THE DIGNIFIED RANT
HOME FRONT ARCHIVES 2002
"Things Go Wrong" (Posted December 25, 2002)
Well, this last weekend was a weekend where things went wrong. Or were discovered. Right now all is well. Mister is asleep. I finished the first cup of the quart of eggnog that I allow myself each year (God, that stuff is good-I'd weigh 200 pounds if I drank as much as I wanted) and now I'm polishing off a Bass Ale. The cookies for Santa are eaten and the thank you note from Santa is placed next to the crumbs (on Santa notepad stationary that I made, thank you very much) and my last trips to the stores today went well. I never even had to break stride whistling Christmas tunes as I shopped. All the presents are wrapped and Mister wrote all his gift tags. The cat has finally given up sniffing the air for cookies and hunting for the cookie plate. And I'm watching "Christmas Story" for the Nth time.
Life is good.
But Friday night it seemed primed for disaster. Mister got sick and feared he'd upchuck like he did a couple months ago when I slept on the floor next to him all night, holding the waste basket for him every hour like clockwork. But other than a mild fever, he weathered that fine and by Monday was ok.
Then I had to make the supreme effort to get the Christmas cards out. I bought extra kindergarten photos of Mister for this mission and I could put this off no longer. It was tempting to just abandon the cause altogether and join the Vichy government, but I persisted. They might be late-or they might make it in time-but by God, they were going out. And I did it. I like displaying the cards I get; so sending them out is a duty that cannot be set down lightly. I had no excuse this year.
The worst crisis was that I Lost Microsoft Word. Actually, I killed it. Not on purpose, of course, it never is. And I did have extenuating circumstances rather than just being due to computer illiteracy. You see, all too often, Comet Cursor has persistently offered me the chance to download their software. What Nirvana I avoided by always refusing, I do not know. But I must have accidentally agreed to download it one time since it appeared as a toolbar. A toolbar that would not go away. I clicked it off. It returned. I clicked it off. It came back. Grrr.
Enough! I said. I decided to hunt it down and destroy the folder that had entered my computer unwanted. Aha! There it is. The "Comet" folder. Die foul miscreant! Defiler of all that is good and pure. I delete thee and banish you to the Trash bin! I was not through, though, oh no. I pursued the broken Comet folder into the bin and banished it to binary Heck in the bowels of my ancient Pentium where it could consider its sin of polluting my computer.
I was happy. Victory was mine.
Until I tried to open Word. Then, I discovered the horrible truth. Somehow, I know not how, Word had become a human shield to Comet, embedded in the Comet folder. Argggggh!!!! Comet "curser" was an understatement. Sigh. It was beyond reach of all but the most diligent scrambled bit recovery tools. Oh well, I'd been meaning to learn the WordPerfect program I'd purchased for my new laptop. Now I have no excuse. A little different but not too bad-just need to get used to it.
The last crisis was the Monday night Christmas list drafting. To my horror, after weeks of trying to get Mister to tell me what he wanted Santa to bring, he was concerned that Santa did not know. He began writing his list. Did he not know that Santa's wallet was officially closed? Luckily, the first two he listed were those I'd purchased in July: Train, roads for his cars. Then I began my evil Dad work. I started suggesting. And he liked the suggestions. Even stuff that I had to explain. "Oh yeah, that sounds good!" he said. I did this for three items until he said that was enough since he'd be getting presents from lots of people and not just Santa. (I must say I was proud of his restraint). When his mom saw the list she looked puzzled and alarmed, but I gave her the thumbs up sign-all taken care of. But boy, what a close call!
Now it is after midnight. Christmas is here. The families will all want to see Mister. He's the star today. And despite the modern chicken entrails that seemed to portend disaster, all is well. Life is good, and Christmas is upon us at last.
Merry Christmas to the troops overseas. Merry Christmas to those who have lost loved ones on 9/11 and other terrorist attacks. Merry Christmas to the families of our military personnel who have died protecting us. There will be little joy for these families, so "merry" it cannot be; but I hope that the spirit of the season may heal them and give them strength. That my Christmas and my son's Christmas is a happy one is in no small measure due to their sacrifices.
I cannot possible repay them.
“Random Memories” (Posted
This is really for me. I’m
not a video filmer and my photographs are in a shoe box. I will never be
organized enough to have albums. Sure, I own albums, but they await the
pictures. But I do want my memories of events past with my son. Here are a few.
My son peed on me over Missouri. And also spit up on me. I don’t recall which he did
first. I think the spit up was first, because I remember that when I was
changing him on the airplane seat and the arc of liquid headed for me, I kind
of shrugged rather than making some effort to dodge. I’d already lost that
Downy fresh smell, what more could Mister do? Changing a boy is like that.
You’re dealing with a loaded gun and it's just Russian roulette, really. My defense was to never dawdle. Once the old
diaper was off, the new one was on in a flash. There were only the quick and
the wet in this world. I also remember holding Mister while walking around the
rear of the empty plane, trying to get him to sleep. I was by the emergency
exit and I started worrying about the door flying open. Here I was, walking
around, un-seat belted, and that door could come off, sucking me and my son
out. What would I do? Hold onto Mister while trying to keep both of us in the
plane? Toss Mister to the rear of the plane hoping his mom would get him and
take my chances going for the door? But what if I grabbed the door, saving
myself, but Mister went out past me? Man, was I nuts, or what? The worries a
parent gets…
The day Mister sat up on his own for the first time was so neat. For little ones, seeing them from a distance
usually means seeing them lying on their back, flaying about—maybe rotating.
One day, Mister was on his blanket on the floor with me. I was in the family
room doing something—don’t remember what. His mom was in and out of the family
room, doing something I forget. His mom and I were talking when I looked over
at Mister for the Nth time to make sure that sinister space aliens hadn’t
grabbed him while I was looking away, possibly hypnotized to not pay attention
while they did their dastardly deed. (I worry too much) And there he was,
sitting up looking at me. Sitting up! It is difficult to describe the look on
his face. Wonder at the new perspective. Perhaps awe that after all those
efforts he finally had teetered upright. Like oh man, he seemed to be thinking,
this is way cool! I called out to his mom, hey, did you sit Mister up? She of
course ran to the room to see. No, did you? We had missed the actual
moment. Drat!
