The Fun You Can Have With a Camera, a Green Screen, Some Sound FX...and no script

I made this :30 second mock ad with the boys last summer. 

You should see the stuff we left out!

The Pitter Pat of 16 Tiny Feet.

Dogs have been an integral part of my life since boyhood and especially since I met Tish. In fact we met because our puppies got entangled in front of my house one day. Actually, it goes back further. I rented that house because they allowed dogs. Doggy destiny if ever there was one. None of that cute little tale prepared me for the canine onslaught to come.

For the past 20 years we’ve had as many as six dogs at a time all living in the house. Right now we have four Australian Shepherds. I’ve had hot and cold relationship with them, the constant noise level on one end and loving to cuddle and watch them interact with each other at the other, the constant attention they need, the never quite sleeping attention they give. Tish adores them and because of them she’s become a professional canine behavior specialist.

But, man, what a learning curve. Constant noise, dog fights, dog bites, puke and dirty dog yards. A bed full of animals while we slept, a sofa crammed with fur, lapping tongues and noses when we hang out. Then there’s the floor covered with them constantly around our feet like a flock of sheep. Getting in synch with them wasn’t easy. There’s a rhythm to living with dogs to keep your own sanity and to keep them getting along in the house. Some of them never get along. I’ve torn up my share of fights and Tish has a constant fresh bite on one hand or the other from dogs at work. I remember once holding one high in the air while another hung on by her teeth, both of them suspended off the ground. It was like trying to pull taffy apart. That is, if taffy screamed and squirmed and bit and bled. We have a series of gates around the house to separate them when they don’t get along or one is in heat. Walking through our house is like prep for a hurdle race. Always lifting a leg over a barrier and opening others. If they had a hurdle event where you jump them while carrying two hot dinners and a beer, I’d win the Olympics.

So here we are all these years later and I’ve finally found my place with the dogs. Often, I’ve had one special dog that was mine alone and right now that dog is Bunnie. She’s a sweetheart of a pup but overprotective of me. That’s my fault and our resident canine expert tells me I need to do something about it. I agree totally but with all the other things going on in this house, who has time to train a dog, too?

Enter the grandsons and talk about a whirl of activity all the time. Kit likes the dogs the most, Tio the least. Doc sees them as background noise. Background, my left eye! They bark when a car goes by, they bark and jump when someone comes home, they bark at the wind blowing and they bark at each other. I don’t mean a pleasant little woof, either. I mean a cacophony of slathering, roof raising ruckus that dulls the senses and makes hearing anything else in life someone else’s enjoyment. “Be quiet!” “Shut UP!” “Leave it!” “Go lie down.” all join in as part of the chant to bring the total decibel level up to four dogs yapping and a group of humans yapping back.

I actually do love the whacked out beasts. Some days more than others but they’re definitely an important part of the insanity in our lives. Someday’s I do wonder what a quiet retiring life might be like. Tish has dreams of building a yurt on an undisclosed location that she and I can get away to.

I bet she’d want to bring the dogs.

Great Expectations

I think things are getting better for Buddy. He’s had a rough ride the past few years for a whole host of reasons and moving in here with the boys wasn’t easy on him, either. I’ve mentioned in a couple of posts how he's had trouble coping with schedules, keeping up with the kids, chores, and being a overwhelmed with parenthood. When they first moved in Tish and I took charge of the kids because their relationship with Buddy was out of control. They refused to do anything he said without a fight and his day’s off with them were a holy war, on steroids. Doc whined and groveled, Kit kicked and screamed, and Tio swore a blue streak of obstinacy. Cut to eleven months later and the kids have settled down considerably. They know the routine, know what is expected each day and as a result treat each other better and treat him better as well. He gets home in time to put Doc to bed as often as he can and Kit isn’t always picking a fight with him.

I think the kids started easing up before he came around to adapting himself. It’s been as tough on him as it was on them except that as an adult, he’s expected to cope and ‘make it work’ all on his own, which is never easy when you’re up to your nose in water and have only ever expected things to get worse all your life. But with everything going more smoothly, he’s adjusting his routine to better fit this life, his expectations of himself and the kids and us, and he’s starting more to feel a part of what’s going on. He contributes more time to the house and I think he’s even sleeping better - which says a lot for an insomniac.

For the first few months he felt like he was on the outside looking in. The world changed so fast last January. Tish and I took on the lion’s share of parenting while he tried to land on his feet and for a while he wondered if he was being pushed out. Not a chance. We want him participating as fully as he can manage. This whole big experiment will only succeed if all three adults share the load and it looks like that might happen. He’s Dad, after all, and that’s a central role in the boy’s lives, no matter how bumpy the relationships are.

Here’s hoping that life for Buddy can be a thing to look forward to day by day instead of just one trauma after another filled with constant disappointment. That would be a great Christmas gift to send him into the new year with.

Doc Finally Tore the Envelope

I had to finally come down on Doc for swearing today. All the threats and even soap in his mouth didn’t do it. Mostly because I can’t get his older brothers to stop and he’s imitating them. He finally went one time too many over the line and I had no choice but to get serious. I sent him to bed without a story. Through silent tears, he put on his pull-up and brushed his teeth. We marched downstairs to bed as solemnly as a condemned man on his way to the gallows. There was no fight, no fuss, just quiet sniffs and face buried in his blankie.

