There are times when I think maybe Michael might be an alien.

Sometimes I just can’t figure him out; what his motivations are, what his thought processes are, where his road is taking him. By this, I mean that he often does and says things that I simply cannot reason out.

A few weekends ago he and his mom were working in the front yard, watering plants. Each time he got wet, even slightly, he deemed it necessary to do a complete wardrobe change. Because God forbid he should ever have to endure moisture of any sort.

Couple this with the fact that in just one short summer he’s become a swimming lessons champ, moving from the A class to the C class in record time. He took to water like he’s part seal, showing no fear and gladly holding his head under water from day one.

He will fairly regularly attempt front flips and pratfalls off the couch in the immediate vicinity of the very hard and corner-profuse brick fireplace hearth, showing no concern that his head might actually meet up with unyielding stone in a violent manner. The lessons from previous episodes resulting in contact with bricks seem to have been forgotten.

Just a couple of days ago we were driving along in the car and I noticed a large pile of dirt at a construction site. “Wouldn’t that be fun to play on?” I asked.
“Well, yes… but it’s too high to be safe for children, and you’d get all dirty,” he replied after careful consideration of my suggestion. I have some fond memories of playing on such a dirty pile as a child, and I do not recall even considering the notion of “dirty”.

Some kids are happy to receive a toy in a large box, and will play with that toy as it is intended. Most other kids would be more happy with the box itself. Michael would ask a parent to cut holes in the box and draw pictures on it with Sharpie markers, and while that was going on he’d crawl after the cat and see if he could antagonize her into scratching him.

Now, I remember my own childhood and a billion goofy things I did as a kid: terrorizing my brother’s models by throwing them out the window (I told him they were bombs); putting toys in the piano keyboard cover and playing “mailbox”, closing the cover and being amazed that the toys would be gone when I opened it again; climbing up in the tree in the back yard and painting the limbs with shoe polish; good times… goooood times…

So I have some understanding about being goofy. My daughters did some goofy stuff as little children too (by the way – happy 17th birthday to sister B!), but it was all stuff I could relate to.

Michael, I haven’t figured out yet.

Not long ago I tried buying old junk at Goodwill that we could take apart. He was happy to watch me take stuff apart, for a little while, but he’d soon lose interest and start shoving pennies in the cracks of the kitchen table or poking holes in the placemat.

Once in a while he’ll ask to play with the walkie talkies, but one of the first things he’ll do with them is start pushing buttons and changing the frequency so that they can’t communicate. If not that, he’ll continually press the “call” button so the other walkie talkie just rings without end.

Occasionally I’ll sit down with him and we’ll use letter tiles to spell things out. Either I’ll ask him to spell something, or I’ll spell something and ask him to sound it out. This quickly dissolves into his inventing new words and asking me what they spell, and then him becoming tearful in frustration that he can’t make a word.

The things that motivated me, that interested me, that kept me occupied throughout my childhood are not the things that keep Michael interested.

I have to accept that fact, because he’s not me. He’s Michael, and he has his own style and speed.

My prayer is that I can learn how to meet him where he is, and help him channel his energy into something more productive than bothering the cat.

We’re cruising down the road toward Michael’s school, ready for his second-to-last day.

“Kidz Bop” CD #4 is playing, Michael’s current choice for drive-time musical accompaniment.

We pass rows of houses, those infamous spinning trees, a set of apartment buildings and a construction site. My mind is abuzz with the usual mental din, the background clamor consisting of thoughts of work-related trials, bills, kids schedules, plumbing problems, rodents and a host of other annoyances beseeching my attention.

“Daddy, look! They’re flying!” Michael suddenly says.

“What’s flying, sport?” I ask.

“The drops! Up there!” He points to the windshield. I can see little drops of water, remnants of yesterday’s gully washer as they travel up the glass, buffeted by the wind.

“Oh, yeah. Look at that,” I say.

Suddenly I’m transported back to the early 1970s, and I’m the young passenger staring out the car window at the little drops of water that dance and play across the glass, and imagining that each one has its own little universe. I used to wonder what was going on in each of these little drops of water, what they might be thinking, what business they had that drove them to follow the courses they took. My mind was a free space of possibilities and wonder unhindered by the burden of adult responsibilities.

