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.
Last week Grace piped up from the car seat. “Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny.”
“Yeah,” I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.
“Dear God,” I thought. “I’m responsible for their childhood memories.”
I started to do the math. “Okay,” I thought. “William is only four ….” I searched for the oldest files in my mind — what I could recall from being 4. I clearly remember the boy who ate all the purple crayons — and ONLY the purple crayons — in kindergarten. I must have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, which means that William is in The Danger Zone: he might recall what I do from here on out. I felt a mild rising panic as I proceeded to try to identify any “standout” events from the past year.
There was the night I inadvertently dropped the F-bomb in front of him (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which he was thrilled to repeat. I’ve been known to let him paint shoulder-length “gloves” on himself, but only for formal occasions. I’m still regretting the night I laughed hysterically as he compared his poo to tortellini.
I was still obsessing over all of this as I put the kids to bed. Usually, my wife tucks William in, sings his lullabies, and asks about his favorite part of the day. But since she was stuck at a PTA meeting, I had to do it. I followed William into his room. He got into bed and I turned out the light.
“Mom’s not here,” I said, “so I’ll sing your lullabies tonight. What songs does mommy sing?”
“She sings that mommy one,” He answered.
“Well, what’s it called?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a mommy one.”
I could see that I was on a dead-end street, so I changed tactics. “Well, I know ‘Rainbow Connection,’” I said. “Would you like me to sing that?” He nodded, and I sang.
When I finished, he said, “Okay, that’s the Daddy Lullaby.”
I smiled, and asked him, “So what was your favorite part of the day?”
He said, “Your lullaby.”
It ain’t pulling the guts from a fish, but it’s a start.
“…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.
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.
December brings lists, and MSNBC has published the top baby names of the decade. Thanks to celebrities like Gweneth Paltrow, afflictions like Apple and Nevaeh (“heaven” spelled backward) are more popular than ever. Fortunately, classics like Emma and Emily, Jacob and Matthew are still in the top ten.
I agree with George above: Nine times out of ten, Nicky, Vinny and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker.
Children of the 70’s had 4 options when it came to TV: Snow, snow, snow, and news. Most of the time you settled on Bowling for Dollars or M*A*S*H. For kids, Saturday was TV Day, and we sat glued to Tom and Jerry, Deputy Dog, the Road Runner and even the crap like Grape Ape and Honk Kong Fooey.
If you missed your show, you were out of luck. Back to snow and M*A*S*H for another week.
That was then.
Thanks to the miracle of TiVo, our kids rewind live TV, hitting the pause button and ask for specific episodes. Darn whipper-snappers.
There are entire networks that air nothing but children’s programming, 24/7. Most are garbage: Twenty-two minutes of programming wrapped around eight minutes of ads or worse, an entire show that promotes a doll, action figure, play set, etc.
As a former latchkey kid who watched more television than a Nielsen family, I’m strict about how much time the kids spend in front of the tube. While flipping past the junk, I’ve identified five shows that I’m happy to let my kids watch. In fact, I think they’re kind of fun myself. Here they are, in no particular order.
Part 1: Overheard at the Harley Davidson Dealership
William: That’s a motorcycle! Me: Yes. William: It’s cool! Me: Yes. William:…and pretty.
Me: No. No, no no. No.
———-
Part 2: Overheard from the booster seat
William, upon noticing his runny nose: My nose is coming down.
———-
Part 3: Overheard at breakfast
Grace: Oh, it died. Me: It “died”? Grace: Yes. Me: What died? Grace: The butter. Me: The butter died. Grace: Yes. You need to put more. Me: On top of your dead butter. Grace: Yes. Me: Um, Okay.
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
She stared at me as if I had grown a second and third head of my own. “Elmo is a monster. He’s funny. Telly Monster is nice. Don’t forget Cookie Monster.”
She wrinkled her little nose. “Zöe,” she said.
“Right, Zöe!” I said. “Zöe is a ballet monster! Did you know monsters like ballet?”
She laughed, and that was it. No more complaints about monsters. I marched out of that room as if I were about to take the center podium at the Olympic Games. Super Dad, right here. Everyone gaze upon me and know that I am The Man.
