in the ensuing 18 years, I'm pretty sure I could do it in my sleep (and I probably have done just that at some point when one of our kids or another was keeping us up nights).
I generally don't think anything of it, because this is a chore that literally takes all of 60 seconds to complete. But the other day I was taking down the playpen and it felt strange to me. Really strange. Like it belonged to someone else.
Never mind that this playpen is ours and always has been ours. Never mind that Terry is probably the only person who has lugged it around more than I have, or that all five of my kids have slept and/or played in it at some point in their lives. It just didn't feel like it had anything to do with me.
Nowadays, almost nothing related to my kids' babyhood feels connected to me. I come across an old baby toy and it seems like it's from someone else's life altogether. I feel so far removed from baby toys and bottles and playpens and strollers and pacifiers and diapers and the whole thing that it's hard to believe I helped raise five kids. You could almost convince me we didn't have any of them when they were babies, and that instead someone dropped each of them off at our house when they turned 6 years old.
I know that's not true, of course. There is photographic evidence that I have been, in fact, a father of newborns. And infants and toddlers, too. There are all sorts of pictures of me holding babies, burping babies, feeding babies, sleeping with babies on my chest, etc. And I remember it all. But still, there's this strange feeling that it happened to someone else years and years and years ago. I'm only 42. Why do I feel like this?
I guess it's because I'm inundated with Older Kid Experiences now: middle school, high school, driving lessons, college tours, etc. We still have little Jack tying us back to pre-adolescence, but as far as I can tell, it has been 100 years since he was born. It's all just so distant.
Since I've become aware of this strange feeling, I've been hoping my brain could make some sense of it. After all, I've been a father for less than 20 years. That's really not all that long, when you think about it. It's not like I'm an 80-year-old grandpa whose parenting years are far, far behind him. I'm still in the middle of this great test, and I'll continue being in the middle of it for many more years.
But still, I feel...finished with part of it, I guess. Maybe this is God's way of telling me, "Good job, young man. (NOTE: To God, we're all young.) You got through this much of it just fine, like I said you would. Remember all those times you doubted whether you could take one more night of walking the floor with a crying baby? Those days at work when you wondered whether you would make ends meet? Those times when you questioned whether you were any good at being a dad? I know you still ask those questions. But I want you to realize how far you've come, and I want you to realize that you'll make it to the end.
"And most of all, I want you to continue relying on Me. I know sometimes you forget I'm there, and that's OK. For a little while, at least. I'll always be there to nudge you and remind you where your strength comes from. So just keep on going. You'll always be a parent, just like I will always be Your Father, and you still have a long way to go. But having come this far should tell you that you're in good hands."
Yeah, that's probably it.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
I'll never be Rollie Fingers
There are two perfectly good reasons why I don't have facial hair:
(1) The whiskers tend to come in unevenly. They're much heavier under my chin and cheeks than they are on my actual face.
(2) My wife doesn't want me to have facial hair. She doesn't like the feel of it. This alone is more than enough to keep me from growing a beard or mustache, if you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.
I don't come from a line of facial hair growers anyway. My brother had a 70s moustache back in, well, the 70s. And my dad had a thicker one on and off over the last 20 years of his life. But no beards or anything like that. I'm just not sure we could pull it off.
Consequently, I've never grown any sort of facial hair. I've never even really tried. Well, when I was in China for two weeks several years ago, I did have the very beginnings of a goatee (or what people often mistakenly call a goatee...it's really a Van Dyke), but even after five days it was pretty pitiful. Over time I may be able to sprout one of those Amish-inspired beard-with-no-moustache jobs, but that would just be sad.
In some ways, I admire guys who can -- and do -- easily grow facial hair. My friend Rob Wanska is one of those guys. If Rob happens to be clean-shaven, he's only about 6 or 7 hours away from a pretty good beard, if he wants one. Seriously, I'll bet he could grow a pencil-thin moustache in eight minutes. I don't know what nationality he is, but it's probably one of those hirsute ethnic cultures in which beards are a sign of manliness. Like American Yeti.
I'm always reminded of my shortcomings in the hairy face department this time of year because the National Hockey League playoffs have started. As you may know, it's a tradition in the NHL to grow a playoff beard. Guys refuse to shave until their team is eliminated from the playoffs or wins the Stanley Cup. By late May, some of them look like homeless people on skates.
Then there are the others who are more like me. It's always great fun to watch the blonde-haired, 19-year-old rookies try to grow playoff beards. Their team keeps on winning and gets deep into the playoffs, and by the conference finals you can just start to make out the hint of what may or may not be construed as a moustache on their upper lips. Forget the beard, these guys are just trying to reach 'stache-hood.
Speaking of moustaches and sports, you don't really see a lot of good ones on athletes these days. The best of all time may have been Rollie Fingers, one of the great relief pitchers in the history of baseball. Rollie, as you can see here, had a handlebar moustache. I desperately want a handlebar moustache. But it won't happen.
Aside from the restrictions mentioned above, there's just the everyday maintenance of something like a handlebar moustache. I'm no expert, but I assume that some sort of daily waxing and/or combing is involved, and that's a real hassle in addition to being borderline repulsive.
But if I did have a handlebar moustache, I would be tempted to speak in a consistent 1890s Irish brogue:
ME: Top o' the mawrnin', to you, my little ones! And how are each of ya on this fine day?
MY KIDS: Huh? What? Are you talking to us?
ME: Of course I be! Why, it's a special treat to greet me offspring after each has arisen from his bed!
MY KIDS: What's wrong with you? Why are you talking like that? And does mom know you have that thing on your lip?
I like to imagine it would go a little better than that, but in any case, I would still totally sound like the Lucky Charms leprechaun if I could manage a 'stache like Rollie's.
Every once in awhile I'll skip a day of shaving, usually on the weekend. It takes Terry about 3 milliseconds to notice. "Nice to see you, Grizzly Adams," she'll say to me, as if I'm Rob and the minuscule whiskers that are struggling to gain traction on my face are significantly more prominent than normal.
But the message is clear: Shave it off. Shave it off now. In an effort to maintain some sort of pride and semblance of control, I usually wait an extra few hours and THEN I'll shave it off. No woman is going to tell ME what to do with my manly facial hair.
(1) The whiskers tend to come in unevenly. They're much heavier under my chin and cheeks than they are on my actual face.
(2) My wife doesn't want me to have facial hair. She doesn't like the feel of it. This alone is more than enough to keep me from growing a beard or mustache, if you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.
I don't come from a line of facial hair growers anyway. My brother had a 70s moustache back in, well, the 70s. And my dad had a thicker one on and off over the last 20 years of his life. But no beards or anything like that. I'm just not sure we could pull it off.
Consequently, I've never grown any sort of facial hair. I've never even really tried. Well, when I was in China for two weeks several years ago, I did have the very beginnings of a goatee (or what people often mistakenly call a goatee...it's really a Van Dyke), but even after five days it was pretty pitiful. Over time I may be able to sprout one of those Amish-inspired beard-with-no-moustache jobs, but that would just be sad.
In some ways, I admire guys who can -- and do -- easily grow facial hair. My friend Rob Wanska is one of those guys. If Rob happens to be clean-shaven, he's only about 6 or 7 hours away from a pretty good beard, if he wants one. Seriously, I'll bet he could grow a pencil-thin moustache in eight minutes. I don't know what nationality he is, but it's probably one of those hirsute ethnic cultures in which beards are a sign of manliness. Like American Yeti.
