Important Stuff

And now, because I have nothing but lengthy tomes in the works, I submit this list of things that are in one way or another significant in Michael's world.

Things Michael Likes:

1. Sprinklers.
2. Fireworks.
3. Lunch.

He created this list yesterday on the way to Ms. K's, as sort of a summary of his current state of being. We had been talking about fireworks, and how we were sad that the fireworks stands were all closing up because the 4th of July had passed. While he was mourning the passage of fireworks for the year, he saw some sprinklers running and had to interrupt his fireworks lamentation to ask me questions about the sprinklers, such as "how they're sprinklers?" (which of course translates to "aren't those sprinklers amazing?").

On the heels of this came a sudden question about the contents of his lunchbox. "Do I gots peanut butter and jelly samwich?" "Yes, Michael. Just like you asked." "Good. I love peanut butter for lunch. I love sprinklers and fireworks, too. So, I love sprinklers, fireworks and lunch."

Got it.

Things That Upset Michael:

1. Spiders
2. Blood
3. Ice
4. Cheese

The spider part is easy to understand. I don't like spiders. Neither does his mom. His oldest sister is ghoulish enough to be okay with them, and will catch the largest, hairiest spider you can imagine in a jar and show it to everyone.

Michael doesn't like to see blood, or even consider the fact that it might ever leave his body. If he bumps his elbow or scrapes his toe, he will immediately demand a band-aid. 99% of the time the injury is bloodless, but that doesn't matter. There is the possibility of blood, so let's not take any chances. Of course this fear of blood brings with it a macabre fascination as well. He wants to know that he has blood in him, that his parents and siblings have blood in them, and what this blood does and why it's red and how it stays in there and what happens if it all comes out.

I'm not sure how the ice thing started, but he hates it. More precisely, he hates knowing that ice melts. If it didn't melt, he'd be okay with it. This one is relatively new, so I'm still not sure what to make of it. Last night at dinner he asked me several times whether his drink (in a special opaque cup with a straw - we were at a restaurant) had ice in it, because he doesn't want ice. I'm sure he was cringing watching the rest of us drink our water, knowing that the ice in those glasses would eventually melt. Snow cones, otter pops, ice cream - anything that's frozen and might melt will cause him much anxiety. Not too long ago, his mom tried to explain to him that when ice melts, it evaporates back into the air and turns back into water. He took her theory and ran with it: "And then it comes back into our freezer and makes more ice!" He was so pleased with himself for having figured that out all on his own. Now he knows that evaporated ice melt will find its way into our freezer somehow.

He still hates cheese. Particularly the smelly kinds like Parmesan, Asiago and Feta. We've been doing the Greek food thing lately, making Falafel with hummus, tzatziki and kalamata olives - and Feta cheese. Mmmmm! Michael can't stand it. He can't even be in the same room with the Feta, without holding his nose and waving his hand around in front of his face. I feel sorry for him, I really do. I hope his tastes change when he gets older. He's missing out on an entire dimension of food enjoyment with his dislike of cheese.

Hopefully this weekend I'll have something more meaningful to proffer.

Questions and Answers

Michael has been asking questions since he first learned how to properly string two words together.

The first ones were simple: what's that, where, how and of course why.

His questions come continually these days. But they don't often make much sense, and most of them leave me puzzling for a suitable response. For years I've prided myself on having a fairly broad range of knowledge about things, so that should a small child of mine ask me lots of questions about his world (e.g. "why is the sky blue?" or "how do fish breathe underwater?" or "where do twinkies come from?") I'd be able to answer them competently.

Michael's questions don't fit the standard form, though:

"Why that's loud?"
"How you're my dad?"
"How sprinklers get me wet?"
"Why I ate strawberries?"
"How they running?"

These are examples of some of the more sensible questions he rattles off. They at least have some basis for an appropriate answer. Many of them, though, are so obtuse I can't even recall them. He asked one while we were at the hardware store the other day, and it truly short-circuited my brain. Even the store clerk stopped scanning our purchases momentarily, and stared at me, slack-jawed. I just gave her a withered look and mumbled something about how I really don't even know where to begin to tackle that question.