After that effort, it wasn’t
long before he was standing, and toddling at the edge of the couch, then
walking, and now running “faster than dad.” (he always wins our races) Tomorrow
he’ll be in college. So very fast.
That? One of
Mister’s first words was “that.” For quite some time, as we walked around any
place at all, Mister would point at something and ask “That?” I never failed to
answer him: that’s a lamp; that’s a wall; that’s the cat; that’s a cup; that’s
computer. His alert eyes took in everything and he was eager to learn what
everything around was. And with that one word and an arm/forefinger combination
under positive control, he could get all his questions answered. How long had
he looked around at his surroundings, wondering, “What the heck is that and why
won’t anybody tell me what this stuff is?” But then he learned “That?” and his
world opened at an accelerating and probably exhilarating pace. “My God,
there’s a name for everything!” I’m still amazed at what Mister learns and
figures out. His memory of things past (like the wins and losses of the 2002
Stanley Cup playoff series with the Red Wings; or the U of M football
season—including scores!)
Mister’s First Christmas when he was aware of the holiday took place when he
was almost three years old. I remember telling Mister that Santa would bring
presents and he was pretty unsure of what to make of what on the face of it was
a pretty outlandish claim. On Christmas Eve, when I was getting him to bed, I
told him that he’d see the presents Santa left when he woke up in the morning. Looking
up at me, he quietly said, in his first hint that he believed, “I hope so.” The
next morning, we went downstairs and I turned on the Christmas lights from the
wall switch, illuminating the gifts. It was true! It was a tough year, with my
marriage falling apart rapidly. I bought and wrapped all the presents—to Mister
from mom and dad and from Santa, and presents from mom and dad to each other.
His mom even thanked me for the trouble I went to so that the Christmas would
be festive for our son. And it was a success. Whatever else was going on,
Christmas had to be special for Mister. We made it so. Last year, Santa thanked
Mister for the cookies and milk on special Santa notepad paper that I made.
Christmas is for kids, as it should be.
Some crises are just not so bad. Like the evening Mister and I were relaxing after
dinner with a little dessert. I’d turned Mister on to M & Ms and he loved
them (now not so much…). I became aware that Mister was digging at his nose and
it was getting to the point where I’d have to take notice and tell him to stop.
All of a sudden he was up on his feet, head held back, rushing over to me, a
look of panic building. Oh Lord, was it
a nose bleed!? I peered in and instead
of red I saw green. A green candy was lodged in his nostril. I couldn’t get it
out but my laughter visibly calmed Mister. I took him upstairs to the bathroom
and got out the tweezers. Sadly, body
heat started to melt the M & M so it broke apart as I extracted it,
smearing chocolate in his nose. He
actually said he thought that since his mouth was an opening that he used to
eat, and since his nose was an opening, why wouldn’t that work? I explained
that his logic was not unreasonable but wrong—and the same went for the ear. He
never did anything like that again.
The cut lip in the bathtub was something to worry
about. Not a real crisis but to a new
father and a son who’d never bled, hoo boy. It was the weirdest thing, I’m
standing, watching him play after doing all the work aspect of the bath, when
he ever so slowly bends over and puts his mouth on the edge of the bathtub.
Curious but apparently harmless. When Mister lifted his head, however, again
slowly, his mouth was open in shock and his eyes were welling up.
Egad, my son is bleeding! I
snatched him from the tub, clutching him. He thrashed so I had to sit him on
the floor, with my legs wrapped around him to hold him still, while I applied
pressure to his lip with a wet washcloth. All the while, I said soothing words,
as he asked, “What’s that red stuff?”
That’s blood, son, it usually
stays inside so when it comes out I have to stop it. So you have to let me do
this. Don’t worry.
I was scared to death at
letting my son bleed like that. My shirt shoulder was covered with my son’s
blood! But it was fixed quickly. His bleeding stopped. I explained blood more.
All in all I feel lucky that minor cuts and nose bleeds, and one bump from a
coffee table at his grandma’s that scared the bejeezus out of me, are the worst
Mister has experienced. I don’t know if I could take it…
Mister’s first try at bowling was a hit. It
was a classmate’s birthday party in kindergarten. Mister did not want to bowl.
Period. I told him he didn’t have a choice, we were going. He didn’t have to
bowl but we were going. Period. I won. After a little while there, he wanted to
bowl and he loved it! And the neatest thing was that I had started keeping
track of whose turn it was so the children all got to bowl. Mister took over,
calling out his classmates’ names when they wandered and it was their turn and
explaining to new bowlers where their spot in the line was. He was taking
charge and keeping it all fair. Sometimes I am so proud of him. And to think
once he was so shy he could barely look at other children.
Navy won in a blowout in the annual rivalry of the Army-Navy
game of 2002. Mister, as I’ve noted, loves football. We
dutifully watched the game despite the drubbing. Mister, to my pride, said in
some despair when the game was over, “Dad, we got killed.”
We.
I’ve taught him well; though
he had trouble believing that Navy was ok even though they beat Army. No ill
will there. And Mister noted that grandpa would be happy, at least (grandpa was
WW II Navy).
I still hope that Mister’s
military experience is limited to rooting for Army once a year, but it was neat
to see him absorb my value there. (and he of course, hates
All memories I hope don’t
fade. I may jot some more down as I think of them. I may not have albums and
movies, but I’ll have stories at least.
"Football Saturday" (Posted November 17, 2002)
Mister and I went to the University of Michigan-Wisconsin game this Saturday. His grandfather (on his mom’s side) couldn’t use his tickets and so we went. It was cold, but with no wind it was no big deal. Still, it was cold enough for me to figure we’d only make it for the first half at best. We had a good start, when Michigan scored before we even made it into the stadium. We got to our seats and I just had Mister sit on my lap so he wouldn’t get cold. Besides, this way I could more easily pick him up so he could see the action when the crowd stood up in front of us. That happened a lot. This phenomenon truly puzzles me. You would think that it is a wash—you see the same whether you all sit or all stand—so why not sit?
After we scored again and went up 14 to 0, it was looking good for us. Mister got used to the score board stats to figure out what had happened, and besides, we were pretty lucky that a lot of action early in the game took place down at our end so it was easy to see. We yelled. We questioned the refs. We ignored the non-Disney words of some frustrated Michigan fans around us. And of course, we had to work our way through the crowd to take a bathroom break. Then back through to our seats.
