Santa's Shoes

The idea of Santa Claus absolutely captivates children who believe in him.  He's magical, generous, benevolent, and all-knowing.  When I speak to my children about him, they are quick to remind me of all of the uncanny insight Santa seems to have when he writes them letters.  Never mind the reality that some day they'll discover it was really their mother who has been in charge of the Santa correspondence, because for now, his ability to know that much about them, as well as their desires, their hopes, and their wishes, is nothing short of miraculous.

When my daughter was five years old, Santa came to visit the kindergarten classes in the school library.  When she arrived home after school, she insisted on providing every detail to her mother.  Santa was kind and genial and handed out candy canes to all of the students.  He waved to all the children and went about his Santa ways, but not all was well.  Apparently, "Santa" was an imposter and my five-year-old daughter had proof that she desperately needed her mother to hear.

"What do you mean, 'he wasn't the real Santa?'"  Her mother asked, trying to maintain composure.

"Well," my daughter exclaimed as she built her case.  "He wasn't tall enough or big enough to be the real Santa.  He wasn't even fat!"

"Are you sure he wasn't fat?"  Her mother prompted, completely ignoring our five-year-old's arbitrary assessment of his height.

"Yes!"  She declared, "he had a pillow under his suit.  It wasn't his real belly.  And his suit didn't look real either."

"Oh," offered her mother, "well, I'm not sure that's ..."

"And his beard was fake!"  She blurted out, cutting across her mother.  "It wasn't even a real beard!  And when he laughed," she continued, gaining momentum, "he did it wrong!  He said 'ho-ha-ho,' and not 'ho-ho-ho!' the way Santa laughs."

"Is that so?"  Replied her mother, barely concealing a smirk.

"Yes!  And when he laughed, his belly did not move!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"  She continued, "and when someone asked him about his reindeer, he said his deer were at The North Pole.  The real Santa would have said 'reindeer,' because Santa doesn't have deer!  He has reindeer!"

Thinking the story was complete, my wife composed herself for further discussion.  She decided to ask if other classmates had also noticed these anomalies.  The picture painted by my five-year-old daughter's response was one of her, and a handful of other students who were aware of these inconsistencies, but kept to the back of the group, whispering conspiratorially amongst themselves.  They knew the truth.  This man was an imposter, and everyone else was being duped!

Still clinging to the notion that she could convince our daughter otherwise, my wife then tried to offer explanations for all of these oddities through suppressed amusement, only to be greeted by the most convincing evidence of all:

"No, Mama."  She said, wearing a resolute expression on her face, as though struggling to grasp how her mother was so dismissive of such overwhelming evidence.  "He wasn't wearing Santa Shoes.  He was wearing boy shoes!"  She placed special emphasis on the last two words, nodding as though this settled things.  On top of the mountain of previously discussed evidence, the real Santa wears real Santa shoes, and there's simply no other way to see it.  

Of course he does.

The Flight of Buddy

The holiday season as a father is nothing like it was as a child.  Granted, my childhood is hardly the standard that anything should be compared to, but it's the only childhood I have, so it continues to serve as my standard for comparison.  Putting it mildly, the bar for my standard is quite low.  Imagination, fantasy, and the belief that anything was possible meant that one was gullible, and thus inferior.  It's no wonder I stopped believing in Santa Claus by the time I was seven, and the idea of an Elf on the Shelf seemed so absurd it wasn't worth discussing.

Thankfully, my children are growing up in a household with a mother determined to make childhood as magical as possible.  More importantly, my wife makes a concerted effort with holidays.  Halloween decorations are mandatory during that first weekend in October.  They remain in place until November 1st when "Halloween Season" officially comes to a close and my wife dutifully replaces them with Thanksgiving decorations.  Christmas decorations go up the day after Thanksgiving and remain in place until New Year's Day.  As a result, there is never a doubt about which holiday season we are in.

We also encourage our children's creativity, and are delighted when their imagination challenges our ideas on what is real and what is possible.  Our children write Santa Letters and mail them to the North Pole — and Santa (aka their mother) writes back!  We ride The Polar Express.  We ride The Santa Train.  We even have an Elf on the Shelf who visits us annually, but only because my children asked Santa for one in their Santa Letters.

On Christmas Eve, when my son was six and my daughter was eight, we were trying to usher them to bed so we could make the necessary preparations for the following morning.  My son, however, could not go to bed until getting in a final word with Buddy (our Elf on the Shelf) before he flew away with Santa during the night:

"Okay, Buddy!  Don't forget to tell Santa to bring me a big BB-8, okay?!" He said with gusto, immediately following by, "but a BIG BB-8!"

Apparently, he had been filled with anxiety because he forgot to list said item on his Santa Letter that he had mailed out weeks previously.  Lucky for us, "Santa" had purchased that very item several months prior when finances weren't so thin.  

Christmas morning brought on delightful elation when Santa brought each of our children an item they had specifically requested of Buddy, but none more so than the big BB-8 for our six year old son.  The delight they experienced is something they continue to generously share with us, infusing us, if only for those moments, with the joy of childhood.