I remember a specific instance in which my mother had picked me up from school early, probably because I was claiming to be sick, and I was forced to run errands. And it occurred to me that on that day my mom’s mind was probably roiling with troubles as well, no doubt wondering how she’s supposed to get anything productive done with a small boy tagging along.

“Where are the drops going?” Michael asked, snapping me out of my reverie.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure they have business somewhere,” I said.

After checking Michael in at school, I drove on to work in silence.

But I spent a little extra time wondering at water droplets while waiting at stop lights, and a little less time listening to my internal clamor.

And I made a mental note to do that more often.

Michael was tired, there was no doubt of that.

After over two hours of play at his favorite vaguely space-themed play facility, he was clearly bored with all of the play structures and bounce houses and other venues of rambunctious physical activity. We could tell, as he was now stalking other children in hopes of drawing some excitement off of whatever their lives had to offer.

One group of kids, a subset of the kids attending a birthday party, was playing keep-away with a balloon. This was an irresitable attraction for Michael, who wormed his way into their group, no doubt hoping his presence would either not be noticed or would be disregarded as merely one of the other many children in the group.

I watched their interaction for a bit, and after becoming satisfied that no ill will was shown either to Michael or from him, I turned back around and continued my conversation with my wife.

A few minutes later Michael came running up to us from the other direction.

He was grinning from ear to ear, and in his hands he held a bright purple balloon. Following closely behind him was another little boy, one of the birthday group. He was calling out something unintelligible.

“Michael, where did you get that balloon?”

“It’s mine!” he said.

“He took my balloon!” The other boy cried.

“Michael, did you take this balloon?”

“But I…” he started.

“It’s my balloon,” the little boy said again.

“Michael, give him back his balloon!”

Michael thrust the balloon at the little boy, brow knitted into a severe frown. He folded his arms and turned back toward me, but not before exclaiming “I hate you!” at the balloon boy.

“Michael, we’re done. Let’s go get your shoes.” I marched him over to the shoe caddy and we retrieved his shoes. As I put them on his feet I told him “Little man, this is not how we make friends. We don’t steal balloons, and we certainly don’t tell people that we’ve stolen things from that we hate them. This is being mean.”

He said nothing.

“Now you’re going to go apologize to that little boy for what you did.” I steered him over to the little boy, who was bouncing his balloon up in the air. His parents noticed what I was doing and asked him to pay attention.

“Go on, Michael.”

Through fresh tears, he blurted out “I’m sorry I took your balloon!” and he darted away.

“You did the right thing, Michael.”

I knew he didn’t want to. I knew he felt horrible about it; though more likely because he’d been caught and forced to give up the prize, and then suffer the indignity of having to abase himself in front of another. Either way, I wanted to be sure he did the right thing in hopes that later on in life it would come naturally.

I continued to instruct and encourage him on our way out of the building.

That’s when we heard the little balloon boy come running up, bright purple balloon in hand.

“Here. This is for you,” he said, and he handed Michael the balloon.

“Thank you!” Michael said, brightening suddenly.

“Thank you, that was very nice,” I told the little boy, who pranced off, beaming.

As we got into the car, Michael said “That little boy gave me the balloon anyway!”

“Yes he did. That was grace, Michael. You didn’t deserve it, but you got it anyway.”

Like God’s grace, His unmerited favor in the midst of our evil toward Him. Not a purple balloon, but everlasting life.

Vacation is officially over. It’s time to head back to work, school and other standard occupations.

After we’ve fully enjoyed the holidays, we are curtly shoved out into the dark, dour epoch that stretches on until the next official holiday. We must endure a cold, bleak existence until February, when we come skidding up to Valentine’s Day and collapse on its doorstep, thankful for an excuse to celebrate something.

That, and if the stores are any indication, we also spend this time packing stuff up in Rubbermaid containers and weighing ourselves.

Another rainy day in Portland – a redundancy if ever there was one – and it started with a bit of disagreement as to whether Sister S had school or not. The school district calendar didn’t state emphatically that there was school, but there wasn’t any indication that there wasn’t school. We decided to drive her there, thus if there wasn’t school we could just turn around and drive home.

There was. She wasn’t pleased.

