Buzzed from the sugar rush of an ice cream cone, the Bean agreed to go on the roller coaster. He had spent most the day refusing to go on some rides, including the car ride—a decision from the car-obsessed kid that frankly left me perplexed. But I saw him eying the roller coaster, a move that despite his timid exterior betrayed the thrill ride enthusiast beneath. I was sure if I could get him on the coaster, he would like it. At least I was kind of sure. He had liked the small, tame kids roller coaster at Disneyland. But he flat out rejected the more frenetic Star Tours ride.
I really wanted him to like roller coasters. When it comes to the things that I love, in my family I’m a man without allies. My enthusiasm for thrill rides is yet another passion in a long list that my wife does not share. I really needed a partner in crime to ride this stuff with me. But I realized that I was walking a fine line between gently nudging the Bean towards a fun new experience and totally freaking his head off.
As the Bean was licking the remaining remnants of ice cream off of his fingers, I leaned over to him. “There’s a ride I’d really like to take you on.” I nodded in the direction of the Dragon, a medium-small roller coaster nestled in the woods in the back of the park.
He said “yes” and a few minutes later, I was in the front seat of a roller coaster with my son.
“When you’re on a roller coaster,” I told him, “It’s okay to scream as loud as you want.”
“Oh, I won’t do that,” he said matter of factly.
We descended the first hill and he began to scream. Then he laughed. Then he screamed again, sounds of pure joy escaping from him as we sped along the track.
When we pulled into the station he said breathlessly, “Let’s do that again!”
The Bean had successfully rode his first real thrill ride, but my mission was not yet accomplished. His appetite had been whet, but it was time to cement his love. I needed to take him on one more ride.
Test Track was a bigger and faster coaster than the Dragon. I had slipped away earlier in the day to ride it by myself. At this point, I was confident that the Bean could handle it. WonderWife™ was not so sure. She looked at the five story drop and the cars speeding along at 28 mph and shook her head. The Bean was amped from the adrenaline rush of the coaster. I knew this because he couldn’t keep still, was constantly ramming his head into my stomach and he couldn't stop yelling.
There was no hesitation from the Bean when I showed him the second coaster. We ended up riding it four times.
It looks like I’ve got my coaster buddy.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Defiant Fours
Dear Bean,
May I speak bluntly for a moment?
What the fuck is up with you? Lately you have become unwieldy, unpredictable and insolent. Let’s just put it right out there, you’ve been kind of a jerk. You refuse to listen. You talk back. You pick fights with everyone, including your sister and the cats. I thought this was the kind of behavior we’d see in your teenage years, not at 4 1/2.
And that’s another thing, nobody told me this was a tough age. Everyone runs screaming in terror from the terrible twos. That is until we find out that it's a complete myth and the threes are really the age to fear. But nobody said anything about the defiant fours. Your behavior these days makes the threes seem like your infant years. Is this how all four year-olds are like, or have you been lulling me into a false sense of security for the past few years by pretending to be a mellow kid? Am I to believe that this whole docile thing was all just an act? You're a sweet kid a lot of the time, but go you bad quicker than a yellow banana in a hot kitchen.
Listen buddy, I need you to lighten up like right now. You’re making your mom and me look like assholes when we’re in public because we’re forced to constantly use that tone. You know what I’m talking about—that really exasperated and pissed off tone. The one that I promised myself I would use only when really necessary. You know, mommy and daddy don’t sound like that all of the time. Back when we used to not be exhausted, we were actually pleasant people to be around. So I while I know it’s cool to be rebellious, can we try to curb the attitude? At least until you’re old enough to drive when I can lord the car keys over you.
Sincerely,
Dad
May I speak bluntly for a moment?
What the fuck is up with you? Lately you have become unwieldy, unpredictable and insolent. Let’s just put it right out there, you’ve been kind of a jerk. You refuse to listen. You talk back. You pick fights with everyone, including your sister and the cats. I thought this was the kind of behavior we’d see in your teenage years, not at 4 1/2.
And that’s another thing, nobody told me this was a tough age. Everyone runs screaming in terror from the terrible twos. That is until we find out that it's a complete myth and the threes are really the age to fear. But nobody said anything about the defiant fours. Your behavior these days makes the threes seem like your infant years. Is this how all four year-olds are like, or have you been lulling me into a false sense of security for the past few years by pretending to be a mellow kid? Am I to believe that this whole docile thing was all just an act? You're a sweet kid a lot of the time, but go you bad quicker than a yellow banana in a hot kitchen.