Fact and Fiction

Perhaps I'm alone, but the holiday season tends to bring out some of the worst behavior in the general public.  Everyone is rushing or in some sort of hurry, and everyone seems to think they're the only ones who have somewhere to go, or obligations to meet.  This impatience and general ill-temperedness may peak on Black Friday, but that doesn't stop it from remaining in full force until after the first of the year.

That's not to say that I am this wonderful ball of joy, embracing everything good the holiday season has to offer.  As it turns out, my "bah humbug" moments usually surround Christmas Carols.  The songs are the same, year after year.  No, it doesn't matter that Bowie is singing The Little Drummer Boy, or that Justin Timberlake is on that Christmas album.  The truth is, there are only so many times one can hear a song, and though that limit is different for all, I reached my limit for Christmas Carols quite some time ago.

Rather than lament the things I dislike about the holidays, and allowing that to permeate everything I love about life, I prefer to embrace the holiday-related things I do like ... and I also share those with my children.  We do this in the form of holiday movies.  While we do have a few tried-and-true standby movies we watch annually, like Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas (1966) and A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965), it's nice when we are able to add a new movie to the holiday season rotation.

Rise of the Guardians was released in time for the 2012 holidays and my children loved it — all except for the part where the elves don't make the toys.  In the movie, the toys are made by The Yetis rather than the elves.  The elves are present in the movie, but they are depicted as inept, and also as a bit of a punchline.  My wife and I found this highly amusing, but my five-year-old daughter, in particular, did not care much for this.

One day, shortly after we had first seen the movie, my wife told my children, "you both had better behave or The Yetis will not make you any toys for Christmas."

"The Yetis don't make the toys!"  My daughter interjected.

"Yes they do," my wife reiterated.

"No they don't," my daughter said quite adamantly.

"Of course they do!"  My wife responded, "didn't you see, Rise of the Guardians?"

"Mama!"  Exclaimed my daughter in an exasperated tone, "that's just a MOVIE!  It's PRETEND!  The Yetis don't make the toys!  The ELVES do!"

Of course they do.

Who Are We Here To See?!

Traditions can be the double-edged sword of parenthood.  On one hand, you are setting up comfortable expectations of good times and family, and on the other, you are stuck in a stale rut since your routine has very little variation, particularly around the holidays.  While my children take comfort in annual events, there is a palpable lack of enthusiasm when you go to the well too many times.  There is also the reality that your children are often able to disrupt the best-laid plans of ... well, you know the rest.  Whether it's an illness, injury, or something else entirely, the numerous variables children bring into play will often take precedence over whatever plans us parents have made.

To counteract this reality, my wife and I make a habit out of keeping our best-laid plans a secret for as long as possible.  In short, everything is a surprise.  If it's a tradition or a new event, we keep them in the dark until the last minute as a safeguard against the unexpected.  When you have amazing plans thwarted by an emergency room visit or a sudden onset of the stomach flu, what softens the blow is not having to tell the children it's their fault — because it's not.  The problem is explaining that to someone who sees the world very literally (i.e. very black and white).  No amount of reassurances will undo the guilt they feel.

Long before we ever knew about The Polar Express as an option for the Christmas season, we had a tradition of going to our local train museum for The Santa Train.  Pay a few bucks, get a cool train ride on the the gold standard for transportation from a century ago, and meet Santa.  We also get to check out all the restored trains inside the museum — and my son absolutely LOVES trains.  It's hard to call that anything but money well spent.

Subsequent visits to The Santa Train notwithstanding, that first year stands out for many reasons.  My son's love affair with trains started while watching Thomas and Friends before he could speak.  When he was three, we gave him a train table for Christmas, only to be woken the next day at dawn by my son's thunderous declaration: "All the board!  Welcome to the island of Sodor!"

A year later, on that first Santa Train, we somehow managed to keep our children in the dark even after boarding the train.  When the conductor entered our car, he drew everyone's attention and asked, "Is everyone ready to meet our special guest?"

"Yes!!"  Chorused the children on board.

"Are we here to see The Easter Bunny?"  Asked the conductor playfully.

"Nooooooo!"  

"Who are we here to see?!?!"  He prompted.

Before anyone could utter a syllable, my four year old son threw both fists into the air and exclaimed, "THOMAS!!!!"

Every adult on board burst into laughter, including me and my wife.  My children were clearly the last to know who we were there to see.  Although the train we were on was really old and amazing to see in person, it was not the "Thomas" pictured here (we saved that surprise for another day).  

In the end, they were very excited to see Santa on The Santa Train, but for my four year old son, nothing quite compared to seeing "Thomas," because all trains were "Thomas" to him.

Culture, Peas, and Carrots

It's remarkable when you think about the things that have a lasting influence on society.  Movies may have varying levels of influence, depending on your age, but even if it's limited to an age range, some movies have staying power that defies logic.  We may not all embrace Citizen Kane (1941) or Gone With the Wind (1939) the way previous generations have, but they once enjoyed nearly universal acclaim.

