funny

Throwing Stones

FullSizeRender (13)August, 1973

I am sitting on the curb outside of our house, gathering up pebbles in my tiny hands. I am two months shy of my fourth birthday, but it’s not my birth I am fixated on–it’s the birth of my new brother and sister: twins!

My mother is coming home from the hospital today–having been absent from my life for over a week. Oh, she’s seen me. Dad took us over to the hospital and sat us on a bench in the lobby. “Wave to the camera”, he says. “You’re sure mom can see us?” I ask. “Yes, mom can see you on the TV in her room.” I take his word for it, but it all seems so alien to me.

I miss my mom. The last few days have been a blur. My grandmother, my mom’s mom, has been running the show. She’s efficient–making sure we are fed and dressed–but she’s not very warm. Not the type of grandmom whose hugs you get lost in or wants to shower you with kisses. Still, I can’t complain. Besides, there’s really no one to complain to.

The morning has been a rush of activity; the five of us–my three brothers, one sister and I– are busy getting the house cleaned for mom’s homecoming–with two more kids. My dad seems excited and extra patient with us. I like it when he’s like this.

Bored of my chores, I wander out the door. I tend to do a lot of wandering. I make my way down the driveway. I keep looking up and down the street, half expecting my mother to magically appear.

Our neighborhood is lined with twin houses: driveway, house/house, driveway, house/house… I like where our house is positioned on the street because we are right across from a stop sign. Every car that drives down Thunderhead Road must slow down in front of our house.

I love to steal a glance inside each car; to see if anything dangles from the rear-view mirror (fuzzy dice, a bandana); to overhear a lyric which blasts from the AM radio (Brandy, you’re a fine girl, what a good wife you would be…); to count how many people are in the car, and of those, how many are smoking (three and two); to spy a bumper sticker and pretend I can read what it’s saying (Wi-Fi 92’s gonna make me rich/ Flick my Bic).

But today I am distracted, nervous. I forget what my mom looks like. Plus, I’m about to be replaced as the youngest child–by twins, no less. How can I compete with that? I stand barefoot in the gutter and begin to gather pebbles. I throw a handful in the air, and listen as they rain back down to the ground. After a few throws like this, I see a car headed for the stop sign. I sit my Billy-the-Kid shorts on the curb, grasp some gravel, and wait for the car to pass my driveway. Then, I launch the stones into the air-aiming for the back of the car. As the tiny rocks spray onto the trunk, the sound–an echoing tinkle–is so much cooler. The driver keeps going.

Emboldened by my act of vandalism, I gather another pile, and repeat the procedure as the next car comes to a stop a few feet from me. The sound is just as thrilling and the driver seems oblivious once again. I am getting away with being bad  cool, and it feels exhilarating. As the next car comes, I grab another handful of pebbles, this one a bit larger. I am invincible.

But as they land on the car, the driver turns and stares at me. Caught! Yet, he keeps going. This guy knew what I did and I still got away with it. God, I love America!

I get up from the curb and attempt to find even bigger pieces. How far can I take this? Well, I’m about to find out.

With some larger stones in hand, maybe even a rock or two, I spot a Cutlass gliding its way to the stop sign. I don’t even bother to sit back down, to remain inconspicuous. I simply cock my arm back and launch the handful at the car. The sound is much louder and not nearly as melodic–more like a thud. As I watch the tail lights glow red at the stop sign, I notice they remain on. A woman in dark sunglasses stares straight at me and puts her car in park. As she opens the car door, I sprint into the house and up the stairs.

Curious, I wait at the top step to see what will happen.

Before there is even a knock, I hear my father speak through the screen.

“Can I help you?’ he asks.

My stomach drops. I cover my ears, but remove my hands every few seconds; Her words are distorted, but I am able to piece together her report: a little boy… threw…landed….car windows open……two small babies in the back….could have been…

My dad apologizes on my behalf. He then informs her of his two babies that he will be bringing home in an hour. “I’ll be sure to talk to him about this, and again, I’m sorry.”

In seconds, he appears at the bottom of the stairs. “What were you thinking?” he asks. “I’m just excited for mom to come home,” I reply. “Well, she has enough to worry about today, so why don’t we just keep this between us,” he offers. “O–okay,” I stammer. What? No yelling? No punishment? Maybe having twins around won’t be so bad after all, I think to myself.

“Thanks,” I say.

I remain upstairs for the rest of the morning. I don’t dare step foot outside, on the driveway, for fear I may be drawn in to more criminal activity, or worse, that I might watch a cop car pull up, with dark-sunglass woman in tow, to press charges on me for maiming her children.

The screen door slams repeatedly, as people move in and out of the house. Finally, it squeaks a bit more slowly, and I hear, “Oh my gosh! They’re home!” I watch from upstairs as my mom enters the living room in her sundress with two afghaned bundles. My dad spies me on the steps. His eyes tell me that he has honored his promise–that today is not the day to burden my mother–or him–with such trouble.

