The Messy Mess

Expressions are ubiquitous in English, regardless of the dialect.  Metaphors and other artistic ways of saying something indirectly, yet plainly, whether regional or universal, are a reality of communication and social interaction.  Unfortunately, there are all of the contradictions and falsehoods in some of the more universal expressions meant to plainly support opposite ends of the same spectrum.  The hypocrisy of these expressions lies in how they are selectively applied.  "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."  I suppose it could, but how can that be true if "out of sight, out of mind" is also true?  We are taught as children to "never judge a book by its cover," while simultaneously being taught that "the clothes make the man" and "dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

What really has me thinking about such contradictions is the insistence that "opposites attract."  If that were true, wouldn't people on opposite ends of the political landscape be uncontrollably drawn to one another?  And what about "birds of a feather flock together?"  They can't both be true, unless selectively applied.  My wife and I may not agree on everything, but we have copious amounts of common ground.  Not only is our world view on par with one another, we have many shared interests ranging from diet to music to movies, and beyond.

The only way such an expression can gain any traction is if one focuses on a much narrower path.  When it comes to cooking, for example, we both prefer that I cook.  It's not that my wife is incapable of cooking, but it's not a strength of hers, so she helps me with meals as needed.  Additionally, my wife is great at keeping things clean and in order.  It's something I really appreciate about her.  While I am not messy, I am a terrible cleaner, so after I finish cooking, she does the heavy lifting when it comes to cleaning.  Some would say that makes us opposites, but I would contend that our strengths compliment one another's shortcomings.

There are many variables in fatherhood, but none fascinate me quite as much as genetics and the randomness of how they are divided.  Our children should represent the best our genetic code has to offer, complimented by the best genetic code of (ideally) a well-chosen partner.  Naturally, I couldn't be happier when I saw my daughter had inherited her mother's knack for cleanliness and order, and had avoided my shortcomings in that regard.  It was obvious from a very young age that she was never going to be messy.  She took great pride in helping her mother put things away, and it was really amazing to see the two of them truly bonding in those moments.

I should mention I felt that way until I took my daughter camping for the first time.  She was still in diapers, and it was fun to have some father/daughter time, until she noticed just how dirty dirt can be — who knew?!  Apparently, there's a lot of dirt outside, which she continually reminded me of.

"That's a mess!"  She said forcefully, as she pointed in no particular direction.  "That's a mess!"  She reiterated, pointing elsewhere.  "That's a mess!"

This continued the entire time we were camping, reinforcing how humbling fatherhood can be.  I had clearly missed the bigger picture, as well as any potential hurdles until I was clubbed over the head with them.  You may not be able to "teach an old dog new tricks," but my daughter can, proving that her father is "never too old to learn."

All Hallows' Eve

As Halloween approaches, I cannot help but think of how relevant Jerry Seinfeld's decades-old take on the holiday is.  The very concept was cool, even before you fully understood it, or, that's how it was for me.  But once you understood it, it became a quest to out-do your peers by conning your friends and their parents into taking you to the "good" neighborhoods where one was guaranteed to receive "name" candy.  And yes, we probably were a bit too old to be trick-or-treating those last few years, much the way Seinfeld was.

What about those early years?  How well do most of us remember those?  For me, my first few Halloweens were not the ambiguous, always relatable, and endlessly funny days that Mr. Seinfeld describes.  While I can definitely relate to the horrible quality of 80s era, mass-produced costumes (the best available to me), I cannot relate to ever visiting "everyone we know" for them to give us candy.  We never went anywhere but to the four or five homes on our cul-de-sac that left their lights on after sunset, because that's when my father would begrudgingly take us.  It wasn't until we were much older, and much more self-sufficient (and had options), that my father would agree to accompany us on Halloween, if only to drive the car while we traveled on foot.

My children were born in the spring and thus were old enough to participate for their first Halloween at 7-8 months old.  Their mother made sure to dress them up in cute costumes, but stroller rides don't have the same pizazz as toddlers who have a higher level of comprehension as to what is going on.  We took them trick-or-treating for as long as they could tolerate it before going home in their respective first years, but the real magic didn't happen until their second Halloween.  Food made more sense and so did sweets, but more than that, gifts made more sense.  