When I was attending the University of California, I was determined to experience all aspects of college life, so I volunteered to work for theatrical shows put on by the students from time to time.  As benevolent as this may make me sound, I also received units toward my degree for doing so, thus it was a win-win.  The problem with working a theatrical production is the downtime between scenes.  My job focus was always costumes: quick changes, quick repairs, and downtime.  In an era before movies became digital, they were anything but portable.  I knew "rich" people who had VCRs and tiny televisions in their vehicles, but even those people were limited by the bulk of VHS tapes.

My solution to the downtime during shows was simple enough: bring a VCR with all the necessary wiring, plus a few tapes just for the variety.  What started as a way for me and the rest of the crew to unwind during downtime, quickly evolved into a reflection of cultural staying power.  The University of California is quite diverse both culturally and ethnically, yet certain movies always filled the room, while others did not.  Instead of the popular romantic comedies or the slapstick comedies of the time, the movies that left standing-room-only in The Green Room tended to be relatable and timeless stories.  

While the age of the movie had some effect, it wasn't the deciding factor.  The three I remember most were Rocky (1976), Star Wars (1977), and Forrest Gump (1994).  Despite two of the three having been released before most of the cast or crew were born, they had staying power decades after their release.  What is the common thread between a boxing movie, an epic space opera, and a Vietnam War period piece?  All of them contained a charismatic underdog the audience desperately wanted to see succeed.

As a family, we share our passion for art and film with one another.  Although my children aren't quite ready for the weight of films like Rocky or Forrest Gump, they have embraced Star Wars.  Despite releasing 30+ years before their births, they find the story relatable, and often quote the film, incorporating it into their daily vernacular.  My wife and I are no different.  We often quote different movies to one another, and speak in a make-shift shorthand that is hard for others to follow.  We aren't the only ones.

When children first learn to speak, their words are distorted, often triggering responses from their parents that are irrelevant.  When my daughter was around 20 months old, we were still in the process of teaching manners: specifically the importance of "please" and "thank you."  Despite her best efforts, my daughter's "thank you" sounded more like "dee-doo," and her "please" sounded more like "peas."  Naturally, this prompted her mother to respond with "peas and carrots" from the Forrest Gump archives in her mind, to the amusement as well as bewilderment of our daughter.

Apparently, she was more amused than bewildered, because it wasn't long after my wife first started quoting Forrest Gump to my daughter that she began asking for things, dispensing with the boring attempts at "please" and enthusiastically exclaiming, "Peas-Tedders!"

Of course you may have more food.  And "dee-doo" for asking politely.

The Boy Lady Gaga

I remember the first time I was introduced to Lady Gaga.  She was performing on American Idol, a show my wife loved despite me.  As a compromise, she would record the show on our DVR, and watch the following day while I prepared dinner.  Although I was never actively watching, I would catch snippets of things going on in the show that I would sometimes find appalling ("Queen Week" comes to mind), certain of the inevitable train wreck the show's producers must have been hoping for.  Being a fan of music in general allowed me to take in moments from time to time, and Lady Gaga's performance was one of those moments.

Her performance was quirky and odd, but in an artistic way, and it reminded me a lot of some of Madonna's performances from the early 90s.  To borrow from American Idol's most (in)famous alum, Simon Cowell, "It was memorable."  "Forgettable" was always the one thing you didn't want to be in his eyes.  

And then Lady Gaga was everywhere.  There was no escaping "Poker Face."  I remember telling my wife that rather than hearing "can't read my, can't read my poker face," I kept hearing "cutie pie, cutie pie, poker face."  Naturally, my version made no sense whatsoever, but me being me, I kept insisting to my children that "cutie pie" is what she was saying to the point that they believed me, prompting my wife to correct the record.  

When my son was three and my daughter was five, my wife sought out the official video and played it for them on her phone.  At first, they would gleefully belt out my "cutie pie" version of the lyrics (something we have plenty of videos of), as the studio cut still wasn't clear enough for them to hear the difference.  This prompted my wife to search YouTube for alternate versions one day while I was at work, believing perhaps an acoustic version would contain less distortion.  This is what she found:

Chris Daughtry's acoustic version was a revelation for my children.  His version was crisp, and powerful, and cleared up any misunderstandings about lyrics created by their father.  It didn't take anything away from the original, but rather added to it, giving it greater depth.  My children were so excited in fact, the moment I arrived home from work, my five year old daughter raced up to me and exclaimed, "Look Daddy!  It's The Boy Lady Gaga!"

Of course it is.

The Flux Capacitor

With so much out there about how awful things have become, it's nice to stop and consider some of the more positive things about living in the 21st Century.  For one thing, the overwhelming majority of us walks around with a super computer on hand, that can instantly provide access to all of the information and knowledge humans have accumulated in our existence — beyond remarkable when one considers how many of us only had land lines and dial-up Internet access at the turn of the century.

Such a sea-change has enabled us to embrace our inner geek.  We are not ridiculed for wearing glasses or loving Star Wars.  We are no longer mocked for having our homes geeked out in servers and cross-platform communication.  Instead, being a geek carries a form of street cred once reserved for auto mechanics, with many envious of our access to a world just beyond their reach.

