I Must Tell You, With No Regrets, That I Will Not Be at The Game

Another round of school preparation days is negating the celestial gift of longer summer days; ones that are diminishing without any administrative help. And we are in meetings. The focus is how to teach you better, but the effort, if we are honest, is filling designated professional development days to create an illusion of readiness.

Someone inevitably adds that it is very important that we go to your games. “They need to see our faces,” they tell us. Many heads nod in agreement. Later, someone will recount their version of how one of the “the boys” noticed they were there.

But me. No. I will not be at the game. You know I support you, or you don’t. It does not matter to me. I hope that you do, but it does not matter. It does not matter because that is not the task. I can not take time from the family I love, and the home that rejuvenates me to go to your game.

Because, at the end of the day. When I go home. To the family I love. To the home that rejuvenates me. I inevitably take out a stack of over one hundred pages. Over one hundred pages that I will read, comment on, agonize over, plead for change, and then move to a pile that grows taller only long, long,…….long after the game is over.

How is it that the school thinks it is at the game that my presence matters? Why do you not see my face in the comments? Isn’t this much of what English teachers ask you to see in others’ writings: the human passion within them? To see the author’s purpose? Well, this is my purpose.

Yes, some of you will earn your ultimate success through athletics. I am literally someone who did just that for many years. I was a coach as long as I have been a teacher. But we say that a coach is a teacher, don’t we? Why do we say that and give that dual credit to the coaches, but we do not say and then appreciate that a teacher is a coach? Why doesn’t that sink in?

But I digress. The game. The field is set. Your heart is beating in your chest. This is the big moment. The sidelines are packed with people. You see your parents. You know they love you. You think they will love you even more if you win, because they will be proud of you. I will tell you a secret.

Lean in.

They love you more when you lose.

Your friends are there. In their own ways they love you too. And, yes, there are a couple of your teachers here. It’s cool they’ve come to see you; you think. Another secret for you.

Lean in again.

They love you too. Even the one you think hates you.

How do I know?

Because now it is dark. Everyone in the house is asleep. There is a light perched on the top of the computer screen. The keyboard is propped off to the side, and on my desk is your paper. I am writing on it. Your ideas are more organized this time. You still write in the passive voice at all the wrong times.

Imagine this is a field, or court, or a pool deck. The coach tells you, “Bend your ankles, knees, and hips; then share the work between all three.”

I write, “Remember to share your assertion early, so the reader knows where you are taking them.”

We both hope you get it right when it matters. Maybe not this week, but someday down the road when it really matters, when the clutch play, the important account, rides on your effort. Both of us. Equally.

Back on the field, the crowd is going wild. You can no longer hear your heart. The stands are cheering for you. You have the chance to succeed in this moment. This game is so important. It feels like the whole school is here. Except for me.

Now.

Imagine my desk as a field. The lights are shining on a gigantic stadium. This one really matters. You feel your whole life is riding on this letter, this presentation, this proposal. You hope you’ve gotten it right. You hope your talent and ability comes through, and that you deliver in the clutch.

You turn to look at the stands. They are empty. Except…wait…is that your English teacher? They always did say that someday it would matter. Someday you will want to get it right. It is lonely in these stands. But I stand here, and I whistle or cheer and I beg all the fates that you rise up in this one big important moment. You want me to ring a cowbell. Consider it rang. Is it cold? I am bundled, but not quite enough, as always happens at the cold games. Do you need pompoms? I’m not proud. I will shake them. You have seen the dog and pony show in my classroom. You know this. Whatever it takes. Whatever you need. I am there. Alone in the stands. Cheering you on.

I am sorry that we did not teach you to see all the ways in which we are there for you. I am kick-over-the-cooler-full-of-Gatorade mad. I am throw-the-clipboard-on-the-court angry that our system has not helped you to see this. Or maybe we should have more faith that you do see it. Do you see it? Shouldn’t we share this truth with you?

So, no. I am not at the game. But you should understand now that I actually am. It’s just that this field, this world, is so large. You might not see all the cheering masses, fingers crossed, shivering in the stands, their hearts in their throats, hoping, praying, making deals for your success. But we are there. I am here.

Go get ‘em champ!

Headstones

“The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.” 

Andrew Marvell : To His Coy Mistress.

By my count, there are four hundred and forty-five benches on the stretch of boardwalk in Ventnor, New Jersey. Four hundred forty-five in one point seven miles of distance. That is a bench every…I don’t know. I don’t really care about the math of it to be honest. It’s a lot.

