Category: Family

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Family

Tattoos

The kids made their own “tattoos” tonight.

They’ve been fascinated with them from the very start- their very first one. Those little fake tattoos that come in cereal boxes and the like. The Wife or I would cut them out of the sheet, then the kids would pick the spot to place them on and finally we’d hold a sponge on their arm for awhile. If everything went right, the image would stick to their skin and voila! They had been pseudo inked.

I suppose the ease of the process lent itself to them enjoying it. It quickly became a process they could do with minimal supervision. After a few minutes, there would be a trail of little wet paper pieces on the floor from the table to the sink, multiple sopped sponges would be laying wherever, surrounding the wet pieces of paper were puddles of water and the kids would have pictures of animals and spaceships and whatever on any free area of skin.

So tonight, they decided to kick it up a notch. They wanted to make their own. The asked me how it’s done, but I told them I didn’t know. Then they asked if using wax paper would work.

Maybe? Possibly? How the heck am I supposed to know? I suppose I could’ve googled it, but I had other … motivations at that moment. Like not wanting a massive wet-paper project developing 30 minutes prior to bedtime.

Several minutes later, the squeals of delight made it apparent they’d had some success. It turns out that normal paper colored with marker and then using a soaked sponge will indeed transfer the ink to their skin. After a couple more minutes, they were trying different designs- the boy had an asterisk on the back of his hand, the lass had some kind of … purple blob on the back of hers.

With their process all worked out, they declared that they were open for business. No, really. They want to put a sign up at the top of the driveway advertising their tattoos. They were already talking about ramping up production and the boy was trying to figure out pricing. At one point he commented “They aren’t that good yet, what do you think Dad, are they worth 25 cents?”

All I can say is this planning stage was priceless.

Then, the boy had another thought. Would they have to get permission from “the governor or something like that” to sell tattoos? I tried to explain as simply as possible that they might need to get some kind of license from the government. He was a bit deflated at that point. Good ol’ government, killing free market ideas one at a time…

Then they decided that they could just keep it in the family. That’s when he handed me a tattoo they’d made just for me- a green ‘D’ for my college alma mater. Guess I’ll end up being their first customer.

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Family

The Boy’s World- Shattered

With age comes responsibility and, sometimes, privilege.

The lass learned that today. In our home state, there is no law specifying exactly when a child may ride in the front seat. Both of our kids are above average in height and weight, so they’ve been out of booster seats from the earliest that could happen. But we age limited them for riding in the front seat. Prior to today, only the boy was deemed old enough to ride in the front seat for rides around town and the like.

Actually, that last statement isn’t entirely true. The lass was deemed old enough at her most recent birthday. But it wasn’t until today that I took a moment to make her aware of the new privilege.

Thus ended the boy’s nearly 2-year, uncontested reign as the only qualified proprietor of the car’s shotgun position. Well, aside from the Wife or myself that is. All things considered, he took it like I expected him to- about the same as if I’d told him we’d be removing one of his arms.

Time wise, his world ended about 5:05PM EST. His martial arts lesson had just concluded and we were headed out to the car. The lass did exactly what I expected her to do- she made sure to be the first one to the car. The boy was still unawares as to the change in the family power structure so was completely unsuspecting of what she was doing, but not for much longer.

I had barely unlocked and opened the car door on my side and the lass was already in the passenger seat. The boy was temporarily taken aback at her seeming brazenness. He tried to tell her she wasn’t allowed in the passenger seat. I had to step in and correct and remind him. He still didn’t want to believe it and tried to argue with me that he had to wait much longer than his sister had and it wasn’t fair. I was temporarily sucked into the argument, then caught myself. Defeated, he huffily climbed into the back seat.

The boy had come to view the passenger seat as his privilege as opposed to a privilege. He even stated that because he was older he should be allowed to sit there. I mainly opted to allow him to vent his frustrations, rather than arguing or trying to impart some kind of understanding. I knew from experience he wouldn’t listen anyway.

I’m fully aware of the headaches that await me- the contests and races to come to be the first to the car. The whining and crying from the “loser” of those races. The sneaky, underhanded doings to claim the throne- like one of them going out to the car 15 minutes ahead of time to claim the seat (my money is on the lass pulling this one first). Then they’ll learn the “shotgun” game and that will breed arguments about how long before the ride “shotgun” can be claimed ; how long it remains in effect afterward; whether it has to be called again if we get out of the car.

They also get a chance to learn that a privilege can be revoked, temporarily or permanently. The ride into school tomorrow should be interesting.

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Family

His First Real Test

This week is Stripe Testing week at the boy’s martial arts school. The school has these evaluations at the end of each month to give the students a chance to progress through the belt levels. The boy currently is at the red level and needed only 1 more stripe to qualify to graduate to the next belt level- his last prior to becoming an apprentice. So he’s getting real close.

He went on Monday and after testing the instructors said they’d be giving him his stripe but that he needed to get an “Intent to Promote” form filled out. This is a supplemental form they use to solicit feedback from the parents and even school teachers to make sure that they are applying things they learn to other aspects of their lives such as being a good student, helping around the house and so forth.

So I took him to class again last night (he’s supposed to go, minimally, twice a week). That’s when things took a little detour.