That second Halloween for my daughter wasn't memorable because of the "good" neighborhood, the numerous homes we visited, or any of the "name" candy.  No, what made it memorable was her gleefully exclaiming "thank you," which sounded more like "DEE-DOO," after every piece of candy was placed into her plastic pumpkin.  She couldn't wait to get to the next house just so she could issue her chirpy gratitude, which seemed to be a hit at every home we visited.  She had more endurance than we did that night by a long shot.

My son's second Halloween contrasted with his sister's in every way their personalities do.  At first, when he saw people reaching toward him, he drew back, suspicious of hands reaching for his precious trick-or-treating pumpkin, going so far as to hide his pumpkin behind his back at our first stop.  By the third home, however, and after much convincing from us at the first two, hearing that clunk of candy hitting the bottom of his pumpkin was music to his ears, and the race was on.  He was sprinting from home to home, as fast as his little legs could take him.  It was all we could do to keep up.

The irony of it all: I don't have a sweet tooth.  Neither do my children.  Despite that, we still embrace Halloween every year as much as my children did on their second, with my son sprinting from door to door as we struggled to keep up, and my daughter's exclamations of "DEE-DOO" in place of "thank you" permanently etched into our memories.  Halloween won't always be this way for us as parents, but I'll take as many as I can get, for however long it lasts.

Pablo Potato

Growing up off the beaten path is something those who grew up in town can hardly relate to.  Living in town, as I saw it, meant nothing was beyond the reach of your bicycle or skateboard or rollerblades, and anything beyond that could be attained via public transit.  For us rural children, we were lucky to reach our friends and neighbors with a bike, and skateboards were completely out of the question, given the lack of pavement.  Public transit was even more foreign than paved sidewalks.  Although I was limited to my bicycle, most of my friends had dirt bikes, quads, or go carts that enabled them to travel great distances that were beyond my reach.

When you are limited on how far you can travel, you become incredibly dependent on the adults around you who are willing to enable an active social life.  If the adults in your life are unwilling to facilitate a social life, as was the case for me, you have none.  Needless to say, something very important to my wife and I has been to adequately socialize our children.  While both my wife and I were quite limited in our own way growing up, she at least had the freedom afforded to those in town.  

Art, movies, and pop culture in general were all beyond my reach.  My wife often laments how I hadn't seen any children's movies growing up, yet I had seen all the Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris movies of the same era, because that is what my father enjoyed.  I could talk Bloodsport and Missing in Action until the cows came home, but I didn't see "Toy Story" until after I was an adult in college and purchased it on DVD.

I should mention that seeing "Toy Story" for the first time as an adult has it's advantages.  For example, all of the adult humor that typically goes over the heads of the target audience wasn't lost on me.  References to "uncultured swine" and the like brought tears of laughter to my eyes.  Thankfully, my children both love the "Toy Story" movies, despite completely missing all of the adult humor, and we still enjoy them as a family.  My son, in particular, really loves the movies.  He will randomly reference them, despite having not watched any of the series for months.  

One night, when he was six, he brought out a haphazardly arranged Mr. Potato Head toy and set it on the table beside my adult beverage.  His rendition of Mr. Potato Head was oddly lopsided and had the appearance of inebriation, prompting an exchange of quizzical looks between me and my wife.  Before we could so much as utter a query, he exclaimed, "It's Picasso!"

Of course it is.

Innocent Investment

The arts play a major role in our household.  Whether it's reading stories, or creating art projects, or visiting art museums, or listening to music, or even watching movies, art is everywhere and we encourage our children to consume it; to embrace it; to create it.  One of the benefits we have found is the nurturing of their unbridled imagination.  Paintings and music inspire them, and books and movies captivate them as they become absorbed in the stories.  We try to experience all of these as a family, often designating a movie night so we can all participate together.

Animated movies are often dismissed as fodder for children, but I would argue that a well-crafted animated film often exceeds the artistic value of their live-action counterparts.  For example, "How to Train Your Dragon" is a remarkable film, containing many elements that are cleverly woven together, including friendship, family, coming of age, conviction, and redemption.  What makes the film so remarkable is how it appeals to such a broad audience.  I'm not sure who enjoys the film more: my wife and I, or our children.  Apparently "thirty-something parents" were part of the target audience, so when a sequel was released, the entire family was looking forward to seeing it.  Although we had read some doomsday Internet reports about the film containing subject matter some parents deemed inappropriate for children, we still went ahead and took our children to the drive-in to see it.

