BLOG VACATION: December 1 - Oh, mid-January Sometime, or Maybe in May

"My two favorite seasons are Summer and Christmas." ~ Lulu, my 3-year-old.

The Christmas noose began to tighten a little sooner than I anticipated, and I have been forced to go into hybernation for the Holidays. I'll be back when I complete my family's yearly Martin Luther King Jr. Birthday letter — probably sometime around mid-January. Thanks!

Happy Holidays!

Jack

"Anyone who believes that men are the equal of women has never seen a man trying to wrap a Christmas present." ~ Unknown

Conversations With Little People: The Oven Mitts

My 3-year-old daughter ran into my bedroom and proudly handed me two oven mitts. "These were in Jessie's room," she said, confident that this was surely against house rules and therefore a punishable kid offense.

"Thank you," I said, dismissing any wrongdoing.

"She's not suppose to be using them," Lulu asserted.

"It's okay. We'll have to ask her why she had oven mitts in her bedroom."

"Yeah, they're not suppose to be in there," she persisted.

"Speaking of 'not supposed to be in there,' what were you doing in Jessie's room?"

Caught off guard, Lulu paused before answering. "Oh . . . I was just seeing if there was anything in her room she wasn't suppose to be using."

"Oh, okay . . . "

Jive Talkin' (Bee Gees - 1975)

trash talk \ˈtrash-ˌtȯk\: disparaging, taunting, or boastful comments especially between opponents trying to intimidate each other. ~ Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary

Here's an answer you won't find in any parenting book: At what age do children start trash talking? I asked myself this very question a couple Saturday's ago while watching my 8-year-old play in her first basketball game.

During the better part of the game my daughter was covered by a girl who spoke non-stop to her. Whatever the girl was saying, it was apparent, even from afar, that Jessie wanted nothing to do with it. Early on I saw a clearly perplexed Jessie mouth to the girl what looked like a simple "What?" This exchange took place a couple of times, before Jessie began just shaking her head, rolling her eyes, or doing various combinations of each.

I sat on the sideline with the rest of the parents and siblings thinking, "Oh, just great. My daughter is in her very first basketball game and she has some kid talking smack to her" — and to make matters worse, no one else seemed to notice. I wondered what the hell a 2nd grade girl could possibly be saying to so visibly distract my daughter: My momma makes better chocolate chip cookies than your momma? I've seen better dribbling from my baby sister? Forget about iCarly, I'm the greatest show on earth? I had no idea, but whatever it was, Jessie wasn't equipped to handle it.

With each passing minute Jessie became increasingly irritated. You may have heard the expression "taken off your game?" It's used in sports to describe a player that allows another player, or influence, to detract from their typical level of play. Well, whatever Jessie's "game" is at this point, this girl definitely took her off it.

The game ended with Jessie hitting a shot at the buzzer to secure a 10 point loss by her team, the Cheetos. Immediately following the game I hurried Jessie out of the gym and across town to her soccer game. It wasn't until that evening over dinner that I asked Jessie about the little "trash talker."

"So Jessie, I noticed that the girl covering you today was talking throughout the entire game. What was she saying?"

"She was soooo annoying!" Jessie said, instantly agitated. "She kept saying 'five-dollar foot-longs, five-dollar foot-longs,' over and over. 'Five-dollar foot-longs, five-dollar foot-longs!' She was driving me crazy!"

Oh my God, the girl was a walking, talking, basketball playing, advertisement for Subway's "Every Day Value Menu." Wow, how annoying is that? Michael Jordan has nothing on this kid. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant.

I had to laugh.

Welcome to the game of basketball, Kid . . . or perhaps I should say, welcome to the world of modern day marketing.

"Oh man shut your anorexic malnutrition tapeworm-having overdose on Dick Gregory Bahamian diet-drinking ass up. Leave me alone!" ~ Sidney Deane (Wesley Snipes), White Men Can't Jump

Signs Your Child is Gifted: Heightened Sensitivity to Cats

Welcome to another installment in my continuing series entitled "Signs Your Child is Gifted." In today's colloquy we capture a brief, but fascinating, exchange between 8-year-old Jessica, and her 3-year-old sister, Lucille, as they survey the spoils of a night of Halloween gaiety:

Jessie: I like Kit Kats.

Lulu: I don't like scary kitty cats.

Very interesting. Although Lucille is oblivious to the fact that her elder female sibling is referencing a confection consisting of creme-filled crispy wafers in chocolate, she demonstrates heightened sensitivity to frightful Felis catus domesticus, commonly called the housecat. Heightened sensitivity, or awareness, is one of many characteristic traits of a gifted child. More observation is required, however, it appears giftedness is a very good possibility.

Please join me for my next installment of "Signs Your Child is Gifted," when we look at the surprising new study linking the children's television show "Yo Gabba Gabba!" to advanced cognitive development in toddlers.

A Little Consolation (Now It's Overhead - 2004)

“Pretty much all the honest truth telling in the world is done by children.” ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr., American Writer & Poet (1809 - 1894)

My 8-year-old sat quietly in the backseat with a soccer ball in her lap. Jessie was ready for another late Thursday afternoon practice.

Minutes away from the field, I thought I'd strike up a little conversation before dropping her off. "Jessie, which soccer coach do you like better: this year's coach or last year's coach?"

"I don't remember, who was my last year's coach?"

"Mr. Harris. Do you remember Mr. Harris?"

"Is Mr. Harris the one with the bald spot just like you?"

"Yes," I said chuckling. "He's the one with the bald spot just like me."

Realizing that one's bald spot may not be the most flattering of descriptions, she quickly tried to cover-up for her social faux pas and make me feel better in the process. "Oh, I just remembered . . . he has a fatter head."

Thanks Jessie.

I don't remember if I ever found out which coach she liked better. However, I did find out that in Jessie’s eyes, I don’t have the fattest head in the world.

I’ve got that going for me . . . which is nice. Mr. Harris isn't so lucky.

“Speak the truth, but leave immediately after.” ~ Slovenian Proverb

What If We Give It Away? (R.E.M. - 1986)

“While the kids are at play, Dad will give it away.” ~ Me

The only way to get rid of any of my children’s old or used-less belongings is to do so when they’re not around. Otherwise, even the simplest attempts to downsize are met with a resistance that would have sent Nazi Germany hightailing it out of France; tears and gnashing of nerves are not uncommon.