We were having a ball. It was actually the second game we’ve been to this year. We saw the game against Western Michigan with his aunt on her birthday. That game was blazing and we left well before halftime. This has been Mister’s year to get into sports. I first noticed in earlier in the year when I tuned into an early Red Wings game in the playoffs and when I switched it back to the cartoon channel, Mister said he wanted to keep it on hockey. Huh? Why sure, son. After that he was hooked, living or dying by Detroit’s progress. Saddened when I had to send him to bed before the game was over. He was thrilled by the triple-overtime game that I stayed up to see so I could give him the blow-by-blow. He still remembers the order of victories against Detroit’s foes. He picked up on the scoring and power plays, and loved it. He was horrified when the season ended but delighted with the Stanley Cup (after I explained what it meant, of course). Now he has his Wings shirt and Yzerman poster on his bedroom wall. I thought I had a great treat for him when the Governor of North Carolina paid off on his Stanley Cup bet by shipping off a truckload of Krispie Kremes to Lansing. I walked over and grabbed one even though mere glazed donuts are nothing to me. I explained to Mister what it was and thought he’d gleefully eat it. Boy was I wrong. He couldn’t care less. It sits in my freezer still. Somehow I can’t bear to part with it. Although I can’t authenticate it, I wonder if I could get anything on E-Bay for it? Probably.
Now we have football season and Mister loves that. One weekend we just watched and played football. Lordy Lord, he even watches the Lions! Any team actually. And he plays his parallel game while watching, his one-man team running roughshod over his hapless opponents. Scores of 243 to nothing are common. He makes up football songs. Plus he uses his growing math scores to tell me alternative ways that a team could get to whatever score they have. He adds up the touchdowns, extra points, field goals, and safeties to reach his score. He does the subtraction to figure out yards gained on the play after the announcers say how many yards to go for the first down. He constantly calls for teams to do an on-side kick or call a time out. Punting on fourth down is a crime in his eyes. Baseball is not too thrilling for him. The math for one thing, is too simple in the scoring area. Just adding one. No challenge there. This is a relief, actually, since I find baseball boring now. When I was young I liked it. Now, snooze.
Anyway, we left at halftime with the score tied. We live close to the stadium so we made it back to get lunch and watch the rest of the game in warmth. Shoot, we could still hear the planes towing banners going over us. On a nice day with the windows open, we can even hear the cheering when the wind is right. A fun football day. He played many games, with me and against imaginary opponents. His Wolverines always dominate. But he always puts in his second string when he passes three hundred points. No need to humiliate the opponent he always says.
Yep, a father-son football game in Michigan Stadium is truly good. Almost six and he is quite the sports fan. Far more than I, in fact; but I hate to diminish his newly discovered joy of sports.
"A Cat’s World" (Posted November 10, 2002)
Yesterday I was pondering the perspective of a cat—my cat, Koshka, in particular. It struck me as a great contrast to a dog that can sail down a highway in the back of a truck, tongue lolling out, blissfully watching the world go by.
Cats that are free to go outside aren’t the object of my speculation. They can roam their neighborhoods and do in fact have a universe to behold.
No, I’m talking about house cats—those cats that remain safely inside a climate controlled environment, with food and drink a short stroll away and a clean litter box always at hand. My cat. Koshka does not like the great outdoors. When I got him 18-1/2 years ago as a kitten (and for the first year I thought he was a she—hey, he was six weeks old, the owners said he was a female, and in my defense I did not sit around examining his cat privates. Not even when drinking. One would have thought this was a good sign instead of an excuse to razz me. Oh well), I did try to get him outside. I really did. I thought that’s what cats did. Certainly my childhood cat did. (In retrospect that explains the gazillion kittens she had) I bought a leash but very quickly realized he would only travel with me if he sat on my shoulder while I walked. When I got anywhere, he would retreat into my backpack, peering out at the world—or rather just sniffing it since I could usually only see a furiously twitching nose poking out.
In all his homes, he would sometimes bravely meow like he desperately had to get out with the wild animals (as he is, in his fuzz brain). Yet years ago he gave away the game when I called his bluff. It was winter. There was snow on the balcony. Koshka was meowing like a madman. No, Koshka, you don’t want to go out. Meooooowww! No, really, it’s cold out. Meooooowww! I’m serious, Koshka, it’s—Meooooowwwwwwww! Fine. So I opened the door. He sniffed, put his paw into the snow in the first step to the outdoors. Then recoiled in horror, turned around, and quietly claimed a berth near a heat vent. "Now, we’re talking. Soft carptet. Warm air. What was I thinking? Thank God that guy who feeds me didn’t force me out! Zzzzzzzzzz…purrrrrrrr…"
Yep, quite the life.
But I digress. My point was really their horizon. As we know now, my cat prefers the couch and sleeping on my legs in the winter for warmth. So he is a house cat. A dog sees the world via the interstate highway system. An alley cat sees, well, the alley. What has my cat seen? He hates going out. And cars make cats puke. Something about trying to focus on every passing object, and, unable to do so, upchucking. But he has lived in many places: a boarding house, a fraternity, several apartments, a condominium, and a house. I had to transport him. For each move, Koshka has been confined to a box where he could meow nervously, avoiding that nausea-inducing scenery, only to be released at the new home, shown his new litter box (this is for me) and shown his new location for his food bowl (that’s for him). He then hides behind the couch for a couple days until he accepts this is home.
Can you imagine this? What must he think? He’s happily lazing in his soft bed, looking out the window at a familiar scenery. The same squirrels go by every day. The birds may change but they basically go to the same spot. He has the path of sunlight plotted so he can go from spot to spot, basking in the warmth of the sunlight. Yep, domestication is good. You won’t find Tabbies on any SITES endangered species list, that’s for darn sure!
Then, BAM! After noticing (and being annoyed by) some persistent activity that seemed to result in furniture moving out, that human who feeds me and who I sleep on at night, providing warmth in the winter (damn him for moving around in his sleep and disturbing me, I must say!), puts me in a dark box with newspapers on the bottom!
