DadCentric

Friday Fun: Star Wars Is 35 Years Old Today

 

35 years ago today, the original Star Wars debuted. If that makes you feel old, join the club. And if you've somehow managed to avoid seeing it, here's a summary.

Source

Grounded for Days and a Lifetime for the Lessons

Grounded

verb [ trans. ]
• (often be grounded) prohibit or prevent (a pilot or an aircraft) from flying : a bitter wind blew from the northeast, and the bombers were grounded.
• informal (of a parent) refuse to allow (a child) to go out socially as a punishment : he was grounded for hitting her on the head.

 ____________________

It happens. One minute the children are sweet and carefree, the sunshine of youth like a halo upon their hair, and then, just as you are lulled by cheerful song into long, lazy smiles, they turn on you. It's a fact. You can look it up.

Perhaps you are quick to anger. Perhaps you never do. You may talk and reason. You may spank. The options for addressing a child's negative behavior are as plentiful as they are personal, and like any heated issue it makes for compelling conversation at cocktail parties, especially after everyone has been drinking heavily (call a cab!).

I've dabbled here and there, trying to find what works best for my kids. I'm not big on punishment for the sake of punishment, but I do feel that certain behaviors need to be corrected and that, as a parent, it is my job to see that it happens. I tend to traffic more in consequences than castigation.

For instance, I recently wrote a piece about my son and the Jekyll to Hyde journey that his need for video games leads him down. It's not a pretty path, and frankly, it is unacceptable. There was a process, negotiations that broke down, and one day, when enough was enough, the video game system was taken away. He was grounded.

That was the easy part.

The hard part is the learning of lessons and determing whether or not such behavior has, or can be, corrected. The terms regarding the loss and return of his gaming system were simple, he will get it back when he is ready. He cannot earn it by chores (which is a whole different post), time served, or random stints of kindness. Rather, he needs to show that he can survive without the game and the trappings of it. He cannot whine and yell that he will no longer whine and yell. It's all so Kung Fu.

The concept is easy enough to grasp for an almost 9-year-old, but the practice is much harder. That doesn't change with age.

It is a far cry from the discipline I received as a child, which occasionally came at the end of the belt, but also included such outside the box thinking as the cutting of my hair (I had a sweet rattail in 8th grade, followed by an equally impressive mullet), taking down all of my KISS posters (my entire room was covered), and not being able to wear my purple Converse for an allotted period of time. I'm sure there were others.

While I applaud the attempts at originality, the restrictions, as they were called, rarely fit the crime. Basically, they were just things that I loved but really embarrassed my parents, and when they saw an opportunity to get rid of said things, they took it. Well played, Mom and Dad.

We, however, are striking at the source, and it does not embarrass me at all.

The grounding will pass in a matter of weeks. The lessons, I hope, will shape a lifetime.

There is something to learn for all of us.

This Memorial Day, Hug a Military Family

Monday is Memorial Day, the day our nation remembers those who died sacrificing their lives to protect our livelihood and freedom.

Some of those people were parents at the time; some never had the chance.

I am not a believer in going to war except under extreme circumstances, but I do believe in the people who are compelled to do their duty for our country every day so I can continue to have that opinion right here in the comfort of my home.

This weekend, keep in your thoughts: those who have served and who are still serving; those who gave their lives and those whose lives we'd want to witness again stateside, like our own DadCentric colleague and friend, Warren aka Mr. Big Dubya; and keep in your thoughts the families -- the parents, the spouses, the siblings and especially the children -- left behind to mourn or to wait.

So if you get the chance, hug a military family. They'll need it more than ever.

(WARNING: You will need a heart of stone and a case of tissue to get through more than a minute or two of this 10-minute compilation mostly of kids running into the arms of their military dads returning home from duty without tearing up.) 

Incisions

What happened was fairly straightforward; rugby is, after all, a no-bullshit game. Run straight, avoid the tackle, pass the ball, kick the ball, score. We were running a drill, four guys against two defenders, the object being to advance the ball and pass to the next guy before getting hammered. I got the first part right. While I was lying on the ground, screaming "FUCK" at the top of my lungs, my right knee exploding in pain, two things occured to me. One: this is what happens when your right foot is planted and a 200 pound guy runs into you - you go one way, your knee goes the other. The other: the sound your knee makes, as the ACL is being torn in two, is very similar to that sound you hear in your head when you accidentally bite into the cartilage on a chicken drumstick. That wet crunch.