It doesn’t matter what the item is, or if it holds, or ever held any value — sentimental or otherwise. If it was their very own, you can bet it was their “most favorite” thing they’ve ever possessed in the whole wide world, and therefore cannot under any circumstance, whatsoever, be given or thrown away.

“Dad? You’re not throwing that away are you?” said my 13-year-old, already knowing the answer to the question.

“Yes, you don’t still want it do you?” I said, only steps away from the garbage can and already knowing that she did.

“Dad, yes! It was my cast from when I was seven and fell off the monkey bars.”

I held the dirty faded old pink arm cast, that years ago for one long hot and sweaty summer adorned Lauren’s left arm, like it was a dead rat. “Yeah, I know Honey, but it’s pretty disgusting,” I said, shaking my head disapprovingly. “What are you going to ever do with it?”

“I don’t know but it was my most favorite cast I’ve ever had,” she has had two. “Dad, please. It’s special to me.”

Damn, foiled again, and to think I was only feet away from the garbage can. “Okay, we’ll put in in your memory box.”

The memory box is where all disputed keepsakes are stored until a later time when, theoretically, a rational and tear-free release can be agreed upon — or the item can be secretly thrown away and forever "lost." The only problem with this system is that the box is only 12 inches wide and long, by 8 inches deep: big enough for a couple pacifiers, a lock of hair or two, a pair of baby shoes, a bib, and a pile of baptism cards, but not much else. Therefore, the first memory boxes have been supplemented by memory plastic bins (the standard clear $5.99 variety purchased at your local hardware store). These bins contain everything from school crafts to American Girl clothing, and are randomly stacked throughout the basement and attic.

My latest clandestine purge took place on a Saturday in September. With the kids and Elizabeth out shopping for school clothes, I moved a number of old household items and clothing from the basement storage room to the garage. Where they were to be temporarily stored until they could be given away.

The bulk of the giveaways were maternity clothes that were still stored in clear bins. I stacked them high in the middle of one of the car-less garage stalls. The only controversial item was a 13-year-old baby highchair used by all three of my girls. It stood naked next to the stacks of maternity clothes until I could find a sheet to cover it with so the kid’s wouldn’t easily spot it.

Admittedly, I got a bit sentimental bringing the chair up to the garage. I could only imagine how affected my children would be if they saw I was giving it away. Surely, it was their most favorite chair in the whole wide world — ever.

As I rearranged the garage to make room for the new but temporary additions, Elizabeth returned earlier than expected with the girls. She pulled the SUV into the empty garage stall next to me and the doomed items.

From her car seat in the back seat I could see my 3-year-old had already spotted the high chair. She practically pressed her face to the car door window, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

I was busted.

Before Elizabeth could turn the engine off, Lulu had her window down. "Are you going to give that away?"

Nodding my head, I confirmed her worst fears.

With her voice cracking and tears beginning to form in her brown eyes, she whimpered "Maybe we can find a bigger memory box."

Damn.

Wanted: Humongous Memory Box.

Two months later, the 13-year-old high chair still sits in the garage.

"Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose." ~ The television show The Wonder Years

Don't Quote Me: Margaritaville

"This song reminds me of when I was a baby." ~ Lulu

Comment made by my daughter while sitting in her car seat on the way to lunch. The song on the radio was Jimmy Buffett's 1977 hit "Margaritaville" — a song named after a cocktail and basically about "wastin' away" in a tequila induced haze.

Come on, the kid's 3-years-old.

What's Your Name? (Lynyrd Skynyrd - 1976)

“I always have trouble remembering three things: faces, names, and — I can’t remember what the third thing is.” ~ Fred A. Allen, American Comedian (1894-1956)

I’ve known Jack for at least a couple years. I bump into him a good amount — especially during the warmer months — at the swimming pool, golf course, and on occasion at a restaurant we frequent. He's a good guy. So naturally, when I spotted him walking toward me in the pool parking lot, I was quick to greet him.

“Jack!” I yelled.

The only problem was . . . his name is not Jack.

“You’re Jack,” he said, as we stopped momentarily to shake hands. “I’m Michael.”

I was dumbstruck. Actually, I had been stricken dumb some time earlier — I’ve been calling this man “Jack” for as long as I can remember knowing him.

Sensing my oh-my-God moment of paralysis, he continued. “It’s cool. I’m really bad with names too. Don’t worry about it, it’s not a big deal.”

Okay, very, very gracious of him, however . . .

Number one: No, it’s not cool.

Number two: Who said I’m “really bad” with names. I didn’t say I was really bad with names. Okay, I’m bad with names, yes — but really bad? For all Jack — I mean, Michael — knew, his was the only name in my entire life I’ve ever forgotten.

My head spun as I managed to say I was sorry in a way only a guy could. "Damn, I can't believe I just called you Jack. Of course, I'm Jack, you're Michael." I laughed uncomfortably, each of us walking backwards, still facing each other, but in opposite directions.

Continuing the act that my lapse was merely a momentary brain fart, I gave my standard one-liner for messing up someone’s name — or mistaking them for being pregnant. “I knew that. I was just testing you.” I joked. Mercifully, he smiled.

We both turned and continued on our respective ways. A few seconds later I turned and yelled his name — as if doing so would negate the fact I did not know it only seconds earlier — and shouted something about getting together for golf.

I slunked into my car and immediately calling Elizabeth.

“Hey, remember Jack from the pool?” I said. “He has the wife with her own business, and two kids?”

“Yes, the guy you’ve been wanting to play golf with?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“What about him?”

“His name is Michael.”

“What do you mean his name is Michael?”

“His name is Michael,” I said, still trying to convince myself that it was true and not some bad joke. “I thought his name was Jack.”

“How did you find out?”

“He told me.”

There was a moment of silence as I could only assume she too was reflecting on my idiocy.

“Wow, you’ve been calling him Jack for as long as I can remember.”

“Yeah . . . I know.”

I also know Jack was right, I’m really bad with names. The worst.