I'm always reminded of my shortcomings in the hairy face department this time of year because the National Hockey League playoffs have started. As you may know, it's a tradition in the NHL to grow a playoff beard. Guys refuse to shave until their team is eliminated from the playoffs or wins the Stanley Cup. By late May, some of them look like homeless people on skates.
Then there are the others who are more like me. It's always great fun to watch the blonde-haired, 19-year-old rookies try to grow playoff beards. Their team keeps on winning and gets deep into the playoffs, and by the conference finals you can just start to make out the hint of what may or may not be construed as a moustache on their upper lips. Forget the beard, these guys are just trying to reach 'stache-hood.
Aside from the restrictions mentioned above, there's just the everyday maintenance of something like a handlebar moustache. I'm no expert, but I assume that some sort of daily waxing and/or combing is involved, and that's a real hassle in addition to being borderline repulsive.
But if I did have a handlebar moustache, I would be tempted to speak in a consistent 1890s Irish brogue:
ME: Top o' the mawrnin', to you, my little ones! And how are each of ya on this fine day?
MY KIDS: Huh? What? Are you talking to us?
ME: Of course I be! Why, it's a special treat to greet me offspring after each has arisen from his bed!
MY KIDS: What's wrong with you? Why are you talking like that? And does mom know you have that thing on your lip?
I like to imagine it would go a little better than that, but in any case, I would still totally sound like the Lucky Charms leprechaun if I could manage a 'stache like Rollie's.
Every once in awhile I'll skip a day of shaving, usually on the weekend. It takes Terry about 3 milliseconds to notice. "Nice to see you, Grizzly Adams," she'll say to me, as if I'm Rob and the minuscule whiskers that are struggling to gain traction on my face are significantly more prominent than normal.
But the message is clear: Shave it off. Shave it off now. In an effort to maintain some sort of pride and semblance of control, I usually wait an extra few hours and THEN I'll shave it off. No woman is going to tell ME what to do with my manly facial hair.
Monday, April 16, 2012
I have nothing to write about
I was afraid this was going to happen.
When I started this blog back in mid-December, I worried I wouldn't have enough material to sustain it for very long. But I went ahead with it anyway, and for the last four months things have worked out pretty well.
But now it's Sunday night at 9:30, and I've got nothing. I guess I've developed a sort of schedule where I always have a post up on Monday mornings. Not that anyone's day is going to be ruined if I don't put something up, but you know, when you actually start to get semi-nasty Facebook messages from people asking where the latest post is, you do feel some pressure.
(NOTE: I don't want to create the wrong impression here. It's not like I have hundreds of people emailing me when I don't post. Not even dozens. More like...several? Too strong. A few? Too weak. Somewhere in between, then.)
Trust me, I'm not complaining or anything. I'm grateful that anyone is willing to take a few minutes out of their busy day to read my ramblings. In four months, the blog has had almost 13,000 pageviews...way, way more than I would ever have guessed. So really, I'm very appreciative.
This is the thought process I've gone through over the past hour:
"OK, let's see, what should I write about? Hmmmmmm. <I look out the window and see a bird.> Birds? How about birds? Is there anything remotely interesting or funny to say about birds? No, that's silly. I can't believe I even considered that. Come on, Scott, you can do better. Think! THINK!
"Family-focused. That's what the blog is supposed to be: family-focused. What has the family done today that would lead to 500 words? Well, Elissa worked for four hours. Nothing exciting there. Chloe did a paper for school then went out with Chris Dorazio and his parents. That's certainly not new. Melanie did homework. Jared went to the park and was hanging out with his girlfriend. And Jack spent something like 27 consecutive hours playing Moshi Monsters on the computer.
"Nothing there. Oh man, that's seriously boring stuff. There's nothing there at all. What should I write? What about me? I could write about myself (NOTE: As if I don't ever do this already.) Have I written about my tiny hands? Yeah, we covered that a while ago. How about the fact that I can't fix anything? Yep, been there. What about the whole washcloth-in-the-shower thing? Darn, just did that a few days ago.
"Elissa has settled on a college. Maybe there's something there? (ANOTHER NOTE: Did I tell you Elissa is going to Cleveland State in the fall? I don't think I did. I posted it on Facebook, but not here. The trouble is, well, there's not a lot to say about it. Not until she actually leaves for school. And even then she's only going to be, like, 25 minutes away, so I'm not sure how good that experience will be for blog material. I can only whine about the cost of college so many times before I start losing people. Anyway, back to my thought process...) Burping! I can write about the fact that I'm incapable of burping! Except that it may be good for two paragraphs, and after that there's not much to say. Most people burp. I don't. Or at least rarely. It's tragic, but hardly compelling.
"I could write about Italians. I like Italian people..."
I came perilously close to making this post about Italians and the fact that I really do like them. I've lived my entire life in a city that was originally settled, in large part, by Italian immigrant vineyard workers. When my mom and dad moved here in the early 60's, they were part of a small contingent of token WASPs allowed to enter the city, most likely as some early attempt at cultural diversity. I have no Italian blood, but I admire Italians. The ones I know are funny, loving, loyal people.
And again, that's all I have to say about that. So while I do like Italians (and Chinese people and Eskimos, for that matter), I can't fill a blog post with them.
Speaking of which, the word "blog"...a point of clarification of interest only to me, I think: People will often say, "Hey, I really liked your blog the other day," when in fact they clearly mean they liked a particular blog post. The website that houses these musings of mine is a blog. The blog is called "They Still Call Me Daddy." A particular day's offering is a blog post.
I shouldn't even have written that paragraph. It just sounds snobbish and rude. The last thing you want to do, as a blogger, is alienate your readers. I'm sorry about that. Really, I apologize. No offense intended. I hope you'll forgive me.
Now it's 9:45 p.m. I still have to shower, shave, brush my teeth, pack a lunch for tomorrow, and take care of a few other things. And I have YET to come up with a decent blog topic. I can't believe this is happening.
All right, how about this: How about if we just call it quits right here and I promise to get you something tomorrow for Tuesday morning. Is that fair? Can we agree on that? Well, actually, given the one-way nature of this conversation until I post this, you're going to HAVE to agree on it. Because frankly, if you've come this far, you're clearly not all that hard to please in the first place.
I'll see you tomorrow morning...
When I started this blog back in mid-December, I worried I wouldn't have enough material to sustain it for very long. But I went ahead with it anyway, and for the last four months things have worked out pretty well.
But now it's Sunday night at 9:30, and I've got nothing. I guess I've developed a sort of schedule where I always have a post up on Monday mornings. Not that anyone's day is going to be ruined if I don't put something up, but you know, when you actually start to get semi-nasty Facebook messages from people asking where the latest post is, you do feel some pressure.
(NOTE: I don't want to create the wrong impression here. It's not like I have hundreds of people emailing me when I don't post. Not even dozens. More like...several? Too strong. A few? Too weak. Somewhere in between, then.)
Trust me, I'm not complaining or anything. I'm grateful that anyone is willing to take a few minutes out of their busy day to read my ramblings. In four months, the blog has had almost 13,000 pageviews...way, way more than I would ever have guessed. So really, I'm very appreciative.
This is the thought process I've gone through over the past hour:
"OK, let's see, what should I write about? Hmmmmmm. <I look out the window and see a bird.> Birds? How about birds? Is there anything remotely interesting or funny to say about birds? No, that's silly. I can't believe I even considered that. Come on, Scott, you can do better. Think! THINK!