Darkness, a loud rumbling sound not at ALL like purring, and then very disturbing sensation of movement. Then, bouncing, then a not nearly gentle enough touchdown, and the lid comes off! The cat jumps out, low to the ground, eyes alert. So this is where the furniture went! There’s my litter box. There’s my food bowl! But everything else is DIFFERENT! What is this place? It appears to be about 6:30 and my sunlight patch should be THERE! Where is it? I don’t know that squirrel! Why aren’t the birds where they are supposed to be? Can I have an explanation here?
And this has happened multiple times in my cat’s life. As far as he knows, he could have been taken around the world instead of just around my city. Yet he seems to adjust.
Really Koshka, this is it. You’re home. The sunlight followed us. The squirrels you’ll get to know. We’ve got birds. And we’ve even seen a groundhog and a chipmunk. No, you can’t play with them. And the neighbor’s dog genuinely seems to like you—not to worry, that glass will hold.
"Service" (Posted October 18, 2002)
As you may know if you’ve read this site, or if you are friend or family, I served in the Army National Guard. I was a Signal Corps soldier so I was rear echelon, big time. I could basically hit a target with my M-16 if it was within 100, 150 yards. I threw exactly two real hand grenades. I fired an M-60 once—maybe 20 rounds. I was a phone guy. I say this not to belittle what I did but to make sure you know that I am not claiming any glorious martial background.
So the question is, in the spirit of those who question people who support war against Iraq but who never saw combat, am I a chicken hawk? I do know what it is like to have the looming threat of going to war hang over me. I know what it is like to lie to my mom and tell her, no I’m not going anywhere, even when I thought I was at the time. (my brother knew I was lying) It’s not fun. Yet I did not, in the end, get sent to war. I’ve never been in combat. My unit was supposed to be sent to war (when your unit’s leadership spend a good twenty minutes awkwardly taking turns explaining that we must respond to a call up, you know). And if I had been sent? Well, as I said, I was a rear echelon type. I would have been safer in the Kuwait Theater of Operations than I was growing up in Detroit. I still wouldn’t have been in combat. Does that mean I don’t get the uniform qualifier for an opinion? Yet for eight years, my life was in the hands of Uncle Sam. Does that get me the qualifier?
I never thought of my family as a military family and never thought of myself as someone whose military service gave him a privileged ability to decide matters of war. But when I thought about it, my family is a military family. No, there are no career people, no officers even, but there is service. I served in the Army Guard during the Persian Gulf War. My older brothers served in the Army and Air Force during the Vietnam War (one went to Southeast Asia). My dad served in the Navy in World War II. One grandfather served in the Army in World War I (God, what I would give to still have the helmet and gas mask that I used to play with as a child. Left in the basement when my family moved…). My other grandfather was in the New York Army Guard before World War I and served on the Mexican border.
That’s quite a military service history. But it was a typically American form. Do your duty and then go home, put away your uniform, and get on with your life. Service gave no privilege to decide.
My son is over 5-1/2. He knows about our family’s military service. He’s seen the pictures of me in uniform. I taught him to taunt my dad with "Go Army! Hooah!" for the Army-Navy football game. I took him to an American Legion dinner where he saw many older veterans. Mister exclaimed, "I don’t want to join the Army!" A friend, a veteran himself, quietly said, "I hope you don’t too."
I want my family’s military history to stop with me. If my son joined the military I’d be terribly proud of him (even if he joined the Air Force) but would feel guilty every day he was in, wondering if my example prompted him.
I guess the chicken hawk question comes into play when I think of my support for war against Iraq. Perhaps my service does give me the "right" to have an opinion like this in the minds of war opponents. But if so, I have a confession to make: there is a terribly selfish component to my support of war. Not that it shaped my position, but it is there nonetheless. Almost twelve years ago, I thought I was going to war. Because we ended the war without going all the way to Baghdad, I was probably spared mobilization. Now, soldiers who were kids when I was a soldier have to finish the job.
In twelve years my only son will be military age.
The thought that he could inherit this problem, when it will be far worse—when I failed when it was my turn—is too awful to contemplate. Is this a motivation that disqualifies my opinion?
I guess the question of who has the "right" to decide war is more complicated than those who hurl the charge "chicken hawk" can imagine. Those former generals they cite aren’t going to war. What of parents never served but whose children are going to war? Are those parents barred from weighing in? Or do they get extra credit because their kids could—will—die. Are senior citizens forbidden to decide? Despite many being veterans they are unlikely to even have grandchildren who will go to war. Do women get to decide? They aren’t allowed in combat units (Military Police excepted) so they are in the same boat as me—REMF. And on the other hand, will those who oppose destroying Iraq be forced into a special city that is not under the protection of the United States military and thus totally dependent on the good will of our enemies?
In a free country, we all get to decide and weigh in with our opinion. And we don’t need to mark our ballots in blood to prove anything.
"Long Weekend" (Posted September 25, 2002)
I had a long weekend with Mister. His mom was out of town on a business trip so I took Monday and Tuesday off. His maternal grandma asked me if four straight days of taking care of a young boy was too much. Heck no! Mister is such a great kid that I just don’t tire of taking care of him. Cooking meals, playing, reading, shopping, visiting grandma and grandpa (my parents), and putting him to bed at night are all just terribly important and satisfying jobs. Back in June, when we were in Los Angeles (let me just say here that for a five year old, a local high school carnival beats Disneyland for sheer fun easily), Mister’s mom was off at a formal dinner with her dad. Mister and I wandered off to a local Subway for dinner. Walking back to the hotel, Mister asked me if taking care of a little boy was hard. Well, I said, yes it is. But I really like it, too. But can it get too hard, he asked. I hastened to add that even though it was a hard job, I loved taking care of him. I told him that it is only hard because I worry about doing a good job. "Well," Mister said after a couple moments, "so far you’re doing a good job." It was ridiculously great to hear that judgment. So, four whole days, basically, was both a joy and another chance to screw up.
Saturday was a day for cartoons and playing in the morning, he read two of his books (about trains) and did it almost completely by himself (!), a University of Michigan football game on TV in the afternoon (he has become quite the football fan this year—although he confessed he mostly likes to add the score totals when something happens), and a post-game party at a friend’s home. Mister wasn’t eager to go. I told him we were going and that he’d have fun. Hot dog, grapes, juice. It was a hot day and my friends were amused that I kept telling him to drink (water), "just like he treats us at the bar!" Mister loved the huge train set-up in my friend’s basement. I have a lot of work when I shift over to electric trains from the wooden ones. The trampoline was nerve wracking. As he jumped on it I kept thinking, "my son is going to the emergency room, I just know it." When we finally left, with no injuries, Mister admitted he had a "great" time.