“Memory is like an orgasm. It’s a lot better if you don’t have to fake it.” ~ Seymour Cray, American Electrical Engineer and Supercomputer Architect (1925 - 1996)

Don't Quote Me: Nature

"I really like nature. I just don't like to be in it." ~ Lauren

My 13-year-old objecting to my observation that I thought she's more of a spa girl than an outdoors girl.

. . . I rest my case.

Kids (Goodtimes Goodtimes - 2007)

I shuttered as I heard the words that every parent of a little girl fears: "Your daughter was telling stories about you."

These were the words spoken to me by my 3-year-old’s preschool teacher as I entered my daughter’s classroom — eight minutes late for an 11:30 AM pickup.

"Oh, really?" I uttered under my breath, forcing a less than thrilled smile and bracing for what was surely to be another of life's embarrassing moments.

Smiling, she said, "She said that her Mommy and Daddy went to a concert last night, but she couldn't go because her Mommy and Daddy wanted to drink alcohol."

"Oh, that's just great," I thought as we exchanged head shakes, eye rolls, and semi-uncomfortable laughs.

Okay, this was bad . . . but it could’ve been worse.

My daughter’s “story” could just have easily involved family flatulence or personal hygiene. Like how I sometime incorporate "toots" into my bedtime stories, or that on occasion I don’t change in the morning before taking Lulu to school. For these I have no socially acceptable explanation. Being portrayed by my child as a drunkard and weeknight carouser — for that, I have answers.

With the kids-say-the-darndest-things formalities out of the way, we were at the point where I was expected to give my reasonable — and perfectly good — explanation. I needed to not only clear up how my toddler knew the word “alcohol,” but how she gathered her parents’ intentions to imbibe.

It was at this moment I realized — although I had but only a single Blue Moon the previous night, before the aforementioned concert — to the untrained eye I might look a tad hung over. I was late, unshaven, and my hair un-gelled. My clothing had that rumpled-slept-in look — probably because they were — and I had saddlebags under my eyes from staying up too damn late. Think cabbie Reverend Jim Ignatowski from the 1970's and 80's sitcom Taxi.

Unfortunately, what is one man's sober-everyday-sleepless-look is another man's drunken-morning-after-look. Anyone that knows me pretty well, recognizes that unless I’m in a church, a restaurant, or on a golf course, this is just how I look — relaxed but kinda hung over. It being only the third week of two-day-a-week preschool, I wasn't confident Lulu's preschool teacher had yet discerned this.

Stricken with paranoia and false guilt, I took a deep breath and rushed into a rambling and mostly incoherent explanation for my child’s revelation:

"That’s funny — but I know where she got it.” I began. “So, this is what happened, you see, Elizabeth, my wife, Lulu's Mom — I don’t know why I just said that because of course you know who Elizabeth is and that she’s Lulu’s Mom — duh. Anyway, so, we went to a concert last night which is weird because we never go to a concert on a Wednesday it being a school night and everything and with activities and babysitters so hard to get, not that Lulu has many activities, she is only three, but she has two older sisters that dance and play soccer, well only one of them play soccer but they both dance, as does Lulu but only once a week, so it’s hard — but when I bought the tickets for Phoenix during the summer, it seemed like a good idea — Phoenix the band not the city. That’s who we saw in concert — Phoenix. Have you ever heard of them? They were on Saturday Night Live in June, or maybe it was May?”

As fate would have it, of course Lulu’s teacher had not heard of the band Phoenix. She politely shook her head as I replenished my lungs with oxygen before continuing to the crux of my perfectly good explanation — which was turning out not so perfectly good.

“No? Well, one of their songs — “1901” — is on a Cadillac commercial now. Which is cool because they’re actually a French band, but they don’t sing in French — they sing in English. You can’t even tell they’re French — not that it matters one way or another but I do wonder if they sing in English when in France? That’s weird. I never thought of that until now. Anyway, the concert was downtown — at the Aragon Ballroom — and Coco wanted to go, but of course she couldn’t go so I told her she couldn’t go but she still was upset and kept asking “why,” so I told her the reason why she couldn't go was because they served alcohol there — which is true — and she really doesn’t even know what alcohol is just that she can’t drink it and you need to be 18 — or is it 21? — whatever, you need to be a certain age which she is not and therefore was told she wasn’t allowed to go even if we wanted to take her.”

Having said all I was going to say, at least without a lawyer present, I caught my breath as Lulu’s teacher stared blankly at me. I began to perspire.

Lulu’s teacher took a moment before again smiling and shaking her head. “Yeah, kids will make-up the funniest things.”

Make up? No, that’s not what I said. She was either not listening, understanding, or believing me — or she just wanted to get home.

“Well, no." I gently objected. "As I said, we told her that . . .”

“Where do they get these things?” she interrupted, having nothing of the fact that my daughter got this "thing" from me.

I was about to make a run again at my explanation, but quickly surmised it was best I just shut up.

“Yeah, I know.” I said, shaking my head in concocted disbelief — complete with more eye rolls and chuckling.

It was time to leave and take my little girl home . . . and wait for the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services.

*******************************************************

A couple weeks later, while driving her home from school, Lulu divulged she told her preschool teacher “something.” Naturally, I was a little nervous (and looking like Rumpelsleptin and hung over). Thankfully, all — she said — she told her was that when she was at her Grandma’s house [in New York], she threw up on the floor and bed. Reportedly, her teacher just said “Wow,” and that was that.

Another child’s bullet dodged. Because you know, parents do and say the darndest things.

"I'll make you a deal: don't believe everything your child tells you happened at school, and I won't believe everything that they tell me happened at home." ~ Anonymous School Teacher

BLOG BREAK: Returning Week of September 28th . . . Maybe, Not

"The busy man is troubled with but one devil; the blogging man by a thousand." ~ Me

Sorry, I haven't posted as much in the last week or two. I've been buried by the start of the kids' school year and activities -- dance, soccer, and gymnastics; as well as my summer neglect of household responsibilities.

This coupled with the fact that this Wednesday is Great American Pot Pie Day, is forcing me to take another week or two break from writing. Please check back in on Monday, October 5th.

Thanks!

