Celling Out

     Upon a recent visit to our pediatrician’s office I overheard a woman lamenting the fact that so many children had their heads buried in cell phones. I paused to ponder what may be going through her mind. In a doctor’s office you have the luxury to ponder many things because you have nothing but time on your hands.
     Many things that aggravate people are generational. I didn’t have smart phones and Xbox as a kid, but was fortunate enough to play Atari PONG. I can only imagine what my elders thought of that contraption and how kids could just play it for hours on end. Come to think of it I’m now wondering how we did that. Patience is not a trait kids possess and that ball moved at the pace of December 26th to December 25th.

     The woman in the office thought today’s kids were losing the ability to use their imaginations. I disagree. Technology is allowing kids to imagine bigger and better than ever before. If you think kids should be drawing, well, they can do it on a smart phone. If you think kids should be reading, well, they can do it on a smart phone. If you think kids should be doing homework, well, they can do it on a smart phone (after hours of haggling over actually doing the homework).  I don’t really get Minecraft, but I can appreciate that it allows kids to engineer buildings and towns. The next great architects may thank Minecraft for getting them interested in designing.
     Perhaps the image of a kid staring into a cell phone is what threw off this particular person. I have no idea what these kids were watching or listening to on their phones, but isn’t that the very definition of judging a book by its cover? What if these kids were reading about the illness they were in the office to be treated for? I admit some of these kids probably hadn’t learned to read and were likely being entertained by some sort of cartoon or game. What exactly is wrong with that? I can guarantee I was a beast to be with as a four-year-old in a doctor’s office. If my childhood had included the smart phone age I know my Mother would’ve handed it to me in a heartbeat. She did not suffer fools easily and demanded hard work, but she was also smart enough to know a quiet child makes for a happy parent in most public settings. One can safely assume that if the pilgrims who landed on Plymouth Rock had smart phones they would’ve eagerly handed them over to children so they could more efficiently build shelter and plant crops to survive. I mean stick dolls and dirt can only entertain for so long.

     Folks from other generations also have an issue with kids on smart phones in restaurants. Again, this can involve long periods of waiting depending on your server or the kitchen. The first box of Crayola crayons debuted in 1903. Somewhere, decades later, someone had a “Eureka!” moment and decided to make crayons and kids placemats available. This was either a person who had kids and understood the dilemma or a person who didn’t have kids and could no longer suffer the endless whining and wailing.

     The problem with the kids kit is, like most things, an age issue. Toddlers and young kids will delightfully go to town on whatever maze or thought bubble is in eyesight and arm’s reach. Perhaps Tic Tac Toe works for that 5-7 age group, but as the kids get older a piece of paper and colored wax just don’t cut it. If I was smart enough I’d create the touchscreen table top. You could not only place your order by touching the menu items, but the table becomes one big smart phone. I’m sure this would have many issues such as condensation from a glass of lemonade, but I can dream.
     Kids haven’t changed so much as we, the parents, have. Kids will play with what we give them and for as long as they’re allowed. Who wouldn’t? Not to judge either way, but I have no problem with kids entertaining themselves with smart phones under certain restrictions. Put the phone or device away when someone is talking to you. Give it a break when your food arrives. Try, at least try, to find something constructive to do on the phone. Seeing a child on a phone in a doctor’s office, restaurant or other public place is really a snapshot in time. Well, many snapshots over a long period of time if in a doctor’s office, but still. Perhaps that was an agreed upon time between parent and child.

     Many of the same people who criticize kids for watching cartoons and silly games on a smart phone will rush home to binge watch Real Housewives of Somewhere. Seriously, is there any difference? And guess what! You can also do that on a phone. In a doctor's office. Please use earbuds.
     For every kid watching a YouTube video on pranks, there's an adult watching a cat video. Technology can't always be perfect.
     It’s up to parents to help the children make the phone smart.    
     My hope one day is that when I ask my son what he’s doing on his phone he’ll answer, “Working on a touchscreen table top for restaurants."