"Family-focused. That's what the blog is supposed to be: family-focused. What has the family done today that would lead to 500 words? Well, Elissa worked for four hours. Nothing exciting there. Chloe did a paper for school then went out with Chris Dorazio and his parents. That's certainly not new. Melanie did homework. Jared went to the park and was hanging out with his girlfriend. And Jack spent something like 27 consecutive hours playing Moshi Monsters on the computer.
"Nothing there. Oh man, that's seriously boring stuff. There's nothing there at all. What should I write? What about me? I could write about myself (NOTE: As if I don't ever do this already.) Have I written about my tiny hands? Yeah, we covered that a while ago. How about the fact that I can't fix anything? Yep, been there. What about the whole washcloth-in-the-shower thing? Darn, just did that a few days ago.
"Elissa has settled on a college. Maybe there's something there? (ANOTHER NOTE: Did I tell you Elissa is going to Cleveland State in the fall? I don't think I did. I posted it on Facebook, but not here. The trouble is, well, there's not a lot to say about it. Not until she actually leaves for school. And even then she's only going to be, like, 25 minutes away, so I'm not sure how good that experience will be for blog material. I can only whine about the cost of college so many times before I start losing people. Anyway, back to my thought process...) Burping! I can write about the fact that I'm incapable of burping! Except that it may be good for two paragraphs, and after that there's not much to say. Most people burp. I don't. Or at least rarely. It's tragic, but hardly compelling.
"I could write about Italians. I like Italian people..."
I came perilously close to making this post about Italians and the fact that I really do like them. I've lived my entire life in a city that was originally settled, in large part, by Italian immigrant vineyard workers. When my mom and dad moved here in the early 60's, they were part of a small contingent of token WASPs allowed to enter the city, most likely as some early attempt at cultural diversity. I have no Italian blood, but I admire Italians. The ones I know are funny, loving, loyal people.
And again, that's all I have to say about that. So while I do like Italians (and Chinese people and Eskimos, for that matter), I can't fill a blog post with them.
Speaking of which, the word "blog"...a point of clarification of interest only to me, I think: People will often say, "Hey, I really liked your blog the other day," when in fact they clearly mean they liked a particular blog post. The website that houses these musings of mine is a blog. The blog is called "They Still Call Me Daddy." A particular day's offering is a blog post.
I shouldn't even have written that paragraph. It just sounds snobbish and rude. The last thing you want to do, as a blogger, is alienate your readers. I'm sorry about that. Really, I apologize. No offense intended. I hope you'll forgive me.
Now it's 9:45 p.m. I still have to shower, shave, brush my teeth, pack a lunch for tomorrow, and take care of a few other things. And I have YET to come up with a decent blog topic. I can't believe this is happening.
All right, how about this: How about if we just call it quits right here and I promise to get you something tomorrow for Tuesday morning. Is that fair? Can we agree on that? Well, actually, given the one-way nature of this conversation until I post this, you're going to HAVE to agree on it. Because frankly, if you've come this far, you're clearly not all that hard to please in the first place.
I'll see you tomorrow morning...
Friday, April 13, 2012
10 more random thoughts on a Friday
(1) My daughter is getting ready to send out graduation announcements. What is the function of the graduation announcement? I'll tell you what it is. It's a subtle way of telling people, "Pssssst! Hey! I won't say no if you choose to send me a graduation gift. I prefer check or money order."
(2) My wife is a genius when it comes to "Dancing With the Stars." (Yes, I do occasionally watch "Dancing With the Stars." Sue me.) A couple will perform, and even before the judges give their post-dance comments, she'll say something like, "Oh, that's going to be two 8's and a 9." And sure enough, at least three-quarters of the time when the judges reveal their scores, she'll be right on. I don't understand how someone can be so deeply connected with the DWTS judges...or would even want to be.
(3) I have not used a wash cloth in the shower since...forever. I have never used a washcloth in the shower. Am I supposed to? Do most adults use them? I always thought my hands, tiny as they are, were sufficient.
(4) I understand that society expects older women to have shorter hair. I just don't understand why.
(5) Hanes makes these t-shirts they call "Beefy T's." This absolutely cracks me up. I guess it's the use of the word "beefy." I have no desire to be described as "beefy," nor do I think my t-shirts need to fit that designation.
(6) Place I Want to Visit That No One From the U.S. Ever Travels To: Finland
(7) Mundane Everyday Activity That I Enjoy Far More Than Is Normal: Flossing
(8) Since the kids were little, I've done this thing where I try to get them to put their hands on the kitchen table so I can pound them (their hands, not any other part of the kids themselves). Now that they're older, it's getting harder and harder to trick them into putting their hand on the table. But I can usually get Jared to do it. I'll rub a spot on the table and say something like, "Feel this. It's like somebody spilled glue here." And then he'll rub it and I'll pound his hand and say, "What have I taught you? NEVER put your hand on the table!" These sorts of pointless memories are exactly what dads are for, you understand.
(9) I enjoy the little show my auto mechanic and I put on every time one of my cars needs fixing. He'll take a look at it, figure out the problem, and then explain it to me in very masculine terms. Many times I'll actually understand what he's talking about. But most of the time, not so much. Yet I continue to listen intently to his explanation and nod thoughtfully, even though I quickly realize I have no idea what he's saying, and he clearly knows I have no idea what he's saying. He does it simply to preserve my Manly Pride, and I admire him greatly for it.
(10) No matter how old I get, Hogan's Heroes will always be funny. Always.
(2) My wife is a genius when it comes to "Dancing With the Stars." (Yes, I do occasionally watch "Dancing With the Stars." Sue me.) A couple will perform, and even before the judges give their post-dance comments, she'll say something like, "Oh, that's going to be two 8's and a 9." And sure enough, at least three-quarters of the time when the judges reveal their scores, she'll be right on. I don't understand how someone can be so deeply connected with the DWTS judges...or would even want to be.
(3) I have not used a wash cloth in the shower since...forever. I have never used a washcloth in the shower. Am I supposed to? Do most adults use them? I always thought my hands, tiny as they are, were sufficient.
(4) I understand that society expects older women to have shorter hair. I just don't understand why.
(5) Hanes makes these t-shirts they call "Beefy T's." This absolutely cracks me up. I guess it's the use of the word "beefy." I have no desire to be described as "beefy," nor do I think my t-shirts need to fit that designation.
(6) Place I Want to Visit That No One From the U.S. Ever Travels To: Finland
(7) Mundane Everyday Activity That I Enjoy Far More Than Is Normal: Flossing
(8) Since the kids were little, I've done this thing where I try to get them to put their hands on the kitchen table so I can pound them (their hands, not any other part of the kids themselves). Now that they're older, it's getting harder and harder to trick them into putting their hand on the table. But I can usually get Jared to do it. I'll rub a spot on the table and say something like, "Feel this. It's like somebody spilled glue here." And then he'll rub it and I'll pound his hand and say, "What have I taught you? NEVER put your hand on the table!" These sorts of pointless memories are exactly what dads are for, you understand.
(9) I enjoy the little show my auto mechanic and I put on every time one of my cars needs fixing. He'll take a look at it, figure out the problem, and then explain it to me in very masculine terms. Many times I'll actually understand what he's talking about. But most of the time, not so much. Yet I continue to listen intently to his explanation and nod thoughtfully, even though I quickly realize I have no idea what he's saying, and he clearly knows I have no idea what he's saying. He does it simply to preserve my Manly Pride, and I admire him greatly for it.
(10) No matter how old I get, Hogan's Heroes will always be funny. Always.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Note to self: The 'Good Old Days' are right now
My wife and I are in the midst of the Good Old Days.
