My Kid's Room

There’s something to be said about my baby Bella’s room. The books, the blocks, the crib, the loopy swirl of her name on the wall. It’s like a separate universe in our house. In Bella’s room we sit on the floor. We use our imagination. We play with stuffed animals or Barbie's. We don’t think about all that stuff on the news.

There’s a lamp on, casting a cozy glow over us as I look at my daughter, into her wide, all-encompassing eyes. It’s where I find the absolute best in humanity.

After a while she’ll crawl to me, bash into my chest then slide down and bury her little head in my lap. I’ll stroke her little tuffs of hair and her back while she murmurs softly. Then she’ll look up and say something like, “Blah.” Her mix of ball and dog.

I say it back to her. “Ball.” She smiles, coming alive. She crawls around, muttering to herself, pulling up on the dresser or crib as we talk colors and shapes. We point at things that spark our interest: a book, a shoe, the ceiling fan. Outside it might be raining, or hot, or windy or dusk, but it doesn’t matter. Not when we’re in her room, with the lamp on, talking shop.

When I’m in Bella’s room, I’m not thinking about work, or writing, of past failures or even worrying about Covid. I’m content to play and sing and laugh until she gets hungry or tired or simply grows bored with me.

My little girl's room is a safe place, for her, but for me as well. It’s where time stops and holds still in our laps—even as she’s growing so quickly. Where we wind up the music box and let its clicking melody pull us away. It’s where bears talk, turtles fly, monkey’s dance and I can take a moment to catch my breath.

Aim Low

This post may come out all wrong but it’s something I’ve been turning over in my head for a few days. Months I guess. It goes like this:

For my son, I want to aim low.

That’s right. Low.

There’s so much pressure these days. College talk. Scholarships. Savings plans. Big hopes and dreams for the snowflake.  And that's fine, saving is good, right? Moms and Dads are dreaming big these days. Going to be an awful lot of doctors and lawyers, a surge of professional athletes. 

Obviously a lot of it is said in jest. I hope. You know, kid makes a shot and Dad’s ready for the draft.  But a lot of stuff, it’s there and it's real. It's lurking in the minds and in the hearts of well-meaning parents. And it can be a pressure cooker.

Okay, you say, what are you suggesting? 

Well, I want my kid to succeed…in happiness. 

Hey! Stop rolling your eyes. What I mean is that I want him to do what makes him happy. Sure I want him to dream and fight and try and strive. And right now, at my house, for my kid, happiness consists of taking stuff apart. Popping the hood of my car so that he can study the engine. He likes engines, loves them, and working parts are his thing right now. And if he wants to be an engineer, great, and if he wants to be a mechanic, great too.

Fine by me. He loves to learn about lawn mowers and car engines, even flipping over his toys to see what makes them roll, click, or turn. So yeah, I think for him being a mechanic would be a pretty decent way to make a living.

But when I say it, people think I’m joking.

I’m not.

Trade school sounds like a great plan. College diplomas are becoming increasingly more expensive and well, by the time he’s ready I’m not so sure I want him taking out loans he’ll have to pay for the rest of his life.

And everything is about money. It seems people just go to college to get a job. Okay, I'll say here that yes I’m naive and weird and in the distinct minority because I happen to think that kids should go to college to learn things.

Just to learn things.

I read all the time. Almost anything, because I love it. I’ve read college text books for fun, seriously, and didn’t pay a dime to do it. That said, I know people don’t go to college to learn things. That would be stupid. They go so that they can get a good job.

We need money. But we need time too. We need a healthy balance of time/money/love/ to be happy. To be peaceful. And what’s the point in going into massive debt to go to school to get a good job to get lots of money to pay the debt so that you can work your way into happiness? I think I’m confused.

What if my kid is comfortable? What if he’s a comfortable mechanic who lives a normal, non Earth-shattering life ? What if he does what he loves? 

Also--the kicker here--he could come over and the old man's car when it broke down. Win.

No seriously, this is not about me. What's wrong with comfort? With finding your own groove. Took me half a life to do it and I'm still working to get that groove right. So what do I know? Sure, we can nurture them and provide a stable environment for them to succeed, and if that’s college, great. If not, will figure it out. But in the end, the choice is his to determine.

'Tis the Seasons...