Listen buddy, I need you to lighten up like right now. You’re making your mom and me look like assholes when we’re in public because we’re forced to constantly use that tone. You know what I’m talking about—that really exasperated and pissed off tone. The one that I promised myself I would use only when really necessary. You know, mommy and daddy don’t sound like that all of the time. Back when we used to not be exhausted, we were actually pleasant people to be around. So I while I know it’s cool to be rebellious, can we try to curb the attitude? At least until you’re old enough to drive when I can lord the car keys over you.
Sincerely,
Dad
Monday, August 23, 2010
Crabby
I was staring down the barrel of a business trip that would keep me on the east coast for two weeks when WonderWife™ had a brainstorm and offered to fly out with the kids so we could meet up at my parents’ house for the weekend. I told her that she was crazy and gladly took her up on her offer.
When I called to tell my mom that we’d be crashing at her place in a few weeks she was joyful and right before we hung up she said, “…and we’ll get crabs.” This was a joyous proposition that I had not yet considered.
You see, I’m a Maryland boy born and raised and I have blue crab in my blood. They are one of my favorite things to eat. There is nothing better than a pile of steamed crabs covered in spicy Old Bay. Admittedly, crabs are not for everyone. They require patience, a wooden mallet, and a certain degree of know-how (that is passed down from generation to generation of Maryland residents). It takes a lot of work for a little bit. But oh, those little bits of sweet, succulent meat that you get… I could sit at a table and pick crabs for hours. And growing up that’s what we did every summer, which considerately enough falls during the summer.
Summer just isn’t summer unless there are blue crabs. And living in California, it hasn’t truly been summer for me for a long time.
Not only couldn’t I wait to eat crab, but I was going to be able to share the experience with my boy. The Bean is somewhat unpredictable when it comes to consuming protein, but he loves seafood. I imagined him liking the crab, and loving the visual of a couple of dozen creatures with claws sitting on the table in front of him. I had a vision of us sitting there, paper towels tucked into our shirts bib style, cracking open a few claws having the time of our lives. I even began to compose the blog post in my head.
That evening, I drove with my dad to the same crab shack we’ve been frequenting since I was a kid. As we drove back, the familiar smell of Old Bay wafted toward the front seat, making my mouth water. At home, my mom had set up everything according to tradition—newspaper on the table, trashcan pulled up next to it and a couple of rolls of paper towels sitting on top.
The Bean was intrigued as we dumped the steaming pile of crabs onto the newspaper.
“Can I play with one?” he asked.
“Better than that,” I said, “let me show you how to eat one.”
The Bean picked up an errant claw as I began cracking open the crab, picking out the meat and putting it in front of him in a nice pile. Seeing me eat, he used his mallet and began banging on his crab leg. But after a few minutes the whole thing must have lost its luster because he grew disinterested. He picked at the meat and asked to be excused a few minutes later.
It never occurred to me that he might not be into it. In fact, in an unexpected turn of events, the Bean couldn’t have cared less about the crab feast.
At this point I did the only thing I could do, I shrugged off my disappointment, grabbed another crab and happily began to pick it.
When I called to tell my mom that we’d be crashing at her place in a few weeks she was joyful and right before we hung up she said, “…and we’ll get crabs.” This was a joyous proposition that I had not yet considered.
You see, I’m a Maryland boy born and raised and I have blue crab in my blood. They are one of my favorite things to eat. There is nothing better than a pile of steamed crabs covered in spicy Old Bay. Admittedly, crabs are not for everyone. They require patience, a wooden mallet, and a certain degree of know-how (that is passed down from generation to generation of Maryland residents). It takes a lot of work for a little bit. But oh, those little bits of sweet, succulent meat that you get… I could sit at a table and pick crabs for hours. And growing up that’s what we did every summer, which considerately enough falls during the summer.
Summer just isn’t summer unless there are blue crabs. And living in California, it hasn’t truly been summer for me for a long time.
Not only couldn’t I wait to eat crab, but I was going to be able to share the experience with my boy. The Bean is somewhat unpredictable when it comes to consuming protein, but he loves seafood. I imagined him liking the crab, and loving the visual of a couple of dozen creatures with claws sitting on the table in front of him. I had a vision of us sitting there, paper towels tucked into our shirts bib style, cracking open a few claws having the time of our lives. I even began to compose the blog post in my head.