I'm very aware of this fact. For all the time, energy and money we expend on our children, these are still clearly the Good Old Days. I know that one day we will look back and think, "Wow, those were great times. So much fun."
And we'll be right. These ARE fun times. Of course, by then we'll have blocked out all the unpleasant parts because that's what we, as human beings, do. We zero in on the fun times and mostly forget the bad stuff so that we can look back at a certain period in our lives and think, "That was the perfect time. I wish I could go back to that."
If one day they figure out time travel and we do manage to come back to the year 2012, I'll probably be shocked to remember that:
* Every time I washed the kitchen floor, somebody in the house would immediately manage to spill juice on it. Every. Single. Time.
* No one would ever turn the lights out when they left a room, thus allowing us to set world records for Highest Electric Bill in a Single-Family House.
* Whenever we turned around, there would be yet another school fee to pay. Books, sports, other extracurriculars. Whatever it was, we had to pay for it.
* We spent a lot of time worrying about how we were going to pay for college, when in fact the common sense portion of our brains told us that we would survive the experience no matter how much it seemed like it was going to kill us.
And on and on. Selective memory is a wonderful thing. It's what allows women to have more than one baby, for example. Five times I watched Terry pass small human beings (painfully) out of her body. And each time I thought, "OK, no way she's going to want to go through nine months of that kind of misery plus labor again." And each time I was wrong...until the last time, of course. She would forget about the negative aspects of childbirth and instead focus on the miracle of bringing another life into this world, and boom, two years or so later she would be pregnant again.
I always try to remind myself that for all the trouble of the life we're living now, we're smack dab in the middle of an undeniably awesome experience. We're in that part of life where every week seems to bring a new milestone or accomplishment. After awhile you start to take it for granted.
I take for granted going to watch my kids play soccer or run track. But one day, that will be gone. I take for granted things like school concerts, awards assemblies and first cars. In a few years, they will all just be memories. Of course, there will come a time when I can relive those experiences through grandchildren, and I know that will be great, but I can't imagine it will be quite the same.
So for now I'm pretty much just hanging on and trying to enjoy as much of the ride as I can. Sometimes I do a good job of it and appreciate what God has given me. Other times I get caught up in the whirlwind of activity and let time pass by almost unnoticed.
But either way, the Good Old Days really are good.
(P.S. Happy 80th birthday today to my mom, Kathryn, who I hope looks back on this writer's childhood as her own Good Old Days!)
I'm very aware of this fact. For all the time, energy and money we expend on our children, these are still clearly the Good Old Days. I know that one day we will look back and think, "Wow, those were great times. So much fun."
And we'll be right. These ARE fun times. Of course, by then we'll have blocked out all the unpleasant parts because that's what we, as human beings, do. We zero in on the fun times and mostly forget the bad stuff so that we can look back at a certain period in our lives and think, "That was the perfect time. I wish I could go back to that."
If one day they figure out time travel and we do manage to come back to the year 2012, I'll probably be shocked to remember that:
* Every time I washed the kitchen floor, somebody in the house would immediately manage to spill juice on it. Every. Single. Time.
* No one would ever turn the lights out when they left a room, thus allowing us to set world records for Highest Electric Bill in a Single-Family House.
* Whenever we turned around, there would be yet another school fee to pay. Books, sports, other extracurriculars. Whatever it was, we had to pay for it.
* We spent a lot of time worrying about how we were going to pay for college, when in fact the common sense portion of our brains told us that we would survive the experience no matter how much it seemed like it was going to kill us.
And on and on. Selective memory is a wonderful thing. It's what allows women to have more than one baby, for example. Five times I watched Terry pass small human beings (painfully) out of her body. And each time I thought, "OK, no way she's going to want to go through nine months of that kind of misery plus labor again." And each time I was wrong...until the last time, of course. She would forget about the negative aspects of childbirth and instead focus on the miracle of bringing another life into this world, and boom, two years or so later she would be pregnant again.
I always try to remind myself that for all the trouble of the life we're living now, we're smack dab in the middle of an undeniably awesome experience. We're in that part of life where every week seems to bring a new milestone or accomplishment. After awhile you start to take it for granted.
I take for granted going to watch my kids play soccer or run track. But one day, that will be gone. I take for granted things like school concerts, awards assemblies and first cars. In a few years, they will all just be memories. Of course, there will come a time when I can relive those experiences through grandchildren, and I know that will be great, but I can't imagine it will be quite the same.
So for now I'm pretty much just hanging on and trying to enjoy as much of the ride as I can. Sometimes I do a good job of it and appreciate what God has given me. Other times I get caught up in the whirlwind of activity and let time pass by almost unnoticed.
But either way, the Good Old Days really are good.
(P.S. Happy 80th birthday today to my mom, Kathryn, who I hope looks back on this writer's childhood as her own Good Old Days!)
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Oh coffee, my coffee
I spent more than four decades as someone who didn't drink coffee. "No, thank you," I would say whenever someone offered me a cup. "I never touch the stuff."
And it's true, I didn't. I didn't like the taste. I was good with the smell, but the actual coffee drinking experience fell far short of my expectations.
Then suddenly, I liked coffee. It wasn't a gradual thing. Just one day about a year or so ago, I started liking coffee. I can't begin to explain it.
Now it's rare that a day goes by that I don't drink at least a cup, if not two or three. My consumption doesn't go much beyond that, so you can't say I'm a total addict. But yes, I will admit that I have developed some level of dependency on the sweet, caffeine-laced elixir.
I take mine with three creams, no sugar. I always thought that sounded so grown-up: "I take my coffee with two creams, two sugars." Or "I drink it black" or whatever. Now I have my own coffee preference, and at the age of 42 I'm starting to feel like an adult.
Of course, it's a lot more hip to like coffee now than it was, say, when I was in high school. Coffee was an old person's drink. Now my wife makes it for my two high school-aged daughters almost every morning. What they drink is what I would classify as "frou frou coffee." There's a lot of sugar and flavoring and maybe a splash of coffee. More like a "coffee drink," I suppose.
I'm probably in the minority of coffee-drinkers who drink it more for the taste than for the pick-me-up. The reason, simply, is that caffeine doesn't have much effect on me. Really. If I'm tired in the morning, I can drink a cup of coffee and still feel tired afterward. I can drink coffee at 10 p.m. and be asleep an hour later.
It's kind of disappointing, actually. There are days when I would LOVE to get the coffee buzz, but my system doesn't respond in that way. Well, maybe to Starbucks coffee. Starbucks coffee has ridiculous levels of caffeine. Like you almost can't believe it's legal. There have been times when I've had a grande coffee from Starbucks and found myself a little hyper for the next 30 minutes or so, but that's about the extent of it.
As a relatively new coffee drinker, there are things about the art of coffee that still elude me. For example, why is the coffee I get in a restaurant always, always, always better than the stuff we make at work? And especially better than the coffee that comes out of our coffee-maker at home? Do they use better coffee? Better equipment? Distilled water? The blood of a goat? What's the differentiator here?
And when I get old, am I going to be one of those McDonald's Coffee Guys? You know the guys I'm talking about. They're the groups of old men who frequent McDonald's restaurants at about 9 o'clock every morning and sit there for hours drinking coffee while they argue, complain, and just generally have a good old time. Will that be me in 30 years? Is there some sort of law mandating that men of a certain age report to McDonald's every weekday morning at the same time? I guess I'll find out.
In the meantime, I love me some coffee. Oh yes, I do love me some coffee.