The other morning, through a smear of yogurt, my kid, with his hair still fuzzy and wild from a good night’s sleep, was asking about balloons. More specifically, his You're the Best! balloon from months ago that I tossed in the trash because it lay in a heap under the table like a wet plastic grocery bag.

“Well, your birthday’s coming up, I’m sure you’ll get a balloon then, right?”

“And presents?”

“Yeah, you’ll probably score some gifts too."

His gaze wandered to where our tree had stood, now a barren corner and a stark reminder that Christmas is over.

"We can put them under the tree?"

“Well, uh, you see…”

And there’s the dilemma. Where I’m happy the kid enjoyed Christmas, he’s having a tough time letting it go. My wife said they pulled into the driveway the other evening and he said the house looked sad because we "put Christmas away.”

An unpardonable offense in his eyes. He wants to watch The Grinch. He wants presents under the tree. He wants to sing Jingle Bells, or, some form of it anyway… Omaha, it is to ride, in a one horse open….Hey!

We just might have a Christmas theme for his January birthday.

Now, I’m not some jerk who doesn't want his son to enjoy himself. I'm okay with a slight extension to the holiday season. We traveled this year for Christmas, so he wasn’t at home to enjoy the tree and the lights. So fine, we left everything up stayed merry and stretched things out a bit. While other people were pitching trees to the curb, ours glowed in full glory. 

I’m no longer one of those rip-it-all-down and be done with it on the 26^th type of guys. I don’t let the shopping season or commercials dictate what holiday to celebrate. Truth be told we could all use a little Christmas cheer all year around.

But…

After a while, wouldn't it get...weird, not too mention brown....if we had the tree up all year? And again, I've made some concessions already. I’ve left some lights up, white ones, on the fence post out front, and there's a snowman...

But these two, both of them, wife and kid. They want full tilt Yule tide. 

So I'm branded the Grinch.

Fine. But to me, part of what makes Christmas special is the wait. If it was here all year then it would not only get weird, and brown. It would lose some of it’s luster. But try explaining this at my house, while you're reading Little Blue Truck's Christmas and everyone's wondering why the little tree on the last page won't light up. *Hint, it's the batteries, because it's JANUARY...

I’m sure hope this will all pass. I’m guessing with his birthday and all he’ll get back into the groove of things and Jingle Bells will give way to the Easter Bunny. Or maybe by Halloween we’ll have him ready to go trick or treating, singing spooky songs and getting into the spirit of things. 

Maybe he can go as Santa Clause. 

In Here, Out There

Part of being a parent—besides vacuuming up Goldfish cracker crumbs—is creating a safe place for a child. 

No. Matter. What.

Not quite three, my son is blissfully unaware of the news. And by news I mean all the crummy things happening in the world. He knows our house. His books. Toys. A couple of cartoons. Entirely too much about lawn mowing. And now he's discovered chocolate, so, life is good.

But when I turn on the television, ready to flip on Curious George but then pause because something in the news has caught my attention--maybe a headline about another mass shooting, or a bombing or a protest, could be a manhunt or kidnapping, wreck, hostage, drowning, fire, flood or famine--he’ll call to me, with wondering eyes that beg to know what I’m doing. Then I remember. The cartoon.

Recently I came across a speech from years ago. Reagan, addressing the country before we bombed Libya. It was posted it on Facebook for some political reason or another, but I found myself remembering that speech. More specifically, remembering the exact moment.

I was a kid, in our basement of our little house.The good old 1980's, back when the world was great. At least for me. My parents had bills and worries and the world had crime and injustice. But for me, everything was GI Joe and Knight Rider. The Cosby Show, Family Ties and the like. Our house was my refuge from school, the world....you know, Out There.

But in our basement that night--with Reagan, going on about those strikes on Libya to oust Gadhafi from power and how the middle east was in turmoil--a big old chunk of Out There cut right into my regularly scheduled programming. And it was a little bit scary.

Who knew the world was such a mess? Not me. Not then. I was surrounded by love and music. Allowed to be a kid, to do goofy kid things and build forts or complain about a tear in my parachute pants. How I needed a new pair of sneakers.

But that Reagan moment sticks out because of that brief glimpse of out there all over my parents' faces. Silent and glued to the television, just for a second, just like me when I hear about things going on out there now. I was safe because my parents made sure of it.

In Here.

Now it’s my turn. Even though things move quicker now—at least the news does. But it's my job to create In Here, and let Out There come later. He'll get plenty of it later...