I kissed him goodnight and left. We always have 3 stories at bed. I put on accents to read them and we giggle through it all. I like it as much as he does. So does Buddy on the nights he’s home.

Man, did I feel like a heel. I hope he learned his lesson because I sure did.

Black Friday - Let the Games Begin!

This will be our first Christmas with the boys living here since 2004. It’s time to introduce them to the giving end of Christmas. I told Tio and Kit that they need to buy or make gifts for family members this year and I’m setting aside their allowances for the next few weeks so they won’t spend it on themselves in the meantime.

When I was 7 my parents told me I should give gifts to my siblings. I only got 10 cents allowance and I saved up for 2 or 3 weeks before Christmas and got a box of 6 yellow pencils which was just enough for everyone to get one. After the first two were unwrapped and the third one looked suspiciously long and thin, everyone caught on and made a big deal about wondering what it was. “Maybe it’s puzzle?” “I think mine is slippers!” “You got me a peashooter!”. It really did make it special for me to see them enjoy the gifts. The year we all got pencils became part of our family story.

Today, the three boys and I went window shopping just to scope out what they might be able to get for everyone.  I described ways they could make a couple of bucks go a long way. At first they looked at what they wanted for themselves, then we looked over some really inexpensive stuff at the party store. We came away with some good ideas and had some fun.

An important tradition we have in our family is to give away to local charity an equal amount to what we spend on gifts. During the years that we don’t have much, we divide our gift giving budget in half so that half will make it to the soup kitchen, red cross, or other worthwhile organization. With all of us here, this will be one of those years. I will ask the boys if they will each donate a dollar or two from their allowance for charity as well in the spirit of helping those who have less.

Gift giving, sharing with family, celebrating the birth of Christ, all mixed together with the incessant seasonal hubbub can make the meaning of Christmas complicated and overwhelming for kids. I’m looking forward to making this a Christmas we’ll all remember.

Happy Thanksgiving, Everyone! From the Whole Gang...

'Maddie the big red blog.' -- Kit's first blog

Maddie is just a year in a half and yet already taller then the other 3 dogs. Sence she's a baby she does what most human baby's do, chew on everything they can get there hands/paws/ and teeth on. She is so curious that we have to close our bathroom door four all the dogs especially her,shell drink the tolit water,yuck. Tish my grandmother always takes Maddie to work.I thaink we should call Maddie Clifford because she is a big red dog or beast.

Who’s Really Wearing the Size 42 Shoes and Shiny Red Nose?

Kit came home from visiting his mother and said she wants me to post on the blog that she thinks I’m a bozo. There you go, Debbie. Enjoy.

She got him quite riled up telling him all sorts of lies about this blog while refusing to let him read it. He came home in a huff thinking I’d been making stuff up about her side of his family. I guess she doesn’t know I don’t keep secrets from Kit. He and I read the blog together at the end of every week. We hadn’t got to it before their visit this time, a problem I’ll remedy before he goes again. After we read through it, he was very confused. He couldn’t understand why his mom would lie to him. It was a betrayal of his trust and I was sorry to shatter it. She gave me no choice. I couldn’t have him frightened and angry about something that was completely false. This is the second time he’s come back from her needlessly wound up about this blog. We read it aloud then, too, and he agreed that there isn’t anything untrue or even exaggerated in what I write. He likes it. He had to conclude that his mom made stuff up and it gave him bad dreams.

I wish she wouldn’t use the children as bullets to fire at people she doesn’t like. I don’t care if she dislikes me. But that’s no reason to take it out on her son. Her problems aren’t his fault. Quite the reverse. She told the poor kid that she would use the blog in family court as some sort of evidence against us. Evidence of what I can’t imagine, which makes it laughable to an adult but frightened him because he’s 9 and it’s over his head.

I can understand her being angry that the kids were taken away from her but I agree totally with why Child Services did it. It was long past due. I had nothing to do with the troubles she’s brought upon herself and these children, and yet we’ve sacrificed everything to help them start a better life. Our retirement funds, our house, any chance of a peaceful lifestyle, and the next how ever many years it takes are now given over to them. Meanwhile, she took a job out of state and won’t tell Buddy or the boys where it is so she can avoid paying child support.

It’s time for us all to pitch in and make life better for the boys. That’s what families should do for each other - on both sides. If believing that makes me a clown, so be it.

"What time is it?" - Tio's First Post

Grampy is right. I mean it's wrong to disagree with the man in charge... right? But if I keep getting the same answer in my head, when I forget to do something now and again..... I always get, "But I will" it doesn't seem to work anymore. Not that it was an exuse, it really wasn't. I said it because I mean it... but I get it... the chores, my timing for certant things, it's all very easy to remember. But exactly when I use my time... I forget all about the freakin’ thing. It's a real problem because there's a way to remember it without forgeting it at the last second. It's hard for me to remember. Other stuff, yup perfect, there's no time limit for the computer so there's no hassle. But I mean c'mon! Seriously! It's not that hard. I agree with Grampy, but Ijust don't know why I can't remeber my job.
This is Tio.... Peace.