He'll ask questions about stuff he himself does, like why he spilled flour on the floor. He'll ask questions about things in his environment, like why the cat is black, or how those things growing in the garden are tomatoes. He'll ask questions about what someone else dreamed about, even those said person hasn't awakened yet, assuming they're even staying at our house at the time. He even asks why he's happy.

Sometimes, he'll ask a perfectly sane question, but will provide zero context:

"Daddy, what's that over there?"

"What?"

"That!" (pointing)

"There are a lot of things over there, I don't know what you're pointing at."

"That thing! The sprinkler!"

"It's a sprinkler."

"Oh."

Most of his questions come while he's watching one of his movies. His current favorite set are the two renditions of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." We have the Gene Wilder version and the Johnny Depp version, and he likes to watch both of them (not at the same time - I have my limits). And while watching one of these films, he'll ask questions about what's going on, and why. "Why she turned into a blueberry?" "Why she went down the garbage chute?" "Why he fell in the chocolate?" "Why they're singing?"

He knows the answer. Of course he knows. If one of us gives him a correct answer to one of his questions, it merely queues up the next question. If we give him an incorrect answer, he'll correct us immediately.

It's like he can't just sit and silently absorb media content, he has to regurgitate it verbally. Basically, he watches movies with his mouth.

Fortunately, I've recently discovered a little trick that is nothing short of a miracle for handling his unending and nonsensical questions: I turn it right around on him.

When he asks something, I just ask him back "What do you think?"

It's like verbal gold, and it has never failed me.

He has to answer his own question, and he actually likes doing that. It gives him a chance to express himself, to completely ruminate on what he's observed, and it relieves me of most of the burden of having to unravel his question and sculpt a response.

I think I can skate along using this technique for years.

Hopefully, until he asks "Can I have the car keys?"

Touchy

Michael gets in trouble quite a bit for having grabby hands. He’s very tactile, having to touch things and manipulate them in order to fully appreciate their essence. I figured he’d get past this phase once he reached three or so and could thoroughly comprehend what “NO” means.

He’s been known to shut down the dishwasher while it’s in mid-cycle and the oven while it’s busy broiling dinner. He can’t resist plucking the strings on my guitar when he knows I’m out of the room and can’t scold him for it. For a long time I had the buttons on the TV covered up so he couldn’t turn it off or change the channel. He touches his sisters’ belongings if they’re left on the table. He touches the computer screen. I’ve told him countless times to look with his eyes and not with his hands, but this admonishment just bounces off and slides ineffectually to the floor. He just cannot seem to help himself.

This goes on day in, day out. For the most part, we’ve learned to live with it, while still not entirely giving in to it. As a parent, you can only fight so many battles before you drop from exhaustion.

One day last week, I came home pre-cranky-fied so I was in no mood to spend my evening telling him not to touch things. But because his mom and I were both thoroughly enmeshed in making dinner and doing cleanup chores, Michael felt it necessary to amp up his sticky fingers activity.

He picked up an artificial flower that his sister had brought home, simply because it was out and available.

He touched the scissors in the kitchen. He grabbed the shopping list I’d just been working on and started to write on it with a pen. I shooed him out of the kitchen.

He sauntered over to the table and started rifling through the mail there. His mom told him not to touch it. “But I want to mail something!”

Heaving a sigh, his mom resigned herself to attending to his whims and keeping him out of trouble. She decided to let him play in the hot tub since it’s a can’t-miss type diversion. While in the tub, he kept playing with the thermometer. When that got boring, he messed around with the lights, the jets, and the temperature control knob. He finally got taken out of the tub for drinking the water one too many times.

Once he was back inside and while his mom was getting the hot tub back to rights, I tried to engage him on the computer, finding a kid’s craft site that he likes. He repeatedly reached around me to touch the keys, wildly throwing off my attempts at typing in the address.

I sent him off to play with his toys (to which an entire corner of our family room is dedicated) but instead he decided that the timer on the table was more interesting. I’d set this timer ten minutes earlier to remind me when it was time to drive out to pick up his sister.