That evening, I drove with my dad to the same crab shack we’ve been frequenting since I was a kid. As we drove back, the familiar smell of Old Bay wafted toward the front seat, making my mouth water. At home, my mom had set up everything according to tradition—newspaper on the table, trashcan pulled up next to it and a couple of rolls of paper towels sitting on top.
The Bean was intrigued as we dumped the steaming pile of crabs onto the newspaper.
“Can I play with one?” he asked.
“Better than that,” I said, “let me show you how to eat one.”
The Bean picked up an errant claw as I began cracking open the crab, picking out the meat and putting it in front of him in a nice pile. Seeing me eat, he used his mallet and began banging on his crab leg. But after a few minutes the whole thing must have lost its luster because he grew disinterested. He picked at the meat and asked to be excused a few minutes later.
It never occurred to me that he might not be into it. In fact, in an unexpected turn of events, the Bean couldn’t have cared less about the crab feast.
At this point I did the only thing I could do, I shrugged off my disappointment, grabbed another crab and happily began to pick it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Last Smoke
It had been a very long time since I last smoked a cigarette. Over a decade in fact. I was never much of a huge smoker--a half a pack of day at my worst--but I loved it. I loved the ritual. The smell of the tobacco just before the flame torches it. I loved how the hot smoke would mix in my mouth on cold days. I loved how it afforded me a small break from the world. But I also knew that it was not good for me and that I needed to stop. So not more than a year out of college, I found myself sitting across the table from a cute girl, on a blind date orchestrated by my sister, talking about smoking. Or rather, my intent to someday quit smoking.
"Why don’t you quit right now?" she asked.
Because I was more interested in trying to impress a girl that I wanted to sleep with than anything else, I slid my pack of cigarettes across the table. And that was it. I never did get the girl into my bed, but I never went back to smoking either.
After that twitchy first smoke-free month was behind me, I actually found it pretty easy to quit. My willpower was strong. It also helped that California had just banned smoking in bars, so a layer of temptation had been removed in a stroke of perfect timing.
While I didn't crave it all of the time, every once in a while I would miss smoking. Sometimes I would walk past somebody smoking and I would get a hit of tobacco that just smelled good to me.
It had been a very long time since I'd even thought of smoking a cigarette when I found myself craving one while I was alone on a road trip. There was some song lyric about smoking and it hit me. I found myself pulling into a gas station and before I really knew what I was doing, I had bought a pack. I automatically tapped the pack, unwrapped the cellophane and tapped out a cigarette, just like I used to. The whole thing felt weird that it was so familiar.
The cigarette felt heavier than I remembered. Thicker. I put one end in my mouth and held the flame to the other. I listened for the crackle of the paper and tobacco catching, inhaled, and immediately fell into a massive choking fit While the actions of lighting a cigarette might have felt familiar, my body was not used to the toxic smoke and was not happy. I tried to take another drag, but my lungs were rejecting everything about it. This was not the pleasurable experience I once had. This was torture.
I crushed out the cigarette and threw the rest of the pack away. I didn't like the coughing. I didn't like the smoke. I didn't like anything about the cigarette. As much as I used to love smoking, it was clear at that moment as it had been when I first quit that I am no longer a smoker. Sometimes the body is smarter than the mind and my body knows that my smoking days are very much behind me.
"Why don’t you quit right now?" she asked.
Because I was more interested in trying to impress a girl that I wanted to sleep with than anything else, I slid my pack of cigarettes across the table. And that was it. I never did get the girl into my bed, but I never went back to smoking either.
After that twitchy first smoke-free month was behind me, I actually found it pretty easy to quit. My willpower was strong. It also helped that California had just banned smoking in bars, so a layer of temptation had been removed in a stroke of perfect timing.
While I didn't crave it all of the time, every once in a while I would miss smoking. Sometimes I would walk past somebody smoking and I would get a hit of tobacco that just smelled good to me.
It had been a very long time since I'd even thought of smoking a cigarette when I found myself craving one while I was alone on a road trip. There was some song lyric about smoking and it hit me. I found myself pulling into a gas station and before I really knew what I was doing, I had bought a pack. I automatically tapped the pack, unwrapped the cellophane and tapped out a cigarette, just like I used to. The whole thing felt weird that it was so familiar.