And it's true, I didn't. I didn't like the taste. I was good with the smell, but the actual coffee drinking experience fell far short of my expectations.
Then suddenly, I liked coffee. It wasn't a gradual thing. Just one day about a year or so ago, I started liking coffee. I can't begin to explain it.
Now it's rare that a day goes by that I don't drink at least a cup, if not two or three. My consumption doesn't go much beyond that, so you can't say I'm a total addict. But yes, I will admit that I have developed some level of dependency on the sweet, caffeine-laced elixir.
I take mine with three creams, no sugar. I always thought that sounded so grown-up: "I take my coffee with two creams, two sugars." Or "I drink it black" or whatever. Now I have my own coffee preference, and at the age of 42 I'm starting to feel like an adult.
Of course, it's a lot more hip to like coffee now than it was, say, when I was in high school. Coffee was an old person's drink. Now my wife makes it for my two high school-aged daughters almost every morning. What they drink is what I would classify as "frou frou coffee." There's a lot of sugar and flavoring and maybe a splash of coffee. More like a "coffee drink," I suppose.
I'm probably in the minority of coffee-drinkers who drink it more for the taste than for the pick-me-up. The reason, simply, is that caffeine doesn't have much effect on me. Really. If I'm tired in the morning, I can drink a cup of coffee and still feel tired afterward. I can drink coffee at 10 p.m. and be asleep an hour later.
It's kind of disappointing, actually. There are days when I would LOVE to get the coffee buzz, but my system doesn't respond in that way. Well, maybe to Starbucks coffee. Starbucks coffee has ridiculous levels of caffeine. Like you almost can't believe it's legal. There have been times when I've had a grande coffee from Starbucks and found myself a little hyper for the next 30 minutes or so, but that's about the extent of it.
As a relatively new coffee drinker, there are things about the art of coffee that still elude me. For example, why is the coffee I get in a restaurant always, always, always better than the stuff we make at work? And especially better than the coffee that comes out of our coffee-maker at home? Do they use better coffee? Better equipment? Distilled water? The blood of a goat? What's the differentiator here?
And when I get old, am I going to be one of those McDonald's Coffee Guys? You know the guys I'm talking about. They're the groups of old men who frequent McDonald's restaurants at about 9 o'clock every morning and sit there for hours drinking coffee while they argue, complain, and just generally have a good old time. Will that be me in 30 years? Is there some sort of law mandating that men of a certain age report to McDonald's every weekday morning at the same time? I guess I'll find out.
In the meantime, I love me some coffee. Oh yes, I do love me some coffee.
Monday, April 9, 2012
The never-ending horror of laundry
Families are all different. They come in a range of sizes, and each has its own unique personalities and dynamics.
But there is one constant that unites them all. No matter who we are, no matter how many people live in our house, there is something universal toward which we all direct our most intense hatred.
Laundry.
For many people, my wife included, laundry is the most evil of necessary evils. Short of increasing your clothing budget tenfold and just buying new clothes when the old stuff gets dirty, there's no way around doing the laundry.
I realize some people actually enjoy doing laundry. I can accept that, in the same way I can accept that some people are clinically insane.
And understand, this comes from a man who does almost zero laundry of his own. My wife is a stay-at-home mom who does my laundry for me. And I love her for it. Really, I cannot begin to express my gratitude for this saint of a woman who makes sure my underwear is washed, folded and put away every week.
My older three kids all do their own laundry, while Melanie at least folds and puts hers away. I'm sure Jack is just a few years away from being inducted into the family Laundry Club, too. I always thought this was a good strategic move by Terry, getting the kids to do their laundry independently. And it's not like it's difficult to motivate them. You just stop doing their clothes and suddenly they have tremendous incentive to learn how the washer and dryer work.
There was a time when I handled a decent percentage of the family laundry. This was years ago when Terry was working at Lincoln Electric and I was working nights at the News-Herald. I was home during the day, and while there were always plenty of other chores to tackle, it seemed a little lazy for me to just leave the full laundry hamper sitting there unattended. So I did laundry.
This was back when our family was less than half the size it is now. There was just me, Terry and Elissa, so the volume wasn't that bad. My problem with laundry is that I'm painfully slow at it. First, I insist on looking at every tag to see whether a particular item is supposed to be washed in hot or cold, whether it needs to be turned inside out, if it's safe to bleach, etc.
Terry just knows all of this instinctively, of course. She can get a load of laundry going in seconds. It takes me several minutes. If nothing else, I'm doing my best to defy the stereotype of men being inept at laundry and turning everything they wash into a dull shade of pink.
Then there's the folding, another thing I do v-e-r-y- s-l-o-w-l-y. I can do it, and I do an OK job of it, but Terry can fold three shirts in the time it takes me to fold one. And they end up looking much nicer than the ones I do. As it is with home maintenance, you either have the folding gene or you don't. I, it must be said, do not. But I try.
I just can't get over how much stuff goes through our laundry room. I would be interested to know the actual amount of laundry, in tons, that Terry does every year. I usually try to make sure the full laundry baskets are at least carried down into the basement for her, but from that point on, she's the star of the show. She washes, dries, folds and puts away my clothes, her clothes and Jack's clothes, while also washing Melanie's clothes and putting them out for Mel to fold.
And it never stops. I try not to contribute too much to the laundry pile, but it almost doesn't matter. The Mound O' Unwashed Garments grows exponentially in a frightening and seemingly impossible way. We'll go on vacation for a week, and when we get home, even before we unpack our suitcases, it's clear that the amount of dirty laundry has doubled since we left. How does this happen? Do people break into our house while we're gone and throw their own stuff into the clothes baskets? This is the only possible explanation.
I have to hand it to American appliance manufacturers. We obviously use our washer and dryer a lot, but other than a recent problem with the dryer's heating element that resulted in a $100-plus repair, these machines have held up well.
One of these days when I become rich (NOTE: This will never actually happen. Just work with me here.), I'm going to hire someone specifically to do our laundry, thereby saving Terry a whole lot of time and effort.
But I'll bet you 10 to 1 that our in-house laundry professional won't be nearly as good as she is at folding my tighty whiteys. Just saying.
But there is one constant that unites them all. No matter who we are, no matter how many people live in our house, there is something universal toward which we all direct our most intense hatred.
Laundry.
For many people, my wife included, laundry is the most evil of necessary evils. Short of increasing your clothing budget tenfold and just buying new clothes when the old stuff gets dirty, there's no way around doing the laundry.
I realize some people actually enjoy doing laundry. I can accept that, in the same way I can accept that some people are clinically insane.
And understand, this comes from a man who does almost zero laundry of his own. My wife is a stay-at-home mom who does my laundry for me. And I love her for it. Really, I cannot begin to express my gratitude for this saint of a woman who makes sure my underwear is washed, folded and put away every week.
My older three kids all do their own laundry, while Melanie at least folds and puts hers away. I'm sure Jack is just a few years away from being inducted into the family Laundry Club, too. I always thought this was a good strategic move by Terry, getting the kids to do their laundry independently. And it's not like it's difficult to motivate them. You just stop doing their clothes and suddenly they have tremendous incentive to learn how the washer and dryer work.
There was a time when I handled a decent percentage of the family laundry. This was years ago when Terry was working at Lincoln Electric and I was working nights at the News-Herald. I was home during the day, and while there were always plenty of other chores to tackle, it seemed a little lazy for me to just leave the full laundry hamper sitting there unattended. So I did laundry.