Each bench has a placard. On these placards are usually remembrances of those who have passed. On a bike ride with my son a few months back, I found myself recounting a litany of memories. “There is Mr. Van Duyne’s bench. Here is my friend Cherri Kravitz’s bench. Let’s stop at Grandma Peg’s bench and take a picture. Uncle Artie’s bench is decorated for St. Patrick’s Day.  Let’s go see it.” This is an island. There are only so many places we can wander, so our passage becomes a bit like pacing. Not a bad pacing; a pacing that becomes a meditation: a chance to see. Our companions to this meditation are those whose names are on these benches. Some of these names are people who had lived their whole lives here, some visited when they could, but all of them allowed their souls to lay claim to this seaside town. Or the town claimed their souls. However it went, they were often people who loved our island with a keen awareness reserved for poets. 

I wonder how this happened. But it’s obvious, isn’t it? In practical and positive terms our home is a barrier of sand, stretching in front of the ocean, protecting the mainland from storms and tides. If you dig more than four feet down you hit mud.  Thick mud. Smelly mud. The kind of mud that authors struggle to describe. Thick, sticky, putrid, earthy, dead, living mud. My son, who is growing up here, loves this smell. It is the small of low tide. Yes, it’s smelly, he says, “But it just, smells like… something, ya know?” I know. He is smelling home. The pull of tides. His olfactory is ingesting the rhythms that rule us all, without his awareness. So somehow this smell of death, and decay, and life all congealed together is… home. For many others too; this is the place where we make our stand. So of course, this is where our headstones should stand.

I once lived on more solid ground; one block from a cemetery. I wandered through on occasion, always curious. Who were these people buried here in the middle of town? Once upon a time their relatives could easily visit on a Sunday leaving their church service. Or swing by on their birthday. Or stop and speak secrets that could only be shared with ears attached to silent lips. Do some still visit? The dates would argue not likely. But once visiting their graves was likely an easy aside.

We, here on this island, don’t have that ease. But we are islanders. We adapt. The boardwalk that stretches the length of our island, has become our de facto cemetery. We visit our loved ones who have passed on. Because they are here. These are their haunts.

I have driven out to my friend Cherri’s grave before. She lies a short glance from two others I grew up with: brothers. I placed my stone, as is their tradition. But it did not feel…. I want to say right, but to be honest, it did not feel. There was no feeling. However, sitting on Cherri’s bench, I can hear her laughter; usually at me. I can see her walking with that I-am-going-to-bust-your-stones strut. And my friend, a rare one who truly accepted me and all my quirks, is present again. Even now, I laugh writing this.

When I sit with my son at my grandmother’s bench, I can see all the times she came to Suffolk Ave. beach with us. All the times we visited her sister at the hotel with the pool right on the beach, where we had the best of both worlds. I can hear her laugh and remember things that, I believe, are given to me from her. Not of my own memory, but from hers. Or a shared memory. We are visiting, and yet we live among them. Like those towns with their cemeteries in their center, our dead surround us. We live, capital L, among them, and they live on among us. I have seen people smiling, crying, in deep conversations, in quiet contemplation, reading, listening to music, just resting, and ,yes, embracing. Did they know they have company?  Was there an unrealized comfort? A ghost of a whisper of hope? A peace? I’m going to say…probably.

This is what I want you to know. If you find yourself walking down the boardwalk in my town, or if you already live here, you are surrounded by the spirits of those we love and those who love our home. Read their epitaphs. Witness the love. Note that likely, the bench is placed near “their place”, the place they just might be haunting. Stop. Clear your mind. Listen carefully. Their voice is in the wind, and in the waves. They are speaking to you. “The tides rise and the tides fall. Much like our lives. Much like your life. Love what you love and where you love it. Much as we did. Our island. Our home. Our resting place. And don’t forget your sunscreen.”

Hard Times

I remember this quote from some hokey movie many years ago. A simple line to deliver, but delivered by such a great actor (Paul Newman?) that it carried everything meant to be conveyed in grand scope. With few words.

This is us, now. Hard times. The entire world is in lockdown or some other socially alienating practice. In order to save one another we have retreated like characters in some dark story. My son and I talk about the Pevensies retreating to the countryside to avoid the war. Only there is nowhere to retreat to. There will be no wardrobe; no Narnia because, “this is the same house we’ve been in all along, and there’s parents all over the place.”

So here we are. I have recently returned to education and so am running virtual classes through the internet; doing my best to maintain the connection that teaching needs.

But this isn’t what I want to write about. I want to write about the concern people are expressing over whether their children are getting the education they need. I am not going to reassure with all the messages that the children will get what they need, and that everyone is in the same boat. This is true. Don’t worry about the education.

But today I saw a picture posted by a woman half a world away. A picture of a playground clumsily cordoned off. And her beautiful boy could not play there that day. And so. Now. Here is what I do worry about.