Perhaps embracing our inner geek has had some unintended consequences.  Back to the Future is now north of 30, yet still holds up as probably the best time-travel movie ever (sorry Star Trek fans).  Sure, the effects and fashion are incredibly dated, but it holds up well as a period piece, and the innocence of my children allows them to enjoy it as much as I did when it was new.  Not only is it a story of redemption for both of the elder McFlys, that redemption is only made possible by the selflessness of their son, Marty.  It also gives us one of the best fictional surnames ever: McFly.

While my daughter was getting caught up in the family dynamics of the plot, my son was captivated by the time machine: The DeLorean.  The climactic Clocktower scene where a bolt of lightning is used to power the flux capacitor, ultimately sending Marty McFly back to his own time, was a jolt to his imagination.

That's where some pipe cleaners, a toy DeLorean, some string, a power outlet, and the unbridled creativity of our six year old son come together for the perfect storm.  Normally, we think nothing of it when our son asks for different materials for an art project.  He's always so involved, that we often hear him doing voices or making laser sounds as he fires imaginary weapons, so it was quite odd to have him race into the kitchen to interrupt us with shouts of "Fire!  Fire!" in lieu of his preferred "Pew!  Pew!  Pew!"

"Yes," my wife responded lazily, "Fire, pew, pew, pew."

"NOOOOO!"  He shouted as he started jumping up and down on the spot, "FIRE!!!"

We instantly sprang into action, my wife yanking the charred pipe cleaner from the power outlet, ensuring nothing was actually burning beyond that, and checking our son for any signs of serious injury.  As we calmed him down and stepped back to examine things, we realized he had recreated the entire Clocktower scene, with remarkable accuracy.  As lightning bolts are in such short supply, he decided to make do with a power outlet and a modified pipe cleaner.  Sure, he nearly burned the house down, but how else are you supposed to get that much juice into a flux capacitor?!

The Messy Mess

Expressions are ubiquitous in English, regardless of the dialect.  Metaphors and other artistic ways of saying something indirectly, yet plainly, whether regional or universal, are a reality of communication and social interaction.  Unfortunately, there are all of the contradictions and falsehoods in some of the more universal expressions meant to plainly support opposite ends of the same spectrum.  The hypocrisy of these expressions lies in how they are selectively applied.  "Absence makes the heart grow fonder."  I suppose it could, but how can that be true if "out of sight, out of mind" is also true?  We are taught as children to "never judge a book by its cover," while simultaneously being taught that "the clothes make the man" and "dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

What really has me thinking about such contradictions is the insistence that "opposites attract."  If that were true, wouldn't people on opposite ends of the political landscape be uncontrollably drawn to one another?  And what about "birds of a feather flock together?"  They can't both be true, unless selectively applied.  My wife and I may not agree on everything, but we have copious amounts of common ground.  Not only is our world view on par with one another, we have many shared interests ranging from diet to music to movies, and beyond.

The only way such an expression can gain any traction is if one focuses on a much narrower path.  When it comes to cooking, for example, we both prefer that I cook.  It's not that my wife is incapable of cooking, but it's not a strength of hers, so she helps me with meals as needed.  Additionally, my wife is great at keeping things clean and in order.  It's something I really appreciate about her.  While I am not messy, I am a terrible cleaner, so after I finish cooking, she does the heavy lifting when it comes to cleaning.  Some would say that makes us opposites, but I would contend that our strengths compliment one another's shortcomings.

There are many variables in fatherhood, but none fascinate me quite as much as genetics and the randomness of how they are divided.  Our children should represent the best our genetic code has to offer, complimented by the best genetic code of (ideally) a well-chosen partner.  Naturally, I couldn't be happier when I saw my daughter had inherited her mother's knack for cleanliness and order, and had avoided my shortcomings in that regard.  It was obvious from a very young age that she was never going to be messy.  She took great pride in helping her mother put things away, and it was really amazing to see the two of them truly bonding in those moments.

I should mention I felt that way until I took my daughter camping for the first time.  She was still in diapers, and it was fun to have some father/daughter time, until she noticed just how dirty dirt can be — who knew?!  Apparently, there's a lot of dirt outside, which she continually reminded me of.

"That's a mess!"  She said forcefully, as she pointed in no particular direction.  "That's a mess!"  She reiterated, pointing elsewhere.  "That's a mess!"

This continued the entire time we were camping, reinforcing how humbling fatherhood can be.  I had clearly missed the bigger picture, as well as any potential hurdles until I was clubbed over the head with them.  You may not be able to "teach an old dog new tricks," but my daughter can, proving that her father is "never too old to learn."

All Hallows' Eve

As Halloween approaches, I cannot help but think of how relevant Jerry Seinfeld's decades-old take on the holiday is.  The very concept was cool, even before you fully understood it, or, that's how it was for me.  But once you understood it, it became a quest to out-do your peers by conning your friends and their parents into taking you to the "good" neighborhoods where one was guaranteed to receive "name" candy.  And yes, we probably were a bit too old to be trick-or-treating those last few years, much the way Seinfeld was.

