Basement Time

Basement time is an age-old tradition at our house. It started years ago with my now teenage boy. We'd play, create, and otherwise explore the wilderness of our unfinished basement-a place where memories are made and messes are welcome. And it’s still going strong with our five year-old girl.

I’m a bit older wiser, but the gist is about the same. 

Only, it’s not.

With a little boy, everything was tools and gadgets, taking things apart. I understood the mission and the chaos was clear. Now, with a girl, the chaos is, well it's pink. 

The old fort/writing nook under the stairs? Now a glittery pink castle, with flower arrangements and butterflies.

The boxy projection TV/video game area? Now it’s a stage complete with pink curtains, poofy dresses and a makeup room.

The sword collection? Tiaras.

The trainset? Doll house.

The obstacle course? A parade of princesses.

So what’s the same? Well, somehow, it's completely the same. 

We roam the basement, out to the backyard. We dig for treasure in the sandbox. We play doctor, zookeeper, park ranger, hotel, police, hide and seek, and just about whatever else she imagines she wants to do.

And yes, Bella is girly, but she still likes to get dirty. She's not always so glamorous. Or she is, only with dirt in her nails, sticks in her hair. She can be a barefoot sticky mess of glamour, I suppose.

Simon was more mechanical about things, inventing and seeing how something ticks. He built things. We’d play basketball or football. Bella is more pretend this or imagine that.

Bella likes to put on stage shows. And a stage show is only as good as its prep and planning, so when I'm told to have a seat, I sit. The curtain closes so that the star can go backstage to get herself ready, and I can't help myself thinking just how much basement time has changed. 

But has it really? It's still a place where the outside world seems to melt away. It still becomes a magical forest, or a jungle, a kingdom or even outer space. It's still all pretend, only now with more fairies and mermaids. 

When the curtain opens, and the star brightens with a smeary blue lipstick smile of a deranged clown, I applaud her efforts until I'm shushed as the show begins. 

We do get the occasional soccer game. And we do have the occasional obstacle course. I've learned to roll with the changes, the many breaks to accommodate the wardrobe changes. The other day she went through three dresses in an hour. But hey, that’s what the dresses are for, to wear, when playing in the dirt, jumping hurdles, climbing trees and pretending to be a tiger, while wearing lipstick. 

I'm just along for the ride.

 

The Cost of Silence

I love playing with my daughter. At four, she’s creative and curious and she never fails to surprise me. We play dress up, tell jokes, perform magic, and cook all sorts of treats in her kitchen. We play outside, with bugs, leaves, the swing set, whatever strikes her at any given moment.

We sing. We laugh. We dance and we tumble. She's a princess, and sure, I’m getting older, but I still make a good steed.

More recently, as she nears five years-old, sometimes, especially after a busy day, she’ll go off in her room, or any room, and things get quiet.

Occasionally, I’ll try to come in and join her only to have her shoo me away, tell me it’s a surprise.

Hmm. What's a surprise? There’s no telling what she’s cooking up, but in these little gaps of silence, I’ll talk to my wife. We catch up on our lives in two-minute intervals—think speed dating for parents. Bella will hum along to herself in the sunroom while I ask my wife about her day. I tell her about mine. Sometimes our twelve-year-old son will join us, and for that short little span, and yeah, I’ll admit, it can be pleasant.

It's surprising how much of a presence a little four-year-old person can be. Though no fault of her own, she’s demanding, a force to be reckoned with. She kind of runs things. So when she's quiet, or off playing by herself, it's nice to have a moment and catch my breath.  

But there is a price to pay.

The silence means Bella is busy. She’s building, creating, constructing, upheaving…

After two, maybe three or four minutes, I get to my feet to go check in on things. Walking in, I stumble over a chair, regain my balance only to slip on the fifty or so crayons splayed across the floor. Stickers adorn the walls, graffiti covers her desk, and as I cut a path through the scatter of bowls, cups, utensils, plastic fruit from her play kitchen, I marvel at the spread: open books, magazines, a pile of discarded dresses, dolls, (is that a popsicle?), stuffed animals, a pack of scantily clad Barbie Dolls. All of this stands between me and my daughter, who is still humming to herself as she uses a marker to draw on her arm.

A tornado of activity, the word “how” forms on my lips before my daughter looks up.

“It’s not ready yet, Daddy.”

I start to ask what is not ready. I think about cleaning up. Then I look back at my daughter, who holds her tattooed arm up triumphantly. “Look, it’s a flower.”

She clutches a marker in her other hand. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

"You want one?"

Another look at the mess. It can wait. I clear a place in the wreckage and sit down beside her. I roll up my sleeve and smile. “Sure.”

 

Coach

Seems like every year I get pulled into coaching my son’s basketball team. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s great to watch the team progress as we go through the season. I get into it, usually taking on little pet projects, working on something in particular with each kid individually while also working drills with the team.