My son spends all damn virtual day in school. Then he does all the things we can think of to keep him engaged. And he gets to play video games. But here is what he does when we give him total freedom to do whatever he wants. He gets on his newly handed-down phone and video calls his cousin. Then for however many manic minutes or hours, (It’s his cousin. I almost don’t care how long.) they interact in the best way they can. Side by side miles apart together. They are giggling and yelling and interacting in various virtual worlds. It often brings me to tears. When the call is over he has a flush, excited, adrenaline fueled energy to his actions. THIS was living! This was the life that childhood craves.

These are the wounds I only distantly hope we can repair. Playgrounds are locked and barricaded. Six feet apart is the closest we can come. These are anathema to a child’s heart. My eleven year old son still wrestles and tussles with heart wrenching innocence with his friend from pre-school , a girl. He is struggling with the changing friendships of school; a boy suddenly becoming meaner, a girl suddenly becoming awkward and vice versa. All of the untold and unexpected flowering of youth that he was going to have to navigate have been removed.

I think of long distance relationships that have an awkward reentry period. This will be our children’s experiences. What will have dropped away in the distance? How will they return to connection and innocent play? The barricaded playgrounds will be unshackled and what innocent child will break that first seal of restraint? Who will follow after? How will we guide them back into hugs, and rough and tumble discovery of their place in their peer group? My son’s bruises have all healed. Will he confidently go get more? Will he be the brave one to dismiss our worries?

All of the children, from toddler to teen. The high fives, the fist bumps, the rubbing shoulders with a knowing look. The touches from innocence to discovery. The passes, the pitches. The tackles, the hand holding. Awkward drifting together at the dance. Heads leaned in, overlooking a page. An entire choreography of evolving; stripped bare.

My son has told me of the confidences of personal difficulty, shared in quiet moments out in the schoolyard. These confidences are ones that we adults rely on, and may not even realize our children thrive because they do too. They need that head huddled time together to understand the adults in their world and the adult world.

Our house isn’t large enough for quiet conversations like that. I’m not even sure he knows how to have those hard weighted moments quietly on the phone, because he doesn’t really understand the value and breadth of what that shared resource is.

Home is a safe haven for some. For some, not at all. If it is a haven, it is not their only or best safe haven. This is what we must remember. There is talk of “the new normal. We must remember things will change, adjustments will be made. But these parts can not be part of any new normal. The children must have their worlds back: one another back. This is my greatest caution. We must return the children to one another. This is the thing they can not lose.

May is Mental Health Month

May is Mental Health Month. And I’ll start right here with the disclaimer that I understand jumping right to suicide when discussing mental health seems to negate an entire spectrum of other issues. But that’s not what I am doing. This is what I’ve been thinking about lately and so I’m going to share this now. And hopefully it stays a good time to write this; when the news is quiet about this particular form of tragedy.

When there is a high-profile suicide the interwebs suddenly spring to life with suicide hotline numbers (1-800-273-8255 just in case.) Posts remind any person struggling that they are loved, and their life is important. Occasionally reminders will simply pop up on some people’s Twitter feed or Facebook page that, hey, you’re going to get through it and if you feel like you’re not, please reach out. I love these posts. They’re those just-in-case posts that might….just might hit the target at the exact right time.

But those are shots in the dark, because we don’t see every person thinking about suicide. We don’t know what the person we see daily is really thinking deep down inside. We can’t. Unless they tell us. But they don’t, or they won’t. And then we feel awful that we missed it.

Many years ago, a friend of mine who seemed to stay friends with every single person we went to school with suggested we reach out to someone I hadn’t seen since high school. “He’s going through a rough patch and just might need to be reminded of easier times, and that he still has friends.” I agreed, although I didn’t know what I could possibly add to the memories. Having been in my own head most of my school years, I remembered little of things that happened.

By the weekend he had taken his own life. It’s not a story I’ve shared before because it felt too much like one of those instances in which a purely peripheral person tries to make their relationship to the deceased relevant. It wasn’t relevant. I had failed to do anything. I was not a movement in this orbit of sorrow. I couldn’t really have been less relevant. I would talk to my friend who was going to set things up, but she’s passed away too early now too.

She didn’t take her life. But I also didn’t get to reach out to her before she passed because she closed ranks and chose a tight group that would share her passing. I should have been one of those. But my life was cramped from start to finish every day and finding time for immediate family was tough. And dying doesn’t cater to “busy.”

These two loosely connected deaths (although in terrible irony; I can stand in one spot and almost be visiting both their graves) reveal the dilemma to me. Death is a secret. It doesn’t tell when it’s going to take someone. And if someone is thinking of taking their own life. That is a very deep, very powerful secret.