“Michael! I needed that timer set the way it was! You have no business touching that!”

He looked squarely at me, and without taking his eyes off mine, he turned the timer’s knob and cleared it. RIIIIING!

“ERRRRGH!” I growled loudly, frustrated beyond my limits by his incessant need to digitally scrutinize. I pleaded with God: “Why? Why is he continually testing my patience? What’s the lesson here? My patience is not improving! I’m not learning anything!”

My wife offered her apology for his behavior.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not you at all. It’s me.” I pointed over at the little towel-wearing imp exploring the timer. “That’s my genes at work there.”

I pictured myself at his age, and I remember how much I liked to touch and grab and manually explore. One instance stands out. When I was four or so, my mother and I were at a department store with an escalator. Along the bottom of one of the rails was a very neat-looking red button labeled “STOP”, so when I got close enough to it, I reached down and pressed it. I was immediately rewarded by a resounding THUNK! and a very loud BUZZZZZ! Instantly, everyone on the escalator lurched forward. I know I got a talking-to by my mom as well as a couple of store managers. I’m pretty sure my mom stopped by a liquor store on the way home, and I probably got locked in my room. I spent a lot of time in my room.

My wife swept Michael into the laundry room so he could help her do the wash, and so I could get a little time to cool down.

I took a couple of cleansing breaths and searched for meaning. I know a test when I see it, and this had to be one. But why am I not getting it? It’s like I’m in class, I have a book open in front of me and can see that the teacher is talking… but I can’t read the book and I can’t hear what the teacher is saying.

I was roused from my self-contained irritation by my wife’s shouts from the laundry room:
“Michael, No! DON’T TOUCH THE BUTTONS!”

I had had enough. I got up, stomped into the laundry room and scooped Michael up like a football.

“All right, that’s it,” I told him through clenched teeth. “You know what? After we go and pick up your sister, I’m going to just sit on the couch and hold you. Got that? I’m just going to hold you until bedtime!”

I pulled up a chair, plopped him down in my lap, and sat there simmering.

When five minutes had elapsed, I silently carried him out to the car, strapped him in, and drove us all off to pick up sister.

When we got back, I unbuckled him, carried him inside and set him on the floor.

“Daddy? I need to go get blue blankie,” he said, and ran upstairs. He hurried down and ran up to me with a huge, eager smile.

“Okay, daddy! I’m ready for you to hold me now!”

And instantly, my irritation was dissolved away.

What I meant as discipline was, to him, an opportunity for closeness.

So maybe I did learn something after all.

You Split 16 Stumps, What Do You Get?

A couple of years back my neighbor had a huge poplar taken down. This particular type of tree is also known as a dogwood to some.

This tree was mammoth. Gargantuan. Ginormous. There are some tall trees around here but this thing was head and shoulders above them all.

So after having it cut down and sliced up into rounds (basically, just round sections of the tree trunk), my neighbor discovered that it was way too much wood for his family to handle. He asked me if I wanted some of it.

Absolutely! Hey, it's free wood! There was probably two cords of it, which was enough to keep us toasty warm for two winters.

Only problem was, those rounds are way too big for the fireplace. They have to be split into fireplace-sized logs. No big deal; poplar is easy to split. My neighbor wasn't having any problem with it.

So I stacked the rounds in the side of the yard and left them there to season for a few months, so that the following summer I could split them up.

The first ten or so went really easy. They practically fell apart with just the barest swing of the maul. In fact, I got my daughters into the act:



Over the course of the summer we were able to split all but about twenty of the rounds. These ones were really tough to split, and had resisted all of my best efforts. I vowed to finish up the splitting the next year, using a power log splitter.

There was some urgency in finishing up. I want to build a play structure where the wood happens to be parked. I want to get that built this year, so I need to finish up the splitting.

I took a couple of days off last week to rent a power splitter and finish up the job. I called the rental company, and they had a splitter. I asked if they could deliver. Sure, no problem, they said. We'll have it out to you Tuesday morning at 8 o'clock.