Jack

Is it Any Wonder? (Keane - 2006)

"Right out of hell, I saw it!" ~ Commodore Decker, Star Trek Original Series

I was rolling down the 4-lane highway that leads to my daughters’ dance school. It was about 4:50 PM on a Tuesday, and I was seconds away from an encounter with a motard.

Seated next to me was was my (then) 11-year-old daughter, while my (then) 6-year-old and (then) 2-year-old girls sat quietly in the back. Going about 50 mph in a 45, we were passing a vehicle on the left as we approached a green traffic signal. It was then that a maroon car approaching the same intersection from the right caught my eye — the car was not stopping.

I thought to myself, "Holy schnike! That car is going to pull into the right lane and hit the car next to me." I began to brake.

I was correct — the maroon car didn't stop — but was wrong about the lane. The motard (or underachieving motorist) pulled into the left lane, a.k.a. my lane. I had to lay heavily on the brakes to avoid a rear-end collision.

“Jesus!” I said, instantly sorry for taking the name of Jesús Alou — the youngest trio of baseball playing Alou brothers — in vain.

In typical motard fashion, after almost causing an accident and bringing my vehicle to nearly a complete stop, the knucklehead in the maroon car accelerated — as if, nothing happened.

Okay, I may be in the minority, but when I do something motarded, I make sure to give the reconciliatory, "Sorry! I know I'm a motard" wave — and then pray that I don’t become a victim of road rage. However, no wave was forthcoming from the driver of the maroon beater. And adding insult to a hard stop, the bastage car backfired as it sped away — spewing a plume of dark exhaust for to choke on.

So, to recap: not only did the car cut us off, but it also technically farted on us. It was as if the beater maroon car was saying (spoken in a thick French accent), "I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a Hugo and your father smelled of motor grease!" (Yes, apparently the car was a fan of Monty Python and the Holy Grail.)

Responding to my one-word outburst and having just witnessed the cut and run herself, Lauren, my 11-year-old said, "What Dad?"

What Dad? Wasn’t it obvious? "He shouldn't have pulled out." I said, making a concerted effort to keep calm.

(As Lauren nodded her head, I thought to myself: if Michael Scott of The Office was seated next to me, and Dwight was in the backseat, this is when Michael would say, “That’s what she said,” and Dwight and I would laugh, and I would give Michael a knuckle-bump.)

We quickly gained on what was a circa 1988 Buick — not so — Regal anymore. The car was in need of a wash and rust remover. From behind, the driver appeared to be a man — a man with a "I Y Shopping" bumper sticker (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

"Did you see the bumper sticker?" Lauren asked, smiling.

I chuckled. "Yes."

"What's so funny?"

The shallow and small man that I am, I took the low road. "By the looks of his car the guy should be saving his money, or shopping for a new car."

Unsure if I was joking or serious, Lauren smiled uneasily.

We stayed behind the car for a mile or so before moving to the faster moving right lane. As we slowly passed the motard mobile, I made a point not to look at the driver. This is what I do: instead of staring, yelling, or gesturing, at a motard, I think it's cooler to look totally unfazed; kind of the anti-rage.

My head trained straight ahead, and looking totally cool, I noticed the Buick was missing a front passenger side hubcap — it was only fitting. I also noticed Lauren sitting straight up in her seat, her head cocked to the left, leaning forward, straining to get a good look at the car and driver. (I believe more out of curiosity than anything else — I don’t believe she'd ever seen a motard before).

Her eyes suddenly widened. "Hey Dad! There is a number you can call about his driving!"

Before Lauren's comment could fully sink in, I instinctively turned to look at the car. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to a small oval sticker on the back window: "How am I driving? Dial: 1 800-FUCK-OFF"

Damn! He got me again. It's the motard that just keeps giving.

"That's just great," I said sarcastically.

We both laughed and I explained to Lauren that this was not a real number. However, she insisted we try it on my cell phone. As if, operators were standing by. I didn’t, but could only imagine . . .

Operator [female voice]: "Thank you for calling 1 800-FUCK-OFF."

Me: "Yeah, um, there's a guy here, and . . . um, I don't like how he's driving."

Operator: "Okay, can you give me his license plate number?"

Me: "No . . . but he has a 'I heart shopping' bumper sticker and like a six-foot antenna with a black die on the top."

Operator: "Heart shopping?"

Me: "Yeah, I know, it makes no sense."

Operator: "Did you say the antenna was black on top?"

Me: "No, it has a black die on top. You know, like a cube with spots on it. A dice."

Operator: "Oh, okay. Can you give me a description of the driver?"

Me: "No, I didn't look at him, you know being cool and everything . . . but just one moment, I think my daughter did, hold on [muffled voices]. Okay, he had tattoos [muffled voice] and a weird haircut, and sunglasses even though it's not sunny out [muffled voice] a mustache and [muffled voice] he looks like he's a punk rocker. I think it's safe for you to just put down 'bad news.' "

Operator: "Okay, just one moment please . . . sorry, my system is slow today."

Me: "No problem."

Operator: "Okay. Let's see. Is it a 1988 maroon Buick Regal?"

Me: "Why, yes. I believe it is."

Operator: "Missing front passenger side hubcap?"

Me: "Yeah, [excited] that's it!"

Operator: "Sir, I feel I should just let you know that this man got his driver's license from a Cracker Jack box, hates his father, recently defeated The Oni Tormentor Dharmin in Mortal Kombat on his PlayStation 2, and has a really bad attitude."

Me: "Wow, good to know. Thanks."

Operator: "Anything else Sir?"

Me: "No, so, um, did you put down I didn't like how he was driving?"

Operator: "Yes Sir. Anything else?"

Me: "No, I guess not. I guess that would be it."

Operator: "Okay, Sir? One more thing . . ."

Me: "Yeah?"

Operator: "Fuck off." [click]

"When people are laughing, they're generally not killing each other." ~ Alan Alda

Daddy Proverb #9

"McDonald's is inevitable." ~ Me

Meaning: No matter how good your parental intentions, one day you will find yourself at the McDonald's drive thru ordering a Chicken McNugget Happy Meal with chocolate milk. It's not a question of if, but how often.

Unfortunately, eating at McDonald's is a God-given right, possessed by all children under the Laws of Nature. As a parent, you have no choice in the matter, so just relax and "please pull up to the next window."