The Witch’s Daughter

A couple of years ago, I was climbing our tree fort with Kit. He was six or seven. We were playing with our dolls. He had some Barbies and I had a Sally doll from Nightmare Before Christmas. We were thinking about writing a story and, to get us started I asked what he'd call his story. He said 'The Witch's Daughter'.

I loved the idea then and I still love it. As a writer, there are so many angles to what you could do with a concept like this. Imagine the witch's daughter going to school, her gingerbread house off the beaten track, an outcast because of her mom. This could be a picture book or a novel. How about the witch's daughter as a teen torn between her mom's life and the village life. Would she protect her mom from the torch wielding mob or join them because of peer pressure? Imagine the middle aged woman dealing with her young life in therapy after being raised under the shadow of her mother's wicked life. Of course, there is the version where she is an acolyte into the world of witches, either ala Samantha Stevens or a dark tale of being inducted into the world of evil.

There are so many richly complex notions in this one title that I almost wish I wrote magic tales instead of science fiction. Of course, he didn’t have any idea what to do with it. After all, he was only six, but he liked the idea and it was his.

It’s great watching a young imagination develop.

The Most Common Word in the English Language.

I always thought that ‘THE’ was the most used word in English with ‘E’ being the most common letter. I think I learned that from Scrabble or Sherlock Holmes. Turns out I was wrong. (And so was Holmes, for that matter!)

Trapped in the car with the three stooges on our way to Walmart it came to me in a flash. ‘Grampy’ is by far the most common word.

“Grampy, can I have....”
“Grampy, what time is it...”
“Grampy, I don’t understand this...”
“Grampy, I’m bored...”
“Grampy, what‘s for supper...”
“Grampy, he’s saying things...”

Some of you might think that perhaps ‘Mom’ or ‘Nana’ or some such gets far more use. Well...we’ll just have to differ on that.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

When I was a kid I lived inside my daydreams. They were so vivid and so much a part of my life that if I ever write an autobiography, it’ll be from my daydream perspective. At eight, I was a secret agent driving a Jaguar XKE, a superhero named Fantam, and a half inch high adventurer. By 10, I owned a famous nightclub where I saved world leaders from international counterfeiters. In middle school, I safely crash landed a sabotaged airplane with all my classmates aboard on a desert island where we all lived for a year before being rescued. By the time I finished high school I’d flown a balloon solo around the world, traveled the entire solar system, and invented an undersea helicopter. It was a busy life and cost me a public school education by the time I finally turned to the real world.

Tio and Kit sing. Both of them. They hum and sing aloud without even noticing. I never thought much about this when I only saw them for a few hours a week or an overnight twice a month but it was constant. Living with them this past summer became difficult, not because they were noisy, messy kids who needed attention and were underfoot all day long, but because they were always singing. Every minute of every day. When they weren’t talking they were singing over each other, with each other, and at each other. It drove me out of my wits, invading my brains so thoroughly that I couldn’t think. Literally could not think. I had to ban them from the upstairs living room if they were going to sing. “Do it downstairs, outside, or in your own head, just not here.” Wanting to stay upstairs with me they tried to stop, but failed. By the end of summer, they had at least learned to recognize they were doing it and had some success in controlling it. After school started I learned from their teachers that they both disrupted the class with their singing and humming. Fortunately, by that point they’d come far enough to curb it in school and they’re much better at home.

As the summer drew to a close, I was starting to formulate a theory about why they do this. It’s an avoidance mechanism. Humming fills your thoughts with a distraction so that thinking about and being involved in real events around you become less vivid, less real. It occurred to me that my daydreaming had was the same thing: a way to avoid the troubles in my world. An entire childhood spent living in a fog seemed a matter of choice to me before. But looking back I could see that I desperately wanted to avoid the troubles in my family, my fears at school, and a world too large for me.

The proof of this came in car rides. I would tell Tio to be quiet saying, “Let’s talk. Tell me stuff, ask questions, whatever.” After a few moments of quiet, he’d start divulging horror stories about the drug abuse and misbehavior that went on in his former home and life. The silence was an ipecac that churned ugly and frightening thoughts up from the sub of his conscious. We talked about them without judgement so he could relate them without fear of retaliation, so that they could go their own way and he could move on with his life.

There’s still a lot hidden inside those heads, camouflaged by song and other mind games we all protect ourselves with. I guess as a writer and former daydreamer I have plenty still stuck to the bottom of my own cauldron that I dare not dredge up. I don’t want to force the boys to face their fears but I know it will be healthier for them when they do.

Can’t Live With Them...

Tio came to me yesterday with a problem. “Grampy?” he said with worry in his voice, “I don’t know what to do.” We sat down and I asked what the trouble was. He was serious, perplexed, and at odds. “There are two girls at school who want to go out with me. What should I do? Which one should I pick?”

Hmmmmm.
Tio’s been a ladies man since he was in first grade. He always had a ‘girlfriend’ in his mind or on the line. Every year there was a string of female classmates that he fancied and every year he got them to “go out” with him or shoot him down, which he always took graciously enough. The first day of school when he moved back into our town last midyear he came home and told me he had one picked out. She shot him down three days later.