It is a Rumpelstiltskin-in-reverse secret; one that no one wants known. A more tightly held thought than any of our other greatest imaginings. And it’s a secret people keep even from themselves. Friends who have gone through trials that lead to such thoughts tell me that it plays with you. It’s a secret exit strategy. An option. “This won’t happen, but here’s what we can do if things get really bad.” Then that secret only shows up when no one is there to negate its strength. It paints a picture so bleak with despair, so skillfully, that you know exactly how the future is going to play out. And that is a fantasy. No one knows the future. But suicidal thoughts tell you that they’ve worked out how it’s all going to go, and this is option A. It even concedes to being option B or C on occasion but demands that it stay on the table and in the planning stages. Relentless.

So why is it such a secret? Most religious texts state that this act banishes us from some positive afterlife. In the case of my old schoolmate no one could talk about what happened until well after the funeral so that this person could receive their religion’s burial. And, well, let’s face it then it’s really too late to help anyone else, isn’t it? It’s the raw moments that might open others up to others. Even four days of cover-up misses the myriad numbers that will be in contact and fellowship with one another. Then everyone is gone. The religions that hope to save souls mute themselves from helping them in these cases because they are not allies to those suffering. They are a threat to even their afterlife.

Suicide is publicly illegal. A person is thinking of committing murder. Most professions that offer every other confidentiality admit that if you plan on hurting yourself, they must report it. I am not saying this wrong. But it is a barrier. Because it is a terrible thought. Not terrible in bad, but terrible as in a mind living in a sort of terror. Thoughts formed in terror. And each consequence of telling creates more negatives in an already struggling life. Suicide paints itself as an escape. The consequences of telling are simply another thing to escape from.

A person considering suicide knows that this reveal changes who they are in the eyes of their friends and family. A person who for all the world wants to feel okay, wants to feel connected, understands with acute persception that if they share this secret, they have driven a wedge in that connection, or its possibility. It will always be that how-are-you-doing look. And it’s there even if it’s not there. Souls looking for a hug, maybe a hand to hold, maybe just a shoulder to lean into a bit, some one thing to hold onto… are handed a net. People always ready to catch them. But no longer able to be and let be with them.

There is so much stigma with wanting to take your own life that I have been nervous about writing these thoughts because I don’t want people to come at me with the are-you-okays and sideways-sliding into my possible mental state. I am reticent about dealing with the outcome of my concern for an issue? How messed up is that? And I know others would feel the same. That’s some messed up dynamic there.

It is a shackle. There is no easy answer. It’s all just full of questions. But I’m going to ask you these questions.

Who do you tell your secrets to? When do you tell your secrets? How do you tell your secrets?

Somewhere in here is the place where we can be there for one another. Imagine a secret that would change everything in your life. Who could you tell? Who could you trust with that information? Are you someone who can carry a secret; really carry it and not tell a soul? And yet you become a gatekeeper as well. For a person not able to become a burden, because remember that they are a burden they can barely carry themselves, can you show that you’ve got the strength and will to hold their burden? And what sort of situation needs to happen to tell a secret? These aren’t things you blurt out on a quick stop in. If there is anywhere someone needs to be you can’t open that chest of troubles. Because once that secret is told there’s a lot of unpacking to be done. How long of a silence? How open, or tight a space? How sure of zero interruptions? And then is the secret even unveiled enough in the carrier to reveal it?

Is there any hope? There must be. An author I like once stated that there is certain kind of arrogance to lack of hope. For true despair speaks of absolute knowledge of the future and no man can see the future. No man can see God’s design. So we have to hope. And to be clear; we may need to be the bearers of hope for those without it. But hope without actions is worthless.

So if you can; be worthy of secrets. Find the time for the silence where truths can be told. Avoid the rush to “helpful” suggestions with what people should do. A burdened person can’t be given another chore. Find a deeper place to be with people you think may be struggling. Or just be blatant like me and ask, “Should I be worrying about you right now? Because I care and I’m not going to wait for you to give me hints. I’ve got your back. You fucking know that, right?” and look them dead in the eye with as much conviction as you feel. That might work too.

Boats To Build

I am a boat builder. When I say it I feel weird; like writers might feel saying they are writers. Or should I say, like I feel saying I’m a writer? So many people have such romantic notions of building boats. They imagine steam bending wood or running a plane along finely milled gunnel. And, yes, I do some of this, but mostly I sweat, or freeze, and wear a mask and get messy. The boats I build are mostly used by lifeguards on the East Coast and prominently around New Jersey. We call them lifeguard boats. They are fashioned off old Sea Bright Skiffs, for any of you nautical buffs out there.

It’s a small family business, but I am the guy that makes them. And I was also a lifeguard. I raced these boats. I rowed them. I rode waves in them: one of the most glorious feelings. Imagine a surfer, but in a seventeen-foot boat shooting down the face of a wave, standing on the back, steering with an oar. I smile thinking about it even now. And I rescued people in them. I love these boats.