The Boot Search

For the past two weeks there’s been nothing but the talk of boots in our house. Not just any boots. The little boots I left on the roof of the car after we got pictures done. The pictures that were taken at a farm off of a winding, unmarked road.

Before bed. “Daddy left my boots on the car.”

Upon waking up. “Daddy, I want my boots.”

Mom’s gotten in on the action too. “We should go look for them."

"I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, they were $14.99 at Sam’s Club.

"But they aren’t in stock now, and all the other boots are expensive."

My wife knows how I work. And she knows that the mere mention of expensive—set to the backdrop of my son’s pouting was enough to do the trick. So Saturday, he and I loaded up in the car and went on a frivolous boot search.

He was still in his pajamas. Although he was wearing his rain boots. Lucky for me I hadn’t left those up on the roof or there would have been hell to pay. Honestly, I was only going to search so that I could say that we’d searched. It was drizzling and wet. A gray morning that was better suited for sleeping in. Yet I was going to comb the side of the country road for boots.

Like I was saying, the farm is about 20 miles away. Tall grass and fencing on either side. Cows. Horse poop. Did I mention it was raining? Okay, good.

We pulled into the driveway. I handed my son a baggie of oldish to occupy him while I roamed the side of the road. He was still buckled in his car seat and content to nibble while did things you just have to do when you're a dad.

Sprite bottles. Fast food. Wrappers, beer cans. I glanced back to the car, safely tucked away at the entrance to the farm. 

A few more steps. About to give up when, a boot! Sticking out of the tall grass. My eyes lit up. “No effing way.”

A car sped past. I turned to see our own car, getting small in the distance. Not good. I needed to hurry up and find the other boot. Energy drinks. Coffee cups. Man, people really like to litter. But there was no time for high horses or soap boxes....I needed the other shoe.

And then there it was. The other boot. I picked it up and turned around. Sprinted to the car, elated that I would be able to get to sleep guilt free tonight. I slowed down, tapped on the windo to to the car. My son’s face lit up like Christmas morning.

My boots!”

Then he went right back to the goldfish. 

The Slide...

“Go away Daddy.”

Not only is it rude, it hurts some. I slump off to the darkness, resigned to eat my cereal alone. My kid welcomes his mother to the table for breakfast. She asks why he doesn’t want me around.

Something about elephants. I laugh, overplaying my hand. He shoots me daggers when I try to sneak back in, sweeping his hand towards my chair.

“No.”

We remind him to use his manners.

“No thank you.”

Okay, that backfired. But trying to reason with a two-year-old can be like trying to reason with a two-year-old. Trust me, I’ve tried. But this morning he was particularly serious. The kid means business.

Of course I know that the pendulum swings to and fro, that tonight it might be me who he wants. But that doesn’t make the bitter pill of rejection any easier to swallow.

And he has been a little under the weather recently, so maybe he’s only trying to keep me well. Yeah, I think that’s it. The little booger is so worried about getting me sick that he’s sacrificing being around me in an effort to keep me from getting sick. I like it. Thanks son.

Sure, he has that connection with his mom, you know, being that he used to live in there and all. But I’ve pushed that kid over fifty miles on that plastic John Deere mower, so that should count for something, right?

Oh but what's the use with excuses. It’s not just at home where I’m getting shunned. Yesterday I took the little fella out to Grandma and Papa’s house. I’d only just gotten him out of the car when my own flesh and blood bailed on me, basically leaping out of my arms and towards the riding mower waiting for him out in the yard. And to make matters worse, Papa had gone and put a horn on the tractor for effect. Hear that? That’s the sound of me free-falling down the favorite people list.

Poor Dad.

Maybe I’ll take up a hobby. Going to need to do something with all this free time on my hands….sigh…

The Day I Learned...

  

I can’t say I was shocked. Surprised, yes. Sweaty? Very. But not shocked.

It was evening, back in the day of few responsibilities. When I look back on this life-changing encounter with my wife, it’s boggling to think of all the free time. Floating around, there for the taking…Okay, sorry, where were we? Surprised. Right.

I’d just come back from basketball and stumbled upon an extremely frazzled woman sitting at the edge of the couch. Upon further inspection I noticed that that woman was my wife. She told me to sit down, then after some fidgeting, “Wait, take a shower first.”