A trip to DIZZneY World

     “I’ve seen horrors.  It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means.  Horror…horror has a face…and you must make a friend of horror.  If not, it is an enemy to be feared.”
-Marlon Brando as Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now
-Me as a father with two kids at Disney

     With all due respect to the brave men and women in the service I feel as if I have survived a tour of duty.  Five days at Disney World have taught me one thing.  Nothing goes as planned despite months of intense planning.  Prior experience can’t prepare you for the horror that awaits at Disney.  I’m not speaking of the corkscrew roller coaster rides at 60 miles an hour or the intense heat the melts you faster than Olaf “…in summer.” 
     It’s the constant battle against forces collectively known as EVERYONE ELSE.  Your trip planning would likely include conversations with recent Disney survivors, sorry, travelers.  Their well-intentioned advice and suggestions will seem like a beacon light.  You will feel armed with supreme confidence as you dream of a magical experience that awaits you.

     And then you arrive.  You suddenly realize you are ill-prepared for anything.  Waves upon waves of people appear out of nowhere and you find yourself drowning in arms, legs and strollers.  You quickly lose all sense of direction.
     It is mothers screaming at fathers and kids, kids screaming at mothers and fathers and fathers wondering “Why in the world isn’t alcohol sold in Magic Kingdom?”  Often wondering out loud I might add.

     Upon our arrival at Magic Kingdom on the first day of our trip it took all of, oh, say…two or three minutes for the six-year-old girl to exclaim, “It’s sooooo hot!” and shutdown after just a few steps onto Main Street.  “But sweetheart, look, it’s Cinderella’s castle! Let’s get a picture.”  Nope, she doesn’t care.  “And there’s Goofy!”  Not interested.  Okay, we need to find food, water and shelter.  It’s like you were dropped into a survival reality show.  Tossed about by this sea of humans I notice, out of the corner of my eye, what appears to be a quick service restaurant. We join the masses looking for a shaded table.  There is no room inside so my wife goes on that expedition as I stand in line with food orders.  This place could serve anything and we’d take it at this point.  And remember, we’ve been at Disney for only a few minutes.  Oh, they serve hot dogs!  At least the kids will be happy.  As I quickly peruse the limited menu I see a footlong chili dog with cheese.  Good gosh, who could survive that in this heat...with those rides?  Scanning the sweaty crowd around me I realize many people are going to give it a shot.  After a “regular” hot dog, a few fries and refill of soda, the six-year-old is smiling and wide-eyed.  Phew!  Maybe this trip will be a success after all.

     I see our unit as a tightly organized outfit.  Dad will be in charge of supplies.  Mom will be the navigator.  Grandmother will be the peacekeeper between the boy and girl.  The 11-year-old boy is dealing with a summer cold, but being quite the trouper.  Apparently the best medicine is picking on his sister.  And it doesn't take long to realize you need to take a Mama Bear attitude to survive out there on the streets of Disney.  All's fair in love, war and getting in line.
     The girl is just tall enough for all of the rides, but we approach the scarier ones with a good amount of trepidation.  What will we do if she loses it just before or during the ride?  You don’t stand in line for hours just to back out at the last second.  Thank goodness for FastPass.  More on that in a minute.  To our shocking delight Princess Diva couldn’t get enough of the death-defying, eye-clinching, bloodcurdling rollercoasters.  “Let’s do it again!”, she exclaimed.  “Well, sweetheart”, I cautiously tossed out, “we can’t.  We had a FastPass for that ride.  To do it again we’d have to go to the standby line that currently shows a wait of 130 minutes.”

    Ahhhh, the FastPass.  What a beautiful idea.  It’s been around for a little more than 15 years and is a life saver.  It allows you to bypass the standby line and basically get on a ride inside of five minutes as opposed to waiting for hours. You are only allowed three FastPasses a day.  And while you can add one FastPass at a time after you go through the initial three there are rarely any available times left for the popular rides.  Did I mention you can sign up for your FastPasses 60 days in advance of your trip? Or should I say you better sign up for those FastPasses in the very first minute on the first possible day because you are competing with THE REST OF THE WORLD for those.  They go fast, if you will, but they are necessary.  I woke up at 5:30am two months ago and spent two hours trying to beat the world’s population for quick access to Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, Splash Mountain and Rock ’n’ Roller Coaster just to name a few.  I can’t describe the feeling when you have successfully completed that mission.  I assume it’s like winning the lottery.

