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.