On Monday, the instructors running the class were the usual Monday crew, but their are also not the head instructors. The head instructors were there for Wednesday and they essentially re-evaluated him and, to cut to the chase, they did not promote him to the next level. They had him perform his belt level form several times- twice with a group and then a final time on his own, and they deemed it not up to par yet. Being familiar with the form, I couldn’t disagree with their assessment (I’ll have to do the same one to attain my next belt level.)

To his credit, he did it as well as I’ve seen him. I don’t know what happened with the other red belts whom tested on the same form.

When he came out, the boy was, unsurprisingly, upset. Not to the point of tears, but unhappy because he thought after Monday that he’d be graduating. He was blabbering about how he would be stuck at the red level forever and ever and I decided I’d just let him blow off steam without commenting. We’ve all been disappointed before and sometimes we just need to vent frustrations. I realized the boy is no different, so I let him vent. So long as he didn’t get out of hand.

When we got home and the boy informed her about the results, the Wife was also upset about how it turned out.

I was initially disappointed for him as well. That said, I also felt it was an opportunity to test the boy’s mettle. To this point, he had advanced on time through every belt level. As his belt level increased, I began wondering when the lack of crispness and body control would start to catch up to him.

One thing I’ve tried to maintain with both kids is the ability to honestly evaluate their abilities. I don’t know that I always succeed, particularly with schooling, but with the martial arts stuff I feel I’m a decent judge. I thought on more than one occasion that he could stand to be held back a bit at previous belt levels, but they continued to move him along. I had refrained from interfering with them because I realize the instructors have seen 100’s, if not 1000’s, of different kids go through their school at this point and many had made it to black belt. I’ve also seen the quality of their adult and teen black belts and can say that they are well taught and skilled practitioners. In other words, they know what they are doing. And here now, finally, was a moment where they basically told him “It’s not good enough.” He will have to work to improve himself and his technique.

On the way home, while he continued to vent he lamented that he didn’t even know what he’d done wrong or what he should do to improve it. I took a chance and explained three different parts of the form that would make it significantly better. He listened quietly to them. When I was done he complained “That’s a lot…” I didn’t think so, though. He had already learned the whole form, which was a lot more than 3 things, and he did more of the form correctly than not. He seemed to calm down a bit after that. Perhaps the idea of a direction helped to comfort him.

Neither the Wife nor I ever felt that attaining his black belt should be a pro forma matter. Indeed, part of the reason for signing him up was to give him something challenging to attain to. So that he might be given the opportunity to learn that success takes work. Here, now, he will finally begin to receive that lesson.

Whether he learns it remains to be seen.

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Family

Setting a Good Example

In this case, it was what I didn’t do that hopefully left an impression.

But first, a little back story.

At the boy’s Cub Scout meeting, I came up with the notion of making some kind of home made rocket. Not just one to build, but one that would actually launch. I didn’t have any bright ideas off the top of my head, but a little googling about revealed a clever design: building a rocket around an old 35-mm film cannister and using an Alka Selzer and water to fuel it.

I was in luck, because the Wife happened to have a bunch of old cannisters. Unfortunately, the caps were the type that fit over the edges, rather than a plug-style cap that pushed down inside the cannister. But I was resourceful and fashioned several “corks” out of oak. I managed to get them to a pretty good fit and my test with one of them allowed for a pretty good pop. That seemed promising, so I went with it.

I assembled the other things I needed and then at the end of our Den meeting, I had them start building their rockets. I explained what we’d be doing and they were all quite excited. Unfortunately, the reality didn’t live up to the hype. The wood was too slick and wouldn’t hold well enough to build up some good pressure to really launch the rockets.

This annoyed me.

So I kind of set my mind to thinking about it in the background- how could I increase the friction of the cork with the cannister while still maintaining a decent seal? The idea that occurred was to coat the cork with a few layers of polyurethane. I’ve noticed in the past the poly has a kind of tacky quality to it and doesn’t slide well on plastic, so perhaps this would give the desired result.

So this afternoon, with the kids home on schedule half-day, I sat down with the corks and a can of polyurethane. To coat the cork I simply drove a drywall screw a turn or so into the wood then, using the screw as a handle, I dipped the cork in the poly. Upon pulling it out, I held it over the can and let it drip and then began rolling the screw in my fingers to try and work off the last bit of the poly.

By this point, both kids had joined me at the table, temporarily interested in what I was doing. I was explaining the basic idea to them when my fingers fumbled the cork and it dropped- PLUNK!– into the can of poly.

I was pissed- but I didn’t say a thing. I just sat there, staring at it. It was just the sort of clumsy thing that drives me crazy.

Then I realized, both kids had fallen completely silent and were just staring at… me. They were waiting. Waiting and watching to see what I was going to do. Would I blow my stack? Would I start swearing like sailor and berate myself for my clumsiness? WHAT WILL DAD DO?

In the end, I let out a sigh. I got up. I went into the garage and found my needle nose pliers. I brought these back into the house and plucked the cork out of the can of poly, then started the whole process over again of trying to get the last bit of drips off it.

PLUNK!

It slipped out of the pliers and fell right back into the can. Again, I just stared at it, and the kids watched me. After a second or so, as I began to reach back into the can with the pliers, at which point the boy observed “Guess it’s a good thing you got those pliers, huh Dad?” I chuckled, and so did both kids.