The last order we got for the summer one year was for my home town. The town in which I guarded. It just so happens that the Captain of my hometown beach patrol, Bill to me, Fish to others, was also my rowing partner back when I was on the beach. It also happened that he had been diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer a couple years back, and that he was fading and towards the end of his life.

This build would be different.

I knew I might not finish the boat in time for him to see it. But I also knew that this boat, if he didn’t make it, would be dedicated in his name. So I set to work.

There are two ways to make a boat. You can go the prescribed course; jig it up and put it together. Or you can make them with extra precision. You can make sure every piece fit just so. That the fiberglass is layered up cleanly and without sags. That the seat placement is exact. That the wood on the gunnels is beautiful and shaped just right. I made this boat the second way.

In a small town like mine you can see or not see people over a few months and when you see them you can just nod. The coconut telegraph spreads any real news, so you can be pretty sure everyone knows how you’re doing. A cursory, “Everything okay?”, “Yup. You?” can carry you for most meetings. This is what seeing Bill was like. There were times he’d barely nod. He was a quiet guy at times, and the most gregarious at others. His local knowledge was unmatched. And he could make the boats I build do amazing things.

And I got to be his partner for several years. We didn’t really train together all that often. We both worked out on our own and got together for the races. This was both of our styles. Also, we both rowed well enough that we didn’t need much time together. He would fall into synch behind me, calling course corrections, but usually just cracking jokes. One race when a huge wave was coming, and I had no idea, he half whispered, “Hey Hewey, pass the syrup.”

“Huh?” I grunted.

“We’re gonna get waffled.”And the boat rose up the face of a huge wave, caught the lip and we got pounded down backwards, filling with water and flipping over in the surf. We both came up laughing.“I told you so Hewey!”

We went miles in the ocean together. You don’t go out of sight of land without trusting someone. You could trust Bill. He’d get you there and back again.

I brought the hull in and pinched the jig a bit tighter. The narrower hull seemed to go a touch faster. As I set each piece in and fiber-glassed them into place I made sure the fit left little room so that the hull was tight to the parts. Once the sections were dry, I checked for runs or sags and grinded them clean. No extra waste. I then painted the interior and prepped the hull for gunnels.

Just by chance, this was some of the best mahogany we’ve had in a while. It was like butter to work with. There was a beautiful grain that I knew would pop once the varnish was on. With the wood bolted on, I shaped the gunnels. I made more passes by hand than with the power tools. Sanding. Shaping. Changing the grit to higher and higher grade until the wood was as smooth as glass.

Coat after coat of varnish and then I set the blocks where the pins that hold the oars go. Now knowing that time was running out. This would be Bill’s funeral boat. He wasn’t going to make it. At best, it would carry his ashes out to the ocean he loves.

Now I found I was making two boats. I was making a spirit boat too. One would stand on display at his funeral. But the other one? The one I was really building? That one he’d row across the great divide. No need to hand Charon a piece of gold for the journey. He’d hop in and start pulling. And he’d take as many souls as needed saving with him. He’d shoot a massive sea, running the hull up right in front of the pearly gate, jump out of the boat, drag it further up on land and ask St. Peter if he saw that one.

St. Peter would likely smile and say, “Haven’t seen a ride like that since your father arrived.”

“Stay the course.” Bill Howarth

Milestones

Before my son was born I read the books. You know the ones; Baby Wise, What To Expect When Your Expecting, some father-to-be book that read like a teenager wrote it, thinking an entire marriage was reliant on getting in her pants again; and a slew of others. The one thing they all agreed on was that different things would happen in different stages, different times, and the timing of these things were important to our child’s development. They were called Milestones. When my son was born this was reinforced by the doctors. We were told to write down when the kid pooped, when he ate, and the list went on and on. With each doctor’s visit we were told whether his actions and growth were normal or above or below percentile. We were told these are things we really needed to know.

We were so walked through the steps I began to feel like I could actually pull this parent scam off. People gave us books in which we could write the first words, the first birthday suit, first steps, first tooth. Everything would be documented and checked against the milestones. Ok I’ll confess, we didn’t really keep up with this one. No idea when he said his first word. It WAS “fan” though. He liked the ceiling fan. What can I say? But in my defense I just couldn’t see how if I want this kid to amount to anything, he’s gonna get there through me making a big deal that a tooth broke through his gums and he’ll spend the next year drooling like an over novocained drunk after tooth surgery?

And then I don’t know where it all stopped, but it did. My first indication was when I noticed new teeth in his mouth when he was five! I thought he was getting his wisdom teeth. Totally freaking out, I went to Google. Turns out there is such a thing as five year molars. Who knew? Not us. They had stopped telling us what was next.