I was just like him from first grade on, too. I was always in love with one girl or another in my class. Except for me my relationship with the girl in question was entirely imaginary. I daydreamed all sorts of fantastic adventures I’d have with a pigtailed blonde or brunette in tights and bangs on my are while we rescued the school from fires, intruders, or traveled the world after diamond smugglers. I never dared to actually talk with them. That would be suicide. Nuh Uhn.

Not our Tio. He never had a problem telling a girl he likes her and now that he’s reached the age of 12 and adolescence is just over the crest, things may start to get more serious. Right away I thought of a great William Steig cartoon from the 1930's where a 12 year old boy has a girl his age backed against the malt shop window, he with a mischievous glint in his eye and her in doubtful anticipation. The boy says, “I don’t buy dames chocolate malteds for nuttin’, y’know.” I suddenly saw Tio in that picture and it made me smile. He’s going to be a heartbreaker. Ladies beware.

I looked him in the eye and gave him my sage advice for the day. “If only I had been so lucky to have your problem.”

When You’re Full of Beans...

Last night we ate “alfredo au poulet maison” and “haricots au beurre faux et la muscade” (For the layman that’s homemade chicken alfredo and beans with margarine and nutmeg - but doesn’t it sound so tasty en francais?). The kids gobbled it up and I put it on the list for something to make again. After supper they wanted to raid their dad’s stash of peanut butter fudge swirl ice cream. Buddy has to put his name on it or it gets swallowed whole on the first day it lands in the freezer. Since he wasn’t home from work yet, we debated and in the end they each got a small bowl.

Kit brought his empty bowl over to the sink and said. “Mmmmm. I sure do love Dad’s cooking.”

“Me, too,” I replied.

Just Do It and Shut Up.

I got several responses to yesterday’s blog with multiple suggestions on how to get kids to their chores and keep up their basic hygiene. It always seems to come down to a combo of carrot and stick. Take away this privilege, offer a treat over there, ground ‘em, deny them, plead with them or, what the kid is hoping for all along...forget it altogether and let them got to school with caked teeth, dirty clothes and a bedroom that makes a boys locker room seem cleaner than the lobby of the Ritz Carleton in comparison.

The problem for me is that I’ve traveled this road before and I was hoping to tread new ground. As parents, we pushed and tugged Buddy around so much to get him to fit in that we were all exhausted by the end. His sister was totally unmotivated and going through the dance with her was no picnic, either. But as grampy I have a different relationship with the boys to begin with and have been hoping that we might bypass a certain amount of the usual animosity and angst that goes along with pushing kids around to do what they’re told.

Alas and alack, that hasn’t worked out so well. Thus the frustration described in yesterday’s post. They trust me and listen to what I tell them. But that doesn’t stop them from deciding which bits to ignore and which to accept. This isn’t just about brushing teeth and getting the trash out. But they aren’t capable of seeing how those things connect to earning respect to be trusted to maybe stay out later, pick their own time to do homework, have unmonitored internet time, etc.. Silly me, I tried to skip this step. However, trust and honesty don’t come easy to kids who’ve been lied to and betrayed all their lives so there’s no real surprise here.

Still, I’m not going to give up on it. I’ll just have to use the combo treatments we all employ as well as reason and logic. At least, I’ll get the garbage out on time.


NB: I changed the settings so anyone can post comments on the blog. Please feel free to participate.

Mutual Cooperation = Mutual Respect

I’m trying out a new formula for getting Tio to understand the importance of keeping his end of a bargain. We’ve been butting heads over him not doing his chores or letting down his end of a deal and expecting privileges anyway. I’m tired of a A grade student who can’t seem to follow simple instructions about TV and video game time, cleaning up after himself and then keeps asking me to explain it all over again every time he drops the ball.

I said, “If you behaved this dumb in football practice, Coach would throw you off the team. If you were this thick in math class, you’d be in summer school. This stuff is remedial and you know it. You can’t treat me like I’m an idiot, or like you want me to think you’re an idiot..”
He agreed he was being lazy and at least that got us off that mark.

I wrote down the following formula: Mutual Cooperation = Mutual Respect. “Do you know what that means?” He said no. I wasn’t surprised, though I should have been because we’ve been over it and over it. I explained that if we do what each other expects, we won’t fight and we’ll respect each other. Easy as that. His expectation of me is to have access to video games, get an allowance, get driven all over the planet to friends, sports, and whatever. My expectation of him is a set amount of vid/TV, do homework & reading, take out the trash, and make a bed. Oh, and while your at it could you brush your teeth a couple of times a day.

He’s already broken the deal. I can’t really decide if it’s simply laziness or if the concept of mutual trust is over his emotional abilities. Some children understand respect instinctively, others take a long time to get there. The report card he brought home yesterday with the A’s and “Outstanding” up and down the line makes me think he understands the concept. I just don’t think he understand why it should apply to him..

Unfortunately, understanding moral and behavioral concepts is more than an intellectual exercise.

What’s Up With Doc?