I slowly walk down the stairs, planting both feet on each step. Once on the landing, I run over to my mom and bury my face in her side. I am lost in the dangling blankets. I catch glimpses of my new brother and sister: a tiny hand, a fuzzy ear. I peer up at my mom’s face, reassured. She looks just as I remembered her.

***********************************

This is my second memory. My first involves me in a high chair talking to the refrigerator and dumping chocolate pudding on my head. But this is the one I recall often.

In childhood, I would usually conjure it if I needed to make myself feel guilty. As a good Catholic, I wasn’t comfortable unless I felt uneasy about something, so this became one of my go-to guilt triggers: “Like that time you almost blinded those children in the back seat of the car…” Such phrases would rattle in my head til I was reassured I was headed to Hell. As a teen, this event took on an Oedipal air: “How ironic would it have been if I blinded two small children on the same day that two small children were finding their way to my house?” Later in life, and most significantly, this event would serve as a reminder that there were times when my dad handled situations with a tenderness and grace that made me feel everything would be okay.

Now, as a father, I find that the most powerful response I can give my sons is one of understanding. When they come to me having done something wrong, consumed by guilt, expecting me to explode, and I simply say, “It’s okay. Everything will be okay,” it’s as if I have just waved a magic wand and made it so.

Such is the power of parenting, of perspective, of the words we choose–or do not choose.

Something to think about the next time you’re about to throw stones.

 

Disney Loves Company

The family Grinch recently endured  survived  returned from a magical trip to Walt Disney World. Truth is, we had a wonderful time. Exhausting, but wonderful. One thing that I noticed was the fact that each day became less hellish. What was met with dread on day one (Yes, we have to take a car, then a tram, then a ferry to the Magic Kingdom…Yes, the wait time for this ride is 50 minutes…Yes, the line to greet Mickey is longer than the length of our home state) was, by day three, met with acceptance, even contentment (Wow, the monorail takes half the time as the ferry…Cool, the wait time for this ride is ONLY 45 minutes…Aww, look at those poor suckers waiting in line for a photo op with Mickey).

But not to worry. This post is not a park-by-park summary of our stay. Rather, it’s a reflection on my first trip to Disney, when I was just about my oldest son’s age–10. For some reason, every experience I have as a dad is reimagined through the lens of myself as a boy.  And as we sat on the plane, ready for takeoff from Philadelphia International, I watched my sons quietly working through the sticker books that their mom makes sure they have for each plane ride. I was impressed with how seasoned they’ve become as airplane passengers. Even though traveling today takes the patience of a saint, it has become somewhat enjoyable as the boys are getting older–maybe not enjoyable, but at least manageable. And it was with this observation that I hearkened back to my first time on a plane, traveling to Orlando, Florida–to visit Walt Disney World.

The year was 1980. A time of feathered hair and large combs peaking from the back pockets of Wrangler jeans. A time when my teenage siblings dabbled with Sun-in and Dexatrim. A time when the ominous face of the Ayatollah Kohmeni stared up at me from our doorstep every morning when our neighbor, Kevin, delivered The Bulletin. A time when a news anchor by the name of Ted Koppel informed the nation each night about America’s hostages. It was during this time of familial and political upheaval that my parents decided to bring us to Disney. ALL SEVEN OF US–nine including them.

Yes, we loaded up our duffel bags and set out for the Sunshine State.

Honestly, I don’t recall much of our actual visit to Disney World, except for the fact that so much that is there today was non-existent: Epcot, Animal Kingdom, Hollywood Studios, Universal…None of those existed yet. But, I do recall our plane trip down there, and  its abysmal aftermath.

I wore my Mickey Mouse shirt–not the t-shirt, but one with pearly buttons that snapped and had little vignettes of Mickey in pioneer gear. I loved that shirt, and felt like Disney royalty wearing it on the plane with my favorite pants, a pair of Toughskin kakhis. We were flying TWA (Trans World Airlines) and my mother assuaged any fears we might have by saying that we were sure to make it there safely since TWA stood for Traveling With Angels. “Do angels hold up the wings?” I asked, nervously. “Of course they do,” she assured me.

Once on the plane, I sat with my sister and brother who were closest in age. The rest of the family was scattered throughout the cabin. Freedom. Such freedom that it felt like I was flying first class. Freedom to order sodas and peanuts, and pretzels, and more soda.

Boy, was flying fun back then! My brother and sister and I just lounged around the seats chewing wads of gum to ward off ear popping. And we struck up a conversation with a girl across our row, who got out of her seat and chatted away with us, all while hanging in the aisle. Each time the stewardess walked by–yes, that’s what they were called back then, stewardesses–I would ask for another drink or snack. She must have liked us, because she obliged every time. I didn’t know what Disney was going to be like, but this plane ride was enough of a highlight for me. “Are you kids behaving?” my mom asked on her way to the bathroom, lit cigarette dangling in her hand. “Yes,” we all said in unison, including our new best friend from across the aisle.