Origin(al): "Change is inevitable." ~ Benjamin Disraeli, British Prime Minister (1804-1881)

Daddy Proverb #16

"A drama queen turns little problems into great ones and none at all into little ones." ~ Me

Meaning: When you have daughters, it doesn't matter what you say or do, drama happens. You can't prevent the problems, you can only hope to contain them.

Origin(al): "A clever person turns great problems into little ones and little ones into none at all." ~ Chinese Proverb

I Ain't Hiding (The Black Crowes - 2009)

"I have seen three emperors in their nakedness, and the sight was not inspiring." ~ Otto Van Bismarck, Prussian German Statesman (1815-1898)

Like Eve in the Garden of Eden, something has changed that has made my 3-year-old little girl embarrassed, or at least flustered, by my nakedness — or, more accurately, by the prospect of my nakedness.

It’s not like I parade around the house unclothed. My nudity is strictly confined to the bathroom and bedroom — and even there, I try to maintain a discreet level of modesty when in the presence of one of my daughters: a strategically held towel here, a slight turn of the body there. But as a parent, especially a stay-at-home parent, nudity happens.

Lulu is still okay with nudity, generally speaking — I actually think she prefers her birthday suit to any other outfit or costume, dress-up or otherwise. However, she apparently doesn't like me wearing mine — at least not within eyeshot.

I learned this one afternoon upon returning from a run while visiting my brother and his family in Upstate New York. It was there that Lulu found herself alone in a room with me as I began to change. This was nothing out of the ordinary; I had changed in front of my youngest daughter many times without incident.

Sure, I heard the occasional "Eeeww" — come on, who hasn't at one time or another? Or "Daaaadd," said as if my penis was some kind of overused sight gag. Akin to how someone might for a cheap laugh put on Groucho glasses, to her it was like I had this silly little private area thingy I liked to do — pretty funny the first time, but not so much anymore.

As I readied to change out of my running shorts, speaking unusually slow and deliberate, Lulu looked me straight in the crotch and said, "Dad, are you going to change?"

"Yes," I said.

Sensing there was more on her little mind, I temporarily suspended the removal of my shorts. Motionless and in a trance-like gaze, Lulu continued to stare at my private area. Still speaking in slow-motion she asked, "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," I answered. Although, I must admit, her zombie-like fixation was beginning to make me a tad bit uneasy.

She stood frozen next to the bedroom door. It was as if my groin area, unbeknownst to me, had some kind of hypnotic power. Seconds passed before her need to clear her throat seemingly broke the spell. "I'm gonna leave now!" she blurted.

Lulu hastily opened the door and scurried out, slamming the door as she escaped into the hallway. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard a low pitched scream as she fled down the stairs — away from the room of naked horrors.

What the hell? My dadhood has been the recipient of my children's indiscreet ogling before — the duration of which only a toddler or unabashed pervert could getaway with. Awkward, but easily attributable to innocent curiosity or, in the case of the pervert in the park wearing the trench coat, mental illness. But this change in attitude seemed so sudden.

With the passing of time, I've come to realize that Lulu’s seemingly sudden awareness is likely just an early sign of my littlest one growing up. Not so much innocence lost, but maturity gained. It’s only natural you know . . .

Anyone got a fig leaf?

"I was born modest; not all over, but in spots." ~ Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court

Makin' It (David Naughton - 1979)

"The Bombay Company, Bombay Outlet and Bombay KIDS websites have discontinued online operations. We would like to thank you, our loyal online customers, for your business over the past years and apologize for any inconvenience this may cause." ~ www.bombaycompany.com

When the Bombay Company filed for bankruptcy protection, I was reminded of a purchase we made at a Bombay KIDS store a couple years earlier . . .

With the arrival of Lulu, we decided to move Lauren, my then 9-year-old, to the guest room, and put our newborn in Lauren's room. Lauren's furniture would not move with her, instead we decided to buy new bedroom furniture that reflected Lauren's budding sophistication and, more importantly, fit in the new room.

The room previously known as "the guest room" has a full bathroom, but is space challenged. For the room to accommodate a desk, we needed to buy a loft bed. Lauren was thrilled, she would have the beginnings of her very own dormitory room.

After a short search and many a "Dad, I really want a loft bed," we found ourselves in the Bombay KIDS store prepared to purchase an antique white, loft bed with matching desk.

My primary reservation for buying the bed, wasn't that she might fall out, or lose a limb from the ceiling fan, or having to stand on a ladder to have a bedside chat. My biggest concern was that with an elevated bed she wouldn't be able to make it. In theory, bed-making is a daily kid chore in our household. (Note: I emphasize "kid" — file under "Do as I say, not as I do.")

As Elizabeth and I stood eyeballing the new bedroom furniture, I turned to Lauren and said, "If we get it, you know you're going to have to make it."

Lauren looked at me in disbelief. "But Dad?"

"Don't 'but Dad' me," I said. "You're going to have to make your bed."

"But can you help me?"

"No, you can make it yourself.” I said. “Lauren, just because you're getting a loft bed doesn't mean you don't have to make it."

Lauren still looked surprised but nevertheless consented. "Alright. I'll make it," she said begrudgingly.

Elizabeth and I asked a few more questions of the salesperson and went over the pricing. We decided to buy the furniture, but I was still troubled by Lauren's apparent reluctance to accept responsibility for making her bed.

I again went back to the scab and picked. "Honey, we think we're going to get the bed. Again, you know we're going to expect you to make it."

Still visibly upset by this prospect, Lauren took a deep breath. "I know Dad," she exhaled.

I was not convinced, but if we were going to fit a desk in the room the bed needed to be elevated. I went back to Elizabeth and the salesperson and we consummated the deal with a credit card.

As I walked toward Lauren to leave, I could see that having to make the bed was weighing heavily on her. For the life of me, I couldn't understand why. She had been making her bed on a daily basis for years. I thought she would be excited about getting a loft bed; making an elevated bed only a minor inconvenience.

As I approached Lauren to leave she said, "Dad, can you help me at all with the bed?"

Exasperated I said, "No Lauren, it's your bed, not mine. You can make it."

"But can my friends help me?" She asked meekly.