Sunday was just kind of a relaxing blur. It was cool and threatened rain. I wasn’t up to the museum (the hands-on kids museum, which Mister would go to every day if he could) so we stayed home and I did laundry. We played. Mister set the table for dinner (he likes taking all the plates of food and settings out to the table). Then bedtime to get a good night’s sleep before school Monday morning.
Mister is great getting up in the morning. He gets right up without complaint. He is unlike me in that he takes over an hour to eat cereal and fruit, and drink his juice and milk. He chose a snack and he got dressed and we headed out. This was the first time I took him to school, so Mister helpfully explained how we’d go inside. He told me which sidewalk we’d go up. I asked him where he put his backpack. He explained it all to me. He also went over all the places he might be when I came to pick him up. No problem. It was all so terribly sad to leave him there. Silly, since I’ve taken him to pre-school many a time. I smiled and left. He has taken to school so fast that I thought it would be awful to have him think I was sad he was there. The time until I picked him up went fast. I found him in the classroom still packing his backpack.
We had a quick lunch at home and then took advantage of my day off to go visit my parents. We always go Sundays so this was unusual. Mister had a ball, as usual. He had his pillow fight with my parents, he danced, he played solitaire, hearts, and free cell with my mom on her computer. He put sprinkles on his ice cream. He slept on the way home… A quiet evening, bath and bedtime.
Tuesday morning was another long eating experience. Before he started morning school, his long breakfasts were not as noticeable. No effect really, just a quirk. I cannot understand it since I eat no breakfast. I’d rather have the extra sleep. Now, I had to prod him to eat or I’d turn off Sponge Bob. I took Mister to class and left like a pro. I spent another 2-1/2 hours doing chores, reading email, checking out the news, and having this nagging feeling that if I wasn’t careful, I’D FORGET TO PICK MISTER UP FROM SCHOOL. Of course, I didn’t. But that image of Mister alone at school long after his classmates left kept coming back until I headed out the door.
I stood outside, willing myself to just wait for him to come out. Sure enough, he finally poured out the door at the tail end of a bunch of kids. When he saw me, he broke into a smile and ran flat out to me. I asked him if he wanted to play and he said yes, so I held his backpack while he scampered off with the other kids to the play structure. For about a minute until the bus came and then everyone was called back. As I got Mister in the car, two little girls from his class waved and said bye. Mister returned the waves and byes. It was so nice to see that he had made friends. He told me their names, Robin and Shisuke. He told me his friend’s name is Tony. I told him that when I was a boy, I had a best friend named Tony. Really? That something is not new and unique to Mister is sometimes a revelation to him! We ate lunch. Went shopping (bought a really cool railroad crossing circular rug for his bathroom). We rented "Stuart Little"—again. And Mister cried at the sad part again too. And laughed at the funny parts. It was reassuring to see him cry at the right parts and laugh at the right parts. Yep, emotional development just fine. Then bedtime again. Four days and I hated it was over and I had to return to work. Ah to be rich and able to do this all the time.
And the best part? Seeing my son spot me after school on Tuesday, break into a broad smile, and run just as fast as he could to get to me. I guess I’m still doing a good job—so far.
"Kittens and Boys" (Posted September 18, 2002)
Mister’s mom is a little heartbroken that Mister has started kindergarten. She doesn’t like that she will have less time with him now that he is in school. I don’t blame her. I don’t like the idea of having less time with him, either. But I can’t be too sad. I’m proud he is starting kindergarten and told his mom that it is natural that we will be a smaller part of Mister’s life from now on. He is entering a world that we will monitor but not really be a part of. Friends and teachers will be with him five days a week and we will not be there. School events and parent-teacher conferences will not change that basic fact.
As Mister gets older, we will be more and more lost in the crowd. Not that we will be less important. We will always be vitally important to Mister, whether for good or bad. We just won’t be as central in his conscious thinking. More and more, as he gets older, his mom and I will become anchors to his life. He’ll need us to be there for him when he needs us but he won’t hang out with us like he does now. We won’t have the opportunity to just play with him and spend lots of time with him. We are giving him a solid foundation for growing up, however, and that is the most important part of this time that we have now. It isn’t about us. It is so special that it is tough to remember that.
I don’t expect to always spend as much time with Mister as I do now. And I don’t mourn it even though I will miss it. (or maybe new hormones at puberty are nature’s way of making parents not miss spending time with their kids) Raising Mister is a joy but soon he will draw away. He will even learn—for a while—to avoid us and think of us as fools who don’t/won’t/can’t understand him. When will this happen? When he is thirteen? Fourteen? Mister is more than halfway to six. Is almost half of his "usable" childhood over? Thinking of it this way makes the time he goes off to college seem not far away at all. Yet he has just started kindergarten. Still, I must prepare him and myself for that day. Part of my job is to let him grow up and be his own person, able to stand on his own and make his own world. It would be selfish to clutch him and refuse to let him grow up. Taking care of him more than he needs for his age does him no favors.
I still remember some kittens our cat had when I was little. Our cat had lots of kittens. When it was time for this batch to be given away, we found a family with a farm to take them all. I cried so much when the family came to get them that they suggested we keep one. My parents agreed and for another week we kept this kitten. But after a week, it was time to give that kitten to the Humane Society. What did I accomplish? I had the kitten for another week. That kitten was separated from his brothers and sisters, and was denied a home with all of them. Instead, he went to a cage where his fate depended on being adopted. He probably was adopted. He was a gorgeous kitten. But maybe not.
Keeping that kitten a week longer was just about me. I wish the adopting family hadn’t offered the kitten. I wish my parents hadn’t given in to my crying and allowed me to keep him for another week. I was just a kid and I don’t actually blame my parents. In the grand scheme of things it was a small incident. But I didn’t do the kitten any favors for clutching him another week. I hate to think of it, but I may have even killed him if he was not adopted. That week with me didn’t do more for his future than letting that kitten go with his brothers and sisters to the farm.
I won’t clutch my charge so tightly that my love harms him rather than nurtures him.