This time around, I made sure not to do anything over the can and wiped off the excess using a foam brush.

I remember things from when I was growing up that my parents don’t remember. All kinds of things- some impressionable and some not. I don’t know that there’s any particular rhyme or reason to them, they are just scenes that, for whatever reason, stuck with me for all these years. I presume the boy and the lass will be the same. I don’t know if this one in particular will stick with them, though I suspect it might as much as I could anything like that based on their intense observance of the key moments.

We stress to the kids that things don’t always go right or the way you expect them to and that it happens for everyone and in anything. Major things like people getting sick and minor things like Cub Scout corks that get dropped into polyurethane cans. We try to impress upon them that the important thing is not that it happened, but how they react to what happens. Don’t lose your cool; if it’s a problem, think about how to solve it. Don’t get upset, don’t throw tantrums; don’t start crying; don’t get mad. None of that helps.

Maybe, today was an example they’ll remember.

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Family

Rush Jobs

For all of our efforts early on with the boy and homework, they’ve paid off in the respect that he’s diligent about getting his homework done. We rarely, if ever, have to remind him to work on it and he typically has it done well ahead of the required completion date. This is likely more to do with the Wife’s side of the family, as I was more of a last-minute kind-a-guy growing up. But, it’s difference I have no qualms about.

One might expect an “All’s well that end’s well” sort of finish here. Unfortunately, we fall a little short of the mark there. More recently, it’s become apparent that the boy has actually created a competition with several other students in his class to be the first to turn in completed homework. I pretty sure this isn’t a formalized sort of competition; rather, it exists in the boy’s mind.

His emphasis on being first has revealed a tendency towards sloppy work completion. Writing is loaded with punctuation, grammatical and spelling errors. Simple math mistakes are made. In some cases, it’s apparent he didn’t take the time to understand what certain reading comprehension questions were asking.

I suppose all of this might be more tolerable if he accepted our criticisms of his homework and simply made the corrections. But it’s not that simple. First, he has to express his frustration at having so many mistakes pointed out to him. Then, he has to feel sorry for himself because “everything he does is wrong.” If we’re lucky, he fixes things and moves on. If not, we get an extended dose of drama of and he starts to get snippy with the Wife or I. Things don’t end well for him at that point.

So the Wife and I have started trying to retrain his brain about homework. As stated, we don’t mind his desire to be first but we’re trying to teach him to take the time to get things right the first time. As I stated to him at one point “Being first and wrong is worse than being last and right.” (Puts me right up there with Confucius I’d say.) We’ve also pointed out all the extra work he creates for himself when he has to redo so much of it.

Also troubling are the continued fits he throws at the Wife or I when we commit the grave sin of pointing out his mistakes, also known as helping him. If I had a nickel for every time we’ve talked about that tendency, well, I wouldn’t need any nickels.

All part and parcel of growing up I suppose. I’ve long since given up on the notion that raising a kid, or two, is a smooth glide from the hospital to their first job. Anymore, I expect the hiccups to manifest themselves, although it does occasionally surprise where those hiccups crop up. This is his first year with real homework. I’m sure things will improve from here.

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Family

Credit When It’s Due

The lass’ birthday is upcoming, thus this past weekend served as a her big celebration.

Saturday she had a party with friends at local pottery store. Don’t roll your eyes- by all accounts it was well done. She had a small group of friends and they all got to paint pieces of pottery. There was an instructor who showed them what they needed to know and the Wife provided the cake and other party favors while her friends provided some gifts. Towards the end, the instructor even demonstrated how to make vases and bowls using a pottery wheel. He wowed the girls, and the Moms, by effortlessly transforming a lump of clay into various vases and bowls.

Yesterday was family day as her Grandparents and Aunt spent the afternoon and she got the dinner of her choice, which was pasta. She got a few more gifts and then watched How to Train Your Dragon. Twice- because Memere didn’t see it the first time it showed.

Through it all, the boy was present. Through it all, the boy sat patiently and quietly by and didn’t try to interfere with his sister’s temporary spotlight. He played games with her and didn’t pick fights with her or, at least, much fewer than usual. He was, in short, the sort of brother most parents would like their son to be on a sibling’s birthday. Conversely, as many parents, I think, will tell you, he was the sort of sibling they don’t get.

So tonight, When I said my “Goodnights” to him, I made sure to let him know he’d done well. Seeing as I’m alway sure to tell him when he isn’t, it was the proper thing to do.

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Family

Sick

Finally succumbed to, well, something anyway. I can’t say it’s what’s been going around because it’s only been about 24 hours; whereas most of what I’ve heard about lasts for a few days.

And while I’m on this topic, let me just get a little graphic here and say that vomiting has to be the most miserable bodily function experience there is. First off, there’s that funny feeling in your stomach where you know something isn’t quite right and you think “Maybe I shouldn’t have put horseradish on my eggs and sausage this morning along with 3 cups of coffee.” But denial sets in and you figure “I’ll just sip on water and give it some time, I’ll be right as rain in a couple hours.”

A couple hours later, things haven’t improved and, gee, maybe you I shouldn’t have gone to the gym for a workout after all. No lunch and now things are starting to get a little bloated down there. At this point, the thought occurs that toilet hugging is in your future.