Tuesday morning, I waited around. 8 o'clock came and went. As it pushed past 9, I called the rental company. Where is that splitter? Oh, we have it on will call, they said. I explained that I'd specifically asked for delivery because my Honda minivan did not come standard with a trailer hitch. Sorry, it's written down as will call. Forget it then, I said. Just cancel it.

I brought out my chainsaw and blew off the dust. That'll work; I can cut some big slices out of these things, carve 'em up like pie.

But unfortunately one of the things that chainsaws need the most is bar & chain oil, of which I had none.

So it was just me and that splitting maul again.

I hauled out a round and took a few swings at it. The maul bit deeply into the wood, and just stuck. A few more swings yielded the same results: all bark, no bite. In frustration, I took one more swing, and split the round wide open. Progress!

Energized, I went ahead with a few more. All told I was able to finish eight of them that day.

I didn't have any more time off, but I could devote fifteen to thirty minutes every evening to hack on one or two until they were all complete.

I did just that, splitting one or two rounds every evening for the last week.

Yesterday I was all prepared to plow through two or three of them. I selected a likely-looking round and took a swing. The maul stuck in deep, requiring a lot of effort to lever it back out. Two more swings gave me the same effect. I stood back and took a couple of deep breaths, and gave a monumental swing. Success! The thing split from top to bottom, but didn't fall apart.

No problem, I thought. One more swing will finish it.

I swung hard, and the maul handle shattered. Only I didn't see where the head went. In the two seconds following the maul's destruction, I had two thoughts flash through my mind: the head went sailing off into the neighbor's yard and is going to smash through their back door, and I shall be sued; and the head is finishing its upward flight and is now heading back down to embed itself in my skull.

In fact, the head was still in the wood, with a dagger-like point of wooden handle jutting from it. I held the remainder of the handle in my hands.

I was done for the day.

I consoled myself with the fact that despite the difficulty with this task that lay ahead, I was ready to keep pressing on with my efforts. It was the maul that gave up first.

Soggy Matrimony

Summer is here, and the sprinklers are running. And Michael is once again in a watery heaven.

I detailed Michael's love of sprinklers here, so I won't delve into the back story so much. Suffice it to say that since we are now seeing sprinklers pop up all over town, Michael is beside himself with glee.

Recently he discovered the glory of the Rain Bird, seeing one running in a neighbor's yard. He practically dragged me over to look at it. The homeowner was standing in his open garage enjoying a cup of coffee as Michael and I trotted over and hunkered down over this sprinkler, which was merrily spurting away in the corner of the lawn.

I saw the man walk toward us, eyes narrowed, and knew I'd have to surrender the bare truth.

"He's obsessed with sprinklers," I said, hoping he was an understanding soul.

He was. He leaned down and showed Michael exactly how it worked, how it's set, down to every spring and lever and cross piece. Michael was mesmerized.

And then he announced that he wants us to have a Rain Bird. He wants to buy one this weekend. I think he wants to keep it in his room.

We have a set of pop-up sprinklers at our house as well, run on a timer. Somehow I managed to screw it up such that it comes on twice every Wednesday and Sunday morning. For the life of me I cannot figure out how to undo that. So on those days, Michael is rewarded with not one but two separate shows, and he never misses a performance. When they're running, he'll be out there in his jammies and boots, running from one sprinkler to another to watch them spray. Mind you, he doesn't like to get wet, he just wants to see them spraying.

Today, on the way to day care, we saw lots of sprinklers running on various lawns. Every one of them was a topic for conversation.

As we approached our destination, the conversation got silly:

"I'm going to marry a sprinkler," he said, matter-of-factly.

"You're going to marry a sprinkler?" I asked back, incredulous.

"Marry one! That's silly!"

"Well, that's what I heard!"

"If I marry a sprinkler, it would spray me!"

"Yes... but it would have one heck of a great bridal shower!"

(the sound of virtual crickets from the back seat)

Tough crowd.

