Remember that?

I remember my father in  his twenties — younger than I am now — wearing plaid pants, dollar store slippers and a bright blue t-shirt that read “Master of Disaster” in fuzzy iron-on letters. A soggy cigar hung from his mouth. It was early in the morning, and we had already been up for hours, fishing for our breakfast in a Canadian lake. Standing in the grass, he was gutting a perch. I must tell you, there’s nothing quite like sawing the head off of a still-gasping fish.

Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

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Dark Daze

“The child is father of the man” – William Wordsworth

By the time a boy is 15 or 16 years old, he has inherited his definition of manhood. Observations of his father play a major part, as do experiences with other male role models. Your first basketball coach, who taught discipline, teamwork and selflessness. Your first boss who expected you to adhere to a code of conduct and to complete a list of tasks in a prompt and effective manner.

The high school teacher whose chalk-stained sport coat hung just against the ledge of the blackboard, gathering ever more chalk dust as he droned on by rote, teaching you both algebra and the danger of settling for “good enough.”

But at the end of the day, and at the end of your twenties, it comes back to dad. Dad, who left home before you were awake and returned after it was dark. Dad, who delayed dinner and set your stomachs to rumbling because “…we’ll eat when your father gets home.” Dad, who sat  you on his lap and let you steer the car as he worked the pedals, and you felt so empowered, so privileged, so grown up.

Dad, who listened to you bemoan student loan payments and a steady diet of tuna, spaghetti and powdered iced tea mix, and cheered your first job after college, and visited your first apartment, which was scarcely bigger than your childhood bedroom.

“Work hard,” he said. “If you work hard and pay your dues, you’ll be rewarded. You’ve just got to pay your dues first. Everyone does. Someday you’ll get married and have kids of your own and you’ll provide them with a home, hot meals, clothing and school. That’s what you’ll do.”

And that’s what you do. You marry a beautiful woman. You find a decent job. Nothing that’ll buy a house on Capri but it’ll pay the bills and allow for a small vacation to the shore in the summer. You have a child, then two. You’re paying the bills. You’re providing for your family. You’re a man.

Then, it ends.

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My kids the geeks

“…I’m gonna be like you, Dad. You know I’m gonna be like you….” – Harry Chapin

“I shall call him…Mini Me.” – Dr. Evil

“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” – Darth Vader

I’m a nerd. Before you say, “Oh, Dave, no you’re not,” let me stop you. Yes, I am, and I love it.

I watch Nova. I’ve seen the Star Wars movies more often than George Lucas has. Charts and graphs make me happy. I long for my days in band (not “a band” like Van Halen, but “band,” like “ride the bus with the woodwind section.”).

My iPod is full of audio books, not music, and our basement is brimming with vintage computers in various states of repair, especially the room I’ve cornered off as my Man Cave. Furthermore, I believe that everything in the world is a knowable system. For a thorough description of a nerd’s perspective, look here.

As a kid I spent a lot of time taking things apart, much to my parents’ dismay, to see how they work. Radios, clocks, etc. all ended up a pile of parts on the basement floor. The cool thing is, my kids seem to be future nerds. Nerdettes, if you will. Here is the evidence I put forth.

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Baby it’s cold inside

I try to keep myself organized. Not “Martha” organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when “going through old photos” involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I’ve accomplished nothing.

And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.

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Five moments in parenting

1. Please stop sending me dress-up clothes

Well-intentioned friends and relatives have been sending us dress-up clothes. A bevy of princess dresses can trash a bedroom in less than five minutes. The cleanup time is substantially greater, and accompanied by a soundtrack of whining and negotiation:

“Honey, you clean up these dresses and I’ll help you zip it.”

“But I caaaaaan’t. I’m too tiiiiired.”

“You pick up these pink ones, honey, and daddy will help with the rest.”

“But daddy, it’s too hard.”

“If you weren’t tired enough to make this mess, you aren’t tired enough to clean it up.”

“But I caaaaan’t. Waaaaaaaaaaaahh.”

Please. No. More. Dress up clothes.

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