The nice thing about having a large SUV at the drive-in theater is being able to park with the rear facing the screen, providing a place where the whole family can gather, in comfort, and enjoy the movie together.  We usually bring cushions, pillows, blankets and other niceties to further enhance the movie-going experience.  Beyond all this, the drive-in affords us some privacy.  Family time is confined to our vehicle, and does not have to be shared with the theater at large, as with a walk-in theater.

Our viewing of "How to Train Your Dragon 2" was going well enough until the fateful scene when Stoick The Vast makes the ultimate sacrifice for his son.  As we built toward that moment, my wife and I exchanged meaningful looks indicating we both were aware of how invested in the moment our children had become.  Our daughter was seven, and our son was five, and both of them were devastated.  The instant Toothless delivered the final blow, our children burst into hysterical tears and required several minutes of comfort before they could resume watching the film.  While both my wife and I took turns hugging them and soothing them, they seemed to need more from me, something my wife understood better than I did at the time.  They were so invested in the story that they were able to feel Hiccup's pain.  In their innocence, they clung to me, their father, if only to remind themselves that their father was still present, and to remind me how much they valued my presence.

I sometimes hesitate to expose my children to doses of reality that touch on subjects like our own mortality, mainly because I do not want it to negatively impact their innocence.  They only have one chance to be a child, and I am in no hurry for them to grow up.  Thankfully, shortly after our family outing at the drive-in, I came upon my daughter, playing with her toys in her room.  She was making up stories and doing voices for each of the characters in the game she was playing.

"Whats going on in here?"  I asked her playfully, causing her to giggle and blush.

"I make myself laugh," she said, as her giggle changed to laughter, before adding, "with my own silliness!"

Of course you do.  You make me laugh with your silliness as well, because your innocence and joy are the rewards of fatherhood.

The Last Choice

Of all the things that can catch you unprepared in fatherhood, nothing quite matches the first day of school.  It can be such a zoo.  I'm not just talking about the insanity of an elementary school parking lot, peppered with ill-behaved parents in possession surprisingly little shame nor any self-awareness to speak of.  That qualifies as organized chaos compared to those first few mornings of your child going to school.

It may seem routine to us as we look back at our school years, thinking on how we always arrived at school, ready for lessons; dressed and showered, and in possession of tools for learning.  A lot of things are simple and easy with the benefit of hindsight.  Having been raised by a single father, we were always expected to fend for ourselves.  Nobody took care of anything for us.  If we did not accomplish a necessary task prior to school, it remained undone.  The very thought of having a mother to take care of us was incredibly foreign.

I cannot fully express how grateful I was to have my wife by my side on the first day of school, and pretty much every school day after that — words feel so inadequate.  I had no clue what I was doing (and largely still do not).  In stark contrast to me was my wife: bustling from room to room, delegating tasks, and holding it all together.  The only thing I could do was adult things like shower and make coffee and warm up the car.

Thankfully, my wife had planned for everything.  School clothes were washed and ready days in advance, as were the school bags.  Lunches were no problem for her as she had prepared them the night before.  I'd love to tell you every tiny detail she was responsible for, but I am unable to because I honestly do not know them.  That morning, we were a well oiled machine despite this being our maiden voyage, and it was all thanks to her.

What makes this even more remarkable is the fact that none of us are morning people.  As much as I admire Ben Franklin, I do not believe in rising with the sun.  Unfortunately, my children also share this difference of opinion with Ben Franklin, which can be problematic when you have a schedule to keep.  I've discussed The Magic of Motivation and the wand that is music in our household in a previous post, but prior to that discovery, we had some growing pains.  

One morning, when my son was five, his mother tried to motivate him with reverse psychology in the form of an empty threat:

"You either get dressed or you can go to school in your underwear," she warned him.

"No no no no!"  He exclaimed.  "Those are not my choices!  Those are my LAST choices!"

Of course they are.