     There is no break from the oppressive heat at Disney.  Caps, spray fans and water bottles are no match.  There are few areas of shade to stand in and those usually resemble clowns trying to cram into a Volkswagen.  You quickly find yourself standing in line for a ride you never would’ve considered for a FastPass just for the chance to sit down in a cool space for a few minutes.  “It’s A Small World” will be stuck in your head forever, but you’ll love the three minutes of air conditioning while sitting down for a slow, lazy river ride. 
     I must say it’s impressive the way Disney runs like a well-oiled machine with the tens of thousands of people it deals with on a daily basis.  Disney employees do try to make it “the happiest place on Earth.”  And they do this while wearing character uniforms to match the attraction.  I’m not sure why workers at The Mad Tea Party ride need to wear long sleeves and pants in 99 degree temperatures, but they do…and with smiles on.  I swear they must be animatronics.  Fortunately Disney’s other parks sell adult beverages.  To see a woman almost collapse to her knees in gratitude at Hollywood Studios is a sight to behold.  She and my wife discussed this glorious revelation for a good ten minutes while waiting on margaritas.  Now it's the happiest place on Earth.

     Wednesday is the mid-point of our undertaking.  As a pick-me-up, and photo op, we have scheduled a Princess breakfast at Cinderella’s Royal Table where our Princess Diva could mingle with fellow royalty over bacon.  The boy is more interested in making goofy, not Goofy, faces and asking for their phone numbers.  Son, this is not a strategy that will serve you well later in life.  The breakfast goes off without a hitch and with plenty of pictures.  And we get earlier access into the park that day before the gates open.  A full day leads us to a nice dinner at California Grill that offers a balcony view of the nightly fireworks show.  I assume it was quite a sight.  We crashed before the 10pm start to the sparks.  Our objective is starting to take its toll on us.

     Nothing prepared us for Day Four.  Our mission was to conquer two parks in one day.  Animal Kingdom in the morning.  Epcot in the afternoon.  The kids can barely get out of bed.  The adults are running out of bandages for their wounds.  The smell of ointment and gels has dulled our senses.  It’s hard to remember what bacon smells like.  But this is Disney, a once-in-a-lifetime trip for many.  So you drag your limbs through shirts and shorts and push on.
     What seduces you at Disney are the sudden, surprisingly short wait times on rides you don’t have a FastPass for.  For example, Expedition Everest in Animal Kingdom is a popular, but scary ride.  Our FastPasses that day were for Epcot.  We arrived at Animal Kingdom as the gates opened and crossed our fingers.  As we heard terrifying screams coming from the top of Everest we turned the corner to see a wait time of only five minutes!  Well, you just can’t pass that up.  After somehow emerging unscathed we exited to see the wait time was now just ten minutes.  Well, you just can’t pass that up.  As you might imagine, the wait quickly got longer so it was on to other adventures.

     Our original strategy had us returning to the hotel for a quick break before tackling Epcot.  This did not happen with our unit being detained at Animal Kingdom by those seductive, shorter than expected wait times.  With FastPasses waiting at Epcot we had to trudge straight through.  But two big surprises were waiting there.  This was the pinnacle of our trip.  The new FROZEN ride recently opened and I had been able to change the girls’ FastPasses to FROZEN (a three-hour process that day).  Princess Diva loved it and even got an Olaf doll afterwards.
     One more surprise and our mission would be a complete success…a FastPass for pictures with Mickey and Minnie.  Isn’t that what Disney trips are all about?  Lasting images with the iconic, signature characters.  But the journey was depleting our energy, our patience.  As we moved closer to our turn Princess Diva leaned on the velvet rope, pulling it off the stanchion.  Cue the tears in 3…2…1.  It didn’t matter that the Disney employee quickly reconnected the rope to the stanchion and told Diva it was okay.  The shutdown was underway and could not be stopped.  It’s like trying to bring a rocket ship back after blast off.  It just can’t happen.  Are you kidding me?  She would embrace stomach-turning roller coasters with hands raised, but shutdown at the drop of a rope?  Nothing worked.  There would be no hugs or pictures with Mickey and Minnie.  Diva sulked against the wall as her older brother stood in for her and tried to high five the mascot mice.