I should tell you a bit more about Doc. We call him that because he loves Bugs Bunny and “What’s Up Doc?” was one of the first phrases we got him to say clearly.
When he came here at 4 ½ he was still in diapers full time, his speech was way underdeveloped so he could barely pronounce consonants and his social skills were lagging. That didn’t mean he was a slow thinker or not a nice boy. He just hadn’t been exposed to or taught anything. I sure didn’t want to be unloading his shorts day and night so within 3 weeks he was toilet trained for keeps. Next, we worked with the preschool’s speech therapist and started insisting at home that he enunciate the words he was trying to say instead of garble them all together one long string of vowels. We really pushed it through the spring and summer and now, 9 months later, his speech is reaching kindergarten level. We hope that the trend stays good so he’ll be ready for first grade next fall.

He’s really a great kid. He likes to be with other kids, he chatters endlessly and repeats questions until the end of time. On the downside, he’s borderline compulsive obsessive and it take him a long time to get comfortable in new surroundings. No surprise there because he spent his first couple of years moving around more than Mayflower Inc.. Both his brothers have moved so many times in their lives I doubt they know all the places they’ve called home for a day.

I’ve read studies that correlate low income, less educated families directly to underdeveloped children and that the better the education the parents have the better chance at learning the kids have. That’s certainly been the case with these boys. Their parents struggled to make ends meet and have lagged on the income/education curve. But they both grew up in families with education and chose not to pursue higher learning, and limiting their options for higher earning. So what is it that makes them fall smack into the middle of this trend? Surely, they know helping their kids from an early age is beneficial, that working with the school only enhances their child’s chances, that involving themselves in every step towards early comprehension pays off in spades.

Yet Doc is a perfect example of a boy poised to fall through the cracks through no fault of his own. The schools in this country are collapsing under the weight of being too many things for our children. They can’t be police, social workers, parents, and teachers all rolled into one. First because we can’t afford it, and second because it doesn’t work.

I know today’s parents have a lot on their plates. Keeping up a decent standard of living calls for two incomes, no one is home full time anymore, and kids have a lot more distractions and demands on their time than it seemed even a generation ago. But parents of all educational backgrounds have overly busy work schedules and raise kids in this social environment.

I’d hate to think that a poor education/income = just don’t care.

The Kid's Eye View

I was tucking Kit into bed tonight and asked how his counseling meeting went this week.
“Fine,” he said.
“Do you like seeing him two weeks in a row?” I asked.
“Sure. Maybe I could see him more than that.” he suggested.
I pulled his blanket up around his chin and explained that people don’t see therapists more than once a week unless they’re really troubled.
“Like if they can’t find their keys?” he asked.
“Something like that.”

It zoomed me back to a talk I had with Buddy when he was that age. Same situation: tucking him in and answering a last question for the day. He wanted to know why we need taxes. I explained that taxes pay for the fire department and schools and building roads.
“You mean they pay for speed bumps?”
Something like that,” I said.

What has 8 legs, suction cups, lives underwater and...

Buddy and I went to Doc’s kindergarten parent/teacher conference a few days ago. His teacher gave us all the usual test results of all the things a boy his age should know and he’s coming along fine. Which is good because when he came here last spring his speech development was way below normal and we’ve been working hard to get him up to par.

She showed us a list of words that she tested him on for his visual word recognition. Words like ‘car’ and ‘yes’ and ‘stop’. She told us that when he got to the word MOM he said “octopus”. She had no idea why.

Neither do we.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

There was no school today and Tio invited a sleepover that was coming at 9:30 in the morning for 24 hours. Four boys in the house is potential for a disastrous day under the best of circs. Especially as I only got 5 hours sleep before Tish and Bud headed off to work and left me to fend.

Turned out to be a great day. Tio and his friend took Kit along with them all day. The weather was great. They walked into town, invited another boy over to play football in the yard, and all roared through some video games without a single fight. I played Betty Crocker and baked homemade peanut butter cookies, grilled cheeses and grape slop (our name for Kool Aid), and a big chicken parmigiana for supper. Being boys, they jostled and wrestled for top dog through the whole works but even a couple of sharp elbows and knocked heads didn’t dislodge their good moods.

By the end of the day the only dark cloud was Doc’s desire to cuss. He’d been threatened with a mouthful of soap and he was determined somehow to get one. I told him he’d hate it and said it would make him cry and gave him every reason to stay clear of that line. Finally, after supper I had to honor the threat because he wouldn’t stop. I took him in the bathroom and pushed a soapy finger around the insides of his cheeks and tongue. He didn’t complain a bit. Then I got him ready for bed, rinsed out the soap, and brushed his teeth.

He ran downstairs to Tio’s room as fast as he could. “I’m going to tell the guys I got my mouth washed with soap and didn’t cry!” he crowed like he won the prize for tough nut of the day by surviving the biggest dare there was.

I don’t think I understand boys all that well and I’m one of them.