After a another hour or so, you get that first confirmation. The sensation is almost imperceptible, certainly indescribable, and unfortunately undeniable- something in your gut just kicked in. It’s T-minus time, and Mount Vesuvius will have nothing on you in a few moments.

When the moment finally does arrive, the only good thing is you’ve located yourself over the toilet so you won’t have to clean up anything more than absolutely necessary. Mainly yourself. The spasms rip through you. Snot seeps out your nose and down you cheeks, but you could care less about that because the past couple of meals is pouring out of you. You close your eyes and hang on because, really, there’s nothing else you can do. To add further insult, chunks of food are getting stuffed up your nose.

Finally, that first break comes where it could be over. But it’s not. There’s still a thimble-full of something down there that has to be purged. Somehow, this part is even worse than the previous waves. Your mouth tastes like 4-day old socks that saw double-shifts in coal plant. Liquid is dripping off your face- some God-awful combination of stomach goop, snot and spit. You don’t dare open your eyes, lest you’ll be staring at your stomach contents. You reach out for the toilet handle and then the heaves start. Your body spasms and now things hurt.

Finally, it’s over. Your stomach feels better, but there’s that taste in your mouth and all that stuff dripping off your face. And, when did your nose get all clogged up? Oh yeah…

So now the cleanup phase begins. Rinse your mouth out with some water, but don’t dare swallow. Wash your face off with cool water- that feels good. Then blow your nose, once, twice, three times. Chunks of food are still coming out. Finally, brush your teeth. Then, back to the toilet to clean up whatever didn’t make it into the toilet. Finally, you go to a couch, maybe with a little water.

Really, is there anything worse that your body can throw at you?

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Family

Drama

I was bringing the boy to school from an orthodontist appointment. He had braces when he was young because his adult teeth came in so early. The braces were removed awhile ago, but the orthodontist (is there a short version of that? “Ortho” sounds like weed killer…) has him come back every 3 months to make sure the adjustment is holding. So far, it has.

About 5 minutes from the school, he sniffled. Again. He’s been doing it constantly for the past couple of days. Earlier, while waiting at the orthodontist’s, he’d asked me what he could do to unclog his nose. Since it was still single digits outside, I suggested going outside and breathing in the cold air for a few minutes. Hey, it’s worked for me in the past.

He’d come back in and said it didn’t work. When I asked him if he’d taken deep slow breaths in through his nose, he replied “OOOOOOOOOH…” Apparently, he’d been breathing through his mouth. So he went back out, then came back in. Still didn’t work. Oh well, I’m not a doctor.

But here, in the car, after this sniffle he let out a long exasperated sigh and whined “Why do I always get this stuffy nose for 2 months?”

First, he doesn’t always get a stuffy nose. Seconds, it’s been 2 days, maybe. Third, what’s with the random precision of “2 months”? Why not something more general like “for so long”? It was remarkable the amount of emotion his nose had unleashed.

I corrected his exaggerations, which he grudgingly admitted to. Regarding the “2 months” thing, he retorted “Either way, it’s been too long.”

The lass got up a bit late this morning as is her wont. When she got downstairs, she huffed around and grunted a bit and offered no civilized courtesies like “Good morning.”

Then she sat down to put on her shoes.

Words would fail to truly capture the spectacle. Well, no- that’s not entirely true. I just can’t remember the steady torrent of frustration that she verbalized as she struggled with her “stupid shoes.”

Too listen to her, one could be totally convinced that her shoes were sentient beings with the sole purpose of thwarting her every attempt to get them on properly. Every time she pulled them on, something was wrong- a sock was messed up, it didn’t feel right, the shoe’s tongue got bound up. Her frustration level grew as the minutes passed and the shoes continued to frustrate her. By the end, she was screaming at the top of her lungs at her stupid shoes.

The dogs had retreated to the far corners of the house. The Wife looked on with bemused astonishment. I drank coffee, then counted the minutes to 8 o’clock- far too many.

When finally she succeeded, breakfast became her next challenge. She’s never sure what to have in th mornings because “It’s always the same thing.” Never mind that this circumstance has as much to do with her own finickiness as it does with the fact that there are only so many things that can be prepared in a timely manner for breakfast. She finally settled on syrup with waffles, which she’d had yesterday.

Upon returning home from dropping off the boy, the house was quiet. The dogs made a brief fuss upon my entry, but quickly settled down as I went about a few chores this morning. I took care of a little laundry. Then, I finished tidying up the kitchen. I restocked the wood by the fireplace in an attempt to keep the house warm- it’s remarkable how difficult single digit temps can make that task.

When I was done, I walked over to the couch, sat down and picked up my Nook and started perusing through the news and other goings on via the web. I let out a deep breath, relaxed and thought “That wasn’t so bad.”

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Family

Waffles with Her Syrup

Watching the lass eat waffles this morning, I realized she might not actually like the waffles. Rather, she just likes the pool of syrup that the waffles are drowning in along with the butter (or butter substitute) that melts and combines to form slicks in the syrup.