As I pulled back onto the road amidst lines of buses and throngs of parents dropping their kids off, I remembered how much I dislike this particular stretch of road – especially in the dark, and even more so in the rain. It’s hard to see anything at all unless it’s emitting its own source of light, with the headlights stabbing the eyes and obliterating most objects, and the rain obscuring everything else. While looking one direction and just about ready to turn, I suddenly caught sight of a group of morose-looking teenagers shuffling along the sidewalk. I was glad they weren’t shuffling along in front of my car as I turned, or I would have squashed every one of them.

It’s the clothes they wear these days. Don’t get me wrong, I know every generation of teens clings to its own fashion code and ours was no better… except that our was visible. The goth/emo trend today sports dark colors which renders the wearer, as a pedestrian, nearly invisible. Say what you will about the garish, loud, tie-dyed fashion sense of the 1970’s, but you have to give it this: you couldn’t help but notice it.

I would wager big money that there is a direct correlation to fashion trends and pedestrian versus automobile accidents.

Michael of course went back to his school today, and was entirely ambivalent about it, to the point of being blasé. He was excited about the fact that his mom would be picking him up extra early today, to take him along with his Cousin A to the train station. Cousin A had been staying with us throughout the holiday season, and Michael greatly enjoyed having another boy in the house to help even the odds. His mom and I enjoyed having Cousin A in the house because he’s polite, helpful and grateful – three traits we hope will rub off on our kids.

So with Cousin A heading home, the kids going back to school and me going back to work, it’s life as usual again.

Not much to say about it other than it’s life, and I really can’t complain. I’m thankful we have a roof over our heads, food in the cupboard, solid employment and kids who get along well for the most part.

Wishing you all the best in 2010.

Since I’m still without an original thought extremely busy, I’m dragging another post out of the archives. I originally posted this on The Anthill some years ago. Feel free to smirk if you believe it merits such.

So I’m watching the news and a story comes on about an attempted robbery that left the suspect unconscious.

The cop being interviewed described the actions of the two guys involved: “One gentleman came out of his home and witnessed the other gentleman attempting to break into his car. They got into a struggle and at some point during the fight, the second gentleman was rendered unconscious.”

A very typical police-esque narrative. But for the life of me, I can’t quite understand why they have to refer to these guys as “gentlemen”. The thief certainly wasn’t being a gentleman. And since the story came out of a bad part of town, I have my doubts that the intended victim was a gentleman either. I could only loosely accept them being called “men” as that term implies a sense of upstanding behavior. These two would be rightly called “males”, “guys”, or “dudes” maybe. Not that the cops would use those words, but they should. It would make a lot more sense in my opinion.

I could only imagine them being gentlemen if their interaction were more civilized than it was.

It should have gone like this: Gentleman A, dressed in a grey pinstriped suit and sporting a bowler hat and a handlebar moustache, approaches Gentleman B, who is also sporting a handlebar moustache, is dressed in a pair of rough tweed trousers and an oxford cloth shirt with rolled up sleeves, and who is attempting to break into Gentleman A’s automobile.

“I say, my good man! Here now, what tomfoolery do you purpose toward my motorcar?”

“Right, then! Sir, my sincerest amandation is offered forthrightly, for my business is burglary of a sort most grievous.”

“Burglary indeed! The deuce you say! And can you attend no honest occupation save thievery?”

“Have a care, sir! Proffer your deductions elsewhere!”

“You sir, are a jackanape, and I shall give you a right proper fetch.”

“Ah, then fisticuffs will suffice to settle the matter.”

“Have at it then, good sir! You will find my pugnastics nigh upon insurmountable!”

Gentleman A then whacks gentleman B with a tire iron.

Now, if the scene went down like that, then I would accept them being referred to as gentlemen. Bonus points if the police officer reports the incident as a “row”.

Lately I have been buried in my work. It’s the nature of this particular field, and something I’m used to.

As such, over the past few weeks I have not been able to attend to some of the more peripheral things in my world, such as the page you are currently reading. Even some of the important things at home have been given short shrift, forcing my wife and myself to arrange our schedules and responsibilities with pinpoint accuracy to ensure our kids’ needs are met, chores and shopping are done, and that the house doesn’t spontaneously burst into flame.

But even in the midst of concerted effort at home and intense focus at work, I’m finding myself having to step back and observe a bigger picture.

The picture of who my son is, what drives him, and where he is headed.