Brotherly Love

“Grampy!” Doc called up the stairs. “Kit said the A word. Are you going to wash his mouth out with soap?”
“What?” I asked. Doc’s been getting a bit mouthy lately so we’ve been threatening to use the time honored gob full of Ivory as a remedy for swearing. Kit, at 9, is a bit old for that but Doc, 5, is right in the zone. “I don’t know, Doc...” I sounded doubtful. “I don’t think it’ll work on him.”
“I’ll give you 4 Matchbox cars...” he offered with a devious grin. What a sweetheart! He loves his cars more than supper. He was practically smacking his lips at the idea of test driving his brother on a bar of soap. “And a Batmobile...” he added sweetening the deal, knowing my weak spot was collecting Batmobiles.
“I’ll think about it.” I said, encouragingly, “when I come downstairs.”
It was a full 10 minutes later before I made an appearance and Doc was right there, seeking retribution for having been the on the receiving end of the dreaded A word. If the threat of soapy tonsils for saying bad words hung over his head, he reasoned, Kit should get it, too. I could hardly keep from laughing.
“Okay,” I agreed and took Kit into the bathroom and closed the door. We ran the water, wet the bar of soap and he gargled out the words “nonononononooooo...... Glampy, don’t! I blowwwnnt do it again!” through a glass of water.
Doc tried to crash through the door he was dying so hard to see but he missed the whole thing. “Hey, why can’t I watch?” he wailed.
We came out, Kit wiping his chops and Doc with wide eyed wonder looking Kit over to find out what kind of damage soap could really do to bad words.

It’s always nice when the boys look out for each other.

All The World’s A Stage

I took Kit to an audition tonight. A local kids theater group is starting a new production of Alice in Wonderland and Kit has wanted to be a singer and on stage all his life. For the past couple of weeks I’ve been prepping him by reading lines from movie scripts I have and reading the book. The auditions were fun and the director was very nice. But Kit got a case of cold feet and decided he’d rather work backstage instead of acting. I know he’d love to be on stage so I’m hoping the director will be able to entice him into a small part during rehearsals.

It’s funny how kids are like that. Doc squirmed and couldn’t wait to get to a birthday party last week and as soon as we show up, he’s scared to death. Kit’s always excited about going places and meeting people but doing it is a whole different thing. Lots of kids are that way.

Kit is an individual to say the least. He thinks and feels and acts his own way and doesn’t really fit in with other boys. The theater crowd is full of people who like to think for themselves and don’t mind being different. That’s Kit all the way. Once he gets to know that, he’ll love it.

There’s always so much more to kids than meets the outside world’s eye when they’re at home being themselves and when it shines you sure want the world to see it.

I’m Not Dead Yet!

When I was young and zippy I had cash to spare and brains to waste. I blew the whole wad on a pilot’s licence, motorcycles, parachuting and hang gliding. My mother chewed off about 8 good years of her life wondering which of these pursuits was going to land me in a pine box. I poo-pooed the concept that I was mortal and kept on keepin’ on. (Years later, when my daughter started riding a motorbike, my mom got some serious payback). Anyway, while soaring down a ski slope on a hang glider one hot summer day, the thing stalled and left me hanging 20 feet in the air like Wile E. Coyote after he runs off the edge of a cliff. I froze there just long enough to look at my feet before the ground snapped up. I crumpled like a bad idea with 50 pounds of aluminum and fiberglass on top of me. After I limped off, I never put the wings back on again, thinking no harm no foul.

Wrongo. After a decade, some serious back pain I discovered I had a separated disk in my lower back. To avoid spending half my days stretched out I walk lots, stand lots and modified my workshop so I can stand while I work. But that doesn’t stop the old spinal column from still going out on occasion.

Today is one of those days and, man, a bad back and kids don’t mix. Carrying laundry, sweeping floors and bending down to do up zippers and wipe noses becomes a major issue. Suddenly I feel like a real old fashioned grandpa, taking baby steps around the house like I got a full load in my Depends, unable to bend over, and telling everyone I can “do this and do that, damn it! I’m not dead yet!” I wish. Just bending the wrong way over the sink to brush my teeth’ll drop me like a sack under the toilet hoping someone comes home before dark.

I’m really not ready for that scene yet. Before I know it the kids’ll be pushing me around in a wheelchair, shouting in my ear to see if the peas were soft enough before they tell the nurse to wheel me back to my cell.

I better get up, get dinner on the table, and get more exercise.

Is Doogie Hauser in the House?

As a concerned G-dad, I’ve been going to meetings at the middle school to help solve some academic restructuring issues. It’s odd being among parents again all these years later. Was I ever that young with small kids? I seem to have reached an age where I can’t tell the difference between 15 and 30 anymore. They all look like teenagers. If you’re over 45, you know what I’m talking about. You ask a boy who looks like a high school senior what he’s studying and it turns out he’s a VP at the local bank. I used to think it was cute. Not so much anymore.

Recently, I sat in the exam room waiting to see a new doctor. A young woman in white coat, arm extended, and introduced herself as Doctor Pendleton. I practically had to rub my eyes. Just for that introduction she had to get through college, med school, an internship and start a practice. Now here she is giving me an exam and suggesting solutions for my problem.

I mean, where does a 16 year old find the time for all that?

Where There’s Smoke...

When the boys moved in here, Doc wanted dark when he went to bed. Absolute dark. He even asked for tape over the smoke detector light. It being a new place, Kit was a bit less sure about that but he got used to it and that was fine. Then, last spring Debbie, their mom, was a victim in a tragic fire where children died. It was far away from here and the boys knew nothing about it. For some reason she decided to tell them all about it even though they knew no one in the house and would not know they were gone. I don’t know how detailed her description was but it terrified Doc. Why would you tell a five year old about children burning to death in fire?