From this perspective, she’s basically performing a rescue operation for each piece of syrup-drizzling waffle she picks up from the plate. Poor thing gets tortured as she deliberates over which part she’ll rescue next, then she hacks away at it with her fork or knife. The syrup slopping over the sides of the plate in the mean time. The Perfect Storm on a breakfast plate.

I wonder, if we made her pour the leftover syrup back into the bottle, would that moderate her syrup usage? Not likely- the Wife or myself would need a wet-dry vac to clean up the syrup off the floor afterwards.

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Family

The Difference a Few Years Can Make

I don’t know if I was a typical new-parent when the boy was small. I tend to think I was, but mostly I just know that I’ve learned a lot in those years about parenting.

As least, I think I have.

I was one of those that, initially, saw every little thing the boy did, or didn’t do, as a predictor of what he would grow up to be. No matter how small or seemingly insignificant, there was always a way to rationalize it into something important about the person he’d become. The way he walked, the toys he played with, the words he used, how much he whined or didn’t, which food he ate, what his favorite color was, whatever. I recall that I wasn’t sleeping much either at the time, so that might have had something to do with it.

Sometime, I’d talk to my parents about it and the conversation would go something like this:

Me: Hey, he just ate a bug. What’s that mean?

Mom: OH. MY. GOD. Do you know how many bugs you ate at that age? If I had a nickel for every bug…

Or if I talked to my Dad:

Me: Hey, he just ate a bug. What’s going to happen?

Dad: A bug, huh? What kind was it?

Me: I don’t know, small, black. Why?

Dad: Hmm. You didn’t eat anything like that that I can recall, so I can’t really help you in this case. Let me check with your Mother first…

By the time the lass came along and started doing all the same things the boy had done, I realized I didn’t have to be so paranoid about every little thing either of them did, or didn’t do. It was a major relief for everyone.

I thought of that today when the boy fell asleep on the way to his martial arts class. The car has always had that effect on him. Early on, I figured he’d grow out of it. Of course, for longer rides it was a blessing. For shorter rides, it drove me nuts because I was worried he’d wake up grumpy after such a short sleep. So I wouldn’t let him sleep, I’d keep waking him or distracting him. But he would be so tired and the car’s effects were so great that he’d be doing the bob-and-weave only seconds later.

The dojang is only a 20 minute ride away and he fell asleep at about the midpoint of the ride. I hadn’t even noticed it when it happened. I didn’t bother waking him. Didn’t even consider it. And I felt more than a bit foolish for all those times I had chosen otherwise.

He woke up like magic when we arrived at the dojang. Literally, the car ignition went off and his eyes opened, like they’re connected somehow. No grumpiness, and no problems going to his class.

After we’d arrived home and he’d eaten, he asked me “Did I fall asleep in the car today?”

I was confused initially- how could he not remember? So I answered “You mean on the way to karate? Yeah, you fell asleep. About halfway there I think.”

“Guess the car still does that to me,” he said kind of sheepishly. Then he added “But it’s no big deal, right?”

“Yep,” I replied nonchalantly. “No big deal at all.”

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Family

Like a Rock

Dinner can be a frustrating thing at times around here, mostly due to the lass’ finickiness. And by finicky, I don’t mean she only likes each food a certain way, though there is that to some degree, rather what she likes changes with a rather startling amount of frequency.

So while at the grocery store today, I saw they had salmon fillets for $7 a pound, which was just too good to pass up. We hadn’t had salmon in awhile anyway. My only hesitation was I couldn’t remember what the lass’ opinion on salmon was at the moment. My recollection was it was in a “thumbs up” cycle, I just couldn’t be sure. But between the Wife, the boy and myself I figured my odds were good enough.

Well, it turned out I was wrong. Salmon was in a “thumbs down” cycle.

It was obvious from the moment she returned from dance that she wasn’t happy. I mean, sure, she wandered by the salmon fillets on the counter and declared them “gross.” But it was obvious based on how she’d entered that the Wife had informed her that salmon was on the menu and she wasn’t happy about it. She had a sour look on her face, her shoulders were slumped, her general demeanor was that exaggerated fatigue kids do when they aren’t in the mood to cooperate. She was oozing “pain in the ass.”

She actually disappeared just prior to serving the food and I was tempted to not make the effort to find her. Why ruin my own meal? Parental discipline won out though, as I found her in the next room. She slouched towards her chair and I gave her a couple of mouthfuls of salmon on her plate.

Miraculously, about halfway through dinner, her plate still basically untouched and shoved off to the side, the boy convinced her to try a bite of the salmon. He even proposed that I offer her a reward for at least trying it.

She took a bite and finished it.

Then, she took another bite and finished that one as well.

Finally, she begrudgingly reached over to her plate and pulled it in front of her. She picked up her fork, and she began to eat. In between mouthfuls, she muttered “I liked it better than I thought I would.”

And just like that, salmon is back in the “thumbs up” cycle.

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Family

Can Dads Do Anything Right

Saw this just now and followed the link. It’s related to a recent car commercial where a father and son are tossing a baseball together. The boy has horribly throwing form and the father is being patient and encouraging, only to reveal that he has worse throwing form than his son. So they sit there together tossing it back and forth next to this car.

To be honest, until I read the above links, I had no idea it was for a Passat.