     I realize this reads as “Hey kids, get out of my yard”, but that is not my intent.  It’s just a natural reaction for any Dad trying to survive Disney.  There were more than enough smiles, laughs and collections of breath to make the Disney experience most of what it’s cracked up to be.  This could very well be our last trip to Disney.  Who knows?  To really do Disney right you need to do it fairly often and that’s practically impossible.  But if we do re-enlist for another tour I sure hope I can find these notes.

Ballerina Dad

     How tough could it be?  Months of ballet and tap practice led up to her first performance.  The note sent home read, “Be at rehearsal on time and be prepared to listen to some important information at the start.”  Great.  I’ll drop off my six-year-old daughter, get the low down for the next day’s performance, grab some coffee, run some errands and pick her up at the end.
     Now understand, this was my first rodeo.  I’m embarrassed to admit I totally underestimated the culture of stage performance.  My prior experience involved transportation and writing checks.  I knew it involved discipline, but I was woefully unprepared when greeted with the harsh reality that an extra special brand of discipline was saved for the parents.
     I have been scarred by buns.  I honestly don’t know how I can order a burger or barbecue sandwich moving forward.  A pony tail appeared to be good enough for the first few months of ballet and tap practice, but as we got closer to the performance I was informed only a bun would do for my daughter’s hair.  There can’t be many things in this world more excruciating than trying to put my daughter’s hair in a bun.  This should be a carnival game.  No one would win the stuffed animals.  My daughter’s hair is not quite long enough to make it easier.  I didn’t find out about bun holders for weeks.  We kept passing the task off to the next person who thought he or she could do it.  This was much like trying to pull Excalibur from the stone.  After many people made numerous attempts we ended up with something resembling a bun.  This included a bun holder, 20 or so bobby pins, a hair net and hair spray.  Her arms and legs may have been able to move during dance practice, but that head wasn’t going anywhere.
     We're now at rehearsal.  No problem with traffic, we found the auditorium and the hair is in a bun.  Let me get this information and away we go.  Or so I thought.
     This was an episode of the Twilight Zone.  We were now in boot camp.  Rows of parents (almost all Mothers with experience at this) sat facing the stage where the dance director had placed a lone chair.  It was from this vantage point where she would unleash her commands.

     “I don’t do recitals.”  I will hear that in my sleep.  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she bellowed, “but the only person I want to please with this show is me.”  I took that as, if she’s pleased we’d all be pleased, but I’m not quite sure.  “If your child’s hair or dress is sloppy, they will be sloppy dancers.”  “If you, or someone you bought a ticket for, can’t sit still and stay off their cell phones for an hour and a half, I’ll give you your money back.  That happens at recitals.  I don’t do recitals.  You’re not ruining this show.”  “Lipstick will be bright red.  Eye shadow will be dark blue.  If you bring them with anything else on, they will still appear on stage with red lipstick and dark blue eye shadow.”

       I was squirming in my seat by this point.  Her expression had not changed over half an hour.  Despite being several feet away I felt I was nose to nose with a drill sergeant.  And then…the worst news, “I know it’s National Donut Day today, but I better not see a donut tomorrow (bun holders are called donuts for their shape).”  WHAT?!?!?!  “I want perfect buns, no donuts.”  Is that even possible?  I guess it is because as I scanned the rows of parents no one seemed fazed by the command that sounded an awful lot like “Now climb that mountain against enemy fire and take the top…while carrying a cannon on your back.” There was one other Dad in the auditorium, but his back was to me.  I assume he was too petrified to move.  After a few more instructions (marching orders) we were given our release.  I may have knocked a few people down trying to escape.  I’m not sure.  I had 24 hours to follow my orders and present a perfect performer for the show.  I needed to celebrate five o’clock in every time zone tonight.