As we approached Florida, the plane began to experience turbulence. The fun was over. Everyone to their seat, lap belts fastened. Once settled in my chair, I felt anything but. The ride turned bumpy and the half-dozen sodas percolated in my stomach with all the peanuts, chips, pretzels, and candy I had consumed in the past two hours.

“I’m going to be sick,” I said, looking at my sister.

“Well, use this!” she said, fetching me the barf bag from my seat pocket. As I struggled to open it, I could feel the bile in my throat. I had seconds to react. Finally, I pried the bag open, and as I pushed my mouth towards its opening, we hit a major air pocket. BUMP! The vomit missed the bag and spewed all over my shirt (Oh, Pioneers, Mickey!) and my favorite pants. I was covered in remnants of our junior happy hour.

“Mom, Michael threw up!” Erin yelled.

“What?” said my mom, a few rows up.

“MICHAEL THREW UP!!”

Thankfully, my mom came back to get me. She and the stewardess walked me to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet while my mom wiped my clothes. The stewardess–she really was an Angel–kept rinsing towels and handing them to my mom. The plane rocked its way to the runway, and I jumped from the tiny toilet seat crammed in the bathroom with my mother and another. “Welcome to Orlando,” a voice sang over the intercom. I stifled a moan.

I exited the plane, damp and smelling of a mixture of Coke, bile, and pretzel salt. I felt groggy. Hungry yet full. Excited and embarrassed. We were in Disney! I had to move on.

After getting the luggage, we made our way to the rental car company. My dad stood at the counter, and 16 eyeballs bore into his back. “What is taking so long?” someone finally whined.

“I’m sorry. There’s been a mix-up,” said the man behind the counter. “You rented a van, and vans are at our other facility. We’ll have to take you there.” He looked at the gaggle behind my father. “All of you.”

All of us AND our luggage. And so ten of us–TEN- squeezed in to a four door sedan. The nine of us and the rental car worker. As we tried to figure out seating, everyone was getting grumpy. My six siblings lapped it in the back seat. My mom sat between the driver and my dad in the front seat. And me? Where was I? I was crouched in the well of the passenger side, scrunched up against the glove compartment, sitting on my dad’s feet while whiffs of evaporating throw up stung my nostrils…

How many people can say they’ve ridden in a car looking up from the glove compartment?

My son’s voice brings me back to the present.”Dad, my ears hurt,” he says as we begin making our descent into Orlando.

“Okay, buddy, do you want some gum?” “I’m chewing gum!” he cries, showing me his mouth. Uh-oh, the meltdown is about to begin.

“Try to yawn…stretch your mouth…hold your breath AND your nose and then blow.” I look like I’m playing charades as I mimic each movement. Nothing is helping and he is inconsolable. He writhes in pain then attempts to kick the back of the chair in front of us, so now I have to hold down his legs. I try to bribe him. Give him candy. I know he’s in pain, but really? Really? This seems a little extreme.

Finally, when it appears he can take no more, we reach an altitude where his ears clear. Ahhh. I can see he’s still upset, and I want to try to make him feel better. I reach for his hand and squeeze it tight. “Did I ever tell you about my first time in an airplane?” I begin. “It was also to Walt Disney World”…

My oldest brother, Charlie, and I. There's my Mickey shirt, pre-tragedy.

My oldest brother, Charlie, and I. There’s my Mickey shirt, pre-tragedy.

 

 

All the kids with my dad before our flight to Disney. My glasses seem to be made out of the same plastic as my bangs.

All the kids with my dad before our flight to Disney. My glasses seem to be made out of the same plastic as my bangs.

All smiles in the park. One of the only pictures I know where I am sporting cleavage.

All smiles in the park. One of the only pictures I know of where I am sporting cleavage.

 

TWA boarding pass. Smoking? YES!

TWA boarding pass. Smoking? YES!

The ONLY picture of our family in front of The Magic Kingdom. The beauty of a Polaroid camera--you know how shitty the picture is instantly!

The ONLY shot of our family in front of The Magic Kingdom. The beauty of a Polaroid camera–you know how shitty the picture is instantly!

Wee the People

The voice of democracy rang through our house last week. Owen (9) came home to inform us that he was running for student council. “Only 4th and 5th graders can be classroom representatives,” he told me excitedly. “Each class elects one boy and one girl. A lot of boys are running, but I think I have a shot.”

As he walked out of the kitchen, I already felt like he had won. I was so proud of the fact that he decided to run on his own. As a parent, you’re often not sure if your kids are getting the message. We don’t keep a checklist on the fridge of all the things we do/do not want them to do. So, we try to lead by example. But, more than that, we hope. We hope a lot. Hope that they will understand all that we cannot put into words. That they err on the side of what’s right. That they just be nice, and kind, and president.

