HAPPY FATHER'S DAY?

So that greeting card-inspired holiday known as Father’s Day is almost upon us. The holiday where school kids of my generation made their fathers ceramic ashtrays or gave them paisley neckties. Today kids get their fathers PSP and Xbox games (“Just in case dad wants to play with me”) or a DVD of some movie from their youth like “Highlander” or “Caddyshack” that can be found in the $5 bin at Best Buy. While I could watch both of those movies a thousand times it just plain hurts that they’re now considered “classics,” not because they’re timeless, which they are to me, but because they’re old.

Anyway, I was watching an episode of ABC’s “The Middle” the other day, the show where Patricia Heaton plays a Middle American mother, who’s a bit too old to be playing a Middle American mother, and the episode was about Mother’s Day and how Mother’s Day always sucks for her because even though her kids are “attempting” to be nice, she’s still forced to pick up after them and do all the same things she normally does on any other given day. But with the expectations of it being “Mother’s Day” it sucked all the more. But of course by the end of the episode, after her really crappy day, she realized that her family means more to her than a made up holiday.

Being a stay-at-home dad, I pretty much feel the same way about weekends at my house. I watch the kids all week long. I get up at the ass-crack of dawn with the girls, fix them breakfast, make Arden her lunch and then take Arden to school. Then I hang out with Alex for the rest of the day unless it’s a nanny-day and then I get a four-hour reprieve to run errands and do a little writing. And then when everyone’s asleep I do a lot more writing. So when the weekend rolls around I have this unreal expectation that it will be like before Jen and I had kids. Just lounging around the living room all day watching VH1 and maybe doing a little writing before Jen gets up at noon. But now that we have kids the weekends consist of me waking up at the ass-crack of dawn, fixing the girls breakfast and “attempting” to keep them quiet until Jen wakes up. And then I pretty much end up watching them the rest of the day while Jen does all the chores around the house that I’ve neglected due to my laziness and inability to multitask. But the highlight of my weekend is going out to lunch as a family and having someone else actually serve me.

Father’s Day will probably be pretty much the same thing. Though it usually includes a gift certificate to one of my favorite stores and Jen will attempt to let me sleep late, but my body is now programmed to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn (I think that’s actually what my clock says) so it’s a sweet, yet futile gesture. She’ll usually let me write as much as I want, but after an hour or so I’ll feel guilty leaving her with the kids and head upstairs. Then we’ll all go out to lunch at one of our usual spots and there you have it, Father’s Day. So this made me think of what my fantasy Father’ Day would entail…

I wake up early.  The kids are still asleep. I fix myself a bowl of cereal, take it down to my office and surf the net for a good hour. Jen gets up with the girls, cooks me a surprise second breakfast of whole wheat pancakes and egg beaters (yes, my fantasy still includes the healthy alternatives since they’re so ingrained in my head) and then she’ll hand me a brand new iPad with a ribbon around it. Then I spend the rest of the morning playing with my new toy and before I know it it’s time for lunch and we head out to an all-you-can-stand buffet. I eat myself sick, but because this is a fantasy, I don’t get sick, I leave pleasantly full. We get home and the nanny is waiting at the door. Why? Because we’ve got tickets to game 7 of the Lakers/Celtics game and the limo will be there in twenty minutes. I kiss the kids goodbye and we head off to the game where we eat a bunch of hotdogs and hot wings and chug a few beers, all with no heartburn after effects. About half way through the event I realize that the guy in the luxury box with us who looks like Harrison Ford is actually Harrison Ford and we end up talking, hitting it off and he offers to fly us home in his private jet. Now that would be a great Father’s Day.

A close second would probably be Jen offering to let me sleep late, seeing what kind of gift Arden made me in school and heading out to a lunch with the family at the Olive Garden.


Originally posted on Parents Ask on June 16, 2010

LEGGING GO

About five weeks ago Arden broke her leg. She was having a tantrum, flailing about and fell on her foot the wrong way.  At first we thought she was faking when she said her leg hurt, but then she said she just wanted to go to bed. It wasn’t quite 6:00 PM.

A day of hospitals and doctors appointments later she had a full leg cast and a prescription for a child walker and wheelchair.  Jen and I were beside ourselves. We had a depressed 4-year-old on our hands and we were overwhelmed by the prospect of having to care for a virtually incapacitated pre-schooler in addition to our 18-month old menace. Arden couldn’t even take off her own clothes anymore let alone go to the bathroom by herself. I was carrying her in there 15 times a day. Who knew she peed so much?

When I called Arden’s pre-school to ask if they could make accommodations for Arden the school director initially balked at the idea. That was until I started throwing around terms like “illegal” and “law suit.” We eventually agreed upon a late arrival for Arden (because the kids go upstairs for a morning assembly before coming back down to the classrooms and the director didn’t want her teachers carrying Arden up and down the stairs – reasonable) and an early departure (because as I just mentioned going to the bathroom for Arden was a time-consuming ordeal and her teacher leaves at 4:00 PM so there wouldn’t be enough aftercare workers to take Arden on her bathroom sabbaticals.)