     It is now the day of the show.  I think I’m prepared.  “Dad, I want a princess breakfast.”  What’s a princess breakfast?  “Bacon.”  Okay then, a princess breakfast it shall be (with chocolate chip pancakes as it turns out).  Wait, makeup!  It’s off to Walgreens.  How did I forget to get the makeup?  Red lipstick, dark blue eye shadow.  And, of course, no one is at the makeup counter.  I can’t be left alone to figure this out.  So many reds, so many blues.  Fortunately a nice woman took pity on me and walked me through it.  I think we’re good.  Until…I arrive back home and find my wife screaming, “I’ve tried and tried and I can’t put her hair in a bun without a bun holder! Take her to her grandmother and see what she can do.”  The six-year-old is suddenly the voice of calm.  And she has to perform in front of strangers in a couple of hours.
     Even her grandmother gasped when I delivered the crushing news.  “And you can’t use a bun holder.”  Now we’re also fighting the clock.  A brave attempt by her grandmother may have done the trick. That and 30 or so bobby pins.  Not to mention my daughter was under strict orders not to move her head on the way back home.
     She would be arriving an hour and a half before the curtain went up so we were told to bring snacks.  As you might imagine, those snacks came with restrictions.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to come up with snack ideas that don’t involve the color orange or chocolate crumbs?  Very.  After debating this for several minutes, I arrived at turkey slices, a cheese stick and applesauce.
     Hair? Check.  Makeup? Check.  Costume. Check?  Flowers? Check.  Fragile state of mind? Check.  My wife had taken the performer ahead of time with the snacks and a book to pass the time before the show started.  Hahahahaha!  I take you back to “first rodeo.”  As my son and I race to the auditorium I get a text, “Thank goodness for veteran dance Moms who know to bring blankets and toys.”  We are clearly fish out of water here.

     Somehow my kids came across Dance Moms on Lifetime a few weeks ago.  My son would have some idea of what to expect as I informed him (okay, threatened him) how he would behave over the next two and a half hours.  “No phone, no talking, really…no breathing.  Just sit still.  You don’t know what this woman is capable of.  I’ve lived it.”
     Little did I know that our daughter’s tap dance routine was toward the end of the two-hour show.  Not that we would’ve left early, but a bump up in the order could’ve cut my tension in half knowing I had survived.  A few times during the show other people would stand up or try to quietly check their phones.  I wanted to whisper to them, “You’re going to get us all killed.”
     As I nervously waited for her routine I found myself enjoying, appreciating and respecting what I was seeing on stage.  The commitment, the time and the work put in by these kids showed in the precision of their flawless performances.  They were making moves any athlete would be jealous of and doing it exactly on point.  I realized dance doesn’t cut corners.  There are no short cuts to a perfect performance.  And all of a sudden, my drill sergeant’s commands made sense.  With all of the time and effort these dancers put in for this one show, the least we could do is discipline ourselves for two hours and not disrupt things because we’re used to moving at warp speed through our daily lives.

     Finally it was our daughter’s turn.  And speaking of turns, my stomach had been doing plenty of them.  But she was terrific. The bun stayed in place.  The red and blue makeup stood out under the bright lights.  And she danced beautifully.  This was no big deal to her.  Outside the stage door we presented her with flowers.  She beamed as everyone took photos with the dancing star.  I asked her if she had fun. “Yes.”  Do you want to continue with ballet and tap? “No, I don’t think so.  I think I want to try gymnastics now.”  Okay, but just one question.  Does that require a bun?

The Mother of all Holidays

     On Sunday we celebrate the 102nd anniversary of Mother’s Day.  As history tells it President Woodrow Wilson signed Mother’s Day into a national holiday in 1914, designating the second Sunday of each May to recognize and honor Mothers.
     By my math, Mother’s Day will turn roughly 37, 230.  I’ve long believed that every day is Mother’s Day and should be celebrated as such.  How to do that is up to interpretation.  Anna Jarvis, a West Virginia woman who led the charge to create Mother’s Day, was apparently not happy with the commercialization of the holiday.  Hallmark Cards jumped on this in the early 1920’s.  That may have upset Anna Jarvis, but made millions of kids and husbands ecstatic, especially around the second Saturday in May when they realized they had forgotten to get something.

     There really are no right or wrong ways to express feelings on Mother’s Day.  Madison Avenue may try to shame people into going overboard, but what's behind the gesture or gift matters the most.  I think honoring and loving your Mother the other 364 days of the year can make a simple “Happy Mother’s Day, thanks for all you do" a beautiful gift.
     Imagine this, Mothers being Mothers…only on Mother’s Day.  “Son, just throw it in with the other laundry and I’ll get to it on May 8th.”  “You kids have 257 more days to figure out what you want for dinner and I’ll cook it that night.”  Being a Mother never stops. Mothers don’t get sick days at home.  Mothers don’t get family vacations.  Mothers get their joy from making sure the family enjoyed its vacation (and perhaps from wine, but that’s another story).
     Not to undervalue flowers, brunch or a spa day, but nothing makes a Mother happier than being proud of her children.  We’ve all heard Mothers brag.  Giving them that opportunity is the best gift.
     Everything in life these days seems to move at a warp speed pace.  We suddenly slam the brakes around certain days, cram the day full of gifts, and then hit the accelerator again.  I’m not harking back to “the good ol’ days”, but suggesting we try a little harder to be aware of the people around us and appreciate them more often.