This was back when our family was less than half the size it is now. There was just me, Terry and Elissa, so the volume wasn't that bad. My problem with laundry is that I'm painfully slow at it. First, I insist on looking at every tag to see whether a particular item is supposed to be washed in hot or cold, whether it needs to be turned inside out, if it's safe to bleach, etc.
Terry just knows all of this instinctively, of course. She can get a load of laundry going in seconds. It takes me several minutes. If nothing else, I'm doing my best to defy the stereotype of men being inept at laundry and turning everything they wash into a dull shade of pink.
Then there's the folding, another thing I do v-e-r-y- s-l-o-w-l-y. I can do it, and I do an OK job of it, but Terry can fold three shirts in the time it takes me to fold one. And they end up looking much nicer than the ones I do. As it is with home maintenance, you either have the folding gene or you don't. I, it must be said, do not. But I try.
I just can't get over how much stuff goes through our laundry room. I would be interested to know the actual amount of laundry, in tons, that Terry does every year. I usually try to make sure the full laundry baskets are at least carried down into the basement for her, but from that point on, she's the star of the show. She washes, dries, folds and puts away my clothes, her clothes and Jack's clothes, while also washing Melanie's clothes and putting them out for Mel to fold.
And it never stops. I try not to contribute too much to the laundry pile, but it almost doesn't matter. The Mound O' Unwashed Garments grows exponentially in a frightening and seemingly impossible way. We'll go on vacation for a week, and when we get home, even before we unpack our suitcases, it's clear that the amount of dirty laundry has doubled since we left. How does this happen? Do people break into our house while we're gone and throw their own stuff into the clothes baskets? This is the only possible explanation.
I have to hand it to American appliance manufacturers. We obviously use our washer and dryer a lot, but other than a recent problem with the dryer's heating element that resulted in a $100-plus repair, these machines have held up well.
One of these days when I become rich (NOTE: This will never actually happen. Just work with me here.), I'm going to hire someone specifically to do our laundry, thereby saving Terry a whole lot of time and effort.
But I'll bet you 10 to 1 that our in-house laundry professional won't be nearly as good as she is at folding my tighty whiteys. Just saying.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
The lazy person's guide to parent-teacher conferences
At least once a year, we parents are summoned to our child's school to participate in the ritual known as parent-teacher conferences. Ostensibly, the idea here is to find out what your child is learning, how well they're learning it, how they're behaving, and how mom and dad can help the educational process along.
I have no time for any of that. Seriously, I know it's terrible and that I should be deeply engaged in my child's school experience, but I'm really only concerned with three things when I attend a parent-teacher conference:
(1) Is my kid getting an "A" in your class?
(2) If not, in what specific area is the little ingrate falling behind so I can use that as leverage the next time he/she wants something?
(3) Are you inclined to tell me how awesome my son/daughter is? If so, I will give you one minute to expound on this thesis, after which I will likely get bored.
Again, I know I'm not modeling the best parenting behavior here, but I am being realistic. My life is busy. So is yours. I'm just looking for bottom-line information.
If there's anything in which I take pride, it's item #2 above. Well, not the part in which I blackmail my children based on their school performance, but rather the first part about how I automatically assume it's my kid's fault (and not the teacher's) if they're not getting an "A" in a given class. I would love to say that my little angels can do no wrong, but the reality is that most of the time when their grades slip, it's their own fault. And generally the reason is that they were too lazy to complete a certain assignment or to come in early to get help from the teacher.
And while we're on the subject, God bless teachers. I know the majority of you teachers love what you do, and as a consequence I love you for it. I'm not sure I could deal with whiny, misbehaving children all day AND have to listen to parents complain that I'm the reason their little darling is getting a "D" in my class. So kudos to all of you.
My favorite approach to parent-teacher conferences is the one they use at our local middle and high schools. You walk into the cafeteria and the teachers are seated at different tables around the room. It's like a teacher buffet, and you can pick and choose the ones you want to talk to, and in what order. Whoever came up with this idea is a genius.
We have five kids attending the school system from which my wife and I both graduated, so to say we're familiar with the people and personalities involved is risking gross understatement. We spend a good chunk of our conference time just chatting with the teachers about everything EXCEPT our children.
But when we do get around to discussing the topic at hand, it doesn't take that long. Because like I said, I'm just looking for cause, effect and outcome. Give me the grade. If it's an "A," there's not much more we need to talk about. If it's not, you tell me why and I'll take it from here. Case closed, we can all go home.
Sometimes, though, you'll come across the sort of teacher I call the Curriculum Whisperer. This is the person who wants to tell you every detail about what your child is learning in their class. And while this can actually be interesting at times, I keep glancing at my watch and thinking that if the explanation of how one goes about teaching fifth-graders basic economics is this boring, imagine how the actual class must be.
I also enjoy the Teacher Who Isn't 100% Sure Who Your Kid Is. This doesn't happen too often to us, given that we know so many of the teachers and have lived in this school district forever, but it's a lot of fun when it does. We'll approach a teacher and sit down at their table, and the teacher will give us a blank look and say, "Hiiiiiiii, uhhhhh...." And then there will be this awkward silence during which they're hoping we'll either identify ourselves or that the name of our child will suddenly pop into their head. I usually make them sweat it out for a few seconds before I finally relent and say, "Hi, we're Scott and Terry. We're Jared's parents." It's cruel, I know, but I'm trying to squeeze whatever entertainment out of this activity that I can.
Once we get home, we'll give a debriefing to the child or children we just spent an hour discussing. Generally speaking, the news will largely be positive and we all move on. But when there's an issue to be addressed or a particular grade to be bolstered, you can be sure that somebody is going to be doing extra chores for me to make up for it. That is, of course, if they ever want Daddy to open his wallet again when they're looking to go to the movies with their friends.
Being a parent is sometimes the funnest job ever...
I have no time for any of that. Seriously, I know it's terrible and that I should be deeply engaged in my child's school experience, but I'm really only concerned with three things when I attend a parent-teacher conference:
(1) Is my kid getting an "A" in your class?
(2) If not, in what specific area is the little ingrate falling behind so I can use that as leverage the next time he/she wants something?
(3) Are you inclined to tell me how awesome my son/daughter is? If so, I will give you one minute to expound on this thesis, after which I will likely get bored.
Again, I know I'm not modeling the best parenting behavior here, but I am being realistic. My life is busy. So is yours. I'm just looking for bottom-line information.
If there's anything in which I take pride, it's item #2 above. Well, not the part in which I blackmail my children based on their school performance, but rather the first part about how I automatically assume it's my kid's fault (and not the teacher's) if they're not getting an "A" in a given class. I would love to say that my little angels can do no wrong, but the reality is that most of the time when their grades slip, it's their own fault. And generally the reason is that they were too lazy to complete a certain assignment or to come in early to get help from the teacher.
And while we're on the subject, God bless teachers. I know the majority of you teachers love what you do, and as a consequence I love you for it. I'm not sure I could deal with whiny, misbehaving children all day AND have to listen to parents complain that I'm the reason their little darling is getting a "D" in my class. So kudos to all of you.
My favorite approach to parent-teacher conferences is the one they use at our local middle and high schools. You walk into the cafeteria and the teachers are seated at different tables around the room. It's like a teacher buffet, and you can pick and choose the ones you want to talk to, and in what order. Whoever came up with this idea is a genius.
We have five kids attending the school system from which my wife and I both graduated, so to say we're familiar with the people and personalities involved is risking gross understatement. We spend a good chunk of our conference time just chatting with the teachers about everything EXCEPT our children.