I was actually talking about this commercial with the Wife and a friend yesterday. They both had theories about what the point of the commercial was- linking to the fact that it was a rugged car and people could comfortably throw a baseball next to it with horrible form.

Personally, I think it’s one of the genre of commercials where something amusing happens but you can’t for the life of you remember what the commercial was for. There are tons of these out there with clever little punch-liney setups, but don’t really have anything to do with product being sold. So, while the marketing firm gets an ‘A’ for creating a memorable TV moment, they get an ‘F’ for creating a useless ad- because no one can remember what the heck they’re selling after it’s over.

As for the stereotyping of Dads, well, see my previous post for whether or not we can be useful. For that matter, peruse the bread category or the woodworking category to get a feel for my personal answer. I also remember my own Father’s handiness while we were growing up- it’s the stuff of legend around our family. Not that everything went like clockwork, but “buffoon” is not a word you’d use to describe my Dad. I’ll let my kids judge me when the time comes.

More generally, to be honest, this sort of stuff rarely bothers me and when it does it’s more a fatigue of seeing the same silliness over and over. Everybody Loves Raymond was funny for about 2 episodes for me, then it was tedious, then it was uninteresting. I reckon that show made it’s living on the “Dad as buffoon” theme.

There’s also something a little unseemly about getting all upset about how Hollywood portrays Dads. I mean, do I need Hollywood to reaffirm the fact that I’m not a doofus? Hardly, and I can’t imagine the day will ever come that it does concern me. They need their story material, and apparently there’s a niche for this kind of thing. I think Dads do themselves more good by simply laughing it off, rather than playing an identity politics game.

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Family

Passing the Tongs

One thing the Wife and I both are proud of regarding the kids is their level of self-sufficiency, particularly where food is concerned. It’s not like they’re outside killing and cooking squirrels for snacks or anything, although the boy does have a bow and arrow. But they prepare their own lunches for school, prepare their own breakfasts and not infrequently help with dinners.

Tonight, the Wife decided on steaks for dinner, so I decided to let the boy do the bulk of the steak cooking. Grilling is one culinary area where the Wife has little to no interest in learning. Thus, I do all of the grilling so it was a simple matter to pull the boy in on the project.

A fortunate aspect of grilling steaks is it’s quick. From the time the grill comes up to temp, it takes maybe 10 minutes depending on how thick the steaks are. Thus, attention span is almost a non-issue- he does have to wait for the steaks to cook on each side.

I only had to give him a couple pointers regarding using the tongs. He wanted to hold them close to the grabbing end; kind of defeats the purpose of having the long tongs. Once he figured that out, and I realized that I had to hold the plate low enough for him to easily grab the meat off the plate, he was in good shape. We passed the time tossing snowballs for a bit then he flipped the steaks. I explained the basic idea for cooking steaks: getting the grill as hot as possible then cooking each side for a few minutes so that the steak is cooked but still tender in the middle.

Not to be outdone, the lass learned how to cook “mushroom rice.” This is a particularly tasty version of rice that uses beef consumme and butter along with sliced mushrooms when cooking the rice. It’s very tasty and one of the lass’ favorites. It’s also pretty easy for her to help with since it basically consists of dumping everything into a bowl. While she was at it, she also took care of setting the table.

When all was said and done, the Wife and I had a nice meal more or less prepared by the kids. Pretty good stuff. They aren’t ready to take over just yet, but they’re a step closer than they were.

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Family

Persistence and Patience

When I was a wee lad, probably about the boy’s age come to think of it, I would get writing assignments. I remember enjoying writing even then. I don’t think I had any particular gift for it or anything, but I read a fair amount and I also tried to write and I… just enjoyed it. I remember once sitting and starting to copy a book of animal fables. I don’t really recall the reason. Perhaps I was thinking that I really was writing in that delusional way kids look at the world. What else was I going to do, play with a DS?

My Mom was an English teacher, as fate allowed. So when I got my writing assignments from school and brought them home, I always had a writing hurdle to overcome. Mom would mercilessly cut through the words on the paper. “This isn’t a sentence. This is misspelled. This is OK, but confusing. You’ve written the same thing 5 different ways in one paragraph. There’s no structure. What were you supposed to be writing here?” By the time she got done with my initial cut, the page would look more like a wiring diagram or a blue print, anything but the alleged text I initially put down. It’s what she’s not an editor here on the blog…

Naturally, being an immature know-it-all, I took it well and cried.

By the time I was done fixing all the mistakes she’d pointed out I never felt like the paper was mine. I felt like it was hers. This was, of course, a crock on my part. She never told me what to write. She just guided me in the art of writing something that was minimally readable. But at the time, I recall the frustration of having my work ripped up like that. Looking back, I’m certain there was a personal aspect to it as well. When effort is put into something, it can be hard to accept criticism without taking it personally. All those lines and circles and comments make you feel stupid. They aren’t just lines on a paper, they’re lines on you and how you think and how you express yourself.

Like I said, immature.

I thought of all this today when the Wife was describing how she helped the boy through another writing assignment. It was the classic “What Did I Do on my Christmas Vacation” assignment. It’s due in a couple of days and before I headed out for a little sparring training tonight, I told the boy, as nonchalantly as I could lest I wake the insecurity beast within, he should organize his thoughts on paper; then write a rough draft that his Mom or I could read through and help him with; then write his final paper.