Over the next few days, Owen worked on his campaign. He sat in his room creating posters that highlighted his policies and platform. Posters that looked like this:

photo (51)

“Wow, Owen!” I said, impressed. “This looks awesome!”

“And I made him this one, Dad,” said his little brother, Hayden (8):

photo (50)

And just like that, I beheld the candidate and his campaign manager. For the next few days, it felt like I was in the presence of a young JFK and his brother, Bobby. The boys continued their work in earnest.

“Dad, did you notice on my signs where I ask everyone if they got their cards?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

“See, you can’t give out candy or prizes, so I thought it would be neat to give each of them a card before they vote.” Cards. He made 28 little cards for his classmates. Cards that looked like this:

photo (52)

“Here’s the one he made for me,” piped in his manager, Hayden. And he showed me this:

photo (55)

“Now, Owen, you should put all of these in a folder so you don’t…” directed Hayden, and the two boys were off again. I saw them cutting and folding, and placing everything in what I am sure was the first file cabinet for many of us–underneath the couch.

The day before the election, the boys and I were driving in the car. “So, Owen, if you did win, what is something you think you might do for your fellow classmates?”

“Well,” he said, “every month we go to a meeting with the principal and some teachers and tell them of any problems.”

“What do you think might be a problem you would bring up?”

“Umm, like, let’s say the buses are too crowded. Then I would work to fix that.”

“Okay, how?” I implore.

“By telling them we need more buses!” he answers emphatically.

Would that it were that easier, my son. Would that it were, I think. Yet, I say, “Sounds good, buddy.”

That night, I watch him craft his speech. He doesn’t let me read it, but he allows me to show him how to write it in big letters on several indexphoto (56) cards. Since I will not see him in the morning, I wish him well before bed.

“Good luck tomorrow, O. And just remember, no matter what happens you can still be a leader.”

“Okay,” he says.

“You’re a leader just for wanting to run in the election. No matter what happens–you’ve already won in my book.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I first thought about writing this post before the election took place, and I thought it would be cool not to reveal if he won or not. I truly believe he is a winner just for trying to do this at such a young age. And not a “winner” in the sense that every kid gets a trophy at the end of the season regardless of their record, but a winner in the sense that he took a chance, he stood up, he wanted to be a part of something bigger than himself.

But now that I know the outcome, I must inform you–and not for the reasons you might think.

Owen won. He did, and I am proud. But the victory was enlightening for other reasons.

For one, some of his “friends” said mean things about his winning–one even claimed they were no longer buds (the same boy who was playing with him at a birthday party two days later)–and therein lies a hard lesson for anyone. As the wise sage Taylor Swift once proclaimed, “And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…” An important lesson indeed: there will always be people who will try to dampen your spirits, who don’t want you to succeed. But I am happy to tell you that Owen seemed quite unphased by this.

The second insight from the election comes from the fact that two of Owen’s running mates wore oxfords with bow ties and delivered Power Point presentations. My son wore his usual shorts and sneaks, delivered a heartfelt speech and gave everyone a colorful voting card–looks like Owen’s on his way to being a Democrat.

Regardless of his political leanings–he’ll always have my vote.

God Bless America!

 

 

The Last Kiss of Summer

hardyboys-4 One of the first times I felt the painful sting of death occurred the night of  October 1, 1978. I had just celebrated a birthday days before, and my ninth year was ushered in by tragedy. Her name was Jamie, a beautiful young woman who had her whole life ahead of her. She was an artist and she loved the beach. I had known her for all of 15 minutes, including commercials. You see, Jamie was engaged to be married to one of my closest childhood friends, Joe Hardy. Yes, the season premier of The Hardy Boys dealt me quite a crushing blow. That Sunday night, my world shattered before prime time.

zombiestookmybike+rolled+image+what+I+got+last+christmas+_d7ded52666da932739d4ef48c9abdf52I was too young to see the warning signs: For one, the title of the episode — “The Last Kiss of Summer.” Plus, Jamie never appeared in season 2, yet, here she was in the season 3 opener, already the better half of one half of the Hardy Boys. And the telltale sign of all– Joe and Jamie opened the episode with a car scene–lovingly looking over at each other–a harbinger of doom in TV land. Any time there is a driving scene, there will be an accident. But the creators of The Hardy Boys knew how to stretch the drama. The death scene happened the second time the couple were in the car together–on the way from their wedding rehearsal, no less. Jamie and Joe were cruising down the coastal highway in a convertible, when the evil Jocco and his girl were drunkenly swerving all over the road. Jamie wasn’t the only casualty in that episode; something died inside of me that night.