I began this blog in June of 2006 after finding that our then two-year-old son was a firey force to be reckoned with. This blog became my outlet, my catharsis.

Since the beginning I have written about Michael’s emotional expressions, from his uber-tantrum at the beach in Seaside, Oregon when he was two, to last year’s nuclear meltdown at Disneyland. And of course just a couple of weeks ago I wrote about an incident at a local play place, out of which Michael was dragged, kicking and screaming, and hauled off home. His mother kept her composure in the face of it all, as she usually does.

The common theme here is the escalation of the ferocity and the increase in frequency of these outbursts.

Just last Friday, while in the midst of solving some complex and stupefyingly boring technical issue at work, I received a voice mail that I could scarcely understand. It was Michael’s Mommy, and she was in near hysterics. The urgency was unmistakable.

The thing was, she was supposed to be at a pumpkin patch with Michael. It was supposed to be a fun day. It was supposed to be a time for creating those simple, happy memories.

Well, there are definitely memories.

About a week prior, Michael’s new school teacher alerted us to the fact that though the group was planning to go to a pumpkin patch, Michael would need a parent to accompany him. In so many words, it was made known to us that the teachers can’t handle Michael on his own.

Because of my work schedule as of late, I was not the parent to be going with him.

So Friday of last week, Michael’s mommy strapped him into his seat and headed off to meet the group at the pumpkin patch. They were going to the Roloff’s to be exact, which is not terribly far away. There’s a ton to do there, lots to see, lots to interact with, yummy food and plenty of pumpkins.

At one point they boarded a “train” (a truck with a couple of trailers) and headed off to see the Western Town, a set of small buildings that look like a ghost town. But because of long lines and bad timing, the “waiting around” aspect became more than Michael could handle.

Upon boarding the train again, Michael asked to sit in another location. Unfortunately, this was something that his mom simply could not comply with. It was a physical impossibility, given the number of people on the train, the lack of legroom for moving around, and the fact that the train was beginning motion.

But Michael persisted. He wanted to move and sit with the other boys. His mom said no.

And so, he erupted. He vented his fury upon all within striking distance.

His mother did not want him to hurt anyone else, least of all an innocent baby that was just a couple of feet from them. So, she tried to restrain him.

This only made matters worse. He kicked, he bit, he scratched, he pulled her hair, he broke her glasses. And she could do nothing.

A couple of the parents tried to signal the driver to stop and let my wife and our son off, but he called back that they were almost there.

Eventually they pulled up to the stop, and my wife took Michael off the train and straight to the car.

She strapped him in, kicking and screaming, and drove away, battered, bruised, and utterly humiliated.

That’s when I got the call.

I told her I’m on my way home, and I packed up my computer and I left.

I don’t often spank Michael. I don’t believe in random spanking, particularly not on the spur of the moment and out of anger. But for utter defiance and abuse of his mother, I made an exception. When I got home, Michael got a spanking, and he did not like it. I did not raise my voice to him, but I let him know in no uncertain terms that his behavior was unacceptable, and that he hurt his mother. He spent the rest of the afternoon in his room contemplating his behavior.

His mom spent the rest of the weekend having post-traumatic stress episodes (I do not exaggerate here) and thinking over Michael’s past, wondering whether any of several self-inflicted injuries might have led to his current behavior patterns. Was it when he got overheated in the car seat as a baby? Was it when he fell off the play structure and clonked his head? Was it when his sisters dropped him?

No matter what the reason for Michael’s temper, it is a matter of fact. It is part of who he is.

The question is, what to do about it? Is it something he will grow out of? Is it a result of our parenting methods?

It’s hard to say. We do say prayers every night. One thing that I intend to instill in my son is faith in God. I try to keep our prayers simple so they become a habit for him: “God bless mommy, daddy, sisters, friends at school…” but lately I’ve been hearing Jimmy Swaggart’s voice come out of my mouth: “Dear Lord Jesus, drive the devil from this boy!” I sometimes wonder that maybe if I shaved the back of his head, I might find a trio of diabolical digits hiding there.

In all truth, I know he will grow and he will improve. And as time moves on, I will keep you all informed. Maybe we can be of help to some other poor parents out there who face a similar challenge.