So, two weeks ago, when nearly-three-year-old William started with the monster routine, I was ready. “Step aside,” I thought, “and let The Master do his thing.”
Fail.
“Waaaahh! I want Da-deeeeee!”
I went into his room. “What’s the matter, William?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“Oh, but you’ve got your night light, your friends.** See?” I turned the light on, then off. “The same friends, just in the dark.” I turned the light back on and pointed to the wall. “See your pictures?” (His walls are covered with mini posters of The Boston Red Sox.) I turned the light back off. “The same in the dark.”
I could tell he wasn’t buying it, so I sang another song and he settled down.
The next night brought same thing. “But that monster is going to get me,” he said. This continued for almost a week, and then I broke down. My Super Dad Powers were gone. Just like that. I traded in my cape and mask.
I went downstairs and grabbed the seashell night light we bought while on vacation. (It had been living in the bathroom.) Back in his room, I plugged it into the socket right next to his crib. “That’s my Florida light!” he said, and proceeded to hold each of his friends up in turn so that they could “see” it. He changed his orientation in the crib so that he could stare at it while lying there. I closed the door and he went to sleep.
That was about a week ago, and he hasn’t had a disruptive night since. My powers failed, but at least my boy is sleeping. With his Florida light. And his friends. And the hall light on.
Welcome to the club, kid.
*Apologies to Rod Serling
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
One night after stories and lullabies, she offered, “But there are no monsters in here.”
“Monsters,” I said. “You like monsters! Who are the monsters you know?”
I didn’t go through a fear of monsters as a boy. I slept with a night light, the hall light on and the door open, but really, I was fine.
When Grace was just about three, she started talking about monsters and a general fear of the dark at bedtime. Being a clever nerd, I decided that I could override the irrational fears of a toddler. I set to work.
Next month is October, and that means Halloween, one of my favorite holidays. When I was young, my aunt decorated her house like the set of a Vincent Price movie. She wore an elaborate witch costume and greeted kids in character, cackling and over-acting. I don’t know what was more fun: anticipating how she’d outdo the previous year or watching the unsuspecting kids poop themselves when she threw open the door.
When I say she gave out candy, I mean the good stuff. No “Fun Size” candy bars, no generic gum, no popcorn balls and no freaking apples. I’m talking about the full-sized Snickers and Bazooka Joe. Primo.
The following is a throwback post from my days blogging for Parenting Magazine, re-published here for posterity’s sake. And because it’s funny.
The kids have invented a game called The Door Game. It goes like this:
Grace goes into her bedroom and closes the door while William stands in the hall on the opposite side. Then Grace throws the door open. William laughs hysterically and then pulls it shut, which causes Gracie to laugh hysterically. She then throws the door open again just as William runs out of the way.
The game usually ends with purple fingers and/or tender feet that have been bashed by the door. Despite these deterrents, as well as my own stern-voiced requests to end The Door Game once and for all, they continue to play.
Hanging from the doorknob is a pitiful rabbit holding what is essentially an arch of piano wire over its head like a mafia hitman. Since William can’t reach the doorknob, he uses the rabbit to shut the door. Being a highly intelligent problem-solver, I deduced that removing the rabbit would end The Door Game.
Earlier this week, I brought two quarters to the bank and asked the teller to exchange them for a half dollar. I took the coin and walked back to the car, remembering when I was just 4 years old.
I have scattered memories from preschool, like the little hut with grapes and vines on the ceiling. I also remember napping on a braided rug and the musty smell of it. One time we made some sort of potato concoction on a hotplate like a college student would use. My friend Peter and I cowed those things down while sitting crossed-legged on carpet squares. I also remember the stone-floored lobby. But mostly I remember crying.
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.
Children of the 70’s had 4 options when it came to TV: Snow, snow, snow, and news. Most of the time you settled on Bowling for Dollars or M*A*S*H. For kids, Saturday was TV Day, and we sat glued to Tom and Jerry, Deputy Dog, the Road Runner and even the crap like Grape Ape and Honk Kong Fooey.