The cigarette felt heavier than I remembered. Thicker. I put one end in my mouth and held the flame to the other. I listened for the crackle of the paper and tobacco catching, inhaled, and immediately fell into a massive choking fit While the actions of lighting a cigarette might have felt familiar, my body was not used to the toxic smoke and was not happy. I tried to take another drag, but my lungs were rejecting everything about it. This was not the pleasurable experience I once had. This was torture.
I crushed out the cigarette and threw the rest of the pack away. I didn't like the coughing. I didn't like the smoke. I didn't like anything about the cigarette. As much as I used to love smoking, it was clear at that moment as it had been when I first quit that I am no longer a smoker. Sometimes the body is smarter than the mind and my body knows that my smoking days are very much behind me.
Friday, August 13, 2010
It Might Be Wrong, But It's True
To put it simply my daughter, Sprout, is a whirlwind. She can be disarmingly sweet one minute and frustratingly, maddeningly stubborn the next. Her flat out refusal to drink from a bottle as an infant remains the definitive example of her potential for obstinacy. Sprout has a lot of traits that are going to serve her well in life, like fierce independence, but are going to turn me crazier than Jack Torrance after an extended stay at the Overlook before she leaves my nest. I was reminded of this during a recent thirty minute crying jag during dinner when she wanted to eat, but refused to walk five steps over to her chair so she could sit down at the table.
After this particular storm had passed, the kids were in bed and our parental duties for the day were complete, WonderWife™ and I stole a few minutes to cuddle on the couch and talk. This was the first time in seven days that we’d been able to do this.
“She’s trouble,” I declared with the obviousness of a nerd who likes computers and Star Wars.
“She's 2,” said WW™. “We still have 3, then the tween years, then she’s a teenager. There is basically no year that we will have an easy time with that girl.”
“We’re going to have to squash this personality,” I said. “It’s like evil Locke on the island. If she gets out, we’re all in deep trouble.”
WW™ nodded in agreement, a rare understanding of a pop culture reference.
“And,” I continued. “God help us if she turns out to be gorgeous and learns she has power over people, especially boys. Cause we’ll all be doomed.”
WW grinned.
“So I think here’s what we need to do...We’re gonna have to disfigure her," I said. "Nothing big, just a small scar from her cheek to her ear in order to keep her grounded.”
WonderWife™ chucked, then slugged me in the arm and told me I was awful. But deep down, she knew it was a good idea.
After this particular storm had passed, the kids were in bed and our parental duties for the day were complete, WonderWife™ and I stole a few minutes to cuddle on the couch and talk. This was the first time in seven days that we’d been able to do this.
“She’s trouble,” I declared with the obviousness of a nerd who likes computers and Star Wars.
“She's 2,” said WW™. “We still have 3, then the tween years, then she’s a teenager. There is basically no year that we will have an easy time with that girl.”
“We’re going to have to squash this personality,” I said. “It’s like evil Locke on the island. If she gets out, we’re all in deep trouble.”
WW™ nodded in agreement, a rare understanding of a pop culture reference.
“And,” I continued. “God help us if she turns out to be gorgeous and learns she has power over people, especially boys. Cause we’ll all be doomed.”
WW grinned.
“So I think here’s what we need to do...We’re gonna have to disfigure her," I said. "Nothing big, just a small scar from her cheek to her ear in order to keep her grounded.”
WonderWife™ chucked, then slugged me in the arm and told me I was awful. But deep down, she knew it was a good idea.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Crack Up
My kids can be funny, even when they don’t mean to be. Too often, WonderWife™ and I find ourselves struggling not to laugh at inappropriate times, like when the kids do something naughty. It’s like a scene from SNL where you can tell they’re trying really hard not to break.
The other night at dinner, I’m giving the Bean a heartfelt lecture not to tilt back in his chair, where a glass door and hard tile floor await his much softer head. I’m in the middle of explaining to him that I’m not saying this to be mean, but for his own safety when he looks me in the eye. I think I'm actually getting to him when he says, “Your ear looks like a mushroom.”
There is a snort from the other side of the table. I glance over to see WW™ tearing up, struggling to keep her laughter inside. That didn't last long. She couldn't contain herself and began chortling uncontrollably.
The Bean, seeing that he had now had an audience, repeated the line a few more times. Any semblance of my parenting was gone.