     I lost my Mother three years ago.  I think I was a good son.  Her version of me got better as I grew and matured.  In her final years she would recall how much of an angel I was as a boy.  I know this not to be true, but she wouldn’t budge.  That led me to wonder if I ever truly showed her how much I cared for her as a child, as a teenager.  I imagine most Mothers know their children love them and that they’ll likely recognize that as they grow, but it never hurts to say it, to hear it.  Like most things in life we take Mothers for granted because they’re always there.  Do we really stop to take the time and think of the sacrifices they make?  They will say they do everything out of love, that it’s not a sacrifice, but despite their superhero powers Mothers are human too.  They feel pain and joy just like the rest of us.
     I was adopted as an infant.  As I entered my mid-20s, my Mother asked me a few times if I’d like to find my birth Mother or at least find out about her.  My answer was always a swift, definitive and reassuring, “No.”  I never said that for her sake, but mine.  I speak only for my situation, but the woman who chose me, who fed me, who clothed me, who comforted me, who sacrificed her life for me…that’s my Mother.  I mean that as no disrespect to the woman who gave birth to me.  Not knowing those circumstances I give that person the benefit of the doubt, but you earn the title of Mother.  And besides, I ended up with a great one.  We never had much growing up, but never lacked anything.  She was always there for me despite how her day was going.  I even think my memories of being whipped with a switch are fond ones now.
     With kids of my own I am keenly aware of how they treat their Mother.  They have their moments, good and bad, but know the day better begin and end by showing respect and love.  It’s the very least they can do for an incredible woman who has earned the title Mother.
     The late Theodore Hesburgh, a past president at Notre Dame, once said, "The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”  That’s a requirement I love fulfilling 365 days a year. 
     Now, where did I put that gift card to the wine store?

Lights, Camera, Jackson

     I fear I have no one to blame but myself, although my wife would say I’m not that funny.  My 11-year-old son, Jackson, is always going for the laugh.  This has been his modus operandi since he was three.  I remember when he was that age we were driving through midtown with a friend.  My son blurted out something from the backseat that made my friend laugh.  Big mistake.  Jackson wore that line out over the next 30 minutes.  Son, it was funny the first ten times.  The next 40, not so much.  But the beast had awakened and would need to be fed.

     His appetite for “hardy har-har” has only grown in leaps and bounds since then.  I assume it’s energized by the feedback he gets from friends. As you might imagine this has gotten him into his fair share of trouble over the years.  Admittedly he has received mixed signals over his behavior.  At a recent parent/teacher conference I was informed that Jackson was disrupting class every now and then by making light of things.  I took this very seriously until the teacher proceeded to laugh at re-telling Jack’s antics and how much it made her laugh.  Pick a side.

     Statements or questions directed to him at any particular moment are met with a facial expression of his choosing.  Usually, it’s something along the lines of Flynn Rider’s “smolder” from the movie Tangled.  I find he’s developed certain trademark sounds like the Fantastic Mr. Fox.  Getting a photo of Jack involves patience.  I’ve learned you need to fake a good number of snaps before getting the photo you want because he has an array of goofy faces and moves to get out of his system before you can get down to business.

 

     When Jackson has finished a task he pockets the impending excitement for his latest maneuver.  “Jackson, I told you to do this and that. Did you do it?”  Jackson replies, “No.”  “WHAT?!?!?!  I TOLD YOU…”  “Ha, ha, ha, I did it.”  “THEN WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?” “I just like to see you get worked up.”  This is actually quite hysterical if you’re not the subject of it.
     At home Jackson can barely keep a straight face as he’s being dressed down.  I find myself starting every disciplinary discussion with “Go ahead laugh, get it out now.”  Bless his heart, he’s not being disrespectful.  Or trying not to be.  He just can’t help himself.  Now, understand, he isn’t laughing at the end of the discussion or discipline, but the boy finds humor in just about everything. 
     Jackson is like those action figure dolls from back in the day, the ones that talked when you pulled the string in the back.  Only Jackson’s string broke and you can’t shut him off.  You don’t so much watch TV with him as you watch him watching TV.  In a previous life he was probably a cast member on “Mystery Science Theatre 3000.”  He has a wisecrack for everything.