I shot her a look. Something was up. Did she get a raise? No, as a public school teacher that line of thinking falls squarely in the joke category. And she wasn’t exactly smiling. So I took a shower, my mind racing with possibilities of what was coming. My wife isn’t prone to getting worked up. She’s not a fidgeter. That's my department. She’s the even in our keel, so to see her all red faced and breathing funny it had to be good. Or bad. It could be bad...

“Okay, what?” I asked, my physique shimmering in the glow of dusk. Whatever, this is my depiction, here. My wife pointed to the couch. 

"Sit.”

I sat.

“So….” She gave me a look. Like I was missing something. I sorted through my thoughts. I really gotta get my jump shot back on track.

“I’m pregnant.”

Wait. “Huh?"

More staring.

“Are you sure?"

More staring, this time with a look I've since deciphered to mean: You're an idiot. 

“Yep.”

Elation. A thrill of joy I will never forget. A family. This is great. Although we have/had that Jamaica trip planned, but…A Kid!

The reason I wasn’t shocked was because a few months prior we’d passed by the nearby CVS. My wife had mentioned that she needed to refill her birth control. I’ll never forget sitting at that light. Turn left and get the pills. Go straight and pull the goalie.

The light turned green and I plunged ahead, thus sacking the goalie. Man, such a rebel. But honestly I didn’t feel that rebellious. I was thirty-six and I don’t know how else to put this but I really didn’t think my stuff worked. We went about our business. Trying but not trying. The last thing I wanted to do was tell the world, “Hey guess what? We’re trying to have a baby!”

So on that couch I was less than shocked but more than surprised. And that euphoria that hit when she told me she was pregnant? Well, it lasted through most of that initial embrace. Goosebumps hit like a pad of bristles under my skin. My mind flooded with the happiest happy I’ve ever experienced in my life until that point.

Then it was gone.

An immense fear followed. It engulfed me like an itchy wool cloak of uncertainty. A human. A real, walking talking, pooping human. My human. I would be responsible for seeing that it was fed and clothed and didn’t like soccer (I’m kidding, he can like soccer). On top of that I had to raise it so that it wouldn’t grow up and be a serial killer. And then, after being sure that my well-fed, clothed, moderate-to-decently-raised human wasn't a career criminal, I had to hope and pray he wouldn't cross paths with a serial killer. Phew. It's not easy living in this mind of mine.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. What in the hell was I thinking? That goalie had been the only thing keeping my fragile mind at ease. Now I was freefalling. This wasn’t like picking out a dog. Where you go to the kennel and pick out that cute little mutt. I was great with dogs. Throw the stick and the fetch the stick. This was different.

That week was a blur. Me. A father. How would this work? Everything was about to change. Alternating voices controlled my thoughts.

Everyone has kids. It’s part of life. No big deal. HUGE DEAL. YOUR KID IS GOING TO BE A BABY FRANKENSTEIN. WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? YOU CAN HARDLY TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!!!

And since that day, this has been the ongoing struggle...

I told my friends (Ha, I had friends!). Had a few guys over and we had some beers. I broke out the news. At that point my joy in becoming a dad overpowered my anxiety. But not for long. Something happened to me. 

Up until then I thought panic attacks were something the paper bag companies came up with to spike sales. But it was no joke, I’d wake up sweating, my pulse racing and my breaths light. I'd bolt out of bed, pacing, swearing it was the big one. 

Then it happened again. Wake up, bolt upright. Shortness of breath, cold feet. Sweating. It happened so frequently that I finally saw a doctor. A few test and he assured that everything was fine. Calm down.

I calmed. I quit smoking. I watched my sugar intake.. I went a little crazy and started drinking organic apple cider vinegar. (I’d read that it helped, sorta).

Again, my doctor assured me I was fine. He told me not to come back for two years. He refused to be facebook buddies with me. He pointed from his heart to his head and said, "I’m not so sure the problem is here, but here.”

I babystepped my way out of his office, officially labeled a headcase by a physician. My wife laughed out loud.

The next few months were peaceful. We planned. I started a blog to document my craziness. I found out we were having a boy. I was still scared but I had no choice but to answer the call. We were going to have a family.

And now here we are...

Sick Day

It happened again. Just like last year. My wife goes back to school and my kid heads back to child care. Where he caught a cold. During the first week. Again.