Not surprisingly, he has been afraid of the dark ever since, thinking everything wispy is smoke, every noise is an alarm. It’s gotten so bad that he can’t sleep deeply anymore and noises wake him in the night so he gets up and makes sure all the lights are on. Yesterday in the grocery store he was wondering if my call from Tish was about a fire in our house. “No, she just wants me to pick up some special cheese.”

If Doc wakes up when Kit goes to bed there’s a struggle over how much light they can pour into the room. I curtained off a section for Kit last month but it wasn’t enough. After last night’s tantrum and tears at ten o'clock I decided to rearrange the room completely today. We’ll see how that works.

Sometimes, it’s not essential that you tell your children everything. Words can be as harmful as fire.

I’m Lovin’ It - I’m Hatin’ It

McDonald’s is a mixed bag. When I was young in the 60's McDonald’s was growing concern. Fighting head to head with Burger King for every cow this country bit into. Ronald McDonald was the hardest working clown in history. He even had a limo driving him around. My mother disdained fast food and instant meals so we never went. I was proverbially strapped to mast, unable to answer the siren call, while all the ads poured out of the TV and into my impressionable psyche beckoning me to take a bite.

Cut to 40 years later and here I sit in Mickey D’s playroom while the kids romp on the equipment, chow Happy Meals and Big Macs, and I sip a pretty good cup of coffee. McDonald’s isn’t an institution, it’s a world wide empire where both kids and parents have their feet nailed to the floor of the cage. The play rooms, the toy/movie tie-ins, savvy advertizing, the cheapish food, right down to the contests and games that promise instant riches for everyone are all part of fattening us up. It’s a perfect game plan to prep kids to be good little obsessive consumers, and parents who grew up with it now dutifully bring their offspring to start the cycle again.

I don’t mean to imply that it’s evil or anything like that. It’s consumerism at its best. They employ millions of people, keep the place clean and safe and serve their product professionally all around the world. If you like McDonald’s in NYC, you’ll like McDonald’s in LA or Tokyo or London. I’ve been coming to this one since Tio and Kit were small. They crawl through the tunnels, play free video games, meet other kids and eat food they’ll never push away and say “Don’t want this”. What’s not to like?

So why would that be a mixed bag? Sounds like nirvana is only a car ride away. I guess I’ve always had a problem being manipulated, subtly or otherwise. The empire gives me very little choice but to bask under the golden arch. The other thing of course, is the greasy, unhealthy nature of the food. Once saturated in fat, the kids have no appetite for a regular meal. I stopped buying all precooked dinners and pizzas, seriously curtailed the fast food and sugar drinks and it still took a more than a month of making good meals before they finally started tasting something other than regurgitated hens feet boiled in fat.

Oh, cripes. A moon faced mom next to me is apologizing for her two kids screeching like fisher cats in heat. All the other overtired parents are nodding sympathetically but with a bitter edge to their smile because their eardrums can’t take the beating either. Good thing we’re not on an airplane. They have air locks for that kind of behavior.

“Kit! Doc! We gotta go.”

“Noooooooooooooo”

Are We There Yet?

One time when Tio was seven, I arranged to take him for a Saturday overnight visit. I said to his dad I’d be early afternoon. That would give him enough time to watch his cartoons, have dad get up and get some of the day burned through so he’d be ready for the visit. When I got there it turned out he’d been waiting at the door with his coat on and back pack on since 8 am. When you’re out of the loop, you forget how in the moment kids live.

Sometimes The Old Man Got It Right

I don’t mind doing laundry. We don’t even have a dryer. I hang it all in on lines I’ve put up in the crammed space we laughingly call a laundry room or outside when the weather is good. Sorting and hanging and folding is orderly and forces me to slow down for a couple of minutes, while still looking after the family. We never had a dryer when I was growing up, either. My mother had a long line that stretched off the back porch and we hung it out summer or winter. I think the dryer bit the dust one day and she never replaced it.

I don’t have a dishwasher, either. Never have. I mind doing dishes a bit more than laundry because it’s so constantly tedious. When I was a kid there were five kids in the family and we were taught early on that dishes were our collective responsibility. The jobs rotated among us and we always fought over who washed and who dried and who got away with doing the least. One day, my father came home with an automatic dishwasher. The year was 1967 and it was a magical beast, chugging away doing all the dirty work for us. It freed us up for more important pursuits no doubt, as all mechanization at the time was touted to do.

Well, the color got sucked off that jawbreaker real fast and we started to fight over who stacked the machine, who set the table and who could get away with doing the least. After a month of that, the magical machine vanished. I don’t know if it broke or if Dad just removed it. He said, “If they’re going to fight over it anyway they might as well fight over doing the whole damn job.” I’ve never seen one in a house I’ve lived in since.

My dad was eternally practical that way. Whenever he’d take us out to the Dairy Dip, we’d all shout out “I want chocolate! Strawberry! Swirl! Soft Serve!” He’d step up to the window with the list in mind and always come back with all vanilla or all chocolate. “This way there’ll be no arguments over who got what,” he’d say as we all shrugged and figured a treat was a treat and no harm done.