 

I could not believe my eyes. How could the world be this cruel? How could two people so good looking and83d3e16352d1b39916bdd4b5c895e25a nice, with perfectly feathered hair, suffer such a tragic fate? My goal in life was to BE Joe Hardy (Shaun Cassidy)– never Frank (Parker Stevenson).  Everyone wanted to be Joe. Solving mysteries, going on adventures, helping his brother and dad fight crime. I even thought he selected the perfect partner for us. Jamie was drop-dead gorgeous, wore a bikini like it was her second skin, and seemed like she’d never said an unkind word in her whole life.  How could I go to school the next day? There was a death–and I needed time. So did the Hardy Boys, apparently–the episode was a two-parter.

That whole week I was haunted by images of the happy couple. I searched for the girl in the third grade who was most like Jamie–I wanted to know who I was marrying. But then fear would strike me. What if I found my true love and she was taken from me? The thought was too much to bear. My sadness overwhelmed me.

I wanted to be alone when I walked home from school. The warmer days of Fall allowed me to linger. I comforted myself by trying to sing the song that was played and replayed throughout the episode: “If” by the kings of seventies soft rock, Bread. Freakin’ Bread man, can you dig?

“If a picture paints a thousand words then why can’t I paint you? The words I’ll never know, the you I’ve come to know. If a man could be two places at one time, I’d be with you, tomorrow and today, beside you all the way.” PAUSE. Please note: these lyrics were written from memory. These were the words I sang in the hopes of recreating the emotion I felt for Joe, for Jamie, for me! I made up words to fill the gaps. Let’s remember, I couldn’t Google the song. Hell, I didn’t even know it was sung by Bread til I was in college and ordered The Best of Bread as one of my free cassettes when I signed up for a Columbia House membership–yeah, Columbia House–Google it.

I sang that song for the next five years, walking to and from grade school. It was almost Pavlovian–when I was by myself, walking up the hill from St. John of the Cross, the moment my foot hit the sidewalk at the corner of Thomson and Woodland, Bread would images (5)come out of my mouth. “And when my love for life is running dry, you’d come and pour yourself on me.” You’d love me so much–yes, you Jamie–that you’d come and pour yourself on me. Your. Own. Self.

And maybe you haven’t picked up on this, but the song tie-in is genius because it sings about painting a picture and Jamie–soon-to-be-but-never-will-Hardy WAS a painter. Do you see the nuances laden in this episode? No wonder it was on at seven o’clock eastern time–that’s when educated people settled down for a stretch of Sunday night television.

The following week’s episode was anti-climactic for me. Joe mourned. Frank swam with sharks. And the evil Jocco got his comeuppance. But Jamie was gone from our lives forever. The end of part 2, however, left us with a cheap ploy–Joe spied a girl on the beach who he thinks is Jamie. He starts running towards her white bikini, and I believed. For the length of a Hamburger Helper commercial, I believed that Jamie was still alive. That it was all a sick joke, a horrible dream. But when Joe grabbed her slender arm and she turned around, it was NOT Jamie. Just another pretty Southern California blonde. She looked at Joe eagerly, flattered by his attention. Yet, he was not ready to move on. Eventually, though, he would. I’m glad one of us was able to.

 

 

 

“Alright, Mr. Demille, I’m ready for my…armpit fart?”

Huffington Post. THE Huffington Post. It’s the calling card that every blogger aspires to receive. If you are featured on the Huffington Post–you’ve arrived.

I have not been featured on HuffPost, as they say. Oh, I’ve submitted posts. I’ve tweeted them. I’m friends with HuffPost Parents on Facebook. I’ve done the sort of thing that most daddy bloggers have done, but still no bites.

So, imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, I received an email from a producer of “Tell Me Why…,” a video segment on HP featuring kids asking and answering questions. It read:

Hi Michael,

I’m a producer at HuffPost Live and I produce a segment each week called “Tell Me Why” where we invite a kid to come on and ask a question or explain something he or she is passionate about.  
We’ve covered everything from String Theory and Evolution to Space… but perhaps one of our favorite episodes was one about Boogers 🙂  I just saw this post about your son’s “to do” list, photo (40)which brilliantly ends with armpit farts.  We’re hoping to pick up where we left off with boogers, and discuss farts on “Tell Me Why” and I wonder whether you think your son may be interested in joining.
A strange request, I know… but I look forward to hearing from you, nonetheless!
All best,

Well, I called Claire right away and she could not have been nicer. The premise was pretty simple. They would Skype with Hayden and talk to him about armpit farts. We didn’t even have to leave our house. I set out to convince my eight-year-old that this was a grand adventure.

First, I inquired about his talent. “Hey, do you still know how to do armpit farts?” I asked as we walked from the bus stop. He proceeded to do a lopsided chicken dance with his hand inside his armpit: (place tongue one inch outside closed lips and blow)–yeah, that sound. Feel free to make that sound for the rest of this post.

Then, my other son, Owen (9), joined in on the action. “Dad, I can do them with my knee!” And he did. Right there in the driveway. He sat down and flopped one leg in the air with his hand cupped behind his knee. “And some kids can do them with their neck,” which he then attempted, unsuccessfully.

At bedtime that night, I showed the boys some “Tell Me Why…” video clips from HuffPost.