I came to the rescue, entering his little classroom during “free time” (basically when kids are free to run amuck). My mission was no cakewalk. I stepped over and around the knee-high critters, dodging germs and fighting my way through a whirl of little bodies.  Then I found my kid, eyes closed and pitiful, snuggled up in a bean bag chair with his thumb stuck in his mouth.

I touched his knee. He brightened up when he saw me. I scooped him up and he latched on to my neck and nodded to the teachers. Poor guy. On the way out he nuzzled his warm head into my neck. “I missed you Daddy.”

Some Motrin and snuggle time and little dude seemed to be coming out of his spell. We lounged the rest of the day, vegging out and eating cereal while watching Curious George on the couch. Mom came home that evening and I puffed out my chest with a sniff. That’s right, I’ve got things under control.

By the next morning things were good again. He was chipper and alive and looked to be as good as new. He had to stay out so I’d already called in work, so I took advantage, mapping out a day for us to enjoy.

We’d hit the children’s museum, maybe catch a ball game or et out. We could sing Twist and Shout in a parade! Yeah, so the day I had in mind may have been similar to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. But still, the morning was beautiful and we all the time to enjoy it. Although my perfect day and reality were bound for a collision.

 Because I pictured the day like this….

Instead it was more like this...

I had a feeling things were going awry when my car wouldn’t start. I’d let him play in it during the morning and killed the battery. No problem. My neighbor bailed us out with a jump so we were on our way, off for some fun. We set off into the morning warmth, ready for anything. But only an hour into our adventure he looked up at me and said that he was ready to go home. 

No ball games. No parades. No trying to reset the mileage on Dad's Ferrari. Sure buddy.

So we went home. And whatever bug he’d caught had a good hold on his temperament. He through a fit. No, he became possessed by germ demons. He was miserable. Inconsolable. He kicked the dogs and slapped at me. None of this was in my plans.

Nothing was according to plan. But itwasn’t about me. It was about a little boy with a cold who needed me.  He was tired. So I tried to get him down for a nap. And tried…

Nothing worked. In an instant he flipped from jolly old boy to scare-a-priest-with-my-demon-screams raging. This was supposed to be nap time. A reprieve from duty. This day was turning out to be work. I rocked and rolled. I read him books. I hugged him as he went ape sh$3, wiping his nose and clawing at the pillow. Oh boy.

Finally I got him in his room and down for his name. For maybe twenty minutes. Then came the screams.  I offered him a snack. We took it easy for a while. I gave him medicine. He got his second wind. 

We did a few activities in the basement. We painted a planter I'd built. We tinkered, then we waited for Mom to come home. And waited. He grew impatient. I got flustered.

I love my son. He’s the greatest. But on days like that he was so much work. I believe Mr. T put it best.  Parenting is hard damn work. Wasn't him? Well someone said it...

But there are rewards.

I didn’t have that big day I’d planned, but looking back there were so manly little moments. Like when I helped him out of the car, and with his grubby little hand in mine he said, “I’m having a fun day, Daddy.”

He didn't need adventure, just a shoulder to snot on. And there were also several great moments, even with my ears still ringing from those heavy-metal screams.  My heart is still warm from that little I love you Daddy I got while we snuggled on the couch. Hey, I'm a good snuggler, who knew?

He's feeling better now. But I think I caught whatever he had. Just like last year...

Life Now

The other night I found myself involved in a fierce freestyle battle, taking on challenger after challenger and working my way through the ranks with searing metaphors and complicated rhymes. Familiar faces turned up in the crowd. Old friends. From a lifetime ago. The atmosphere was dark and smoky, and in a room full of roughnecks, it seemed I was coming out on top. I looked to my next challenger…someone tapped my shoulder.

“Daddy. Hey daddy. Daddy.”

I opened my eyes and saw that cute little face. His eyes intent. Reality called. It was 7:03 on Sunday morning.

Yes, it was a dream. But the kid in the bed. He was real.

We recently took the front cover of his crib off as he’d discovered that he can climb out. Now, we hear the pitter patter of footsteps in the wee hours of the night. And our little critter climbs up and inserts himself between his mom and me.

The day to day battles of toddler-dom are upon us. At tunes I have to remind myself to be a good parent.  Because yes, I’ll admit it, sometimes I’m selfish. Like when I want to run into Home Depot and grab something. Just in and out.

But there is no running anymore. The trip involves strapping in my kid, carrying him into the store, spending a half hour to an hour (seriously) while he plays on the mowers. Then I have to navigate what I’m searching for with either holding him or explaining that yes, we can go ride the mowers again. After that I have to get him back in the car and strap him in again.