I’ve lived by that example all my life. No reason to sweat the small stuff. After all, there are enough really troubling things that come at us every day in this life. Arguing over the dishwasher or a tumble dryer seems almost like asking for too much.

A Text Is Worth A Thousand Words

I need a break every now and then and on Buddy’s day off when he’s looking after the boys, I take my PC and go down to the brew pub or McD’s and work on my novel for a couple of hours just to get away. Fat chance.

My phone rings: “Bueller.....Bueller.....Bueller....Anyone?” Tio’s ringtone. MSG: “That f@$%#& brother of mine is driving me up the friggin wall. Can I have you’re permission to punch him out in 20 years?”

I hate texting. It’s not the writing, I do that all day, it’s manipulating that stupid little device that I hate. I don’t get why so many people are addicted to their phones - but that’s for a different day. I thumb my way through a response: “In 20 years you won’t want to. You’ll be good friends.”

Bueller.....Bueller.....Bueller....Anyone? MSG: “LOL not a chance.”

He’s wrong of course. Tio and Kit care deeply for each other but they have a lot of crap to work through before they realize that. So I set it aside and return to my adventures with Toby and Greta, the main characters in my book. Natalie calls from the bar if I want another beer. I order some fries, too. Ahhh. Quiet. Even with the big TV overhead, classic rock on the juke and people talking and laughing at other tables, that’s noise that doesn’t distract. I look up every so often to watch people interact, perfectly at ease being by myself. Let’s see...Toby needs to decide how he’s going to handle the bandits in the dahmer camp or if he’ll –

“Reet Reet Reet REET!” goes my phone. It’s the shower scene from Psycho, Buddy’s ring. MSG: “Hey Dad, Doc won’t go to bed. LOL Throwing a serious fit. Wat shuld I do? Buddy.” Christallmighty, thinks I. Do I have to go through this every time? “Tie him down. Tell he has no chooce. Act like yo’re the bss.” I type badly.

Click. Where was I? A sip, the fries come. Let’s see...Toby has to deal with a new threat from the –

“Reet Reet Reet REET!” Flip: “He keeps gettin up and won’t stay in his room. LOL” Buddy loves LOL. He’ll say ‘got pulled over for speeding LOL’ ‘Can’t find my ass with both hands LOL’ I don’t get it.

Anyway, I don’t answer this one. I put the phone on the table and watch a couple that look like their on a first date. They both sit straight, the man’s arms crossed, the woman shifting the cutlery. On second thought, they’ve probably been married for fifteen years.

“IT’S GETTING TO THE POINT THAT I’M NO FUN ANYMORE,” Steven Stills cries out of my phone. You and me both, pal. That’s my calls ringtone. This time Buddy is calling. I talk him off the ledge while Kit wails STOOOOOOPPPPPP IIIIIIIITTTTTTTT in the background to the teasing tones of Doc’s voice. I tell Buddy he’s got to show Doc that he must do what Dad says. “How?” Buddy laments.

“I don’t have a particular solution. Each situation is different. I stand them in the corner but if they won’t do it, you have to hold them there.” It’s a tough conundrum. I remember having to hold Buddy down in bed when he was small until he stopped struggling and passed out from sheer exhaustion. We hang up and I go back to my story: Toby’s threat from the Partisan soldiers. If he capitulates, he may have to –

“HEY, JUDE. DON’T MAKE IT BAD. TAKE A SAD SONG,” my phone sings out. I don’t mind that one, It’s Tish. “Zoom” says her text which means she’s leaving work. I suggest she come down and meet me. We’ll split a club sandwich for supper and get home after Doc and Kit have worked out their rage against the machine.

That’s the routine day by day. You see, when I’m at home, the house is calm and in control. I’ll take credit for that. Whether it’s because they respect me, or fear consequences, or love me, or have learned to cooperate, it doesn’t matter. They know I’m in charge and all runs smoothly with our world. If I’m gone and Tish is there, it’s not as smooth. She gets some grief and they’ll act up as far as they can get away to push her limits. When she goes too leaving Buddy’s as the grownup, look out Tricorn Acres, the roof is about to come off. All three of them dish out their own favorite recipes for disobedience, disrespect and lawlessness. He tries to deal but their game is fast and hard to keep up with. Thus the texts, exasperation and phone calls for help. He wants the house the way we make it but it’s magic to him how we get it that way. Everyone gets along, there is some respect, the boys do their homework, eat supper and get to bed on time. Not so for poor Buddy. He takes it in the side of the head until his melon is soft. On the days they cooperate and things go well he has no idea why.

So there is no such thing as a day off. Just an hour here or there. I guess that’s okay. We’re going to get there because underneath it all, the boys really do all care for each other and love their dad. They just have a lot of work to do before they can appreciate that.

“Bueller....Bueller....Bueller....”
I better get that.

Schiz Zoeyed

When our fourteen year old dog, Zoe, is eating supper she’ll constantly look up like someone said something and then go back for another bite. It made me wonder:
If schizophrenic people can hear voices like angels and demons that tell them what to do, what do schizo dogs hear? Woof woof, woof woof?