“That’s weird,” said Hayden.

“Wouldn’t you like to be in a video like that? It would be like being on TV,” I say wide-eyed, channeling my inner Willy Wonka.

“No way,” says Hayden, scrunching his nose.

I look at his brother, Owen, who is more of a natural ham–always performing for audiences both real and imaginary. “How about you, Owen? Would you do it?”

“Maybe,” he says. And I think I can convince him. I don’t push too hard, for fear I might lose. I’ll continue to goad tomorrow, I think.

I come downstairs after putting the boys to bed.

“Honey,” my wife says, “this is so exciting! The Huffington Post…” and she doesn’t even know how to classify it. It is then that I reveal my trepidation. “Yeah, I’m not sure. Is this really how I want to be recognized by Huff Post?”

I think about how I’ve been trying to work over the boys, to enlist them in my quest for publication. Then, I think about how this really has so little to do with me, or my blog, or what I’m attempting to do as I tap away at this keyboard, putting words down to capture my experiences.

And that’s just it. This is not MY experience. This is my son’s experience. And even though I am proud of the collection I have captured on this blog for three years, a sinking feeling begins in my stomach. These boys are no longer toddlers, they are not cute props, but individuals. My boys, and my blog, are changing, and I need to be more mindful of their rights, their boundaries.  As they get older, I am feeling I have less of a right to tell their story, as they are telling more of their own.

I am embarrassed. I feel a bit ashamed that I am trying to pimp out my son’s penchant for all things fart on a national platform. I envision a video feed popping up years from now, when one of the boys is running for president of a class or the country:), a video of them demonstrating the art of armpit farts on the Huffington Post. A video that went viral, that has more hits than Grumpy Cat or “delirious boy riding home from the dentist” combined…

I resolve not to push my boys to do this. If they’re not interested, then it’s not happening. This is their decision. This is THEIR life.

**********************
“I’ll pay you,” I say, desperately.

“What?!” says Owen. Yes, Owen. I’ve decided to put the full court press on him. There’s no way Hayden would do it. I’ll see if Claire would be cool with Owen filling in for him, even though it was Hayden’s drawing.

“I will pay you. Twenty dollars to do the segment.”

“Twenty bucks!”

“Yep. But once I call this lady, you can’t back out.”

I don’t even recognize myself. I smell the desperation in my plea. Inside, I’m panicking–but what if this is my only shot? What if this leads to more features on Huffington Post? A spot on the Today show. A three book deal with movie tie-ins. Happy Meal toys of the family Grinch…

My thoughts whirl. I’m such a sell-out.

I give him a few hours to think about it–to spend the money in his head.

After dinner, I try to mask my eagerness. “So, what do you think, buddy? Will you do it?”

“Nah,” he says.

Dream deferred.

And with that, the wind is let out of my sails. I am deflated. For one brief shining moment, there was Armpit-fart-alot.

But, truth be told, I was also relieved. If my quest for a gig with HuffPost had already made me act like this, I could just imagine what I would have been like during the actual interview.

I call Claire and let her know that the Trainers are a no-fart for her upcoming segment. Again, I am struck by how nice and approachable she is. For her, it’s just another day producing for one of America’s largest news outlets. But for me, it’s the silencing of the knock of opportunity.

Yet, in the end, I was relieved. One of the primary goals of my blog is to make sense of my world in a way that makes me a better father. I want to understand my past and make sense of my present, so that my family will have a better future. I want my boys to be proud of me and what I have created. What I will continue to create–for me, for them, for us.

 

 

 

Sunscream

While my friend is away this week, I’ve been watering her beautiful gardens and taking care of her pool–a job I relish because the boys and I go swimming everyday.

Yesterday, however, I was there by myself. It was the perfect day: bright, crisp, a gentle breeze and a cloudless sky. As the sun danced off the water, I was drawn to lie on a raft and just float in the pool.

Why is it that in these moments I feel guilty? When we are at rest, and our mind is clear, we should commend ourselves, not chastise.  I pushed those feelings of guilt aside, and as I closed my eyes and the raft drifted aimlessly, my thoughts hearkened back to other memories.

Now if you’re normal (and I know at least two of you reading this are), then you might imagine my mind sailing back to other peaceful memories of floating, like my honeymoon in Napa or a trip to the Virgin Islands. No. Not me. My mind drifted back to childhood, to a memory that is seared in my mind’s eye. You see, whenever I’m on a float in a pool, alone, I end up thinking about a time when I was six years old.