Inviting

One night when my daughter was seven, she joined me at the table for dinner, passing out personalized "invitations" prior to taking her seat.  My son was napping late and my wife was busy so it was just the two of us.  I didn't read the note (invititation), but made a point to remind myself to read it later.  Shortly after sitting down and realizing it would just be the two of us, she exclaimed with unmistakable sadness, "oh no! You and I are the only ones who will be there!"

I assured her there would be no issue with attendance without really knowing what she meant, though I strongly suspected it had a lot to do with the aforementioned "invitations."

The thing about invitations that always struck me is how temporary they are.  The events to which we are invited will come and go, but once you miss an opportunity to accept or take advantage of an invitation, the moment is gone forever.  There may be another day where you can go to an amusement park or another year you can attend an annual festival, but there are no guarantees when you consider the unpredictability of things.  Even if you do go "next time," you still missed out by skipping "last time."  My children, like everyone else, will live each day once, and only once, and I cherish the thought of being invited to be a part of them, for however long that lasts.

My "invitation" as it was written:

"Please come to my sing show. Anyone can try out. I hope you can make it."

There's a joke in Cameron Crowe's wonderful film "Say Anything (1989)," during their high school graduation, clearly poking fun at all the recording of events by well-to-do families with their 1980s camcorders.  I never thought I'd be that guy: the father who is more interested in capturing a moment in time using cool tech than in experiencing that moment while truly in the moment, but I've been tempted.  While I still record endless hours of my children's lives (because I'll never be sorry I have those recordings), I make sure I am not doing so at the expense of the moment.  After all, I was invited.

The Magic of Motivation

Motivation can be the unicorn of parenthood; especially since motivating miniature versions of yourself can be much more challenging than advertised.  I am not sure what I envisioned prior to fatherhood, but I somehow always knew that I wouldn't be able to do much reasoning with my children while they were still in diapers.  Perhaps JK Rowling was onto something when she created the magical world of Harry Potter.  I may not know how to motivate a miniature version of myself, but I do know that the key to bridging that mythical gap of communication between parents and children is a magic wand.

Growing up as the youngest to a single father born to Depression Era parents, motivation was an afterthought.  "Because I said so" was typically followed by some severe form of corporal punishment.  We were motivated by a fear of punishment; never love.  We were motivated to do things that kept us from receiving the worst of it.  Perhaps this was the norm in the 20th Century, but it didn't have to be, and certainly shouldn't be in the 21st Century and beyond.

Music has always been a major part of our household dynamic.  Thanks to handy technology that is readily available, I can have my music playing throughout my home without turning up the volume to deafening levels.  Beyond the joy of being engrossed in music that we love, we also get to share that passion with our children.  Just as my older brother exposed me to the likes of Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd, my wife and I get to expose our children to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains, while also encouraging them to embrace the music they like beyond what we offer.

For all the planning my wife and I do, some of the most memorable moments happen completely by accident.  Toy Story 3 was released when my daughter was three, and my son was one, and was an instant hit for them.  What impacted them the most wasn't the great story or the brilliant animation, or the comic timing of the ensemble cast — it was The Gipsy Kings' Spanish language rendition of Randy Newman's "You've Got a Friend in Me," as well as the final dancing sequence of Buzz and Jessie during the credits.

"Pick up your toys and put them back where they go.  It's time to get ready for bed."  It's simple and direct and doesn't work at all.  My children couldn't see the payoff.  Not only did they not want to go to bed, they didn't have the slightest inclination to work before being punished with a trip to bed when they were already having so much fun.  That's when my wife stepped up to the plate and crushed one out of the park.  She used our household love of music to create The Cleanup Game, which combined elements of musical chairs as well as other start/stop musings, being sure to incorporate a song close to their hearts.  The rules were simple: put toys away as "Hay Un Amigo En Mi" plays, and freeze when the music stops.

The music of The Gipsy Kings (as well as its ties to Toy Story 3) made the work fun for them.  They were laughing and dancing and cleaning up with haste that defied logic.  Whenever we had guests over, their children would greet us enthusiastically, requesting that we play "The Cleanup Game" before the night was done.  We had found our magic wand: music.  I cannot tell anyone what their wand is, because it's probably something different than what works for us.  What I can tell you is that once you discover your wand ... that's when the magic happens.