 
     Jackson doesn’t adhere to the century old adage “leave them wanting more.”  If he’s not getting the laugh, he’ll keep going.  If he does get a laugh, he’ll aim for a longer, louder one.  I admire his persistence.  I don’t want to squash his thirst to entertain, but I do keep driving home the point that there’s a time and place for joking around.  And the time isn’t “always” and the place isn’t “wherever you’re standing.”  But show me a comic who follows rules and I’ll show you an out of work comic.
     Who knows where his thirst for guffaws will lead him, but I apologize in advance.

I Promise (with a lot of parentheses)

     It’s my wife’s birthday.  She turns forever young today.  As she has every year.  Happy Birthday, sweetheart.  As she accepts an abundance of gifts I wish she would give me one.  Please explain, my darling, what did I ever do to deserve you?  I’ve tried to be a good man, a good person, but likely fail more times than I’d like to admit.  As we probably all do. That’s something everyone can work on. I promise to keep working on it.
     We’ve been together for more than 15 years when you include my courting of her.  She doesn’t necessarily like the word “courting”.  It flows from me naturally because I’m old-fashioned and more hopeful romantic than hopeless.  Not to mention that “pursuing” someone doesn’t exactly conjure up positive images. Yes, I courted her.  And somehow I got out of my own way to avoid screwing it up.  I realize there’s still time to do that, but I promise I’ll do everything I can not to mess it up.

     She’s as beautiful as the day I took notice of her when a friend said to me, “What about those eyebrows?”  My wife has perfect eyebrows.  She takes great pride in everything, but especially her eyebrows.  And they captivated me along with everything else.  I fell for her immediately and like Groundhog Day I experience those same feelings every morning.
     When we first started “officially” dating we ended every phone call with “Love you.”  We still do to this day.  I hope it never stops and I promise to do a better job of showing it than just saying it.
     We’ve never had a fight, but we argue about the origin of our first date.  To me it was a friend’s wedding, our first actual night together.  To her that night was a chance to dance and have a few drinks with a mutual friend.  Our friend’s sister unknowingly asked how long we had been together.  She got a big kick out of that.  All I could think of was how much I would love to have a real answer to that.
     When a man courts a woman he’s nervous about pretty much everything.  I remember sitting in a bookstore, translating English to French to ask her on a date in a letter (an actual handwritten note to go in an envelope with a stamp on it, not email).  It may have impressed her, but would’ve likely ended relations between the U.S. and France.  Somehow she decided to stick with me through an Elvis impersonator contest near the airport (we laughed constantly with a great meal afterwards in Midtown), ballroom dance lessons (I was the only male in the group so I don’t know how I didn’t nail it with all of the practice I had as the stand-in),  the 2000 World Series (with me hiding behind the sofa as the Yankees rallied in the ninth and won Game 1 in extra innings).  That likely prepared her for football season and the Steelers.
     She’s put up with my coffee (actually bought a coffee pot for her apartment and she can’t stand the smell of coffee) and my attention to detail (some call it OCD).  In my defense I’ve inherited two cats.  Clearly she made the larger sacrifices.
     She understood and accepted my dear, late Mother and would only cackle about her when she knew I was going to do it too.  When I got up enough gumption to ask for her hand in marriage, to make me the happiest man on Earth, during a vacation in Mexico, I was shocked she said yes.  And that’s after her father happily gave his approval.