Although it’s hard to believe, when I was very young, my family had a pool. An above-ground pool. A legit above-ground pool. The kind that is meant to stay up for several seasons. The kind that had a filter. It was the most extravagant toy of my youth. And one day, I remember walking out to the pool by myself and climbing the ladder and getting on a float and drifting off to sleep. The reason I remember this, the reason it is seared into my memory, is because I slept for so long that when I was awoken by my sister, I was badly sunburned. I spent the next week nursing a blistering burn–literally popping blistery bubbles all over my skin. If you’re grossed out, imagine how I felt? Sunburn_flickr_02 About a decade ago, I had to go to a dermatologist for a skin check. I had a “questionable mole”. The mole got the answer I was hoping for–not cancerous–but in the process, I received more insight. For some reason, I found the doctor’s questions humorous. As if the answers were obvious and she was teasing me.

Have you ever had a sunburn? Ahhh, yeah. I grew up in the seventies.

Have you ever had a blistering sunburn? You mean sunburnS, plural. Is there another kind? I basically shed more skin than a snake in my youth.

People who have had even one blistering sunburn before the age of fifteen have a fifty percent greater risk of WAHWAHWAHWAH…At that point, I had to block her out. One blistering sunburn? I was human bubble wrap back then–all seven of us kids were.

I left the doctor’s office feeling very scared.

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When my wife and I were dating, I remember telling her my pool/blister saga while on a road trip. We were driving in the car one summer afternoon. “I just wish we had sunscreen back then,” I said, finishing my story somewhat awkwardly. Here she was, getting a glimpse into my wacky upbringing.

She looked at me with a sad expression, “Honey, we did have sunscreen back then.”

NO! No we did not. There is no freakin’ way we had sunscreen.

“Really?” I said, trying to mask my anger.

“Unhunh,” she said with a nod, feeling bad about being the bearer of such news.

“But that doesn’t make sense! Why would my parents not use sunscreen? We could always afford the Noxema afterwards to cool our scorched bodies. My mom even joked about how rich she would be if she had stock in Noxema.”

I was incredulous. I thought about all the times we were left out to bake in the sun like little potatoes: The trips to Wildwood, the days swimming in the pool, every outdoor event of my youth, with nothing but my white Irish skin to fight off the evil sun’s rays. And this was before the era of willfully laying out in lounge chairs with tin foil and baby oil.

What were we thinking back then? What!?

Sweetie,” Pam said to me, trying to draw me back from the past, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just pretty messed up, you know?”

“You know what’s more messed up?” she said.

I did not.

“What?”

“The fact that you were in a pool by yourself at the age of six. How could you be out there so long by yourself?”

Oh. My. God. I had never thought of that! In all the times I’d thought of that event, it was the sunburn that made me mad. I couldn’t even claim I was a good swimmer. I even failed swimming lessons. (More on that saga here ).

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And now, a decade and a half later, I think about how different my children’s experiences are. Christ, we put sunscreen on them if they’re coming to the food store with us. We sit outside the bathroom as they take a shower in case the water turns hot or they need a fluffier towel.

So different from my own experience as a kid. So, so different.

Then, the other day, Pam tells me that the FDA just announced that kids should no longer use spray-on sunscreen as they are inhaling too much of the fumes. Cry me a river, I think. When I was their age I was inhaling second-hand smoke. Hell, I had even tried a few cigarettes by their age.

Just sayin’.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go water my friend’s garden. And not to worry, I’ve got SPF 50 on this bald head of mine.

Love

love

I have come to realize that my sons do not say “I love you.”  I am trying to train them to at least respond, “I love you, too.” But lately, I’ve shied away from doing so.

One night, a while back, I was tucking Hayden(7) in to bed and I said, “Goodnight, buddy, I love you.” Silence filled the room. His face was buried in his pillow.   Frustrated, I said, “I love you, too, dad.” Still nothing. I tickled him. He relented. “Sort of”, he mumbled into the pillow. “Sort of?” I shouted back. “Yeah,” he said, “it means a little.'”

For a time, this incident made me sad. He knows I love him, I’d think. I hug him, kiss him, tickle him, and show him affection daily. And I know, deep down, deeeeeeeeeeeeep, deeeeeeeeeeeeeep down, he loves me, too.

Lately, though, I’ve changed my attitude about the lack of “I love yous” I hear.  I’ve had to search for why this affected me so much. There’s the obvious need to love and be loved, but I knew it ran deeper than that.

Why do we say “I love you”? What purposes does it serve? Certainly, it varies from relationship to relationship. Ultimately, however, I think it serves to remind people how much we care about them. But, as I consider this spoken gesture more, I also think it’s a way for us to remind them that they love us, too–or they SHOULD, we think (we hope).

Whenever I tell Owen (9) I love him, I do not get a response, but I feel a sense of acceptance. If I could read his thoughts, it seems they would say something like, “Of course you love me, I’m your son. I’m your first-born. I’m a good kid…but you don’t need to say it all the time–it’s a given. Relax.” Yet, often, when I tell Hayden I love him, there is almost a defiance in his reaction. His mouth turns into a half-smile/half-frown–a frile, if you will. I’m not sure I want to read his thoughts. I think he fights my love–I feel him rejecting this level of emotion because either he doesn’t feel worthy of my love, or he doesn’t want to care about me so deeply–or maybe a little of both.