****

The surgery did not go well.

I'm not sure how long it's supposed to take for one to wake up from anesthesia, but I'm pretty sure it's not three hours. 

What I remember: lying on the operating table, the doctor sticking something into my arm, waking up in the recovery room, throwing up in an impossibly small plastic bowl. My right knee encased in a massive bandage, my right leg sheathed in a plastic and metal brace. Run, Forrest, I think. There won't be any of that. Not for another six months. My right leg is now for all intents and purposes a useless thing, a blood-filled bag of bones and deflated muscles and shredded tissue hanging from my hip. I throw up again. And again. And again.

****

The Oxy they gave me wears off at about 3:00 each morning. The throbbing rousts me from chemical-fueled nightmares. I take some more and lie there, staring at the clock, grinding my teeth. 3:01. 3:02. 3:03. 

****

"How's your leg, Daddy?" It occurs to me that I'd written thousands of words about Lucas by the time he'd reached age four. I can probably count the number of posts I've written about her on one hand. How'd she'd get to be four? She's growing up. Which of course means that I'm growing old. She pats me on the hand. It's a strange affectation, and like so many things - her knowledge of Katy Perry lyrics, her ability to read words like "s'mores" - I wonder where she learned it. I give her a strained smile. "It's ok", I say. "Getting better." My right leg itches, like it's been injected with ants and they're still alive, desperately trying to chew their way out. 

 

And Then We Got A Puppy

Welcome, Dear Reader! It’s Animal Lovers’ Week* here at DadCentric! We’ve got frogs! We’ve got kittens! We’ve even got a pair of wolfmen, both of the bearded and soon-to-be-bearded varieties!

But what parenting blog’s Animal Lovers’ Week would be complete without that most heart-melting of all household beasts: The Puppy!

Look everybody! A puppy!

Meet George, the newest member of our family. We acquired him last week from the Austin Animal Center. They’re trying like hell to be a no-kill kind of shelter, so every now and then when their capacity reaches critical mass, they waive the adoption fees on animals over a year old. George here is just over that line, but still puppy enough that he captured the hearts and minds of my children with all the force of a military PSYOP campaign. 

And you can see why. Just look at that face, oh my goodness gracious, that’s just RIDICULOUS.

He is not, however, the only animal in our house - and no, I’m not referring to the Honey Badger. I’m referring to this proud fellow:

Nobility embodied

Elliott has been with us for eight years and is therefore the elder statesman of all the creatures under the care of my wife and I. He’s got a bit of white cropping up here and there in his black fur, but his enthusiasm for chasing cats and squirrels out of our back yard has waned not a lick. So when George arrived last Friday, one of my first thoughts after recovering from the puppy overdose was that Elliott not be forgotten, neglected, or otherwise given anything less than his loving due as the Boss Dog that he is. 

Of course, George’s first thought was humping Elliott’s face.  

Subverting The Princess Myth

Wow that's a heavy title. I should say up front that I make no claim to wisdom. Or street smarts, common sense, book learnin', or even being a good guesser. This is not a How To. Merely a hope to.

We have a little tiny princess at home. A fit in a walnut shell pocket princess. A "princess ballerina" as she puts it. Never a ballerina princess. Who wants to be princess of just ballerinas, I guess. 

I fought for a while against this princess crap. But the forces of the universe . . .oh, those forces. Mostly advertising, other little girls whose mothers seem to be all for the princess motif, and family members who either always wanted a little girl or who have Instagrammed their memories of their own girlhoods into hazy yellowed images of themselves as perfect princesses. Beautiful, graceful, loved and admired by all and wanted by every prince in the neighborhood. Precious few of our family members meet these criteria by the way.

These forces conspired against me to create the tiny being whose title suggests her great worth to the kingdom in years to come will be to marry a prince from a kingdom equally as or even more powerful than our own. Thus bringing honor to our house. Also, if you believe most of what you see, she won't be able to do shit for herself when she's in danger or captured or in danger of being captured.

So I went to work. I started telling her new stories. Stories about princesses who faced down witches, defeated dragons, knew martial arts, and worked at steel mills or as firefighters. Stories about princesses who liked dirt and spiders. Stories about a princess who constantly had to ride (or fly or teleport depending on the setting) to the rescue of her younger brother, the prince. There are even times when this terribly young and diminutive princess has to bail out her entirely too trusting and incompetent family. 