Then the other day I heard the old familiar refrain, “Daddy! Watch this!” I see your eye roll from here. How much of our lives is spent with a perma-grin watching our kid do some stupidly simple action while demanding our attention? I usually half ignore these but there was something in his voice. I barely looked over before I was shouting, “No! Stop! Don’t do whatever it is your about to do. Don’t move!” There he was perched on the edge of a railing seeming ready to jump onto a pile of rocks.

That’s when I realized. No one cares anymore. It’s as if by decree it was decided. “You’ve kept him alive for three years. He hasn’t been taken from you. I think we’re good here. Good luck with the rest of it.” And just like that you get only vague hints and shadow talk of what’s coming next. You seek it in friends with older children, but there are no specifics. And yet everyone talks about it as if they are going through the same stuff. So where’s the milestone books for the rest of it?

When does, “Daddy watch this” move from a lame-ass attempt at a somersault to me yelling, “No no, get off the roof. NO!!! Don’t get off the roof. Stay there!?” That’s a stage I want to be looking for. When can I exactly trust that my kid has wiped his bottom sufficiently? When do they stop putting their underwear on backwards? When can you say, “Let’s go” and you’re actually going somewhere shortly after. When can they brush their own teeth and their breath doesn’t still stink? When can the punishment really fit the crime?

It all sneaks up on you. When did you start trusting your kid to pour his own milk? Ok I’m really asking when I can trust my kid to pour his own milk. Cause I don’t see the focus in those eyes yet. In school they learn to do so much on their own. And yet we get notes from the teachers asking that we not let them bring in fruit cups because they make a mess all over the place. I figured a school cafeteria should be like a training ground for this sort of stuff. If a fruit cup spill prompts a note to parents then that is the cleanest cafeteria I’ve never been in. So, nope, we’re not trying milk here till there’s no more notes from school.

When have they figured out the subtle probing lie to find out how much trouble they’ll be in; the reading of your face to know they still have time to acrobat their manipulative asses out of the statement they were just going to make? “Hey Daddy, don’t watch this!” When did that subtlety creep in?

At what age do they fully realize just how much their grandparents will side with them no matter what past positions on things like how many M&M’s are allowed at four in the afternoon used to be in that particular household? Yup, I’m lookin’ at you Mom!

When have they heard the words I’m bleeding through my gums trying not to say enough that I can say them? When can that ban be lifted? Little punk Joe can drop the F-bomb and I’m still saying “fudge.”

When is it okay to leave them in the house for an hour or so? And then when is it NOT okay again?

Here’s a milestone. You are now filling your tank twice a week instead of once because you are carting your kid all over the place for endless activities. They should talk about saving up for gas in those child books. We need to know these things. We need to prepare.

When do they start caring about wearing certain clothes? When will he start hounding me for a phone? Just so I have my best “I don’t care what Talia has, the answer is still no” line down-pat. When will he scream, “I hate you!”

And when will he give us his Declaration of Independence?

And finally, I need to know when he’ll stop climbing up on my lap, and when he won’t want me to hold him when he’s hurting anymore. It’s all for understanding his development of course, but….I really need to know.

Photo credit:   © Copyright John Haynes and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

 

Imaginarium

So lately I’ve found myself immersed in fantasy. Calm down people, not that kind. The kid kind. No not the one where I don’t have a kid. More specifically, my kid’s fantasy.

It is an endless game of this world we inhabit in a moments notice. It starts with, “So Daddy, remember we are in rocket ship going through a time tunnel to the land of space dinosaurs,” and goes from there. It is a mash-up of a couple video games (he doesn’t get to play many of them), Captain Underpants, his Lego’s, his stuffed animals and then such a random collection of thoughts and ideas I’ve started checking his lunch bag for acid tabs.

When we are driving to school we are under water in scuba gear and we travel to the middle of the earth and go through an underwater volcano (we have heat protectors on the scuba suits; read windshield washers) and we end up in the land of giant Oompa Loompas but they don’t sing, see? And they tell us…

Or we are walking on the beach and Battlepillars (look it up, or better yet, here…. Battlepillars) are attacking us and we need to load our backs up with whatever we find on the beach to battle them off. I can defeat General Powerpuff with a discarded plastic bottle and piece of driftwood. I have mad skills. But my son keeps changing the rules on me. Because, of course he has been introduced to Calvinball from Calvin and Hobbes.

It gets old fast, and I yearn for times when I controlled the dialogue; even if that was me singing Beatles songs to him in the bathtub. Hm, maybe that’s where the underwater stuff comes from. But as I was saying. It gets old. I am not kidding when I tell you he wakes up and shouts out, “What’s your favorite Captain Underpants bad guy?” Side note: choose wisely because that’s who you’re going to be the rest of the day. Yes, I spent a whole day as Doctor Diaper being eradicated in more and more ridiculous ways. Or I pick him up from school and I have already been given the secret assignment that I have to figure out.