But the love my boys identify with today, they will remember decades from now.

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I still remember the lunch my mother packed me for my first grade field trip to the Philadelphia Zoo. I walked home for lunch everyday, so packing a lunch was a treat. The bag was stuffed with all kinds of deliciousness: a ham and cheese sandwich, potato chips, a soda, cracker jacks AND a candy bar. I knew I had the best lunch in my group. I wanted to shout for joy from the top of the monorail. That day, that lunch made me feel so  special, so loved.

I still remember the time in second grade when I came home with a bad grade on a spelling test. I was so nervous to show my parents. And even though I was supposed to get it signed, I decided to hide it where no one would find it–under the clothes dryer. It was someone’s birthday that night and my grandparents were over for dinner. Towards the end of the meal, it dawned on me that the dryer gets very hot. As a junior neurotic, I decided that my spelling test would catch on fire and burn the house down. I began to cry. “I’ve done something bad–really bad.” My whole family, grandparents included, marched down to the laundry room. My dad laid on the floor and fished the paper out from underneath the dryer. He was not mad at all–about my subterfuge or my poor spelling. He smiled and said, “Next time, just tell us, okay.” “Okay,” I said, whimpering. As we ate our cake, I felt oddly elated–my dad loves me even when I make mistakes!

Both of these memories evoke times when I felt wholly loved by my parents. A very pure, somewhat magical feeling.

I grew up in a house where “I love you” was spoken a lot. Ours was a large family in a small house. Day-to-day, amid the chaos, it was hard to sense the love, but the words were uttered. As we left for school each morning, these three words would be part of the exchange between the seven of us and our parents. And each night, before bed, I would kiss my mom and dad, and say, “Goodnight. I love you. See you in the morning.” My mother would respond with her now-infamous “God willing,” leaving me to conjure her death as I laid down to sleep. My father? I don’t remember his response. I think it varied. But, I marvel at the fact that I kissed him goodnight throughout my childhood, and with every hello and goodbye as an adult.

For me, for my past, love was a spoken reminder. Perhaps the words were said in an attempt to add calm to the fray. Yet, those words hung like an albatross around my neck for much of my life. Often, love felt heavy, sad, anxious, chaotic. Often, love felt conditional.

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To this day, my mother says “I love you,” to me every time we speak. If she calls me four times in a day, she says it four times. In an attempt to not become obsessive about this (which I think makes me more obsessive about it) I purposely do not respond with an “I love you, too” every time she says it–I shoot for fifty percent of the time. I am aware that my mother takes note of this.

Perhaps my refusal to overstate my love stems from the fact that, even now, there seems to be an unspoken obligation with those words, as if love can magically erase all the burdens of our past, or is the antidote for all that ails the relationships in a family. Love cannot. At least the words cannot. As cliché as it sounds, “Actions speak louder than words.” I love my mom, and I know that she loves me, but I’ve realized in life that saying I love you and doing I love you are very far removed.

When I first became a part of my wife Pam’s family, I marveled at the fact that they rarely said “I love you.” It is written in cards, but not said at the end of every encounter. It was as if I were finally connecting all the dots: Hmmm. They don’t go around saying they love each other all the time, but I know they do. They are kind to one another, and respectful of each other’s opinions, and they do thoughtful things for one another–DING! Oh, you can feel it but not have to say it every day, every phone call, every exchange. I found this to be very refreshing.

Pam and I do say it often–even several times a day, which I appreciate, because she is the most important person in my world–my life partner. In that case, I find it strengthens our bond.

As for the boys, I find I say it often to them, and usually there is no response. At first, this made me feel angry, worried. Then it dawned on me–they feel loved. They feel my love. Their needs are being met daily. They want for very little and we spend a good deal of time together, interacting or just in each other’s presence. I believe that structure, that sense of stability, makes these words seem unnecessary to them.  Thus, there is no need for them to say it back to me. For now. For now, they just need to know that they are loved and feel they are loved. And in the end, all of us need to accept that we are worthy of the love we are given.

Once again, having children has taught me valuable life lessons. Kids may be the result of love, but we cannot create life as a way to force someone to love us back. Love is cultivated over time. For a parent, it seems that love begins with an ultrasound. For a child, that love manifests itself in stages. It is our job to teach children how to love, and the best way to do that is to show them. In short, to love them. Unconditionally.

“I love you” can serve as a reminder that you love me, too. Or it can serve as a reminder that you are loved. As a parent, I choose the latter, and I know what the answer is, even if it is unspoken.

Now, I seem to ponder the concept of love more. Whom I love. Who loves me. Not, who I have history with, or who I am in close proximity to, but who I have an abiding emotional connection to and for. It has been a very enlightening journey–emphasis on the lighten. I DO feel lighter. I used to think of love as something that anchored me, like a rock. Now, I try to view love as a feather, as a breath. Light and soft.

 

 

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