Sure I could leave him with Mom and go get it done faster. But I work all week, so I try to get the most out of my weekends.

On the other hand it’s fun taking him with me. Sure he might lose his sh!% every now and then, but otherwise he’s a great little helper and those mowers, I hop on one too and we might as well be at the park. So I guess it’s all what you make of it.

He’s a two and a half. He throws fits. This is part of the deal. We still have fun. At home I push him around on his tractor, chuckling at the things he says and wondering where he comes up with this stuff.

We walk, we swing, we ride. He might pull, kick, scream, laugh, cry, sulk, brood, smile, sing, cheer, and then give me a wet sloppy kiss on the mouth. Then we get up and do it all again.

It’s exhausting. It’s wonderful. It’s life as I know it.

Demolition Man

At last the demo is done. I know what you’re thinking. What took so long? Well, usually there’s a toddler running amuck in our house—which, combined with that pesky day job of mine, conspired to drag out the process into next year. But the other reason is a little more, well...my fault.

That's right, I'll admit it. And like most things that don't involve technology, the following falls squarely into the my wife was right column. For months she nagged begged me to contact a contractor. The idea was for the bathroom remodel to coincide with her yearly summer trip up north. And as I write this it sounds like a really really good idea. 

I did contact a contractor. About two weeks before she set to leave. And let me tell you, business is good. Everyone was booked. Who knew? Not me, I’m not the best at delicate complexities such as scheduling, planning, listening and so forth, but I more than make up for it by whining, groveling, and my remarkable gift for procrastination. 

None of which helped in this particular case...

Anyway, contractor or not, I stuck to the whole time frame of tearing the bathroom down to the studs. Bad move. Had I known then what I know now I would have done things differently. 

Apparently in the fifties they built houses to last. I feel like this bathroom could have also been used as a bomb shelter. If you have an old tile bathroom embrace it. Or pay. Or move. My tub was stamped KOHLER 12-3-53. Try getting sixty years out of something built today. Not going to happen.

Good Times...

But there was a sledgehammer ready and my dad and I were foaming at the mouth with the thought of bashing some stuff. Then my wife and stepmother came home and found my dad patching me up with electrical tape.

My stepmom--battle-tested and hardened after 30 years of being married to my father--turned to my wife and deadpanned, "You know how to get blood out of a shirt, right?"

It was probably then that my wife became not as on board with the "me" part of this project.

A few weeks later I have a dumpster full of plaster, concrete, tile, and drywall. And some awfully mean steel mesh stuff that they used to hold it all together. I also have a newfound respect for contractors.




Last Sunday I finally got the place cleared out. I drank a beer and called my wife.

“It’s done.”

“The floor too?”

My shoulders sagged. She has this uncanny ability to “bring out the best in me.”

“No, I thought the guy said leave the floor.”

“Oh, yeah he did.”

After the call I opened the door. Under the haze of plaster sat the floor, or what was the floor but was now just a carpet of rubble and rock. I cursed. I set my celebratory beer down and hunted down my work gloves.

An hour later I was staring at the beams.

So my house is empty and my pink bathtub is gone. And I survived without any serious injury, just a couple of scratches on my arms. Plaster in my nostrils. My hair feels like steel wool. But there is hope. We did find a contractor to put our bathroom back together. He comes on the third. Of August. Meanwhile I take showers between the bushes in the backyard. Life is grand.

My Dad and His Cars

Growing up, my dad loved nothing more than a good deal. Especially when it came to cars. He preferred the classics, preferably American made but really anything that caught his eye. 

I can remember more than a couple of times where we were driving along, sometimes on vacation, when suddenly Dad would do a double take, his head halfway out of the car as he hit the brakes and told us to hang on. Then he'd pull the car around for a better look at some old clunker with those two precious words scawled across the windshield:

For Sale.

“Let’s just take a quick look,” he’d say to us, his fingers dancing on the steering wheel. 

There wasn’t much he loved more than popping the hood of some roadside vehicle, muttering in some foreign language about cylinders and horsepower. Most of the time he’d hop back in the car and we’d get back on our way. But other times—when he got that look in his eyes—my stepmom knew that she was about to take the wheel and follow some sputtering heap home.