But when we do get around to discussing the topic at hand, it doesn't take that long. Because like I said, I'm just looking for cause, effect and outcome. Give me the grade. If it's an "A," there's not much more we need to talk about. If it's not, you tell me why and I'll take it from here. Case closed, we can all go home.
Sometimes, though, you'll come across the sort of teacher I call the Curriculum Whisperer. This is the person who wants to tell you every detail about what your child is learning in their class. And while this can actually be interesting at times, I keep glancing at my watch and thinking that if the explanation of how one goes about teaching fifth-graders basic economics is this boring, imagine how the actual class must be.
I also enjoy the Teacher Who Isn't 100% Sure Who Your Kid Is. This doesn't happen too often to us, given that we know so many of the teachers and have lived in this school district forever, but it's a lot of fun when it does. We'll approach a teacher and sit down at their table, and the teacher will give us a blank look and say, "Hiiiiiiii, uhhhhh...." And then there will be this awkward silence during which they're hoping we'll either identify ourselves or that the name of our child will suddenly pop into their head. I usually make them sweat it out for a few seconds before I finally relent and say, "Hi, we're Scott and Terry. We're Jared's parents." It's cruel, I know, but I'm trying to squeeze whatever entertainment out of this activity that I can.
Once we get home, we'll give a debriefing to the child or children we just spent an hour discussing. Generally speaking, the news will largely be positive and we all move on. But when there's an issue to be addressed or a particular grade to be bolstered, you can be sure that somebody is going to be doing extra chores for me to make up for it. That is, of course, if they ever want Daddy to open his wallet again when they're looking to go to the movies with their friends.
Being a parent is sometimes the funnest job ever...
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Mr. Please-Don't-Fix-It
I make no secret of my complete lack of mechanical ability. Nor do I think it would be possible to hide it anyway. Anyone who has seen me with a screwdriver knows that I am to household repairs what William Shatner is to singing.
My wife will happily share this fact with anyone who asks. And her favorite story, as many who frequent this blog know, is The Cat Door Story.
This happened almost 20 years ago, back when we were first married. We had three or four cats, and their food/water bowls and litter boxes were kept downstairs in the basement. Therefore, this required that the door to the basement always be left slightly ajar, which was often annoying.
Enter Manly Repair Guy (me). My perfectly logical thought was that, if we installed a little cat flap into the basement door, the cats could go in and out as they pleased and we could keep the basement door closed most of the time.
So I took a trip to a home improvement store. I can't even remember which one it was, but I'm sure it was one of those Home Depot Improvement Lowe's Come and Embarrass Yourself-type chain stores. I bought a cat door kit and brought it home, anxious to tackle this seemingly innocuous home maintenance project.
I took the door off the hinges (NOTE: The word "hinges" is an important plot point here. You'll see why in a moment) and lugged it to the small workbench in the basement. We had a couple of different saws down there, so I picked one -- almost certainly the wrong one, I'm sure -- and managed to rip out a facsimile of a square hole that approximated the dimensions of the one shown in the directions.
My cutting wasn't straight, of course, and even when the metal frame was placed around the hole, some of the opening still protruded beyond the outside of the frame. Still, it wasn't that bad, and I managed to screw the frame into the door in what was undoubtedly a sturdy and somewhat-correct manner. Then I placed the rubber flap into the frame and voila...a new cat door, and one that was achieved without any blood loss on my part. I was triumphant!
So I picked up the door and carried it back up the stairs to hang it again. I turned it so that the hinges were on the correct side and...well, the only word that comes to mind here is "disaster." Because you see, when the door was positioned such that the hinges were where they were supposed to be, my newly mounted cat flap was in fact about six feet in the air at the TOP of the door, rather than a few inches off the ground where it was supposed to be.
Yes, I had cut the hole on the wrong end of the door. And as you might imagine, it's somewhat difficult to patch a hole that's 10 inches square. "Mortified" is how I would describe my state of mind at the moment I realized this huge mistake.
The only thing I could think to do at that point was to hang the door up and prepare to tell Terry when she got home from work. I don't remember her exact reaction when she walked into the living room and saw that the cat door was much closer to the ceiling than it was to the floor, but I seem to recall extreme laughter resulting in tears. This, to her, was easily The Greatest Thing That Had Ever Happened in the History of the Universe.
The jokes that followed were predictable, including speculation that we would have to buy the cats stilts in order for them to get through their awesome new cat door.
Luckily, Terry has the mechanical gene and was able to fix the problem for me. She drilled new hinge holes into the door so it could be hung correctly. Eventually the flap was at cat's-eye level where it belonged. But the story itself would not die. It will never die. My guy friends at church, virtually all of whom have the ability to build multi-story office towers with their bare hands, will bring it up at least once a year. They laugh and laugh about it, and it forces me to admit that it IS a pretty funny story.
I am always happy to offer myself up as unskilled labor for anyone's home projects, but it comes with the warning that you should NOT give me tools of any kind. I'll haul, stack, rip out and handle your basic manual-labor chores and you'll be fine...just as long as you keep, say, the chainsaw away from me.
And as you might suspect, I don't do cat doors, either.
My wife will happily share this fact with anyone who asks. And her favorite story, as many who frequent this blog know, is The Cat Door Story.
This happened almost 20 years ago, back when we were first married. We had three or four cats, and their food/water bowls and litter boxes were kept downstairs in the basement. Therefore, this required that the door to the basement always be left slightly ajar, which was often annoying.
Enter Manly Repair Guy (me). My perfectly logical thought was that, if we installed a little cat flap into the basement door, the cats could go in and out as they pleased and we could keep the basement door closed most of the time.
So I took a trip to a home improvement store. I can't even remember which one it was, but I'm sure it was one of those Home Depot Improvement Lowe's Come and Embarrass Yourself-type chain stores. I bought a cat door kit and brought it home, anxious to tackle this seemingly innocuous home maintenance project.
I took the door off the hinges (NOTE: The word "hinges" is an important plot point here. You'll see why in a moment) and lugged it to the small workbench in the basement. We had a couple of different saws down there, so I picked one -- almost certainly the wrong one, I'm sure -- and managed to rip out a facsimile of a square hole that approximated the dimensions of the one shown in the directions.
My cutting wasn't straight, of course, and even when the metal frame was placed around the hole, some of the opening still protruded beyond the outside of the frame. Still, it wasn't that bad, and I managed to screw the frame into the door in what was undoubtedly a sturdy and somewhat-correct manner. Then I placed the rubber flap into the frame and voila...a new cat door, and one that was achieved without any blood loss on my part. I was triumphant!
So I picked up the door and carried it back up the stairs to hang it again. I turned it so that the hinges were on the correct side and...well, the only word that comes to mind here is "disaster." Because you see, when the door was positioned such that the hinges were where they were supposed to be, my newly mounted cat flap was in fact about six feet in the air at the TOP of the door, rather than a few inches off the ground where it was supposed to be.
Yes, I had cut the hole on the wrong end of the door. And as you might imagine, it's somewhat difficult to patch a hole that's 10 inches square. "Mortified" is how I would describe my state of mind at the moment I realized this huge mistake.
The only thing I could think to do at that point was to hang the door up and prepare to tell Terry when she got home from work. I don't remember her exact reaction when she walked into the living room and saw that the cat door was much closer to the ceiling than it was to the floor, but I seem to recall extreme laughter resulting in tears. This, to her, was easily The Greatest Thing That Had Ever Happened in the History of the Universe.
The jokes that followed were predictable, including speculation that we would have to buy the cats stilts in order for them to get through their awesome new cat door.