What about those early years?  How well do most of us remember those?  For me, my first few Halloweens were not the ambiguous, always relatable, and endlessly funny days that Mr. Seinfeld describes.  While I can definitely relate to the horrible quality of 80s era, mass-produced costumes (the best available to me), I cannot relate to ever visiting "everyone we know" for them to give us candy.  We never went anywhere but to the four or five homes on our cul-de-sac that left their lights on after sunset, because that's when my father would begrudgingly take us.  It wasn't until we were much older, and much more self-sufficient (and had options), that my father would agree to accompany us on Halloween, if only to drive the car while we traveled on foot.

My children were born in the spring and thus were old enough to participate for their first Halloween at 7-8 months old.  Their mother made sure to dress them up in cute costumes, but stroller rides don't have the same pizazz as toddlers who have a higher level of comprehension as to what is going on.  We took them trick-or-treating for as long as they could tolerate it before going home in their respective first years, but the real magic didn't happen until their second Halloween.  Food made more sense and so did sweets, but more than that, gifts made more sense.  

That second Halloween for my daughter wasn't memorable because of the "good" neighborhood, the numerous homes we visited, or any of the "name" candy.  No, what made it memorable was her gleefully exclaiming "thank you," which sounded more like "DEE-DOO," after every piece of candy was placed into her plastic pumpkin.  She couldn't wait to get to the next house just so she could issue her chirpy gratitude, which seemed to be a hit at every home we visited.  She had more endurance than we did that night by a long shot.

My son's second Halloween contrasted with his sister's in every way their personalities do.  At first, when he saw people reaching toward him, he drew back, suspicious of hands reaching for his precious trick-or-treating pumpkin, going so far as to hide his pumpkin behind his back at our first stop.  By the third home, however, and after much convincing from us at the first two, hearing that clunk of candy hitting the bottom of his pumpkin was music to his ears, and the race was on.  He was sprinting from home to home, as fast as his little legs could take him.  It was all we could do to keep up.

The irony of it all: I don't have a sweet tooth.  Neither do my children.  Despite that, we still embrace Halloween every year as much as my children did on their second, with my son sprinting from door to door as we struggled to keep up, and my daughter's exclamations of "DEE-DOO" in place of "thank you" permanently etched into our memories.  Halloween won't always be this way for us as parents, but I'll take as many as I can get, for however long it lasts.

Pablo Potato

Growing up off the beaten path is something those who grew up in town can hardly relate to.  Living in town, as I saw it, meant nothing was beyond the reach of your bicycle or skateboard or rollerblades, and anything beyond that could be attained via public transit.  For us rural children, we were lucky to reach our friends and neighbors with a bike, and skateboards were completely out of the question, given the lack of pavement.  Public transit was even more foreign than paved sidewalks.  Although I was limited to my bicycle, most of my friends had dirt bikes, quads, or go carts that enabled them to travel great distances that were beyond my reach.

When you are limited on how far you can travel, you become incredibly dependent on the adults around you who are willing to enable an active social life.  If the adults in your life are unwilling to facilitate a social life, as was the case for me, you have none.  Needless to say, something very important to my wife and I has been to adequately socialize our children.  While both my wife and I were quite limited in our own way growing up, she at least had the freedom afforded to those in town.  

Art, movies, and pop culture in general were all beyond my reach.  My wife often laments how I hadn't seen any children's movies growing up, yet I had seen all the Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris movies of the same era, because that is what my father enjoyed.  I could talk Bloodsport and Missing in Action until the cows came home, but I didn't see "Toy Story" until after I was an adult in college and purchased it on DVD.

I should mention that seeing "Toy Story" for the first time as an adult has it's advantages.  For example, all of the adult humor that typically goes over the heads of the target audience wasn't lost on me.  References to "uncultured swine" and the like brought tears of laughter to my eyes.  Thankfully, my children both love the "Toy Story" movies, despite completely missing all of the adult humor, and we still enjoy them as a family.  My son, in particular, really loves the movies.  He will randomly reference them, despite having not watched any of the series for months.  

One night, when he was six, he brought out a haphazardly arranged Mr. Potato Head toy and set it on the table beside my adult beverage.  His rendition of Mr. Potato Head was oddly lopsided and had the appearance of inebriation, prompting an exchange of quizzical looks between me and my wife.  Before we could so much as utter a query, he exclaimed, "It's Picasso!"

Of course it is.

Innocent Investment

The arts play a major role in our household.  Whether it's reading stories, or creating art projects, or visiting art museums, or listening to music, or even watching movies, art is everywhere and we encourage our children to consume it; to embrace it; to create it.  One of the benefits we have found is the nurturing of their unbridled imagination.  Paintings and music inspire them, and books and movies captivate them as they become absorbed in the stories.  We try to experience all of these as a family, often designating a movie night so we can all participate together.