So many Saturday mornings I spent with him, driving out to the edge of town so that he could see about some unpolished gem. With a boyish gleam, he’d tell me how he’d bought and fixed up his own first car at fourteen, then another at sixteen. Then at seventeen…and so on.

Where most people saw a hunk of junk sitting in a field at the edge of the woods—tall grass creeping up the dry-rotted tires and a dull coat of spray paint on the hood—my dad saw a memory. I think those cars took him back to that carefree place of yesteryear, of saving and fixing up a car and hit the open road without a worry in the world.

One particular evening after work, Dad was all geared up about riding out to take a look at a “classic”. While my stepmother wasn’t exactly unsupportive of these ventures, she didn’t share his passion for them either. How could she? My dad brought home used junkers like a little girl with lost puppies. Nevertheless, we loaded up for the trip, my stepmother's face a paint-by-number portait of frazzle and my father's slapdash smile bouncing along as he gushed about the '57 Chevy we were about to see. Oh, and by see he meant buy.

I think the rest of us were a little underwhelmed when we saw it. Sure it had the cool fins stretching off the back and the rounded windshield, but even I could see that there was a lot of work to be done. But Dad didn’t even flinch, hopping out with stars in his eyes.

After a quick test drive came the haggling. No stranger to negotiation, I watched a master at work. And just as soon as the handshake, my dad whipped out a screwdriver from his back pocket and proceeded to unfasten the license plate from the front of our car and secure it on the rust-kissed back bumper of our new “project” car. Yes, we were driving that beast back home, because to my dad, inspection stickers were mere suggestions. If it cranked up and had four tires, it was ready to roll.

Today, being married myself, I can only imagine what went going through my stepmom’s mind as she followed us home. Was she praying that the brakes didn’t give out on that rolling wreck she was tailing? Or maybe hoping that her madman husband would stop honking and pumping his fist, revving the engine at every stoplight and drawing attention to the sketchy vehicle with unlicensed tags.

Meanwhile in the Chevy, Dad and I were born to be wild. He looked over to me, the wind in his hair and his arm hung over the door, nothing but pure satisfaction on his face. I tried to smile back but I was a bit preoccupied with my task of "keeping an eye out for cops".

We pulled into the driveway. I was somewhat relieved to see that my stepmother hadn’t made a run for it. I guess by then— after the DMV had already contacted my dad about getting a dealer license due to his incessant buying and selling of cars—she’d come to grips with my father’s impulse decisions.

Dad coaxed the lumbering antique onto a patch of dirt just under the maple tree, where it would come to rest for the next year. For a nine year old boy, having a car sitting in your front yard was a dream come true. I still remember that giant, rope-like steering wheel in my hand, as I became a ship captain in stormy seas, an astronaut, or just a regular getaway driver. With push buttons and gauges, roll down windows and more, that old car became my own personal playhouse.

Dad spent the weekends tinkering with the engine. He started mending the bench seating. I imagine the neighbors began to hate us. There was me, scaling the greenish-blue hunk of metal as part of my obstacle course. Our german shepherd barking from the carport. The gravel driveway chocked full of cars. Did I mention I had a mini-bike?

At some point my dad grew tired of the Chevy. With its rust and tears and exhausted engine, it turned out to be a little more than a man with three kids and a full-time job bargained for. One Saturday another man came out to look at the car, and I couldn’t help but notice that he had that same nostalgic gaze in his eyes. I watched as my clubhouse on wheels sputtered out of the driveway, and I’m not quite sure of it, but I do believe there was some celebratory singing coming from the living room window.

As the old car stalled and stammered down the road, I glanced up to Dad to see how he was making out with the deal. He put his arm around my shoulder and with a familiar look on his face, he said, “So I was thinking about going to look at a dune buggy. You wanna come along?”

Just Take A Second...

I’m by no means a perfect parent. I have plenty of impatient, un-blogworthy moments. I get frustrated, baffled, and feel overwhelmed as I try to navigate the waters of fatherhood. But still, I’ll always try to be the best parent I can be.

I was at the gas station the other day. It was a mild, easygoing Sunday afternoon. A lady was leaving, pushing a stroller. A boy of maybe six followed. By the way she spoke to the kids I’ll assume that she was the boy’s mother. On the way out of the store, the boy bent down to study something in the parking lot—a bug, leaf, caterpillar or something—and the mother lost her sh*!. She exploded, shouting for the boy to hurry along. The little guy tried, but he was having a time peeling away from whatever it was on the pavement. So she stomped over and yanked him along.

