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.

Ridiculous Enjoyment

The standards we cling to for enjoyment are often established at home, as we grow up.  You seek out the models that were provided as a child in an attempt to cling to what feels normal.  If your home was full of warmth and happiness, you probably have come to expect that in your adult life, as you should.  If your home was a dearth of such things, you may have encountered challenges as you blindly attempted to navigate society, as was the case for me.  Seeking happiness and fulfillment in life sounds simple enough, but what if you never learned how?  Top-level competitors are taught fundamentals before they excel, not after.  Can you play a game well, before knowing the rules?

Perhaps I say this too much, but my children have truly taught me so much.  They have taught me the meaning of kindness and unconditional love.  They have taught me patience and understanding.  They have also taught me that food that looks odd can be odd without any set definition; there is no one-size-fits-all standard.  For example, one food may be disliked because it's slimy or slippery or because of a certain color, all while wolfing down food that also fits this wholly inexact standard from the same plate because it's their favorite.  The logic of a child with a single-digit age surprises me regularly, and pleasantly.

When my daughter was seven, we were able to use an unexpected windfall to purchase iPads for our children for Christmas — a decision I have never regretted.  A modern tablet is engaging and educational, and my children have fun, all while learning to navigate modern technology the same way I learned to ride a bike.  My children read more, and are challenged to improve their critical thinking skills when outcomes are not as expected.

iPads also provide a means to stream videos on a personalized level with endless apps and services.  Although my children do not fully understand the concept of servers and streaming, they understand how to function within that environment — similar to how I learned to use a television around the same age.  When the iPads still had that new-car-smell, my children were consumed by the discovery phase, determined to learn everything they could, frequently inviting us to share in their enthusiasm.

It was during this phase that my daughter was watching the Wallace and Gromit show when my she turned to her mother and said, "Mama!  I love these shows!  Thank you for putting them on my iPad!  They're ridiculous!"

Of course they are.

To borrow from Maya Angelou, "people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

The Paradox of Cheese

Fatherhood often involves the unforeseen.  Record keeping and documentation come to mind, and no, I'm not talking about county records, insurance, SSA, or any other live-birth paperwork that you will have to deal with as those ought to fall firmly within the realm of the foreseen.  What I'm talking about are keepsakes and memories.

Perhaps you have always had a quality video and/or still camera on hand and this never really applied to you, but for those who can relate, this is an issue worth revisiting.  Since smartphones weren't ubiquitous at the time my children were born, I had neither a quality still nor a quality video camera.  While I had a digital camera that took wonderful 1.3 megapixel still pictures, I was without a capable video-capture solution.  To make matters worse, I rarely carried my snapshot digital camera anywhere with me because, like all digital cameras from circa 2001, it burned through batteries, had limited storage, and was kind of bulky — in short, it was inconvenient.

Regardless of the lies we tell ourselves, convenience usually wins the day over substance.  In my case, convenience came in the form of my inadequate cellphone camera — which was about as useful as backseats in a Camaro: barely sufficient, even in a pinch.  Consequently, there are no videos of my children's first moments of life.  I do have pictures that (unsurprisingly) have not aged well at all, which only serves to further compound my regret.

Determined to find a solution, I believed I had found it in a video camera (camcorder).  I saved up money and pooled resources from my in-laws and we were able to purchase a nice, high-end camcorder for my wife's birthday.  I share this experience because it gives me an opportunity to lament one of the worst — if not THE worst — electronics purchases I have ever made.  Talk about inconvenient!  While it took decent still pictures and DVD grade video with seemingly unlimited storage, it was still bulky and had an incredibly limited battery.  Thankfully, my wife used it from time to time despite these shortcomings, but it never became her default option (not even at home), mostly because it didn't fit in her pocket.

Convenience still rules the day and despite the low quality of early generation cellphone cameras, most of my children's best moments were captured with this particular item because it was always available.  It was never hard to find and (conveniently) always charged, making it ideal to capture moments of spontaneity.  It was at that moment I realized the solution to my problem: invest into a cell phone with the best possible camera.  This may not seem like much in today's day and age when practically everyone has a smartphone with a decent built-in camera, but back then, it was an epiphany.  I purchased the best smartphone my carrier had available at my next opportunity, which is something I treasure to this day because I have priceless, irreplaceable, high-quality images and videos of my children's lives from that moment forward as a result.

Unfortunately, what started as a necessity has turned into a bit of an obsession.  Perhaps we now take too many pictures, because my son's response to when we call his name is "cheese" more often than not.  He's frequently correct in assuming that is what we want, so it's hard for me to be too critical of him.  

On Easter Sunday when my son was five, he was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table in our living room, just in front of the chair I was sitting in, focused on his spoils from the day.  He was so focused, he was hesitant to provide me with anything but a profile view of his right side.  My second attempt to get his attention was more assertive, prompting him to turn to me and say, "cheese," simultaneously flashing his trademark "photo" grin only to see I was not trying to take his picture, and instead had something to discuss.  

Naturally, it was a funny moment for us, but what made it memorable was how my son reacted.  He knew he had made a social goof and was embarrassed by it.  Compounding the issue was our uncontrollable laughter and amusement — which only served to embarrass him further.  He covered his face with his hands, but that would not suffice, so he resorted to lifting the couch cover and burying his entire head, refusing to resurface until all the laughter had died out.

Poor guy.  So this is what it's like to be socially aware. 

The Donation Pile

One of the most alarming patterns I have noticed since joining the fatherhood fraternity has been the prevalence of repetition.  Far too often, we fall back on what we know because it's familiar, yet many never bother to question why.  As parents, my wife and I have done all we can to break the cycles our parents saddled us with.  Regardless of whether we are discussing abuse, bad habits, or inefficiency, we have no desire to pass down the failings of previous generations to our children.

My father was born before America entered the second world war, and he was raised by Depression Era parents who believed things should never be thrown away unless they were completely beyond repair.  While this approach served 1930s America very well, my father took this approach to its logical end, which bordered on clinical hoarding.  He could talk himself into keeping something indefinitely, since it might someday serve the ever useful role of providing "spare parts."  As a result, my household growing up was full of a lot of stuff — but stuff that was mostly junk, covered in dust, and in need of repairs that often cost more than a replacement.

Consequently, when clutter as a result of outgrown toys and clothes reaches a tipping point, we designate items for donation.  We prefer to allow our children to make these choices themselves, though we help them along — and by "we," I mean my wife helps them along, since she has a better idea of the toys they don't play with and the clothes that no longer fit.

During one of these donation days, I overheard my eight-year-old daughter lecturing her six-year-old brother as she was cleaning out her closet and deciding which toys she would like to keep and which toys needed to be purged:

“You don’t understand!"  She advised him with a mixture of indignation and exasperation.  "There are kids out in the world that are orphans and they don’t have nice toys like I do!”

I suppose not.  

A little later (post lecture), I overheard her again, this time talking to the toys in the donate pile with sincere melancholy:

“I’m very sorry to all of you who are being donated.”

Of course you are ... and so are your toys.