Sometimes I am the villain, and sometimes we are working together to accomplish whatever our task is. Sometimes we are saving the planet and sometimes we are looking for gold. Sometimes none of us has any idea what is going on.

This drives my wife nuts. She thinks our kid is obsessive and needs to think about other things. I’m not sure. He doesn’t have imaginary friends and he doesn’t argue the reality of any of it. He’s just playing. I just think he’s six. But I see what she means. And he can come out of it for school and other activities, so I don’t worry too much. But sheesh!

And then there are good things that come out of it. He draws these worlds, and writes about them. He has discovered secret codes and is making up these sorts of puzzles. He has made entire world maps of these places. I kid you not that he asked me if Santa knew Aurebesh , a Star Wars code language he learned at the local library, and has since added to our repertoire. It’s all over the place.

But why? Why do I feel the need to defer to this endless barrage of I-dont-give-a-crappishness (crappedness?)? Am I just another overly indulgent parent who doesn’t know when to tell his kid to knock it the hell off? I do that at times. But there’s a deeper reason. I think back to when I was young and to when I stopped talking to my parents. I realize I stopped talking when I recognized they weren’t listening. And that happened long before it mattered. So I want to listen now. And when he has something important to say, when it matters and he needs me, I will still be listening. I share in his fantasy now so that later he will share his reality with me.

Pulling Nails

The eye of Hurricane Sandy passed through my home town. And our house was flooded and damaged by the storm. My family and I stayed on the island, in a safe place, and so I was able to start the work that would need to be done on the house right away. Before people were even allowed back on the island, I had most of the contents of my house out on the lawn and at the curb. Damaged, destroyed, soaked; moldy already.

Then people returned, and with them came others to help. Many in my family came to help with the long process of gutting the house. The walls would come down, the ceiling, the wires pulled out. Completely gutted. And then time passed and people needed to return to their lives. There was still much to be done before I could start putting things back together. Many were those tedious tasks that needed to be done. Ones that didn’t make people feel like they were helping.

My brother grew up with a guy named Josh. His twin brothers were my age.  He had come back to town after the storm to help how he could. He flew from Seattle because he couldn’t stand to see his home town on the news and not do something. One day he stopped by my house to give a hand. On the same day my wife’s great uncles came to see what work was needed. This day was the day I was pulling nails from the floor. Thin hardwood floors had warped right away, and when I pulled them up all the nails remained; small finishing nails. Thousands of them in every room. People that knew these things told me I’d want to pull them because they would just lift themselves over time and push on the floating floor we were putting in due to an old uneven house.

So these two old men, Josh, and I pulled thousands of small nails. The old guys told us how this was how it used to be done. No permits, no permission. Just help each other fix the problem. Whoever could help did. No job was too big or too small. Not even an hour into it, I realized that if I had to do this myself, it would have been moment I gave up. These nails were a metaphor for every labor I would have to perform to get my family back home. Every single nail. Somehow this was the thing that was just too much right then. I would come to this moment many more times in the future, and find the strength in other places and from other inspirations. But here was the help I needed most right then. Good humored, humble help. Pulling nails. I don’t know what I would have done if that prefect combination wasn’t there that day.

About a month later Josh returned home again to bury his brother; one of the twins that was my age. Then three months later he returned again. This time to bury his father. Each visit carried an increasingly overwhelming weight of loss.

My wife was working the day of the funeral, and so I attended until I had to pick up my son. After picking him up I went to Josh’s family home, where everyone had gathered after the services. I explained to my boy that my friend’s father had passed and we were going to visit for a bit. He asked me, “What do I say to him?” I told him to say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and offer him a hug. And in we went.

My son is not a shy boy, but he is not a cuddler either. At best, he gives a lean. And he doesn’t lean into people he doesn’t know well. He had met Josh, but didn’t know quite who he was.

We found Josh sitting on a couch in the living room of his childhood home chatting with some people. He saw us enter and stopped to give us a smile. My son approached him without fear, said, “I’m sorry for your loss.” and offered a hug. Then he climbed up on Josh’s lap and leaned into him, as Josh showed him pictures of his father that were streaming on a screen. I could see my friend, a father of two grown children, lean into the comfort of a small child on his lap. A woman in hearing range said, “Whose kid is that? That kid is all class.” And there they sat together. I could see Josh become a bit lighter. My son showed great interest in the slide show, pointing out each time Josh’s father was on the screen. For me, time stopped and I welled with a compassion for my friend’s loss, and gratitude for my son’s grace. There he was somehow. My son. Three years old. Pulling nails.

Rations

My dog, Sitka, passed away at home on Easter night. A full house of family gathered at our home. The family always comes to our house. This event was a bit different because we would soon be moving out again in order to raise our house. But I knew something was wrong with her. She was removing herself from the group, wanting to go outside, going to places in the yard she never went to. Through the night I kept returning her to her usual spot in the living room to keep an eye on her and help her if she became really distressed.