“Thanks,” I said to her. She continued to laugh.
Man...totally undercut by my wife, who couldn’t keep her shit together.
The other night at dinner, I’m giving the Bean a heartfelt lecture not to tilt back in his chair, where a glass door and hard tile floor await his much softer head. I’m in the middle of explaining to him that I’m not saying this to be mean, but for his own safety when he looks me in the eye. I think I'm actually getting to him when he says, “Your ear looks like a mushroom.”
There is a snort from the other side of the table. I glance over to see WW™ tearing up, struggling to keep her laughter inside. That didn't last long. She couldn't contain herself and began chortling uncontrollably.
The Bean, seeing that he had now had an audience, repeated the line a few more times. Any semblance of my parenting was gone.
“Thanks,” I said to her. She continued to laugh.
Man...totally undercut by my wife, who couldn’t keep her shit together.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Flashback Friday: Speaking in Grunts
The operation left the Bean's throat so raw and sore that he refused to talk. It was easier for him to walk around with cheeks filled with saliva and pantomiming everything than it was to open his mouth. I could hardly blame him. But the trouble was that because he was only 3 1/2, he didn't know how to properly pantomime. Everything was a series of grunts, either long or short depending on the severity of the request.
“Ugh, ugh ugh. Uhhhh ugh uh uh.”
Yet this was the only way in which he would communicate.
Through all of this, there was a couple of times where I'd been quite impressed with myself because I'd been able to understand what he was trying to stay. This went beyond requests to get his Lambie or to put Cars on (again). Like the night he wanted me to sleep in his room. I have no clue how we did it, but we managed to have a full conversation based on me asking the right questions and him grunting in response.
There are not many people that I could do this with. I’ve never been very good at charades.
“Ugh, ugh ugh. Uhhhh ugh uh uh.”
Yet this was the only way in which he would communicate.
Through all of this, there was a couple of times where I'd been quite impressed with myself because I'd been able to understand what he was trying to stay. This went beyond requests to get his Lambie or to put Cars on (again). Like the night he wanted me to sleep in his room. I have no clue how we did it, but we managed to have a full conversation based on me asking the right questions and him grunting in response.
There are not many people that I could do this with. I’ve never been very good at charades.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
A Parenting Truth Exposed
Over a couple of beers I was talking with a friend about kids. He’s only a scant few weeks away from parenthood himself, so he’s actually one of my few childless friends that doesn’t mind me prattling on about my offspring. He said that he felt bad because he hasn’t really spent a lot of quality time with the Bean. When we see each other it’s either guy’s night, where there are no kids, or at a BBQ, where there’s a lot of other stuff going on--like drinking and swimming and friends and food...
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But in those situations I don’t always want to turn it on and be with the kids.”
“Dude,” I said. “I don’t always want to turn it on and be with the kids.”
Then I explained to him that being a parent doesn’t always mean being a good parent. There are plenty of days when I’m half-assing it. The Bean is talking incessantly about who freakin’ knows what and I’m throwing out well timed nods and “yeses” to make him think I’m invested in what he’s saying.
“So look man, don’t feel bad about this. When you’re out in the sun standing next to a pool with a mai tai in your hand, don’t ruin your buzz because you feel obligated to spend time with my kids.”
I think my buddy was a little shocked to hear this. And as I’m talking and taking in his dazed expression, I realize that there are certain idealized notions that comes along with new parenthood. These usually get squashed pretty quickly when the reality of having kids sets in.
Or during drunken conversations with a friend who’s been at it for a few years.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But in those situations I don’t always want to turn it on and be with the kids.”
“Dude,” I said. “I don’t always want to turn it on and be with the kids.”
Then I explained to him that being a parent doesn’t always mean being a good parent. There are plenty of days when I’m half-assing it. The Bean is talking incessantly about who freakin’ knows what and I’m throwing out well timed nods and “yeses” to make him think I’m invested in what he’s saying.
“So look man, don’t feel bad about this. When you’re out in the sun standing next to a pool with a mai tai in your hand, don’t ruin your buzz because you feel obligated to spend time with my kids.”
I think my buddy was a little shocked to hear this. And as I’m talking and taking in his dazed expression, I realize that there are certain idealized notions that comes along with new parenthood. These usually get squashed pretty quickly when the reality of having kids sets in.
Or during drunken conversations with a friend who’s been at it for a few years.
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