Sometimes the princess is caught unawares and captured and has to think her way out. Other times it's straight up, mano-a-mano princess on witch magic fisticuffs.

From there we took on real life. Times when she was frightened I would ask if she was a princess. She always says yes. Then we'd talk about how princesses are brave. How bravery means doing the things that scare you. Or we'd talk about how princesses are noble. How they help others who need it and how they never ever bully. It seemed to take, at least with her little brother. He loves to dress up as a princess and he looks great in a dress. Not what I was aiming for originally, but you know, beggars can't be choosers.

I think, or maybe I just hope, that it's taking with her too. At the last parent teacher conference, her teacher told me that a boy in my daughter's class tried to cut another kid in line, and that she told him to cut the shit. Or words to that effect.

When she talks about being a princess she is often a terrible beautiful princess full of bravery and wrath and more than a little nit of bossiness. All will love her, and despair. 

We keep working, all the time. We talk about how being a princess means being able to do things for yourself. It means being being independent. It means being compassionate. It means being brave. It means trying new things, speaking up for yourself, and speaking up for others. It means not waiting for someone else to make things better but trying to make things better on your own. A lot of times, it means being a lot like her mother.

We've got a long way to go, I know. We don't even have to deal with potential Prince Charmings yet. I'm hoping when that day comes they'll find that the princess they're chasing is part dragon, part warrior,and all her own person. A king can dream. 

 

Source 

Single Dad Vs. The Kittens

On a recent trip to the mall, my daughter dragged me into a pet store so we could "look at the animals."

I know.  Bad idea.  Bad idea all over the place.

But she really wanted to go in.  She was getting her nose prints on the store window.  It was clear that this was going to happen.  So before we crossed the threshold, I made sure she understood the big picture.

"We are not getting a pet," I told her.

"I know.  Let's go in!"

"No, seriously.  We are not leaving this store with any living creature.  It's important that you come to terms with that."

"I know we're not getting anything, you told me a million times already!"

We spent a couple more minutes establishing our context before we went inside.  She swore she just wanted to look at cats, and if we went in, she promised she wouldn't whine about wanting one.  I also made her promise she'd stop leaving her dirty clothes on the bathroom floor all the time, and take care of me when I got old.

Something important to note here: it had been about nine months since I'd taken on the role of Single Dad.  So I wanted to believe I was getting over the initial guilt, and feeling better about telling the child No again.  I felt strong enough to resist The Pet Store Challenge.

And then we went in.

Have you ever seen a kid physically overcome by cuteness overload?  Picture it: a 10-year-old girl suddenly finds herself surrounded by little puffy, floppy-pawed, snuffly nosed animals so adorable that she goes into paroxysms.  It's not pretty. 

As we walked around the pet store, her cooing at everything furry behind plexiglass and me trying fruitlessly to steer her towards the fish, one of the employees came up and asked if my daughter wanted to enter the little fenced off corral in the middle of the store, where there ten kittens were rolling around, mewling, and snuggling with each other.

The saleswoman literally crouched down and asked my daughter, "How would you like five minutes of cuddle time with the kitties?"

Clearly, the woman should be fired.

I mean, I understand the store is is a business.  And obviously, this right here is how they probably made 90% of their sales.  Through Cuteness and Parental Weakness.  Still.  This was just freakin' unfair.

The salesperson/Emotional Blackmailer took my daughter into the Corral of Cuteness, where they kept all their most fuzzy-wuzzy-precious-sweetie-pies.  Their ringers.

I watched as the saleswoman handed my daughter one kitten after another, each one sweeter than the last.  The little calico one with the spot on its nose.  The black one with the extra big puddy tat paws.  The playful stripy one that fits right in the palm of ones hand.  They nuzzled, mewed plaintively, each one enchanting my daughter and speaking volumes:  Pweese Wuv me?  Pweeeese take me home?  I could practically hear Sarah McLachlan singing that Angel song from that SPCA commercial.

A second saleswoman came up and stood next to me.  We looked into the Cuteness Corral, at my daughter who was being gang-nuzzled by all the kittens.  "Those kids," she said brightly, "they sure do love those little kitties, don't they?"