What? Your friends help you to make your bed? This was getting ridiculous. "No, your friends can't help you," I said sternly. "Honey, it's not that difficult — you, and you alone, need to make your own bed." Jeez-Louise.

To this she asked almost in a whisper, "Are you going to give me any tools?"

Any tools? Am I going to give her any tools? Tools to make her bed? Eyes wide, she anxiously awaited my answer . . .

It's then that it finally hit me. She wanted tools to make her bed! Oh my gawd Chandler! She thinks I want her to make her bed! As in "to assemble" or "construct." Ha!

In an outburst of laughter I said, "No Honey, you don't have to put it together, I'll do that. You just have to make your bed. You know, like you do every morning — make your bed."

A big smile came over Lauren's face and she let out a long, “Ohhhhhhhhh!"

We all laughed. Lauren was relieved . . . and so was I.

"Nothing is so simple that it cannot be misunderstood." - Unknown

The Very Last Time (Utopia - 1980)

“I’m late for . . . uhhh . . . my Green Eggs and Ham discussion group. Tonight is why he would not eat them on a train.” ~ Phoebe (Lisa Kudrow), Friends

I saw the book sitting on my then 6-year-old’s bed and thought, "Damn, not that book again!"

Her pajamas on and teeth brushed, it was time for the allotted two bedtime stories. Jessie chose Angelina's Birthday Surprise, and the 1960 Dr. Seuss classic Green Eggs and Ham. I had no dispute with Angelina's Birthday Surprise, it was Green Eggs and Ham that was alone on my Index Librorum Prohibitorum — index of prohibited books.

Yes, I banned it about a month earlier.

I had a problem with the fourth-bestselling children's book of all-time. Actually, Jessie and I had a problem with the fourth-bestselling children's book of all-time. More specifically, Jessie and I had a disagreement over the name of one of the two characters, in the fourth-bestselling children's book of all time.

The disagreement culminated in the gnashing of patience, shedding of tears, and the aforementioned ban. It all could have been avoided — if only Dr. Seuss would have clearly named his characters.

My daughter and I are in agreement on the name of the first character: he is Sam, the energetic salesman of the green eggs and ham. Sam makes his name known by holding a sign which reads "I am Sam," and again a couple pages later, "Sam I am." No problem.

Our squabble is with the name, or lack there of, of the second character. You know, the taller grumpy creature who won't try green eggs and ham. Jessie insists his name is also "Sam," while I argue this character is unnamed.

This difference in opinion surfaced upon the completion of me reading aloud page 17:

I would not like them here or there.
I would not like them anywhere.
I do not like green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

It was at this point Jessie innocently commented, "His name is Sam too." She was referring to the finicky creature — the unnamed.

Always the defender of truth, justice and my way, I just couldn’t let this go uncorrected. "I don't think so honey,” I said. “He's referring to Sam as 'Sam-I-am' because that’s how Sam referred to himself." What did I say?

I flipped back to page 5 to prove my point. I show Jessie a picture of Sam standing on the back of a furry tiger looking animal, holding a sign that reads "Sam I am."

"No Dad, his name is Sam," she said, referring to the unnamed one. "He says 'Sam-I-am.’ "

I understand how she came to this incorrect conclusion, but can't help myself. "Yeah, I know he said 'Sam-I-am,’ but 'Sam-I-am' is what he's calling Sam, not his own name." Come again?

Frustrated, Jessie persisted. "No Dad, he's saying that's his name, 'Sam,' 'Sam-I-am.’ "

In no mood . . . I move forward. "Okay, okay. Let's keep reading."

I read two more pages before "Sam-I-don't-know-who-I-am" again reared his ugly head.

I do not like them in a house.
I do not like them with a mouse.
I do not like them here or there.
I do not like them anywhere.
I do not like green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

"See! His name is Sam," said Jessie.

"Honey, he's calling Sam, 'Sam-I-am.’ He's not referring to himself as Sam. His name is not 'Sam-I-am.’ "

"Yes he is," said Jessie, beginning to snivel. "He said 'Sam-I-am!'"

"Jessie, I understand how you think that, but I can tell you his name is not Sam."

"Yes it is!" cried Jessie.

As Jessie lay in tears next to me, I could only think about how ridiculous a situation I found myself. One minute I'm happily reading to my daughter Green Eggs and Ham, the fourth-bestselling children's book of all time, the next minute she’s crying over the name of a freakin' character — who I might add, in case you've forgotten, doesn't even have a name . . . thank you.

I was not seeing the humor in this life moment. I had had enough: my pupils turned red, my eyeballs yellowed, my fingers lengthened, and green hair covered my body. I transformed into the Grinch, soon to be starring in: "How the Grinch Banned the Fourth-Bestselling Children's Book of All Time."

"That's it," I said.

Closing the book, I placed it on Jessie's night stand. This story was over — I was taking my green eggs and ham and going home.

Jessie was taken aback by my actions. Her crying downgraded back to a snivel, she said "What Dad?"

"That's it . . ." I repeated. I then grasped for an adult-like response to my childish behavior. It was not forthcoming.

"If we can't read Green Eggs and Ham without you crying . . . [then gosh darnit] we're not going to read it at all," I decreed.

"Never?" she whimpered.

There was no turning back. "Uh huh,” I said. “That's right . . . never."

Holy crap, I had just banned Green Eggs and Ham forever and ever.

"Can we still read the other book?" she asked meekly.

Finally acting my age and not my shoe size, I said "Sure." Jessie was relieved.

So, Jessie and I snuggled again as I read her Little Tiger's Big Surprise!. When finished, I tucked her in and gave her a kiss goodnight. That night before going to sleep I prayed that I would never have to look at that damn Dr. Seuss book again.

The Green Eggs and Ham incident was not discussed. I had even forgotten about that fateful night until about a month later when I saw the oversized, orange bound, "Collector's Edition" book, sitting on Jessie's bed. I cursed to myself.

Jessie was ready for bed and picked up the forbidden — and frankly, somewhat annoying — book and handed it to me for a bedtime reading.

Had she forgotten? Was I not clear, or simply unclear? Perhaps this was her way of putting this ugly chapter in "How the Grinch Banned the Fourth-Bestselling Children's Book of All Time" behind us. Oh, what the hell — I was willing to give it another go.