Animated movies are often dismissed as fodder for children, but I would argue that a well-crafted animated film often exceeds the artistic value of their live-action counterparts.  For example, "How to Train Your Dragon" is a remarkable film, containing many elements that are cleverly woven together, including friendship, family, coming of age, conviction, and redemption.  What makes the film so remarkable is how it appeals to such a broad audience.  I'm not sure who enjoys the film more: my wife and I, or our children.  Apparently "thirty-something parents" were part of the target audience, so when a sequel was released, the entire family was looking forward to seeing it.  Although we had read some doomsday Internet reports about the film containing subject matter some parents deemed inappropriate for children, we still went ahead and took our children to the drive-in to see it.

The nice thing about having a large SUV at the drive-in theater is being able to park with the rear facing the screen, providing a place where the whole family can gather, in comfort, and enjoy the movie together.  We usually bring cushions, pillows, blankets and other niceties to further enhance the movie-going experience.  Beyond all this, the drive-in affords us some privacy.  Family time is confined to our vehicle, and does not have to be shared with the theater at large, as with a walk-in theater.

Our viewing of "How to Train Your Dragon 2" was going well enough until the fateful scene when Stoick The Vast makes the ultimate sacrifice for his son.  As we built toward that moment, my wife and I exchanged meaningful looks indicating we both were aware of how invested in the moment our children had become.  Our daughter was seven, and our son was five, and both of them were devastated.  The instant Toothless delivered the final blow, our children burst into hysterical tears and required several minutes of comfort before they could resume watching the film.  While both my wife and I took turns hugging them and soothing them, they seemed to need more from me, something my wife understood better than I did at the time.  They were so invested in the story that they were able to feel Hiccup's pain.  In their innocence, they clung to me, their father, if only to remind themselves that their father was still present, and to remind me how much they valued my presence.

I sometimes hesitate to expose my children to doses of reality that touch on subjects like our own mortality, mainly because I do not want it to negatively impact their innocence.  They only have one chance to be a child, and I am in no hurry for them to grow up.  Thankfully, shortly after our family outing at the drive-in, I came upon my daughter, playing with her toys in her room.  She was making up stories and doing voices for each of the characters in the game she was playing.

"Whats going on in here?"  I asked her playfully, causing her to giggle and blush.

"I make myself laugh," she said, as her giggle changed to laughter, before adding, "with my own silliness!"

Of course you do.  You make me laugh with your silliness as well, because your innocence and joy are the rewards of fatherhood.

The Last Choice

Of all the things that can catch you unprepared in fatherhood, nothing quite matches the first day of school.  It can be such a zoo.  I'm not just talking about the insanity of an elementary school parking lot, peppered with ill-behaved parents in possession surprisingly little shame nor any self-awareness to speak of.  That qualifies as organized chaos compared to those first few mornings of your child going to school.

It may seem routine to us as we look back at our school years, thinking on how we always arrived at school, ready for lessons; dressed and showered, and in possession of tools for learning.  A lot of things are simple and easy with the benefit of hindsight.  Having been raised by a single father, we were always expected to fend for ourselves.  Nobody took care of anything for us.  If we did not accomplish a necessary task prior to school, it remained undone.  The very thought of having a mother to take care of us was incredibly foreign.

I cannot fully express how grateful I was to have my wife by my side on the first day of school, and pretty much every school day after that — words feel so inadequate.  I had no clue what I was doing (and largely still do not).  In stark contrast to me was my wife: bustling from room to room, delegating tasks, and holding it all together.  The only thing I could do was adult things like shower and make coffee and warm up the car.

Thankfully, my wife had planned for everything.  School clothes were washed and ready days in advance, as were the school bags.  Lunches were no problem for her as she had prepared them the night before.  I'd love to tell you every tiny detail she was responsible for, but I am unable to because I honestly do not know them.  That morning, we were a well oiled machine despite this being our maiden voyage, and it was all thanks to her.

What makes this even more remarkable is the fact that none of us are morning people.  As much as I admire Ben Franklin, I do not believe in rising with the sun.  Unfortunately, my children also share this difference of opinion with Ben Franklin, which can be problematic when you have a schedule to keep.  I've discussed The Magic of Motivation and the wand that is music in our household in a previous post, but prior to that discovery, we had some growing pains.  

One morning, when my son was five, his mother tried to motivate him with reverse psychology in the form of an empty threat:

"You either get dressed or you can go to school in your underwear," she warned him.

"No no no no!"  He exclaimed.  "Those are not my choices!  Those are my LAST choices!"

Of course they are.

Inviting

One night when my daughter was seven, she joined me at the table for dinner, passing out personalized "invitations" prior to taking her seat.  My son was napping late and my wife was busy so it was just the two of us.  I didn't read the note (invititation), but made a point to remind myself to read it later.  Shortly after sitting down and realizing it would just be the two of us, she exclaimed with unmistakable sadness, "oh no! You and I are the only ones who will be there!"

I assured her there would be no issue with attendance without really knowing what she meant, though I strongly suspected it had a lot to do with the aforementioned "invitations."