When I got home, to my astonishment, he’d written a page-and-a-half of text about his Christmas vacation. I read through it quickly and immediately picked out a number of misspellings, some capitalization issues, some punctuation issues and a couple of sentence fragments. That might sound like a lot, but it didn’t require any real structural changes or major rewrites. To his credit, it was well organized and readable and pretty close to a finished product, with few corrections I mentioned.

The boy was (quelle suprise!) upset that I’d picked out all those mistakes. Particularly with the spelling errors. We decided he could finish the corrections tomorrow night. After he’d gone to bed, the Wife described how she’d worked with him to get the almost-finished-product I’d read: eliminating the run-on sentences and the “And then we…” phrases, helping him decided what stuff to put in the paper, helping him organize it. She showed me the marked up first draft.

Somewhere around then, I realized the importance of quiet persistence. His reaction to my comments was emotional, as were mine those many years ago. But Mom’s persistence paid off and I internalized many of those lessons. It wasn’t something that occurred in one lesson, it was the cumulative act of writing, then breaking down what I’d written and forcing myself to think about what I wanted to say and how I wanted to tell it over many years that got me to the point where I could sit down and structure a paper or essay. Reading didn’t hurt either.

Similarly, the boy won’t all of a sudden have a light switch come on and start churning out prose like Nora Roberts. Rather, it will be the steady drip-drip-drip of forcing him to confront what he’s done and improve upon it.

Patience. Persistence.

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Family

Biting the Hand that Feeds You

One thing I’ve noticed about our kids is they have big mouths. Actually, my sense is this isn’t anything unusual and is more a normal kid thing. Possibly, it signals that they don’t get in trouble too much for running their mouths and therefore aren’t inhibited about saying whatever burbles up from the darkest recesses of their little minds. It could also just be that they don’t know when to shut up.

The lass had an amusing moment on Christmas day involving her Grandfather. One of her delights after a visit is to search the seat cushions for spare change that might have fallen from pockets. While sitting and watching the movie, she made a comment to her Grandfather that she was always finding coins after he left.

Later, he told the Wife that he was extra careful to make sure the change in his pockets was stuffed way down to the bottom and that the pockets weren’t riding up to dumping level. I don’t know if he performed an inventory as well- likely not. He was more amused by the exchange than anything.

Obviously, her loquaciousness redounded to his benefit. On the other hand, she won’t be finding spare change in the seat cushions anymore.

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Family

A Merry Christmas Day

Christmas day was a pleasant affair this year. Not that that’s unusual, but it just stuck me this year more than other years. Though, it didn’t start that way.

Our adventure started the night before, at bedtime on Christmas Eve. They were excited and we’d already opened presents to from one another and to one another. All that was left to wait on the Big Guy. The lass had no trouble drifting off like it was any other night.

The boy was an altogether different story.

His excitement was such that he couldn’t fall asleep like he normally does. Once out of that comfort zone, he started to worry. And once he started worrying, well, he couldn’t stop. It was around 9:30 or so that I noticed he was quietly weeping in his bed. When I asked him what was wrong, he simply whimpered that he couldn’t fall asleep.

When he get likes that, it really becomes a matter for the Wife to deal with. I don’t have much time for weeping over these sort of things and I was likely to not be all that understanding. Getting harsh with him on Christmas Eve didn’t seem like a sporting thing to do, so I went downstairs and apprised the Wife of the situation. She went up to try and help him out.

When she came down, she dropped the bad news: he was worried that because he couldn’t fall asleep Santa wouldn’t come because Santa can’t come until after they’ve fallen asleep. So he was going to ruin Christmas. It was a vicious circle because the longer he went without sleeping, the more upset he got because he became more convinced he wouldn’t fall asleep. Rinse. Repeat. Weep.

Time ticked away. The boy remained awake. The Wife and I both assumed he would eventually collapse from shear exhaustion. But the longer it took, the more it seemed like it would take. We knew it would be an early morning; thus, neither of us had planned on a late night. But it was getting late. As the night wore on, we were both extra vigilant for the sound of footsteps, since the boy particularly will on occasion just pop downstairs when he’s having trouble sleeping. He’d already called down from the top of the stairs earlier to inform us he couldn’t sleep. All we needed was for him to waltz down the steps already upset.

Finally, around 11:15, I turned off our Pandora. We’d had it playing all day and allowed it to continue after we’d put the kids to bed because we wanted some sound cover for our setup activities downstairs. We heard the boy get up and go to the bathroom and then go back to bed. We waited longer and finally decided enough was enough. We both finally headed to bed around 11:45. There was no noise coming from his room, so we assumed he was safely asleep.

I was up briefly at 4 to deal with the fire. I was as discreet as possible, since I didn’t want the kids coming down; my plan was to get some wood on the fire and go back to bed. It worked.

We first heard them head down around 5. The Wife said both of them poked their heads in our room shortly thereafter. We’d told them both not to wake us and not to open any presents until we were all downstairs. The Wife and I both tried to get some more sleep, but they were both loud enough to make getting back to sleep impossible. The Wife gave in first. I followed a short time after around 6AM.