Laying side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder in her twin sized bed, I began reading.

"I-am-Sam . . ."

"Sam-I-am" was spoken several times without incident. I was under the impression she had forgotten about our disagreement — until page 34 when it happened:

I would not, could not, in a box.
I could not, would not, with a fox.
I will not eat them with a mouse.
I will not eat them in a house.
I will not eat them here or there.
I will not eat them anywhere.
I do not eat green eggs and ham.
I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Jessie pointed to the tall unnamed one with the black top hat and with a straight face said, "His name is Sam."

I looked at her in disbelief. Please, not this again? Jessie turned to me and with a sly smile she said, "Is it 'Band on the Run,' or 'Man on the Run'?" She was referring to the the title of the 1974 Paul McCartney & Wings hit, another source of disagreement between us. (C'mon, you gotta give me this one!)

"It's 'Band on the Run' you stinker!" I said.

Jessie now had a big smile on her face. "Nooo it's not, it's 'Man on the Run.' "

I tickled Jessie mercilessly, and then finished reading Green Eggs and Ham . . . and the fourth-bestselling children's book of all time was officially forever removed from my Index Librorum Prohibitorum.

Thank you! Thank you, Sam-I-am.

"And the first one said to the second one there I hope you're having fun.” ~ Paul McCartney & Wings, “Band on the Run”

Don't Quote Me: Policewomen

"Policemen can be a man or a woman. If it's a man, it's called a policeman. If it's a woman . . . it's called a woman policeman." ~ Lulu

My 3-year-old sharing a moment of clarity.

BLOG VACATION: July 29 - August 24, 2009

Damn, another vacation!

I'll be posting again upon my return on August 24th . . . eh hem, I mean the 26th . . . or, um, maybe the 27th.

Enjoy what's left of summer! ~ Jack

For Us (Pete Yorn - 2006)

My 3-year-old daughter is not a toilet flusher. It's simply not in her constitution. Because of her unwillingness to comply with toilet common law, hapless bathroom visitors are often the unenthusiastic recipients of — what I affectionately call — a "present" from Lulu.

One morning, while I made school lunches and Lulu sat eating Cheerios, my 7-year-old yelled from the nearby bathroom. "Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww!"

I knew in an instant what repulsed Jessie: Santa Claus had again come early to the Butler house. Looking at Lulu I said, "Did someone forget to flush?"

"Me," chirped a smiling Lulu. Proudly adding, "Dad, I got a present for you!"

I chuckled to myself before gently scolding Lulu for her perverse generosity. Jessie returned to the breakfast table, the only one not smiling.

It's again proven true: giving is always better than receiving.

Think About It (The Jayhawks - 1997)

"I've got the brain of a four year old. I'll bet he was glad to be rid of it." ~ Groucho Marx

Let’s face it, I'm a stay-at-home Dad trapped in a middle-manager’s brain.

Did you know that there are such things called, Executive brain functions? Supposedly these functions are not just reserved for the likes of Michael Eisner and my wife; as humans, we all have them.

Not to get all neurological on you, but Executive brain functions are defined as cognitive processes “that guide complex behavior over time through planning, decision making and response control.” If this is true, then there must be middle-management brain functions as well. I believe — if there is such a thing — it's what I predominantly use. This unscientific conclusion would be consistent with the modest advancement in my prior business career — and my present position as a low level manager in my own household.

Nothing demonstrates the differences between brain processes better than looking at how Elizabeth ("executive" brain) and I ("overweight middle-manger of the world" brain) answered a recent question by our 7-year-old daughter.

Jessie was in the family room, sitting way too close to the television. It was a summer morning and she was watching the animated kids show Franklin (the Turtle). Without taking her eyes off the screen, she yelled to me in the kitchen. "If turtles could talk and the lights turned off, would they be scared?"

It took me a second to translate her question into a comprehensible form. This is not an uncommon exercise for parents of young children. A child's questions is often like a puzzle; requiring word correction, sentence rearrangement, and mind reading. This wasn't a difficult translation. There was no need for reiteration, clarification, or a Vulcan mind meld. Simply put, my 7-year-old wanted to know if turtles can be scared of the dark.

In my authoritative middle-manager voice, also known as my Dad voice, I provided a rambling dissertation that would have made Cliff Claven (Cheers) proud. Basically, I argued that turtles and all animals experience fear and other emotions just as we do — but not as we do. Because a turtles fear is more instinctual, while our fear can be instinctual but is usually based in cognitive awareness.

Neither Jessie nor I had any idea what I was talking about. "Oh," is all she said. By her distant response, I got the impression that by the time I got around to not answering her question, she had altogether forgotten what her question was — or maybe, just didn't care anymore.

No sooner had I congratulated myself for what I thought was a magnificent response, the phone rang. It was Elizabeth, calling from the real world. Perfect timing. Nothing like a second opinion.

I picked up the portable phone sitting on the kitchen counter and hit “Talk.” "Hey, we have a question for you. Jessie wants to know if turtles could speak, might they tell us they're afraid of the dark?"

Elizabeth answered the question without a nanosecond of hesitation. I’m not so sure I even completed the question. It was as if she had listened to an NPR feature on “The Fears of Turtles” that very morning — and was anticipating I would ask her about it. "No, they like the dark. It's dark in their shell."

I didn't know if what she said was true; it really didn’t matter. I instantly fell in love with her answer. For starters, she answered the question; something I failed to do. Better yet, it was short, logical, and to the point. In my experience, not characteristic of middle-manager answers — at least mine.

I covered the receiver of the phone and repeated Elizabeth’s answer to Jessie. "Oh, yeah," Jessie yelled, seemingly remembering that she cared."Okay!"

This story not only demonstrates different brain processes, but why I have never gotten beyond middle-management status — and Elizabeth has. In a turtle shell: the minds of executives and middle-managers, do not think alike.