Michael’s five. He’s going to be starting kindergarten this fall. He’s not a toddler or even a preschooler any more.

Not too long ago it hit me how much I miss the time when Michael was very small.

And I’m not as much wistful about it as I am annoyed. Despite my very vocal proclamations of relief at his increasing maturity, I actually would like another shot at enjoying the baby Michael.

I spent nearly all of Michael’s baby-hood stressed out, tense and irritated, mainly due to a situation that had been churning for some time; one that I probably would not have subjected my family to had I made better choices years ago. Suffice it to say that it’s one of those things that I’d love to be able to go back in time and smack myself for.

But because of it, either by damaged brain cells or force of distraction, I actually cannot recall much of Michael’s baby-hood. Those memories reside in the center of my cerebral blind spot.

I am confident that Michael was in fact a baby at some point. I remember when he was born, and how surprised I was to see that shock of red hair. I remember he peed on me when I changed his diaper the first time. I know he came home from the hospital tiny, helpless and needy. I know I carried him a lot. I know he cried often and threw up as much. I know he spent a good deal of time in our bedroom in a cradle, and then later in a crib in his own room.

I know this because I have pictures and video of that time. I know this because I wrote a lot in my personal journal, writing about the day to day struggles, joys, triumphs, sadness, milestones and disappointments long before I began writing them in this blog.

Our computer has a slide show screensaver that cycles through pictures taken from around the time Michael was born on up to recent days. Seeing these old photographs underscores the fact that I honestly don’t remember much of life when Michael was so small. I tell this to my wife in a half-kidding sort of way, but regrettably it’s no joke. It’s like I accidentally put my memory on fast-forward during that period, and I’ve only just realized it.

Sometimes, I gave him bottles. Sometimes, I bathed him, played with him, tucked him into his crib. I did my share of taking care of him.

I know that he used to stay right where you put him. I vaguely recall that the cat used to walk on him a lot, because as far as she was concerned he was merely a lumpy extension of the furniture. And of course once he was able to move, he started getting in to things. That, he hasn’t stopped.

But I harbor resentment toward myself now that I couldn’t (or didn’t) pull myself out of my own negative attitude to really be there for him as a baby. That I wasn’t there for his sisters or my wife as much as I could have been.

At this point, there’s nothing I can do to reclaim those lost years. I have the memories I do, and those are the ones I’ll keep.

But I can just resolve to be here completely from now on. For Michael, for his sisters, for my wife. To remember to stop and drink it in from time to time.

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.

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.

This country is slowly but surely being overwhelmed by an invasion of apostrophes.

I’m not sure how they came or why their numbers are increasing, but I’m seeing them everywhere now, in places where they have no business at all: in pluralizations. For example: “dad’s”, “kid’s”, “mom’s”, “television’s”, etc. It’s like fingernails on a blackboard.

Up until last night, I’d suffered in silence. But I can take it no more. My restraint burst when I saw these little gems on a restaurant menu:
“Specialty Pizza’s”
“Jalapeno’s”
“Green Pepper’s”

*shudder*

How would the Engli’sh ’speaking countrie’s of thi’s world fare if word’s with ’s in them were alway’s written with apostrophe’s? We’d all drown in a ’sea of u’sele’s’s tick mark’s, awa’sh in ’su’spended comma’s floating high above ’sentence’s like little balloon’s of ’stuttering ’sen’sele’s’sne’s’s.

No.

Let the madness end. Let us remember a simple rule: If in doubt, leave it out.

Seriously.

There are three main reasons to use apostrophes:
1) To indicate possessive case of a proper noun. E.g.: Bill’s, Ted’s, Susan’s
2) To form a contraction. E.g.: Can’t, Won’t, Didn’t
3) To pluralize lower case letters. E.g.: p’s, q’s, a’s.

That’s it.

It’s debatable whether you need to pluralize acronyms like CD or DVD using an apostrophe; technically it’s unnecessary, though common use is overturning that rule.

But to pluralize words like mom, dad, pizza, cheese, fork, chicken, knock, way, two, and the like, just tack an “s” on the end: dads, pizzas, cheeses, forks, chickens, knocks, ways, twos. It’s that simple.

I may be the only one griping, but I’m willing to live with that if I can in some small way help keep our written language from being overrun by rampant overuse of apostrophes.