I’m not going to pretend that I thought the world was perfect or anything. But come on, can’t why not give him a minute? They were walking, there was no fire that I could see, why not let the little boy take a few minutes and look at something that catches his eye?

Again, I have plenty of flaws. Just the other evening, on my watch of course, my son took a spill into the fire pit (there was no fire) and scraped his leg. I’ve knocked him down hovering too close at the park. And I’ve been in a rush while dropping him off at daycare on mornings where I was running late. But still, I always give him a minute to explore—to take a second and appreciate a bug. A stick. A rock. Especially now. Because in a few years I won't remember my long boring day at work or whatever mundane thing I was doing. But I’ll remember my kid. And I want him to remember his childhood as a wild learning ride, not a rushed parent.

*And now for the preachy conclusion to this post.

Maybe that’s why a lot of kids grow up without an appreciation for their surroundings. We always hear how they litter and don't respect nature or the world in which they live. Maybe because they don’t know anything about it. 

My wife teaches second grade, and I couldn't believe it when she told how many kids have never even squished Play-Doh around in their fingers. How can we not have time to let our kids play? What could be important to us than them? We stare at phones constantly. We check our apps and our statuses and immerse ourselves in meaningless blather. So the least we can do is let our children check out their surroundings every once and a while. It’s amazing what sticks with them. 

Okay sorry. Where were we?

After the gas station incident I let my son play with an ant until the ant finally scurried up a tree and escaped. And you know what? The next time he was outside he went right for the tree, bypassing his toy mower and big wheel and bubble machine. I sat down in the grass, barefoot and smiling. My son was looking for an ant.

Faking it

So this is my all new, grown up blog template. I hope you like it...it was either this or robots.  I've been doing some thinking, and it's time for some changes around here, some more, uh, adult content. 

It’s been a good run, all this faking like I'm a grown up stuff...but now, nearing forty years old, I've decided to join the ranks of adult society.

For over twenty years I’ve been able to slide through undetected, passed over as eccentric or “funny” when in actuality I was performing. I was playing the lead role of Me, The Adult.

And no one's been the least bit suspicious. Well maybe a few people, like the cashier at the grocer store when I slap down an industrial-sized bag of Fruity Pebbles on the belt and avoid eye contact. Or maybe a few of the neigbors when I head down the street to go shoot hoops until my wife calls me for dinner. And at the bank, but, then again, why put the suckers out if you're just going to shoot me a look for taking one...or three?

But my love of candy aside, I've had everyone fooled. I paid bills and even got the hang of that smile/grimace thing people do in passing at work. So what I have an affinity for toys and or poop jokes that never morphed into something refined or mature. At least sometimes I do manage to tame or at least fight off the impulse to fall on the floor kicking and screaming when told I have to do something that I really really don’t want to do.

I've gotten scary good at faking adult conversations, nodding and uh-hushing, all the while thinking about those little plastic pizza topper things they stick on pies as my favorite pizza places while unknowing adutl yammers on about  budgets, plans, insurance, or maybe even gulp, vegetables or politics.

And for years it’s worked, getting pegged as an eccentric when I’m really wondering how I’ve managed to fool all these people into thinking that I’m really an adult. I mean, I even drink coffee, albeit loaded with sugary creamer so that it resembals liquid caramel, but still, coffee+adult.And even on the occasion that I get caught, stuffing my face with chocolate at work, or hopping up and down after getting free ice cream. Most people laugh it off as a joke anyway. Oh yeah, I was joking.  

But now we reached the dreaded but portion of this post. (See, no butt jokes?) Now that I have a kid, one who's vocabulary seems to be multiplying faster than a Gremlin after midnight, I realize that I have to be a uh, father figure. and it might not be best for my son to see me behaving like well....an adult. It's time I acted my age.

I mean, I'm not going to start wearing a watch or smoking a pipe or anything. But maybe I can work on toning down some of those knee-jerk reactions. No temper tantrums, and  I’m adjusting to saying no. Because as much fun as it's been playing Tom Hanks Big, it’s more important, I suppose, to set a good example.

But back to this blog, I'm going to start posting more stories and other kinds of stuff, whatever I feel like really. So for all of you readers out there, and that goes for both of you guys. Sit back and enjoy...