Mother Lode

Last year, I sent up the red flags noting that Mother’s Circus Animal cookies were gone. Just a few weeks ago, I made a passing reference noting the fact that they’re back.

Yes, my friends, it is true! Those phenomenal little frosted miracles are back, and as good as they always were.

While it is true that the original Mother’s Cookies company has gone out of business, Kellogg’s stepped in and bought the trademarks and the original recipes, and fired up the magical cookie ovens again.

So great was my elation in discovering this fact that I had to buy a bag of them.

And when that ran out, I had to buy another.

Unbeknownst to me, my wife bought a bag on the same day. She was so thrilled to find a bag in the store, after seeing them fly off the shelves in recent weeks that she couldn’t pass it up. Imagine her surprise when she brought home this treasured bag, and then learned that I’d already bought one.

But it really became absurd when the next day a box arrived from my brother via FedEx: a box containing three bags of Mother’s Circus Animals. This brought our total to five bags. I’d say that’s plenty.

So at least as it concerns that one aspect, life is good again.

Now, during that dismal, dark epoch bounded by October of 2008 and January of 2009, I reluctantly resigned myself to the purchase of a substitute brand of frosted circus animal cookies. They held out some promise to be a worthy replacement, as they bore a brand of some repute: that of a somewhat famous elf and his cohorts, who presumably run their operation from within a hollow tree.

Upon inspection, I was immediately disappointed. These cookies were not the same. Not by a long shot.

I’ll let you be the judge. Cast your eyes upon this unaltered side-by-side comparison of the physical aspects of these two cookie brands (click for larger image).



Is there really any comparison? Taste-wise, the results are about the same as well. The “Brand X” cookies were thin, weak, doughy and tasted faintly of moss. The Mother’s cookies were of course spot on: crisp, light and with just the barest hints of lemon and coconut.

I did finally figure out that the one unfathomable “Brand X” cookie at the top was supposed to be a Gorilla, and that I had turned it the wrong way. Since Gorillas are in fact traditionally included in the “circus animal” phylum, I suppose I can give them the benefit of the doubt on that one.

What shocked me the most, though, was the discovery that “Brand X” is also owned by Kellogg’s. In sum, Kellogg’s owns two different lines of cookies competing for the same market. To me, that’s sort of like selling a Lexus on the same showroom floor as a used Pacer. Whatever.

I’m just glad they’re back. Don’t be surprised if you can’t find any at your store though. I think I might have them all here.

Happy Father's Day

I don't have any great wisdom to impart today.

I don't have any lofty observations.

The fact is, fatherhood is most readily experienced in the day-to-day, detail work.

Like planting one blade of grass at a time, day after day, year after year... then turning around much later in your life to see green rolling hills stretching into the distance.

Your experience as a dad is down in the dirt, getting soil under your fingernails, getting a sore back and knobby knees, praying for rain and pulling up the weeds that sprout. You continue on with it because you must. Whether you're a stay-at-home or a work-outside kind of dad, you press on.

Setting consistent limits, and sticking to them. Holding down your job, no matter what it is, to make sure there's either bread on the table, or a well-run home to be sure there's a clean table to put it on. Dealing with kids who squabble constantly. Answering endless questions, even if the questions have no logical answers. Helping with homework. Putting away the same toys, every night, no matter how many millions of pieces there are. Facing hard decisions, and making tough choices. Dealing with the consequences of some of your kids' bad choices. Discovering that in many cases you're considered little more than a cash cab.

And while it doesn't get easier (in many ways, fatherhood gets more and more difficult as the years go by, as your children grow from helpless infants to obliging youngsters to rebellious teenagers), you become more accustomed to it. You learn new skills, and gain new strength. You stretch and grow and become a wiser, stronger man. I've often said parenthood is like an evolutionary step in a person's life, one that I am very glad to have taken.

There are many aspects of fatherhood that deserve great dissertation, such as love, kindness, protection, mentoring, disciplining.

But in my experience, fatherhood boils down to perseverance. No matter what comes your way, you forge ahead. Each day, you get down and plant those blades of grass, one at a time.

Just keep planting, dads.