 And after everyone had gone, she passed. She had labored breathing, her discomfort was obvious and she was just struggling to be somewhere else. The vet had given me her cell phone and so I called her and we set up a time to come in and put her down. But she went on her terms: at home, with us. I felt as if she knew the future somehow. She would not have been able to make the stairs that now go up to our house. She would not have been able to deal with the living situation we were soon to be forced into. I felt she jumped on the grenade for us. We wouldn’t have been able to cope with her around. We were stretched too thin on all accounts.

 We wrapped her in a blanket and I placed her by the back sliding door where the moon shone on her. I slept on the couch, just in case Cole woke up and walked out and saw her.

 In the morning we said our good byes and took her to the vet to be cremated. I would have buried her in our yard, but since we are raising our house soon she would have likely been dug up like a bad Stephen King movie.

 And when we told people, people who knew how much we love her, I cried. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. I did. No shame.  I cried for her, for me, for us. I cried because she had been by my side everywhere. When I rebuilt our house after the storm, she wandered with me from room to room as I worked. She stood with her head in a hole in the floor as I worked on the foundation. She was my shadow. But here is my secret. I cried for other reasons.

 I cried because of what Hurricane Sandy has done to our lives and because we were moving out again. Because I have to wait another week to buy my son new shoes when he needs them yesterday. Because four jobs and a family slowly kills a piece of me every day. Because I can’t cry at night; I would wake my wife who would take on my angst as her own and then no one would rest. For the love I feel for my family and how I wish I could give them more. For the world my son is inheriting. For the friends who, I know, have their own struggles every day. For the small knives that others wield upon my skin each day.

 Because these things, while we may understand, we aren’t comfortable acknowledging in one another.

 I ration each reason miserly into my tears. Small pieces of all my reasons packed into each drop.

 So yes, my dog passed. She was a wonderful dog. Sometimes naughty, but always gentle. Sweet, beautiful and a constant companion. So of course you understand my tears. Yes. I’m sorry too. Thank you.

Tradition!

It is the holidays; a time of family traditions. I’m indifferent at best when it comes to Christmas and/ or whatever else. I’m sort of anti commercialism. I don’t want anything. It bugs me that my son hears from an endless litany of people, “What do you want for Christmas?” And then, “What else?” I see him slowly evolving from not wanting anything really to creating a list just to make people happy. So the whole thing becomes a big buying bummer. But on the other hand, there are the traditions that make family time nice.

Ours are simple. We go to the same family tree farm every year and pick our tree. My son cuts it down when we return to pick it up. We attend our school’s pancakes with Santa thing. We go to the town Christmas Parade. If you ever want to see a 60 year old woman dressed as Underdog, ours is not a parade to be missed. We have pizza made by my stepfather at my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. Friends and family come to town for this pizza. Some Old Fashioned Italian Christmas Magic there.

And……. you knew it was coming, we do Elf on the Shelf. This is not a rant on Elf on the Shelf. Those rants are everywhere. The one thing I will say is that this is all the effort I can handle, and he just shows up somewhere and sits there.

But this Elf thing seems to have opened up the floodgates. Now everyone is allowed to “make” a new tradition for us. My son is in first grade. He has had four teachers. Pre-K Montessori (not really), Pre-K public school, Kindergarten and First Grade. Every teacher has sent him enthusiastically home with a new “tradition” we have to do.

Ready?

We have to sprinkle oats with glitter in it on our front lawn for the reindeer. We are supposed to leave mini-mittens in case our elf gets cold on the final journey back to the North Pole. We should leave bells out for Santa’s sleigh. But let’s not just ruin Christmas for you parents. We also are supposed to put out our Leprechaun catcher every year, lettuce for the Easter Bunny, hide candy for the Halloween ghosts (this one always works out well, right?) and write what we are thankful for with an erasable marker on the school-made Thanksgiving placemat.

If you’re anything like me, you know how this goes. We don’t have glitter. Trust me, the reindeer have a hard time pooping out the glitter. Elves don’t get cold. Trust me. Your teacher doesn’t know everything. I have twenty years on her. Santa has bells. His elves MAKE them for chrissakes. Leprechauns live in Ireland. You’re not gonna catch one here. The Easter Bunny doesn’t eat lettuce on Easter. It doesn’t want to poop on people’s floors, so it travels on an empty stomach. What do you mean you can’t remember where you hid the ghost candy? (We found it at Easter time hunting for eggs. See? The ghosts aren’t really into it either.) Oops Daddy, I think I used a permanent marker.

So please. Leave the traditions to us. I can’t keep up.

Shit, I gotta run. I forgot to move the elf!