Ridiculous Enjoyment

The standards we cling to for enjoyment are often established at home, as we grow up.  You seek out the models that were provided as a child in an attempt to cling to what feels normal.  If your home was full of warmth and happiness, you probably have come to expect that in your adult life, as you should.  If your home was a dearth of such things, you may have encountered challenges as you blindly attempted to navigate society, as was the case for me.  Seeking happiness and fulfillment in life sounds simple enough, but what if you never learned how?  Top-level competitors are taught fundamentals before they excel, not after.  Can you play a game well, before knowing the rules?

Perhaps I say this too much, but my children have truly taught me so much.  They have taught me the meaning of kindness and unconditional love.  They have taught me patience and understanding.  They have also taught me that food that looks odd can be odd without any set definition; there is no one-size-fits-all standard.  For example, one food may be disliked because it's slimy or slippery or because of a certain color, all while wolfing down food that also fits this wholly inexact standard from the same plate because it's their favorite.  The logic of a child with a single-digit age surprises me regularly, and pleasantly.

When my daughter was seven, we were able to use an unexpected windfall to purchase iPads for our children for Christmas — a decision I have never regretted.  A modern tablet is engaging and educational, and my children have fun, all while learning to navigate modern technology the same way I learned to ride a bike.  My children read more, and are challenged to improve their critical thinking skills when outcomes are not as expected.

iPads also provide a means to stream videos on a personalized level with endless apps and services.  Although my children do not fully understand the concept of servers and streaming, they understand how to function within that environment — similar to how I learned to use a television around the same age.  When the iPads still had that new-car-smell, my children were consumed by the discovery phase, determined to learn everything they could, frequently inviting us to share in their enthusiasm.

It was during this phase that my daughter was watching the Wallace and Gromit show when my she turned to her mother and said, "Mama!  I love these shows!  Thank you for putting them on my iPad!  They're ridiculous!"

Of course they are.

To borrow from Maya Angelou, "people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

The Paradox of Cheese

Fatherhood often involves the unforeseen.  Record keeping and documentation come to mind, and no, I'm not talking about county records, insurance, SSA, or any other live-birth paperwork that you will have to deal with as those ought to fall firmly within the realm of the foreseen.  What I'm talking about are keepsakes and memories.

Perhaps you have always had a quality video and/or still camera on hand and this never really applied to you, but for those who can relate, this is an issue worth revisiting.  Since smartphones weren't ubiquitous at the time my children were born, I had neither a quality still nor a quality video camera.  While I had a digital camera that took wonderful 1.3 megapixel still pictures, I was without a capable video-capture solution.  To make matters worse, I rarely carried my snapshot digital camera anywhere with me because, like all digital cameras from circa 2001, it burned through batteries, had limited storage, and was kind of bulky — in short, it was inconvenient.

Regardless of the lies we tell ourselves, convenience usually wins the day over substance.  In my case, convenience came in the form of my inadequate cellphone camera — which was about as useful as backseats in a Camaro: barely sufficient, even in a pinch.  Consequently, there are no videos of my children's first moments of life.  I do have pictures that (unsurprisingly) have not aged well at all, which only serves to further compound my regret.

Determined to find a solution, I believed I had found it in a video camera (camcorder).  I saved up money and pooled resources from my in-laws and we were able to purchase a nice, high-end camcorder for my wife's birthday.  I share this experience because it gives me an opportunity to lament one of the worst — if not THE worst — electronics purchases I have ever made.  Talk about inconvenient!  While it took decent still pictures and DVD grade video with seemingly unlimited storage, it was still bulky and had an incredibly limited battery.  Thankfully, my wife used it from time to time despite these shortcomings, but it never became her default option (not even at home), mostly because it didn't fit in her pocket.

Convenience still rules the day and despite the low quality of early generation cellphone cameras, most of my children's best moments were captured with this particular item because it was always available.  It was never hard to find and (conveniently) always charged, making it ideal to capture moments of spontaneity.  It was at that moment I realized the solution to my problem: invest into a cell phone with the best possible camera.  This may not seem like much in today's day and age when practically everyone has a smartphone with a decent built-in camera, but back then, it was an epiphany.  I purchased the best smartphone my carrier had available at my next opportunity, which is something I treasure to this day because I have priceless, irreplaceable, high-quality images and videos of my children's lives from that moment forward as a result.

Unfortunately, what started as a necessity has turned into a bit of an obsession.  Perhaps we now take too many pictures, because my son's response to when we call his name is "cheese" more often than not.  He's frequently correct in assuming that is what we want, so it's hard for me to be too critical of him.  

On Easter Sunday when my son was five, he was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table in our living room, just in front of the chair I was sitting in, focused on his spoils from the day.  He was so focused, he was hesitant to provide me with anything but a profile view of his right side.  My second attempt to get his attention was more assertive, prompting him to turn to me and say, "cheese," simultaneously flashing his trademark "photo" grin only to see I was not trying to take his picture, and instead had something to discuss.  

Naturally, it was a funny moment for us, but what made it memorable was how my son reacted.  He knew he had made a social goof and was embarrassed by it.  Compounding the issue was our uncontrollable laughter and amusement — which only served to embarrass him further.  He covered his face with his hands, but that would not suffice, so he resorted to lifting the couch cover and burying his entire head, refusing to resurface until all the laughter had died out.

Poor guy.  So this is what it's like to be socially aware. 

The Donation Pile

One of the most alarming patterns I have noticed since joining the fatherhood fraternity has been the prevalence of repetition.  Far too often, we fall back on what we know because it's familiar, yet many never bother to question why.  As parents, my wife and I have done all we can to break the cycles our parents saddled us with.  Regardless of whether we are discussing abuse, bad habits, or inefficiency, we have no desire to pass down the failings of previous generations to our children.