We initially tried to get Arden to use the walker, but thanks to a completely inept physical therapist who tried to train her like a dog, Arden wanted nothing to do with the thing. So we decided to get her a wheelchair, which freaked her out at first, until she tried it. Then she was suddenly liberated. She could wheel around the house and was no longer (completely) dependent upon us. But she was still afraid to go to school. But when she arrived back, that first day, the kids swarmed her. She was now the center of attention. She was the cool kid with a pink cast that they all got to sign. Arden was a 4-year-old rock star.

Amazingly, five weeks in, Arden has remained in the spotlight at school. She gets extra attention from the teachers and the kids make accommodations to hang out with her (“let’s not play on the top of the hill because Arden can’t come up here.”) Arden’s having such a great time she’s actually dreading the ultimate removal of her cast. But I have to admit that after the first few days of taking care of our cast-bound little girl, things weren’t half as bad as we initially thought. In fact, Arden’s overall attitude has changed at home too. She hasn’t had a single tantrum since the incident. It probably doesn’t hurt that every time she starts down the unreasonable/meltdown path we say to her, “Remember what happened the last time you had a tantrum?” And she always hangs her head and says, “I broke my leg.”

About a week and half ago Arden got a shiny new green half-cast. One that she could walk on. At first, like all things, Arden didn’t want to walk. She didn’t want to give up “the chair.” But her doctor said to me, “Just bribe her with a nice toy and she’ll walk.” And just like she said, after we gave Arden a Snow White doll, she was on her feet, cruising along the furniture like a toddler. A day later she was using the walker. Of course she found it more comfortable to put all the pressure on the broken leg instead of the good one, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, as of last night Arden started hobbling around the house walker-free, after which she turned to Jen and said, “I finally have my life back.” And she does. We all do.  

 

THE PASSING OF A GREAT GRANDPARENT

On Sunday evening my grandfather passed away.  He was 92 years old. He died from complications due to emphysema. He actually quit smoking, cold turkey, fifty years ago after reading a Reader's Digest letter from a little girl to her mother, begging her to stop smoking so that her mother would always be there for her.

My grandfather was a fighter and he left us on his own terms. He had been suffering for several months and finally decided it was time to let go. So on Sunday morning, with most of his children and grandchildren at his bedside, and the rest of us on the phone, they removed the tubes from his throat so he could say goodbye to everyone. Knowing that it would probably be his last day he asked for his last meal - a "Boston" hotdog and some Crown Royal to wash it down with. He held hands and kissed his wife of 69 years and said goodbye to everyone and then he put on the Red Sox and fell asleep and he was gone.

At the funeral yesterday my father called him "the hero of our family" and he really was. He taught us all how to be better people. How to be better parents. And that's why I'm using this forum to share with you my thoughts on my grandfather. The thoughts I shared at his funeral yesterday...

I can’t really recall the first time I met my grandfather, but I do recall him always being a presence in my life.  I remember visiting him at his plumbing shop. I remember his Crown Royals at Oakley Country Club and I remember going to Red Sox games with my father, my grandfather and my great grandfather. I remember taking a solo trip down to Florida when I was eight and going to Lion Country Safari and being terrified as we posed for a picture together with a real lion cub. I still have that picture. And it still makes me smile. I also remember stealing peeks at his Playboy collection and maybe stealing one or two of the actual magazines as well.  

It wasn’t until only a couple of years ago when I went down to Florida to see my grandparents that I really got to know him as a person. Even though I was probably 34 or 35 at the time he had always just been “my grandpa,” the great guy who you could do no wrong in his eyes and who would buy you dinner and laugh at your jokes and do whatever I wanted to do. But this time I was a father and we spoke about life. And not just mine. We also talked about his life. I learned things I never knew about him before. Things I never asked about, like his time on the U.S.S. Missouri. And because of my interest he gave me a U.S.S. Missouri hat as a gift this year that I will treasure forever.

My grandfather was from a generation where men were men and they didn’t show too much affection or emotion. And for a while I thought maybe this is where I got that trait from. People who know me know I’m not really a hugger. But about a half dozen years ago my mother pulled me aside and said my grandfather asked her why I never kissed or hugged him or never said, “I love you.” I didn’t have an answer. I just wasn’t the hugging and kissing type of guy. But the next time I saw him I gave him a kiss and a hug. And he didn’t let go right away. And it was then that I realized I was wrong. He was the affectionate and emotional type. It was also then that I realized how much this really meant to him. And every time I saw him after that I gave him a hug and a kiss and every time I spoke to him on the phone I made a point of saying, “I love you.”  And every time I did it, I understood exactly how much it meant to him. And this is probably why I’m proud to say I’m a hugger now, okay maybe a better hugger than I used to be. But I know this is why I always tell my kids how much they mean to me. And why I always insist on a hug and kiss before I walk out the door. And that’s a gift I got from my grandfather.

I don’t recall when I met my grandfather, but he’s always been a presence in my life. And he always will be.  

Pictured: Me, the girls, my father and my grandfather, last June.