Luckily, Terry has the mechanical gene and was able to fix the problem for me. She drilled new hinge holes into the door so it could be hung correctly. Eventually the flap was at cat's-eye level where it belonged. But the story itself would not die. It will never die. My guy friends at church, virtually all of whom have the ability to build multi-story office towers with their bare hands, will bring it up at least once a year. They laugh and laugh about it, and it forces me to admit that it IS a pretty funny story.
I am always happy to offer myself up as unskilled labor for anyone's home projects, but it comes with the warning that you should NOT give me tools of any kind. I'll haul, stack, rip out and handle your basic manual-labor chores and you'll be fine...just as long as you keep, say, the chainsaw away from me.
And as you might suspect, I don't do cat doors, either.
Monday, April 2, 2012
The ins and outs of kid-bragging
There are a lot of great stories about my dad. Usually they're about things he would say or habits of his that would make us all laugh.
The one that comes to mind a lot these days is the way he would claim ownership of us as his children if, and only if, we did something good. If not, we belonged solely to our mom. For example, I played five years of football and was a running back. If I did something wrong, like fumble the ball, he would always lean over to someone and say, "Did you see what Kathryn's kid just did?" But if I scored a touchdown, well then I was clearly Bob Tennant's Kid.
He was just messing around, I know, but that kind of thing was SO him. It was his joking way of dealing with what I've come to realize were intense feelings of pride and love for his kids. He didn't grow up in a situation where he received a lot of love from his parents, so I suppose he wasn't sure how to deal with and/or show it to his own kids.
One of the fun things about being a parent is when your children do something great. We may not admit it, but I think deep down we all feel that any accomplishment of theirs is in some way ours, too. After all, we raised the kid, right? We taught them everything they know. That child is MY creation. (This, of course, leaves God embarrasingly out of the equation. I imagine He tends to be a little bemused when we think that way.)
In the 21st century, many parents use Facebook as a way to tout their kids' achievements. Some people are annoyed by this, but I absolutely love it. Seriously, I enjoy reading about what my friends' kids are doing, especially if I've known the kids since they were babies. And it's not only what the young ones themselves have done, but also how intensely proud I know their parents are.
Of course, it's also possible to abuse this privilege, or for it to just plain backfire. If you post something like "So proud that little Johnny managed to pass two of his five classes this semester! His parole officer will be pleased," then I'm going to mock you. Openly. You have asked for this sort of treatment.
On the other end of the spectrum, don't gloat too much, either. If your kid is offered a full ride to Harvard, there are two ways to announce this news:
THE RIGHT WAY: "Mary will be attending Harvard University in the fall on a full academic scholarship. Congratulations to my wonderful daughter!"
THE WRONG WAY: "Mary's going to Harvard and I want you losers to guess how much it's going to cost us...NOTHING! That's right, NOTHING! WOO HOO! While your little simpleton is struggling at community college, my kid will be soaking up a FREE Ivy League education. WHO'S THE MAN? WHO'S THE MAN? That's right, me! ME! In your face!"
I don't often get to sit in the stands with other parents at my kids' sporting events because I'm usually on the field coaching. But when I do get the opportunity to spectate, I find there's an interesting passive-aggressive dynamic among, say, the soccer parents. Our team will score a goal and everyone will clap, especially the parents of the kid who got the goal. But I can almost see the little thought bubbles over some of the other parents' heads as they think to themselves, "Well, YEAH, of course your kid scored a goal. That's what happens when you NEVER PASS THE **** BALL."
We're intensely protective of our kids, aren't we? And that's good. It's your job to be that way. But when it results in you denegrating the ball-sharing habits of a 10-year-old, then maybe you're taking it too far...
Anyway, the point is, there's a fine line between taking pride in your child's accomplishments and becoming That Parent. You don't ever want to become That Parent, the one who constantly brags about their own kid while subtly putting down everyone else's children. Once you become That Parent, you can never go back. You will be branded forever.
Oh, and before I forget, Elissa is getting a whole pile of college scholarship offers, Chloe is a finalist to be picked for a three-week trip to Brazil, Jared led his indoor soccer team in goals, Melanie was awesome in the middle school play, and Jack is a genius who has been reading since he was in the womb. But I don't want to brag...
The one that comes to mind a lot these days is the way he would claim ownership of us as his children if, and only if, we did something good. If not, we belonged solely to our mom. For example, I played five years of football and was a running back. If I did something wrong, like fumble the ball, he would always lean over to someone and say, "Did you see what Kathryn's kid just did?" But if I scored a touchdown, well then I was clearly Bob Tennant's Kid.
He was just messing around, I know, but that kind of thing was SO him. It was his joking way of dealing with what I've come to realize were intense feelings of pride and love for his kids. He didn't grow up in a situation where he received a lot of love from his parents, so I suppose he wasn't sure how to deal with and/or show it to his own kids.
One of the fun things about being a parent is when your children do something great. We may not admit it, but I think deep down we all feel that any accomplishment of theirs is in some way ours, too. After all, we raised the kid, right? We taught them everything they know. That child is MY creation. (This, of course, leaves God embarrasingly out of the equation. I imagine He tends to be a little bemused when we think that way.)
In the 21st century, many parents use Facebook as a way to tout their kids' achievements. Some people are annoyed by this, but I absolutely love it. Seriously, I enjoy reading about what my friends' kids are doing, especially if I've known the kids since they were babies. And it's not only what the young ones themselves have done, but also how intensely proud I know their parents are.
Of course, it's also possible to abuse this privilege, or for it to just plain backfire. If you post something like "So proud that little Johnny managed to pass two of his five classes this semester! His parole officer will be pleased," then I'm going to mock you. Openly. You have asked for this sort of treatment.
On the other end of the spectrum, don't gloat too much, either. If your kid is offered a full ride to Harvard, there are two ways to announce this news:
THE RIGHT WAY: "Mary will be attending Harvard University in the fall on a full academic scholarship. Congratulations to my wonderful daughter!"
THE WRONG WAY: "Mary's going to Harvard and I want you losers to guess how much it's going to cost us...NOTHING! That's right, NOTHING! WOO HOO! While your little simpleton is struggling at community college, my kid will be soaking up a FREE Ivy League education. WHO'S THE MAN? WHO'S THE MAN? That's right, me! ME! In your face!"
I don't often get to sit in the stands with other parents at my kids' sporting events because I'm usually on the field coaching. But when I do get the opportunity to spectate, I find there's an interesting passive-aggressive dynamic among, say, the soccer parents. Our team will score a goal and everyone will clap, especially the parents of the kid who got the goal. But I can almost see the little thought bubbles over some of the other parents' heads as they think to themselves, "Well, YEAH, of course your kid scored a goal. That's what happens when you NEVER PASS THE **** BALL."
We're intensely protective of our kids, aren't we? And that's good. It's your job to be that way. But when it results in you denegrating the ball-sharing habits of a 10-year-old, then maybe you're taking it too far...
Anyway, the point is, there's a fine line between taking pride in your child's accomplishments and becoming That Parent. You don't ever want to become That Parent, the one who constantly brags about their own kid while subtly putting down everyone else's children. Once you become That Parent, you can never go back. You will be branded forever.
Oh, and before I forget, Elissa is getting a whole pile of college scholarship offers, Chloe is a finalist to be picked for a three-week trip to Brazil, Jared led his indoor soccer team in goals, Melanie was awesome in the middle school play, and Jack is a genius who has been reading since he was in the womb. But I don't want to brag...