     She has given birth to two beautiful, wonderful children.  She does great work.  I had very little to do with it.  She is an incredible Mother who often has to play the role of father.  I promise to try harder to lessen that last role.  She’s a dedicated worker who appreciates great ethics.  She is the best of everything and makes our family and this world a better place every day.
     I understand Warner Brothers is reprising the role of Wonder Woman in 2016 in the Batman vs. Superman movie.  That makes me laugh.  Oh, I’ll watch the movie.  We all grew up with super heroes, but my incredible wife is Wonder Woman.  Flying an invisible jet with a golden truth lasso is easy.  Work a stressful job, rear two kids, decorate every holiday and put up with an OCD husband.  Exactly.  Lynda Carter would turn that role down in a heartbeat.  But my wonderful wife makes it look easy or is it the wine?  No, she’s just amazing!
     So, Happy Birthday, sweetheart.  I would do everything the same way all over again except maybe not the wedding proposal.  I’m afraid you would think about it a little longer and have a different answer.  And that makes me promise to work even harder to be a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better person...for you.

Identity theft

     I like me.  I’m not always perfect or even good, but I like to think I strive to be on most occasions.  I certainly know that no one has a better chance of being me, especially a good version of me, than me.  It’s the one thing I can do quite well even if the end result leaves some wanting more.
     But I am no longer me.  I haven’t been allowed to be myself for quite some time now.  It just didn’t hit me until recently.
     I am now Dad.  Or her Dad.  Or his Dad.  But most definitely Dad.  Now don’t get me wrong.  That’s a wonderful thing, but as far as having my own identity.  That ship sailed years ago.  When you have children, bless their hearts, you give up everything you were and are.
     If friends of my son or daughter are over it’s “Jackson’s Dad, can we…” or “Caroline’s Dad, she won’t…”  Despite my repeated pleas to be addressed as Mr. Glenn the voices continue to call out for someone’s Dad.
     I do still have my last name, but it’s mostly used in formal situations.  “Mr. Carver, can you please make an appointment…”  I do like that because it gives me the warm illusion of respect, but I know it’s really just the right thing for businesses, schools and such places to say.
     I admit I find myself using the Mom and Dad monikers, “Honey, what did Connor’s Dad say about…”  Maybe it’s hard to keep up with first names because we meet so many people over the course of our lives.  I doubt it, but who knows. Soccer or basketball games often result in “Hey, Jackson’s Dad.” “Hey, Bradley’s Dad.” “Hey, this is Danny’s Mother."
     I am able to hold over my kids heads that if I’m going to be known simply as “Your Dad” it better be for good reasons.
     My friends love this because they can relate or it’s just funny to them to see me slowly slip away.  I’m honestly trying to remember the last time someone called me Glenn.  At work I am known as Carver or by some nicknames that can’t be repeated. The old adage about being on a “first name basis” with someone appears to be lost.  I imagine, like most parents, my Mother put a lot of thought and effort into coming up with my name.
     In today’s fast-paced society we’re often referred to simply as “Man”, “Dude”, “Girl” or worse just “Hey” in a loud voice. “HEY, did you get that phone number we were looking for?”  If a number of people are around at that moment I assume the “HEY” is meant for the person closest to the direction it was shouted.
     A phone call now usually goes like this, “Hello.” “Hey, it’s me.” “Hey, what’s up?” “You take care of what we needed?” “Yes.” “Okay, everybody doing well?” “Yes, you?” “Fine.” “Alright man, talk to you later.”  It’s as if we’re all in the mafia trying to dance around the FBI’s phone taps.

     I’ve also lost the ability to speak at home.  My voice tends to carry, but it has been muted by children who seem like conversation magnets.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve started to talk to my wife only to be interrupted by kids.  It’s uncanny how quick they detect my mouth opening and interrupt my first word before it’s finished. “Nic-MOM, WHAT ARE WE HAVING FOR DINNER?” “Clean-DAD, WHERE’S THE REMOTE?” “Shop-DAD, WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY THAT’S FUN?”  It’s not disrespectful because they honestly are not aware that I’m talking. And it doesn’t matter where they are.  Other side of the house, no problem.  Headphones on in the car in the backseat, no problem.  Scientists should really study how kids can blindly sense a parent’s lips opening and beat them to the punch.  It’s like trying to see if you can catch the light out in a refrigerator by opening the door fast or slow. My mouth opens, kids shout out.  Open, shout.  Open, shout. Open, shout.
     So, I have no name, no voice.  My identity has been stolen by kids who can’t even remember to close a door or throw away trash.
     I’ve accepted my fate with a faint grin because in about 20 years or so I know those same kids will likely be wondering where their identities went.