“Fairy Crisis” (Posted
Mister just lost his first
tooth. He has had a couple wobblers in the front on the bottom for a while now,
and last night he lost one. Well, not quite “lost,” since I know where it is.
It is in his digestive tract.
This was a crisis of
childhood mythology that required all my best lying and obfuscation. All in the name of a good cause. I could be a
diplomat.
The whole Tooth Fairy story
is well known. I’ve discussed it with
Mister. His mom has explained it to him. His grandparents have told him about it. For a
child who already accepts a jolly Santa Claus with the ability to know good from bad that would have been useful pre-9-11; a benefactor who is encouraged to
break and enter homes to leave toys (indeed, we reward him with cookies), this
is no stretch. Certainly it isn’t odd when you know a bunny rabbit leaves
chocolate every Easter. No, leaving a
tooth under your pillow and awaking the next day to find money all makes
perfect sense in this world. In order to
make the whole losing teeth experience seem as normal as it is, we hold out
this cosmic bribe. Leave a tooth. Get money.
The whole scam fell apart
when Mister swallowed his tooth.
We had just brushed our teeth
after dinner and settled down on the couch.
Mister was enjoying a bowl of apple slices as we watched Sponge Bob (I
love Sponge Bob). When Mister finished,
he scampered off to the sink to deposit his bowl and as he returned to the
couch, chatting about something, I could see the gap. Uh oh.
“Let me see your teeth,
Mister.” He dutifully complied and sure enough, a tooth-wide gap was there. No
blood. Just a gap.
I headed for the kitchen to
check the bowl. No loose tooth was there.
I fished his napkin out of
the garbage. No loose tooth.
Under the couch cushion? No
tooth.
On the carpet? No tooth.
No tooth.
I could sense the unease building
in Mister, the thought that could not be spoken: “Dad, for weeks you’ve told me
about exchanging a tooth for money. Heck, I’ve seen it on TV! That’s the deal!
Money for a tooth! I’ve got no tooth to
give!”
Feeling like the Grinch
caught by little Cindy Lou (who was all of two) filching the Christmas tree, I
had to think fast.
Before Mister could ask the
dreaded logic question, I went on the offensive. “Well, it is too bad we don’t
have your tooth. (pause) But that doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t matter?” he
asks. Hope and despair battled for
supremacy in Mister.
With a little surprise in my
voice and that “I haven’t mentioned this well-known aspect?” tone, I replied:
“Oh, Heavens no. You are really getting
money for LOSING the tooth. The Tooth
Fairy doesn’t actually need to get the tooth! The Tooth Fairy knows you lost it
after all and knows you aren’t lying about it.”
I’m feeling proud and
somewhat evil as Mister begins to buy the new line on the Fairy bargain. “Really? We don’t need the tooth?”
“Oh, no!” (pshaw)
I’m in. Not content to risk a shaky victory, I pour
it on. “Hey, I have an idea! Why don’t we write the Tooth Fairy a note?”
Locked down. “That’s a great idea, dad!”
So I write the note:
Dear
Tooth Fairy,
I
lost my tooth.
Thank
you.
Mister wrote his name down,
and then, sealing the deal, he suggested an addition (Lord, another editor
changing my words). “Tell her I swallowed it.” So the final note read:
Dear
Tooth Fairy,
I
lost my tooth.
I
swallowed it.
Thank
you.
MISTER
That night, we placed the
note under his pillow and after he fell asleep, I switched it for a shiny new
Myth saved. Childhood secure. Dad a lying deceiver.
I feel so proud.
"Nice Day" (Posted August 3, 2002)
Just a nice day with Mister today. We started out with pancakes. Mister lately enjoys feeding one to Koshka, our cat, as much as he likes eating them. The morning just flew by, really. Before I knew it, we had to rush through lunch and head out to the movie theater. Mister wanted to see The Powerpuff Girls Movie again, but the movie wasn’t showing anymore. Instead, we saw Stuart Little II. Mister loved it. He said it was better than the Powerpuff Girls. It was fun to hear him laughing out loud. I’ve definitely introduced him to movies and he wants to see more. I have to find the first Stuart Little at the video rental store…
Then we headed to Kroger to shop. I let Mister push the shopping cart and except for one minor ramming of my heel, he did great. Most importantly he didn’t hit anybody else or any display stand! He had a ball. And he was actually a help to me. That was new and amazing.
After that it was off to the used computer store. I was actually amazed. I could buy a used computer more advanced than my computer at home for under $200.00! There is no way in Hades I will ever buy a new computer for myself. A new one for Mister, sure. I imagine he’ll need a new one eventually for the educational and game programs he’ll use. But my computer is basically just to write, use email, and read news online. Oh, and order stuff online. My only game is an old DOS-driven Sid Meyer’s Civilisation—the original one. I actually exit to DOS to play it. Kind of a blast from the past to get the old DOS prompt (>) and then type a command! Ah, DOS. Those were the days when you actually used your computer. Don’t miss it really, but there was something about it. More frontier-like. I like my microwave, but cooking on an open fire is basic. Anyway, I bought a $300.00 laptop that does as much as my desktop. Amazing. The store only had one and I was really just going in to price, but at that price… Mister thought it was cool. I told him it was for me to use and not for him (he does get the desktop more than I use it!). I said maybe when he is older he can use it. "Like when I’m seven?" he asked. Maybe, I said. "But I want to use it when I’m five." You are five, I said. "I know, I want to use it now." Always working the angles…
A quick run home, a dip in the pool where I lost at water soccer—again. His rules do not allow me to score. Although I explain to him that he can’t play like that with other kids, I’m fine with it. He even told me, "You know dad, one is a really big number when you can’t score." Yep. My only victories come from blocking his shots and slowing down the juggernaut. I made a pizza that he gobbled down and then he added four types of sprinkles to his chocolate ice cream. After some Blues Clues on the computer and a couple games of solitaire, he played a little family room basketball. Then a bath and one last Powerpuff Girl cartoon. He even managed to quiz me on North Korea. Amazingly difficult to explain a dictatorial government to a small child. What really got me was Mister’s empathy with the North Korean people who did not have enough food. He expressed genuine concern and asked when they would be ok. Mister’s a good boy.