"I've written these things because it is my responsibility as manager of this branch, to profiligate great ideas. And I think I have done my part . . ." ~ Michael Scott, The Office ("Golden Ticket")

********************************

Unbeknown to Elizabeth and me, Jessie's very question was already answered in the Franklin Classic Storybook, “Franklin in the Dark.” It's a fact Jack: Franklin was afraid of the dark. As the book review points out, “This is particularly distressing for Franklin as he happens to be a turtle, and the darkness he fears is, of course, inside his own shell.” Interestingly, after reading this fascinating book, I also learned lions can be afraid of loud noises, birds can be fearful of heights, polar bears can worry about freezing, and ducks can be petrified of water. Even more shocking is that among other things, apparently animals talk, live in miniature houses a lot like ours, use flashlights, and accessorize. You really do learn something everyday.

"I wish my name was Brian because maybe sometimes people would misspell my name and call me Brain. That's like a free compliment and you don't even gotta be smart to notice it." ~ Mitch Hedburg, American Stand-Up Comedian (1968 - 2005)

Teach Your Children (Crosby, Stills, & Nash - 1970)

"I hate rap music, which to me sounds like a bunch of angry men shouting, possibly because the person who was supposed to provide them with a melody never showed up." ~ Dave Barry

I now have my own child Internet horror story.

My 7-year-old innocently discovered it when she sat down at my computer, early this morning. "Dad, is it alright if I close this?"

"What is it?" I asked, entering the room.

"I don't know."

I looked at the screen and was shocked by what I saw. My first instinct was to dive over Jessie's chair and pull the power chord from the computer. But I quickly realized that my reaction could be more damaging than what was actually on the screen. Fortunately, Jessie really didn't appear to know what exactly she was looking at.

As quicky and calmly as possible, I reached around Jessie and closed the application. "Gosh," I said. "I don't know how that got up there." Jessie appeared unfazed.

I wasn't telling the truth. I did know, and it wasn't my doing. This could have been done by one person in my household, and one person only: my 13-year-old daughter. How else could a search page for rapper Soulja Boy Tell 'Em, end up in my iTunes window?

To say I was a little surprised to see Soulja Boy would be an understatement. I didn't think I was going to have to deal with rap music until Lauren was at least in high school. Elizabeth and I raised her on a heavy diet of rock and musicals, with a smattering of classical. Although I don't like most rap and hip hop, I had talked to Lauren about this music genre. I felt this discussion was important for her to develop attitudes towards music that align identically with mine. My hope: as she matured she could make responsible musical choices.

I shooed Jessie off to watch cartoons in the family room, and with one eye on the door, I re-opened iTunes to the Soulja Boy page. Holding my breath, I looked in my "purchased" playlist to see if she had downloaded any of his songs — thankfully she had not. This was good, I clung to the possibility that she wasn't yet rap and hip hop active. Lauren and I needed to have another talk.

As I waited for Lauren to come downstairs for breakfast, I joined Jessie on the floor in the family room. It was time she and I had our first little talk about rap music.

Take my advice, never avoid a teachable music moment. Scowl and offer antagonistic opinions whenever your child is anywhere near a note of rap music. Otherwise, Soulja Boy Tell 'Em could be playing in your house, a lot sooner than you think.

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo

~ Eminem, "Lose Yourself"

Wanna Be Startin' Something (Michael Jackson - 1982)

Michael Jackson’s passing has millions around the globe mourning the loss of the musical, cultural, and generational icon — my 3-year-old daughter, is not one of them. Lulu has nothing against the self-proclaimed “King of Pop,” she simply didn’t know who he was when he was alive, and now that he’s dead, doesn’t really understand what this dying thing is all about. For her, dying is reserved for great-grandmas she never met, mosquitos and — now — Michael Jackson.

That being said, I know she at least knows the “King of Being Nuts” could dance. There is no other explanation for the brief exchange that took place in our kitchen, on the day of Jackson’s Memorial Service.

With Brooke Shields eulogizing Michael on the TV in the family room, I looked up to see Lulu holding herself as she walked through the kitchen. By holding herself, I mean — the international signal for “I gotta go pee and I gotta go real bad” — the crotch-grab and hold.

Lulu obviously needed to use the bathroom. No problem, except I had no doubt that a pee stop was not in her immediate plans. She was headed straight for the garage door, on her way outside to play with the kids amassed in our driveway.

I decided it was better she hear me now, than pee her pants later. She was going to use the bathroom before going out that door.

I cut her off at the piss . . . I mean pass. "Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I asked, already knowing what her answer would be and what was the reality.

As expected she said, "No."

Now for a little dose of that reality. "Then why are you holding yourself?"

Her answer caught the Sherlock Holmes in me by surprise. "Dad, it's a dance move."

It took a second or two for me to make sense of her words. Of course, one of Michael Jackson's signature dance moves. Lulu wasn't holding herself, she was performing one continuous dance move: the crotch-grab. Cheered by the creativity and relevancy of her deceit, I let her leave without relieving her bladder. "Oh . . . okay," I said smiling, as the door closed behind her.

Somehow the complicated legacy of Michael Jackson hadn't been lost on my youngest daughter. He was many things to many people, but to Lulu, Michael Jackson will be remembered (at least until she forgets) for the crotch-grab-dance-move. A move that on a sunny day in July, got her out of having to stop and go to the bathroom.

****************************

The death of Michael Jackson reminded me, we don't stop and go to the bathroom enough. Always go to the bathroom when you have a chance, it may be your last.

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I believe Lulu learned the crotch-grab from watching Michael Jackson videos with her 7-year-old sister. For the first day or two after his death, Jessie sat for hours watching Jackson footage on YouTube. Lulu joined her for small chunks of time, sitting quietly next to her big sister, soaking in whatever a little girl of her age soaks in watching music videos — apparently this includes, but is not necessarily limited to crotch-grabbing.

White, Discussion (Live - 1994)

"White Crayon: Someone who is utterly useless. Refers to the least-selected crayon in the box." ~ Urban Dictionary, www.urbandictionary.com

Lulu sat drawing at her Little Tikes picnic table. On this day, her medium of choice was Crayola, on 20 pound multipurpose white paper.

She picked up a white crayon and held it up for my inspection. "Is this working, Dad?"

"It works, Honey. It's just that you can't see it against the white paper."

Lulu scribbled on the paper with the white crayon and reviewed the results.

Visibly displeased, she said, "Dad, it's not working."

There is a reason the white crayon is always the sharpest in the box.

"If you want an interesting party sometime, combine cocktails and a fresh box of crayons for everyone." ~ Robert Fulghum