Oh, don't play innocent with me, you diabolical vendor of the beast.  You think I don't know what's happening here?

But as I watched my girl frolic with the kittens, I couldn't help but think about the transition she'd had to make over the past several months, going from life with two parents under the same roof, to a life with separate homes, splitting her stuffed animals into two different bedrooms, week-by-week trade-offs, all of it.  Not to mention the fact that school had been getting a little tougher, and girls were getting a little meaner.  This past year had not been an easy one for my daughter.

But at that moment, she looked so blissfully happy with a little kitten in her arms.  So very, very content... such a sweet expression on her face...

No!  NO, I say!  Damn you, kittens!  Damn you, Sarah McLachlan!

Finally, my girl emerged from the corral after extracting herself from the kittens.  I did my best to remain stone-faced.  No matter how much she begs or pleads, stay firm.  No cat.  Do not feel guilty.  She will be fine without a cat.  It will NOT be an issue she brings up with her future therapist in twenty years.

 "Those kittens were so totally cute!" she said.

I nodded.  Bracing myself.

"They smell a little weird, though.  And the lady said that if a cat misses the litter box when they pee, the smell never goes away, like ever."

I nodded again, vigorously.

And with that, and nary a pleading word, she skipped off towards the front of the store.  "Can we go to Claire's next?  They have bracelets!"

Whew.  Bullet dodged.  I don't know why or how I got out of it, but I was grateful.  Still am.  But there's always the next time.  There's a Humane Society pet shelter just down the street.  And this whole guilt thing may not go away for a while.

 

The Frog

I often take the three children outside during dinner preparation.  The hope is that they'll work up an appetite and be ready for bed a couple hours later.  

Today during this ritual, one of them spotted something on the handrail.

Owen (3):  Daddy, look!  A frog! 
Maddie (5):  WAIT!  It could be poisonous! 
Owen:  That's why I'm going to grab it with this leaf.
Me (36):  Don't mess with it.  Just look, okay? 

Maddie:  Is it a frog or a toad?
Me:  Well, does it look more like an amphibian or a reptile?
Maddie: 
Me:  Is its skin smooth or rough?
Owen:  It's smooth!  And slimy!
Me:  I thought I said not to touch it!  Don't hurt the little guy...just...watch.

Lola (2):  Daddy!  A frog!  A frog!

Lola:  Froggy! 

This little creature hanging onto our handrail entertained my three youngest for a good 45 minutes this evening.  And while I spent the first several minutes wondering if the boy would kill this little visitor in front of his two sisters, for the other 40+ minutes, I actually enjoyed the simple pleasure of seeing children discover that their little world included frogs.  And despite knowing that such entertainment is going to be gradually replaced by the sordid types of tomfoolery in which I engaged in elementary school (often involving fire), I'm happy to postpone such for as long as possible.  For now, at least.

Bruce Jenner--Hero to Emasculated Dads Everywhere

I should preface this by admitting that I have never watched "Keeping Up with the Kardashians," and Bruce Jenner has crossed my mind maybe five times since 1976, the year I pulled off several wins in track events at the Cub Scout Olympics, which I attribute, along with my hairstyle at the time, to Jenner's inspiration.

All I know about the former Olympian is that he has become something of a joke: currently cast as an impotent, surgically altered father figure in a family of women who are famous for being attractive, horrible, and famous.  Did I get that right?

So, how did Esquire magazine end up naming him father of the year?  And why in May?  I'm guessing "creating buzz with a counter-intuitive headline" and "because it's sort of near Father's Day," respectively.

The Esquire article, by Chris Jones, is actually called The Strange Thing about Bruce Jenner, and it's worth a read.  It paints Jenner as a man who has given up, and is not the least bit bitter about it.  "On the show," Jones writes, "Jenner can seem emasculated, as though his testicles are in a jar somewhere, along with the rest of his former presence, this once-proud man drowning in a sea of estrogen and petty humiliations. He can seem that way because that's essentially what he is."  In other words, Jenner has become literally selfless.  He has given up on competition in any form, and is content just to drive the two youngest girls (the only ones that are biologically his) to school and play with his RC helicopters.  At the same time, all the women in the household speak of him warmly, referring to him as "strong," and assigning him the dubious honor of the family's moral center.

The Beard

Some grow their beard for battle.

Some grow their beard for luck.

I'm growing a beard as part of the great DNRRDBSP.