Then bed time. I always get such a feeling of success when he drifts off to sleep at night. Another successful day completed. Another day when I didn’t screw up being a dad. That’s my worst fear, screwing up as a dad. It’s weird. I love taking care of Mister and it is a complete joy to do so, but the worry that I—his only dad—will fail him, is quietly in the background looking over my shoulder, pestering me to be careful. I can hardly wait for tomorrow. We’ll do it all again.
"Safe" (Posted August 1, 2002)
Mister is five and a half years old now. I was 26 going to basic training before I went on a jet trip. I first learned about computers storing programs on paper tape. Memory was so expensive that efficiency of coding was a sacrament. By the time Mister was three he had been on a jet eight times. He's been to Washington DC, Dallas, Chicago, St. Louis, Toronto, San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco. He's flown to Sudbury. He knows what side the Chicago blue line L Train opens at Addison. He knows that a 737 has earphones and knows mommy works for American Airlines. He can play—and win—solitaire on the computer. He pretends to swipe a credit card through slots. He remembers that Control/shift/something erases the Paint screen so he can start over. He has his own email (although I still have to log him in).
Yet for all the advances in horizons, opportunities, and technology, I cannot imagine letting Mister do some of the things I thought natural as a child. I remember walking the four blocks to my kindergarten by myself when I was almost five. When a few years older, I spent hours away from my house exploring, sustained with a mess kit of beef jerky and candy in a metal Band-Aid box. I hung out in alleys. Firecrackers, matches, homemade smoke bombs, and a small knife were part of the walking around uniform in Detroit. Yet I wasn't a thug and neither were my friends. We didn't steal and we didn't vandalize. We were just playing. Very occasionally, being chased by the police was a game if we were caught lighting firecrackers or launching bottle rockets or snowballing cars (we threw from so far away that hitting one was beyond us for the most part). We didn't think of it as being bad. And if we miraculously hit a car, we'd run when the young driver chased us after getting mad. Yet if a car got stuck on our unplowed streets, we'd drop the snowballs and push the car out without accepting any payment.
All those things seem out of bounds for Mister. I can't imagine letting him, even in "safe" Ann Arbor, walk to school even as I did in "dangerous" Detroit (to be fair, my neighborhood wasn't even a rough inner city neighborhood, just your basic blue collar place). I want my son to be insulated from harm. Will I overprotect? My job is to help him grow up to be an adult who can make his way in the world with confidence and optimism. Yet the world seems so much more dangerous now. But is it? I am certainly more aware of the dangers than I was at 5 or 10 or even 20 for that matter. Still, I would never let him do what seemed natural in my innocent youth.
I had little awareness of the wider world and even the other side of Detroit was alien to me. Yet I knew my neighborhood. We hung out in the alleys and the construction sites, and the railroad yards and the empty lots. We were free to do nothing organized at all and didn't feel deprived. To the police we probably looked like little delinquents about to get in trouble at any time. The recent stories on child abductions by strangers just drive this home to me. I know in my mind there is no epidemic of stranger kidnappings, but Mister is my only son. It is difficult to even watch the news stories about those poor children, and it breaks my heart to think about the sudden incomprehensible violence that animals in human form inflicted on those children. How anybody can oppose the idea of capital punishment when confronted with such evil, if only in the abstract, is beyond me. Running afoul of the law seems so much easier today too, when many children do commit crimes and the law seems to have no patience for children. Will he have firecrackers, matches, knives? These are no longer considered kids' toys. We never used them against anyone for all we carried them (ok, we DID fire the bottle rockets at each other, but we never expected to hit anybody). Such objects, and even ordinary items like nail clippers, can lead to expulsion and a record today. With the specter of nutcases who might hurt him, my son will not have the freedom to find his own local horizon. I can’t bring myself to let my little boy risk this even a little.
My son has so many more opportunities than I had; yet in some ways I feel sorry for him. They don't make alleys anymore in the subdivisions that dot our world. Maybe that is better. Time has probably made the reality softer in my mind. I certainly wouldn't choose otherwise for my son. It is definitely different. I will work hard to shepherd him safely to adulthood. I fear he will be the poorer for the safety, though.
"Goodnight Mouse" (Posted on July 26, 2002)
It has been a joy and thrill to watch my son learn. He's over five years old now and is a little person now. Seeing his thought processes in action is pretty neat. Yet it is a little frightening to realize that the assumptions of his cohort are so different from my own. I like to think that I was one of the early computer users (though I gave up majoring in it in college, switching to the lucrative history and political science majors). I started programming in high school on a time share mainframe. I even saved my first program on paper tape (wow, I wish I still had that relic!). That was 25 years ago. My son learned how to type on a computer at about 3 and quickly mastered the mouse to maneuver through Windows. He has his own email account.
Although he is not tied to the computer and loves his wooden train set and cars, computers and the Internet are two things that have just "always been there" in his personal life. Mister even dragged around an old keyboard by the cord when he was still too young to use a computer. I had certainly heard of computers before I started using them at school, but it was outside of my personal life. I had an hour of computer time per week. I am still amazed at the really useful information I can find on the web. Computers aren't a wonder to Mister. They have always been part of my son's life.
I guess I never realized just how much this was true until he was not quite 3 and we started reading Goodnight Moon. It is a classic children's story about a little rabbit saying goodnight to everything around him until he drifts off to sleep. Mister loved it. He just about had it memorized. I thought the tiny mouse that was in every frame was pretty neat. Although not really part of the story, it was little detail for developing minds to follow. I enjoyed challenging my son, "Where's the mouse now?" Eventually, the little bunny would get around to saying, "Goodnight mouse." And every time I read that line, Mister would pipe up, "Goodnight keyboard!" I thought it was pretty cute. I smiled broadly every time he said it, which only encouraged my son to keep saying it. He would look at me with bright eyes and a grin as he said it, waiting form me to smile too.
I swear to God, I didn't see the connection.
For months I'd read Goodnight (little furry) mouse" and Mister would reply "Goodnight keyboard." For all my computer usage from a relatively young age, it actually took months before I realized that to my son, a "mouse" was primarily part of a computer and a small animal second! Shoot, it isn't even like I'm a farm boy who grew up seeing barn mice all over. Still, to me a mouse was an animal. What was Mister thinking when I invariably grinned like an apparent idiot to his keyboard reply. Dad says "mouse" and my son says "keyboard." What's so funny about that? Truly, dad is an easy audience.