The thing about invitations that always struck me is how temporary they are.  The events to which we are invited will come and go, but once you miss an opportunity to accept or take advantage of an invitation, the moment is gone forever.  There may be another day where you can go to an amusement park or another year you can attend an annual festival, but there are no guarantees when you consider the unpredictability of things.  Even if you do go "next time," you still missed out by skipping "last time."  My children, like everyone else, will live each day once, and only once, and I cherish the thought of being invited to be a part of them, for however long that lasts.

My "invitation" as it was written:

"Please come to my sing show. Anyone can try out. I hope you can make it."

There's a joke in Cameron Crowe's wonderful film "Say Anything (1989)," during their high school graduation, clearly poking fun at all the recording of events by well-to-do families with their 1980s camcorders.  I never thought I'd be that guy: the father who is more interested in capturing a moment in time using cool tech than in experiencing that moment while truly in the moment, but I've been tempted.  While I still record endless hours of my children's lives (because I'll never be sorry I have those recordings), I make sure I am not doing so at the expense of the moment.  After all, I was invited.

The Magic of Motivation

Motivation can be the unicorn of parenthood; especially since motivating miniature versions of yourself can be much more challenging than advertised.  I am not sure what I envisioned prior to fatherhood, but I somehow always knew that I wouldn't be able to do much reasoning with my children while they were still in diapers.  Perhaps JK Rowling was onto something when she created the magical world of Harry Potter.  I may not know how to motivate a miniature version of myself, but I do know that the key to bridging that mythical gap of communication between parents and children is a magic wand.

Growing up as the youngest to a single father born to Depression Era parents, motivation was an afterthought.  "Because I said so" was typically followed by some severe form of corporal punishment.  We were motivated by a fear of punishment; never love.  We were motivated to do things that kept us from receiving the worst of it.  Perhaps this was the norm in the 20th Century, but it didn't have to be, and certainly shouldn't be in the 21st Century and beyond.

Music has always been a major part of our household dynamic.  Thanks to handy technology that is readily available, I can have my music playing throughout my home without turning up the volume to deafening levels.  Beyond the joy of being engrossed in music that we love, we also get to share that passion with our children.  Just as my older brother exposed me to the likes of Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd, my wife and I get to expose our children to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Alice in Chains, while also encouraging them to embrace the music they like beyond what we offer.

For all the planning my wife and I do, some of the most memorable moments happen completely by accident.  Toy Story 3 was released when my daughter was three, and my son was one, and was an instant hit for them.  What impacted them the most wasn't the great story or the brilliant animation, or the comic timing of the ensemble cast — it was The Gipsy Kings' Spanish language rendition of Randy Newman's "You've Got a Friend in Me," as well as the final dancing sequence of Buzz and Jessie during the credits.

"Pick up your toys and put them back where they go.  It's time to get ready for bed."  It's simple and direct and doesn't work at all.  My children couldn't see the payoff.  Not only did they not want to go to bed, they didn't have the slightest inclination to work before being punished with a trip to bed when they were already having so much fun.  That's when my wife stepped up to the plate and crushed one out of the park.  She used our household love of music to create The Cleanup Game, which combined elements of musical chairs as well as other start/stop musings, being sure to incorporate a song close to their hearts.  The rules were simple: put toys away as "Hay Un Amigo En Mi" plays, and freeze when the music stops.

The music of The Gipsy Kings (as well as its ties to Toy Story 3) made the work fun for them.  They were laughing and dancing and cleaning up with haste that defied logic.  Whenever we had guests over, their children would greet us enthusiastically, requesting that we play "The Cleanup Game" before the night was done.  We had found our magic wand: music.  I cannot tell anyone what their wand is, because it's probably something different than what works for us.  What I can tell you is that once you discover your wand ... that's when the magic happens.

Shutting Breakfast Down

People are creatures of habit.  It's a cliché for a reason.  There's something comforting about the familiar that the unknown simply cannot compete with.  Take coffee, for example.  I prefer black coffee.  It's not that I haven't tried coffee with cream and sugar, but I don't have a sweet tooth.  From my perspective, if coffee needs cream and sugar to be drinkable, there's something wrong with the coffee.  While that clearly does not work for everyone, it's what works for me.

Whether we are discussing the simple, familiar comfort of how one prefers coffee or even how to order a sandwich, we all have our opinions.  In both of these examples, a cynic will say you are stuck in a rut if these orders are always identical, which is a massive oversimplification.  If black coffee is your thing, are you ever going to add sugar just to prove (to nobody in particular) that you aren't stuck in a rut?  Are you the type to adjust how you prepare coffee or how you order a sandwich just to please others?  Or are you the type that refuses to try new things for fear of not liking it as much?  Both sound like variations of buyer's remorse that have nothing to do with happiness.

In our attempt to ensure our children do not fall victim to either of these approaches, my wife and I empower our children to try new things, while simultaneously allowing them to express what they prefer.  Despite our best efforts (and our best intentions), there are times when these paths end up crossing rather than running parallel.  In these moments, we encourage our children to roll with the punches rather than digging in their heels — it doesn't always go according to plan.