The present opening festivities were well done this year. In past years, it’s been an explosion of paper and gifts, with extended cleanup efforts afterwards. This year, they set about their business like seasoned veterans- they’d done it before and wanted to prolong the experience. They took turns opening gifts, working together to pull things our from under the tree. They were civil, they were excited. It was fun actually. The Wife and I downed a couple of cups of coffee while they did their thing.

The remainder of the day was spent with them exploring their various gifts. The Wife’s parents arrived around 11 and her Aunt arrived in the early evening. Despite his late night and early rise, the boy made it through the entire day without a nap. That was more than could be said for his Grandparents. And me. The lass also managed to negotiate the entire day without any naps. We watched a few movies and had an early dinner. The guests headed out shortly after the kids went to bed.

When the dust settled, the Wife and I sat down and enjoyed a quiet rest-of-the-evening. The boy had no trouble falling asleep Christmas night. Christmas had come and gone, nothing to worry about anymore. We had no trouble falling asleep either. A Merry Christmas for all.

Hope yours was a Merry Christmas as well.

Categories
Family

Final Letters to Santa

Both kids are in bed now. They’ve setup Santa with a nice spread of cookies and also supplied 9 mini carrots for his reindeer. They’ve also put a big bowl of water out on the deck for them as well.

The lass has 3 letters for Santa. The first:

Dear Santa,

Sparky has bin eating to much JUNK food
he ate a candy cane and skittles and a Tootsie Roll and a cookie.
Santa give Sparky a apple.

From: the lass

The second:

Dear Santa

We are going to store Sparky gift upstairs.

Sparky I hope you like your gift

To: Santa

From: the lass

And third:

Dear Santa Clause,

Thank you for the present that you are gave me.

Frim: the lass

The boy wrote one final letter:

Dear Santa Clause,

Thank you for all of the presents they are all really nice. I think you and your elves are the best toy makers.

Tell Sparky I will really miss him.

Sincerely, the boy

As always, spelling and punctuation (or lack thereof) are preserved from the source material. The lass’ final letter also has a drawing of Santa and his sleigh along with 1 reindeer. She also drew a separate picture of Santa flying through the night in his sleigh, complete with stars and a big sack of presents on the back of his sleigh.

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Family Notweet

End of School

The world didn’t end today, but school for the current calendar year did. Go Mayans! I mean, seriously, what were the odds that they’d call a Friday in December for the day the world ended? They should get a little credit for that anyway.

Naturally, with 10 days off from school, the kids arrived home in their PJ’s and were bored 5 minutes later. As for the PJ’s, apparently, today is National Send Your Child to School in PJ’s day, or something to that effect. I hear it’s the latest thing in teaching technologies.

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Family

A Close Call

I went out to the car this morning with the boy in toe. The lass was lagging behind a bit, as is her wont. I opted for the smaller car, which is my wont for the trek into school in the mornings with the kids. It’s patched up from the fender bender of a week ago, though it still bears the scratches from where I hit the guard rail.

I eased down into the seat because plopping won’t work for me. Really, the car is too small for me, but it gets good gas mileage so I make it work. Friends who have seen me drive it laugh because typically, I become invisible in the car. I have to tilt the seat back with the result that my head is obscured by the middle upright between the front and rear doors. Thus, it looks like the car is driving itself.

When I finished settling in, the boy was already in beside me and the lass was finally on her way. I stuck the key in the ignition and fired her up.

I always drive with the radio on. Lately, the kids have been disappointed that I don’t listen to Christmas music on the radio. The Wife has a Pandora station that she plays almost every day in the house, so I don’t exactly miss it for the 15 minutes I’m in the car in the mornings. Also, there’s a Boston radio station I enjoy listening to.

Usually.

This morning, the first thing that comes over the radio is one of the on-air personalities bleating out an excessively sarcastic “Wait a minute, you mean there really isn’t a Santa Claus?”

At which point I calmly, but quickly, punched the button to turn off the radio. The boy was futzing with his seat belt at that moment and the lass was just arriving at the car. Clearly, of the two, the boy was the one to be concerned with. Although, I was also concerned they might ask why I didn’t have the radio on since I always drive with the radio on.

If he did hear the line, the boy gave no indication whatsoever. Further, neither he nor his sister asked why I didn’t have the radio on. To avoid drawing their attention to it’s silence, I left it off for the entirety of the ride in, the whole 5 minutes worth. Plus, at that point, who knows what else they were going to blurt out.

All in all, my assumption is the boy didn’t hear the line. He’s not the sort who would have let that pass without asking a question like “Why did he say that?” or “What did he mean…?” I’m certain the lass didn’t hear anything, she wasn’t close enough at the time.

The Wife was rolling her eyes and shaking her head after I related the incident to her. She thinks that the boy is going to start figuring it out; he has at least 1 friend who already knows its a hoax, but I’m guessing his parents have explained that he’s not to say anything. I’m not so sure he’s ready to piece it together though. He wants to believe, and he isn’t asking any of the sorts of questions that indicate to me he’s thinking more critically about it.

Fortunately, this morning’s near miss hasn’t changed that.

Categories
Family

Our Mischievous Elf

Here’s our mischievous shelf elf:

Last week, he dipped into the Wife’s batch of chocolate chip cookies. He’s got a real sweet tooth this year. Much to the kid’s delight.