My father was born before America entered the second world war, and he was raised by Depression Era parents who believed things should never be thrown away unless they were completely beyond repair.  While this approach served 1930s America very well, my father took this approach to its logical end, which bordered on clinical hoarding.  He could talk himself into keeping something indefinitely, since it might someday serve the ever useful role of providing "spare parts."  As a result, my household growing up was full of a lot of stuff — but stuff that was mostly junk, covered in dust, and in need of repairs that often cost more than a replacement.

Consequently, when clutter as a result of outgrown toys and clothes reaches a tipping point, we designate items for donation.  We prefer to allow our children to make these choices themselves, though we help them along — and by "we," I mean my wife helps them along, since she has a better idea of the toys they don't play with and the clothes that no longer fit.

During one of these donation days, I overheard my eight-year-old daughter lecturing her six-year-old brother as she was cleaning out her closet and deciding which toys she would like to keep and which toys needed to be purged:

“You don’t understand!"  She advised him with a mixture of indignation and exasperation.  "There are kids out in the world that are orphans and they don’t have nice toys like I do!”

I suppose not.  

A little later (post lecture), I overheard her again, this time talking to the toys in the donate pile with sincere melancholy:

“I’m very sorry to all of you who are being donated.”

Of course you are ... and so are your toys.

Bubble Gum Bowling

We have a more relaxed schedule at my home during summer holidays than we do during the school year.  Much like other families with school age children and parents at home in the morning, summers offer a much needed reprieve from the grind of the before-school-mornings routine.

A relaxed schedule, in my mind, is less about sleeping in until noon, and ignoring bedtimes in favor of becoming "friends" with my children, but more about the relief of being able to sleep past eight in the morning and showering mid-morning as opposed to showering at dawn.  I still expect my children to bathe and brush their teeth daily.  I still expect them to take their medicine when needed.  I still expect them to make their beds.  Essentially, I expect them to meet their obligations by completing normal tasks, only with fewer time constraints.

On one such summer holidays morning in late June, I was walking past my five-year-old son's bedroom.  In-between sips of my coffee, I glanced into his bedroom to give him a smile, hug, or whatever the occasion called for.  I was planning for this to be a bit of a drive-by so I could finish my coffee, until I noticed him squatting between his bed and his train table, not wearing his glasses.  My intention was to admonish him for the oversight, and then to tie things up with some words of encouragement, when something caught my eye: in each of his hands were the different colored balls from his toy bowling set.  Before I could say a word, he turned toward me; his face lit up into a massive grin as he exclaimed, "I'm growing bubble gum!"

Of course you are.

The Hippopotamus in the Room

Despicable Me was released when my daughter was three-years-old, and like most fans of the film, she absolutely fell in love with how Steve Carrell was able to bring "Gru" to life.  Not only is it an excellent tale of redemption, but the path to his redemption was through fatherhood — something he did not have the slightest interest in.

The most memorable part for my wife and me was when Gru makes a "pinky promise" with Agnes, his youngest daughter, because of Carrell's brilliant delivery of the sarcasm-laden, "Oh, yes!  My pinky promises!"

We laughed especially hard at this line the first time we saw the movie, mostly because we also had a young daughter who (much like Gru’s daughter) the sarcasm was completely wasted on.  My daughter, consequently, felt compelled to try to channel her inner Gru for a few a few laughs of her own, only it sounded more like, “Oh, yes!  Pinky hippopotamus!”

How reassuring.

Games and Scooters

Fatherhood brings about joys I never really anticipated prior to having children.  Since my upbringing was anything but stable, I was blindsided by the positives of having a healthy parent/child relationship.   One such positive is routinely getting to share in the life experiences of my children because they genuinely want to share them with me.

My view of the back as he read.

One evening when my son and I were the only ones home, he approached me while I was sitting at my desk.  It should be noted that the desk was between us, and as he was very young, I had to sit up a bit straighter to see him properly and ensure he had my full attention.  He had an envelope in his hand (clearly left over from some birthday or Christmas card), and from it he withdrew a small piece of paper.  There wasn’t any real writing on it, which shouldn't surprise anyone as he was only four and had yet to learn to read and write.  Although it had been folded in half many times, I could see it most likely had only one side with anything on it: a near black out of ink on a white backdrop.  The color of choice had nearly bled through completely to the point of saturation, but not quite.

He discarded the envelope on my bed at once, and began to unfold my invitation.  When the paper was completely unfolded, he read the following words aloud:

“Dear Daddy,

Please come to my birthday party.  There will be games and scooters.”

Of course there will.

The Logic of Whiskers

When my daughter was two, we had an especially lean Christmas.  We were still coming to grips with how to make ends meet after both my wife and I had lost our jobs; casualties of The Great Recession.  Fortunately for us, not all consequences of our newfound squalor were negative.  One example was my childhood Garfield plush toy.  My daughter loved stuffed animals and loved Garfield.  Not only was it logical to gift it to her (after a thorough cleaning), but she was ecstatic to receive it: win win!

Fast forward five years, and my daughter is now seven, and much more aware of how things are supposed to be.  Keep in mind that she's owned this particular toy for five years after it had belonged to me for who knows how long.  Unlike me, she actually played with him, so the mileage on the toy itself was starting to show, making her inquiry all the more curious.

With an inquisitive look on her face, she asked me about the "odd" location of the whiskers on her Garfield doll.  

"Aren't whiskers supposed to be closer to his nose?"  She asked me, genuinely confused.

"Mija," I said, "Garfield is a cartoon character, and cartoons do not have to conform to reality, because they're not real."

"But in the movie, he is real," she countered, placing emphasis on the final three words, as though this settled the matter.

Of course he is.