A classic story was redefined just a little bit for the computer age yet lost none of its ability to delight a child. Such a different frame of reference so early! Yes, I'm a bit embarrassed at being so dense; but mostly I'm delighted to see how my son's mind is working and processing information. It's a lesson I hope I retain when he reaches adolescence. And I hope it still delights me.
"Shoe Tying" (Posted July 22, 2002)
Mister hasn't learned to tie his shoes yet. I told him he'd have to learn how since in kindergarten the teachers won't tie his shoes for him. I honestly haven't worried too much since he is doing a great job with reading and math and all that kid stuff. (this is particularly gratifying since his mom and I agreed that it is silly to push a child to excel. Let a child be a child, adulthood lasts long enough. Just raising him, we teach him stuff without drilling him) Tying shoes will not be a problem.
Yet he worried that I hadn't really started teaching him yet. I've shown him but never sat down and directed him through the whole process. So, we sat down on the couch, each with a shoe between our knees. I didn't expect much the first time but figured we might as well start. July will be over soon and August will fly by. Teaching Mister how to tie his shoes would have to overcome one major hurdle, however. My son is right handed. I am left handed. I did not want to show him left-handed and expect him to either translate it to right-handed style or just do it my way. And let me tell you, I have to think really hard to tie my shoe right handed. Hence, one shoe for each of us. I had to go through the motions to make sure I got them right before telling Mister what to do next.
We started through the first half-knot, got past the difficult make-a-loop-and hold-it-way-down stage, and then did the thumb wrap. Pulling the loop through while withdrawing the thumb was highly challenging. After I positioned his hands on both nascent proto-loops, he gave a pull and--a perfect bow knot! Idiot proud dad that I am, I grinned stupidly at his success. Wow! Sure, one friend's kid is going to some prestigious music school to study piano, but that doesn't hold a candle to THIS achievement! Jeez, Mister's first time tying his shoe and it was perfect.
Mister was quite happy too and beamed at his success. He quickly brought himself back to Earth, however, noting that he needed to follow my directions. He wouldn't be ready for kindergarten, he explained, until he could do it all by himself. Much more practice, he admonished me, was ahead before he was ready. So practical. Mister may have been sobered by the task ahead to be kindergarten-ready, but I was still beaming. First time! Wow!
"The Movie" (Posted on July 12, 2002)
I took Mister to see the Powerpuff Girls movie. It was his first actual movie theater movie. Last year he expressed some interest in seeing Jimmy Neutron, but he declined when push came to shove. This year, there was no backtracking. He worried it would only be shown a couple days and thought we'd miss it if we delayed too long. I could tell he was a bit uncertain about the whole thing, so as we drove to the movie theater I explained what it was like, and what we'd do, and what would happen. I also told him that most children who watch the Powerpuff Girls are actually boys (70% according to an article I read), which was a great relief to him. He is getting to the age when girls and all things girly are suspect. To suspect one of his favorite shows was for "the other" was approaching a crisis of belief for a five-year old boy.
We strolled in and purchased our ticket--no line even. With plenty of time left, we bought drinks and headed for the theater. Walking into the darkened theater, with ground lighting to guide us, we walked in and confronted a nearly empty theater. This was a moment of truth. Would Mister request front row seats sure to induce nausea, or display some other regrettable quirk? Although he expressed interest in going as high up and far back as possible, I steered him to the middle of the theater with no protest.
With drinks in hand, snacks ready in my pocket, and stadium seating providing unobstructed views, we were ready. The screen was showing commercials and after a couple minutes, Mister worriedly whispered, "Are you sure we're in the right theater, dad?" Yes son, I'm sure. The movie won't start for ten minutes or so. Before long, I reminded him that the movie would start soon so did he have to use the bathroom? Sure enough, he did. He sprinted ahead of me out to the hall and we quickly found the men's room, did the obvious, and ran back to our seats. Five minutes to go.
In time, the theater completely darkened and the previews started. I explained that before the movie starts they usually show some commercials about other movies. Except for the preview of the forthcoming Wild Thornberries movie, Mister was unimpressed. "Dad, there are more than enough previews!" he softly complained. Yes there are. Finally, the previews ended but the movie still did not start. Luckily, it was a Dexter's Laboratory short. Dexter can do no wrong so no complaints there.
I had a complaint, though. Did I mention the theater was nearly empty? There were perhaps a dozen clusters of parents and their children watching the movie. Imagine my surprise when a father, mother, and small boy entered the row directly in front of us. On guard, I expected them to keep going to the middle, we being on the aisle. To my utter shock, they sat down right in front of us! Reflexively, I looked around me to see if the theater had filled up without me knowing it. No. Just the dozen or so groups. What on Earth would make these people sit RIGHT IN FRONT OF SOMEONE ELSE IN AN EMPTY THEATER?! Good grief, did I perchance hit the exact perfect spot to watch a movie and these people had to be as close as possible to this ideal point in space to maximize their Powerpuff Girl experience? I thought of moving, but didn't. I'll be darned if I'm going to be chased away, I thought. And since it was stadium seating it wasn't as if even Mister was blocked. To be fair, they were perfectly quiet during the whole movie so I have no actual complaint.
But still. It amazes me when I see this evidence of our stone age herd instinct crop up. I've read about soldiers instinctively clumping together in search of protection when logic tells you to spread out to avoid being a large target. Shoot, I've heard sergeants yelling at my comrades to do the same in training (long ago, in my chairborne ranger days). I've even seen it when I park in a mall away from all cars to avoid nicks, only to come out and find that the gravitational pull of my vehicle is so great that there is now a clump of cars in the middle of the lot. I swear to God, given a couple billion years, a planet would coalesce, with my Tracer compressed down to the molten core of a new world. So here in an empty, dark, movie theater, the uncontrollable urge to be near another sentient being for safety led a small family to park right in front of me and Mister. I guess I'm just glad they didn't drag their freshly killed Wildebeest with them and butcher it with stone tools. We had Sweet Tarts and Gushers.
Anyway, after two more trips to the bathroom and a lot of Powerpuff Girl saving the day before bed time, we ended our first movie successfully. As we walked out, he made a point of loudly saying, "I liked the Powerpuff Girls move, dad!" so that the ticket seller could hear (in case I missed it, he pointed out that was why he said it).
Of course, he wants to see it again. "I bet mom would love to take you!"