But if I've learned anything through the years, it's that coaching kids takes p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e.

Deep breaths.

This year began like most of the others, as I come up with drills and teaching moments and prep with notes I will never use. No matter how prepared I am, it never fails. It all falls apart. 

My wife, a second-grade teacher, gets this amused look on her face when I get home after an hour of coaching, flop down in the chair and exclaim how the kids just won’t listen to me.

But I’m not teacher. I’m only a man trying to organize a decent after-game snack schedule.

Again, each year I start with high hopes. Take for instance, my gameday lineup. Look at that. All neat, with little notes and observations, things to work on.

Fast forward to last week. See? See the frantic scribble of a man at the end of his rope. This is the scrawl of someone hoping people show up. Because that’s another thing. All the kids want to play, but they can’t drive. So you never know just who is going to show up. 

There were times--okay lots of times--during the year, when it all came together. I’d look at their faces, brimming with confidence, having soaked up all my lessons I’d drilled into their heads, and I'd think hey, it's working. It's really working. 

I’d taught them how to move without the ball, how to box out and rebound, keys to the two/three defense. I'd instilled the discipline of staying in your spot. The results were beautiful. Defensive stops. Rebounds. We were off and running.

Other times, I’d stand to the side, bewildered, the whistle dangling from my lips as I watched a bunch of kids who'd completely ignored any and everything I’d tried to teach them. They’d bicker and argue and crowd together and clamor for the ball. And I’d wonder what in the world I was doing wrong.

Such is how it goes, I guess.

Each year brings it’s own problems. Years five and six was simply herding cats. Why did you take your shoes off? There was no hope, only survival. Years seven and eight was the attention span. Stop dribbling. Stop, okay please stop dribbling. 

But this year, it was all attitude. Lot's and lot's of attitude. One minute, things were going swimmingly, the next time down the court, it was nearly a street fight. I’d watch the clock, wondering if I should just let them have at it or try to actually coach. Then gameday would come and I’d do my best to put them in a position to have some fun.

And to my surprise, they did. Everyone made strides. Everyone mostly enjoyed themselves. And as the final buzzer went off on Saturday, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. I’d survived.

But now, well, I find myself thinking how I sort of miss those guys.

It's Not Easy Being the Prince

In the never ending world of Disney that is my three-year old’s life, it can be difficult to keep track of all the characters I’m supposed to play. From villain to hero, be it animal or, well, I've even played a tree, I do my best with the roll I'm assigned. But usually I'm a prince. 

Only it's not what I had in mind...

At 48, being royal can be taxing. Ideally, it would mean a life of luxury. At least a castle. And while I do have the castle, (in the basement, it’s pink and built out of cardboard), things are not quite as charming as I'd imagined. In truth, it can be a bit grueling, and I almost long for the days of pirates, swords, and football. 

With this being the second child, I thought I’d be more… prepared? I’m not, but a am much older now, and the other kid was a boy and so things—trucks, sports, explosions—came naturally. Not this time. Now, everything is pink, and there’s more role playing, whether I’m ready or not.

In the mornings, usually before I've had even a whiff of coffee, we’re reenacting scenes. If I don’t have my lines pat, there's trouble on the set. Once we're in the car, it's more of the same. I'm not ashamed to admit that the other day I read two pages of The Little Mermaid while at a stoplight.

And still, my knowledge of these fairy lands remains unsatisfactory. What little I do know is taxed at every turn. My inflections and voices are under razor sharp scrutiny and I have to be repeatedly corrected. No, Daddy, not like thaaaat. 

Depending on her mood, diva or devil, I can bring things to a halt with one slip of the tongue. Call Ariel Aurora and oh boy, pay the price.

My meager talents aren't limited to royalty. At times, I have to play the heel as well. I’m the beast. I’m Gaston. I'm King Triton and I’m Hans. Sometimes, I'm mere livestock (which does wonders for my knees).

Now, it's not always so crucial. Sometimes, I'm hilarious. Most of the time is good clean fun. Morning. Day. Evening. Repeat. 

But my hard work is paying off. The other night at dinner, Mom sat down at the table while daughter and I were midway through one of our fairytale skits. Upon seeing her, our princess turned to her mother, AKA The Favorite, AKA Numero Uno, AKA The Head Honcho, and politely asked, “Can you go back in the kitchen?”

My wife and I exchanged looks of astonishment, before my wife cocked her brow and backed away, no questions asked. She had like a million other fires she needed to put out anyway, so she was more than okay with taking a free moment when offered. A little smirk my way as she took off. "Sure, I’ll give you two some time.”

With the matter settled, my little princess turned to me and batted her eyes. “Now, you will be Gaston.”

Things could be worse…