One morning during a break from school, my wife decided to make french toast for our children as a surprise treat for breakfast.  My daughter, who loves french toast, was all in.  My five year old son, who had never indicated a dislike for french toast, left the table when his mother's back was turned.  This prompted his mother to pursue him to his room once plates were served, only to discover he had returned to bed and covered his entire body with his blanket.

"Why did you go back to bed?"  She asked him gently.  "It's breakfast time."

"NO!"  He exclaimed emphatically from beneath his blankets.  "I'M SHUTTING BREAKFAST DOWN!"  Before my wife could so much as process this declaration, he added, "I DON'T WANT FRENCH TOAST!  I WANT GRAHAM CRACKERS WITH PEANUT BUTTER!"

Of course you do.

The Tyranny of Buckets

It's more than a bit of a cliché to point out the unpredictability of raising children — especially considering how predictable things can be (reasonably speaking).  The proof, as they say, is in the pudding.  For example, there are milestones we can expect as they reach certain ages, both physical and cognitive, ranging from sitting upright and feeding themselves to walking and attending school, and with some good fortune, reaching adulthood and entering society.  We can also reasonably predict that illnesses will be part of the journey, especially considering our children are being exposed to all sorts of wonderful viruses and infections while attending daycare or school.  Although we can reasonably predict things like this will happen, the exact moment is where unpredictability comes into play.  I may know my child will walk someday, but that doesn't mean I'll be ready for it.  

One of the most challenging experiences as a parent is when illness strikes.  Just because I was aware that children get sick doesn't mean I was prepared for it when my daughter experienced her first significant illness.  At twenty months old, she caught her first stomach flu just before Christmas.  It was winter, and she had never been to daycare, but that didn't stop her from catching whatever was going around from trips to the supermarket or wherever else we had taken her.

It was a devastating experience for us as parents.  We had never felt so powerless to help her.  Her pediatrician advised us that viral infections simply had to run their course.  Unfortunately for us, this illness happened at a time when Zofran wasn't as readily available as it is today.  All we could do was keep her hydrated, and hope she could keep food down, which was challenging.  We learned the hard way that all trips to the doctor required a puke bucket, and at the apex of the virus running its course, the puke bucket became mandatory at home as she did not always make it to the bathroom in time.  I have vivid recollections of her being completely exhausted in my arms as her tiny body fought off this tenacious virus.  Did I mention how powerless we felt?

My daughter had puked multiple times into that puke bucket, only to have it cleaned by her mother and returned to her side so she could use it again, only my daughter didn't want it anymore.  It was at this point that my wife's defiance bubbled to the surface of my daughter's personality.  My daughter had simply had enough of being sick and she wasn't going to take it anymore.  She was going to fight this off with her entire being, and the only tangible item she associated with her illness was that BLASTED BUCKET!  She kicked it with all her might, and did not want it anywhere near her.  She wasn't sick because of a viral infection!  She was sick because of that bucket!  It was simultaneously adorable, heartbreaking, and admirable, and despite our best efforts to convince her otherwise, she wouldn't allow that bucket to come anywhere near her, and you know what?  She got better.

She had overcome The Tyranny of Buckets.

Roses and Rodys

My children were born healthy, and with all fingers and toes in place, my wife and I could not have been happier.  As is so often the case, we could not have been more mistaken.  While they may have been fine on the surface, they were born with delays and limitations the majority of people never have to face.  Sour grapes notwithstanding, I would not wish our children's challenges upon anyone.  Thankfully for me, my children have a mother who refused to accept anything short of a true resolution — even if it meant dragging their less-than-cooperative father along for the ride.

My son, for example, required occupational therapy.  Sensory overload was the norm for him, and he required feedback just to get by.  That's where the Rody comes into play.  Christmas at age two can be quite magical when Rody is involved.  He was beside himself.  Beyond bringing him endless joy, it provided the sensory input feedback he needed to help him cope with the world around him.  It also gave him core strength and coordination rarely seen at such a young age.  Unfortunately, he was a bit hard on his Rody and eventually popped him due to strenuous usage.  Thankfully, the makers of the Rody stand firmly behind their product and replaced him without balking ... though the replacement was a Racin' Rody, a different beast altogether.

He loved his Racin' Rody; his best friend.  He rode him everywhere and even made up songs about him, singing, "Racin' Rody! Racin' Rody! Racin' Racin' Rody!" all set to the tune of "Jingle Bells."  You can imagine my surprise when he approached me shortly after turning five, carrying his Racin' Rody under his arms instead of riding him.  As he is lifting his Racin’ Rody high enough so I can see him above the desk that was between us, he exclaimed, “his name is Biscuit!”

Apparently the fact that he had called this particular toy ‘Racin’ Rody’ for months was no longer relevant.  “Isn’t his name ‘Racin’ Rody?’” I asked him.

After a moment of thought, he responded with, “Uh, his name is ‘Racin’ Rody Biscuit!’”

Of course it is.