Teaching Post Available

It's hard to say why I stay at this.

Are there better ways for me to spend my time?  Yes, thank you, there are.

That old worn-out tractor isn't going to sprout a new solenoid, shedding the old one cicada-like, ready to mow anew, now is it?

That old guitar ain't gonna tune itself and start singing John Prine tunes.  It never has before.

That half-finished novel will only get finished if the characters mutiny, pull themselves from the literary limbo in which they are entrenched, and finish their own damn story, you know?

That first Reds game after the All-Star break isn't going to be won unless someone watches, drinking beer and dreaming about youth and perfection.

The floors need scrubbed and the walls painted and I need to get on that guy about my truck cap, but it's too late now 'cause I forgot about it because I was thinking about something else.

I am often unable to afford myself the luxury of thinking about something else, but, and here's the thing, when I do, I frequently think about what I'd like to do here, with you, for them.

You see, I'm still engaged here.  I've learned a lot.  I've learned more, honestly, than I have given.  The karmic balance is decidedly one-sided.  I hope that with time it will equal out and all will be fair.

I've learned to keep my eyes and ears open, noticing the minutiae, the little stuff, the important stuff that happens all the time as the big stuff plans itself, and marveling in it.  A figure in construction paper, baffling, a bit androgynous until the child who made it says:  "Look, I made a paper Jesus!"

I've learned to bend over, to look under, to flip over and to not ask questions, even if a little boy with "x" eyes is on a little piece of a shim and a little girl coaxing the sun up is on the flip side:

 

I've learned to decode, even when, after serious analysis, all that is revealed is "cheek Rufus Lucky kings BONes":

I've learned to accept a pirate ship with feather sails soaring through timeless space, happily adrift, and to recognize the dreamy wonder it represents.

I've learned to help with the important stuff, and print them out if necessary:

No splashing or running.  It's important.

I've learned that this is a Dream:

 That this is a Hope:

And that this is a Prayer:

Oh, and that this is Corky Miller:

That reminds me, there's a Reds game on.


Thanks for stopping by, come back again, I'll be here...

Growing Up Kinda Sucks

"My 6yo woke up upset this morning.  He had a dream that there was a huge game room, but to get in he had to leave a toy in the box by the door.  All he had was his beloved stuffed bear that he got when he was born.

Today's lesson:  Growing up kinda sucks."

This was posted on a SaHD's page I am a part of on Facebook and I use it with permission and...  it broke my heart.  Not in a bad way, but, it's something that has been on my mind for a while now, something I haven't been able to get at, something, well, difficult.

Growing up is difficult and watching kids grow up is difficult as well.

Sometimes when I watch my kids playing, especially with other kids, but, really just in general, I am hit with waves of sympathy pains.  At the pool lately Nick has been having a hard time getting involved with other kids, playing and the like.  He knows a couple of the kids there but hasn't really made any "new" friends.  I am afraid the other kids are a little off-put by his cast and, since he doesn't really like to tell the story of how it was broken, I'm afraid he comes off as a little strange.

It's difficult to watch his face as the kid swims off and he stares at the empty spot where the kid was, thinking, I surmise, that something is wrong with him.

And, it's difficult to watch it happen.

I think what makes it really difficult is knowing you can only do so much to fix it.

So, I decided to show you these, instead.  A fully articulated, disco-dancing space ninja and a knight banner festooned with string.

I guess I can't really figure out what I want to say today.  Nick got his cast off yesterday and we had hoped there would be great joy, but, he's very worried.  He told me he was "overwhelmed."

Childhood is difficult to watch.  And amazing and delightful and mesmerizing and horrible and flabbergasting and, honestly, so is grown-up-hood.


From Marci's  "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

(sung) "I am a dingo. I am a dingo. I am a dingo. I am a dingo."


That then segued into "Dingo bells, dingo bells, dingo all the way" ...

Barmy and Brent... and Brian (But He Didn't Know)

There's a dude, "Barmy" Rootstock, who writes a brilliant website and blog - one of those blogs that is both deliciously hilarious and deeply, fundamentally loving - called I've Become My Parents.  It's really good, but, that's beside the point.  "Barmy" writes anonymously, he has a fake FB page for his blog and his pseudonym, that's how much he wants to remain so.

You may remember that I once wrote a piece about wishing I'd started out that way called "If You Didn't Know Me."  I still wish I had, and, I'm jealous that "Barmy" is so much cleverer than I.

Here's the thing, I tried to find out who he really was, I mean he lives in Canada, that should narrow it down, right?  Nothing.  I tried for, like, ten minutes, on Google, no dice.  And then, and then, I saw this slinking in the trash:

I immediately knew it was a picture of "Barmy" all grown up:

A short confession stapled to the back reads:   

Hi!  My name is lester.  I am a varey (very) good craftsman.  I live in a little cotig (cottage)  by the Hillside.  one day I got an order from the king!  He wanted 3 hats by the therd (third) sunrise.  Deep I thot (thought).  I wint (went) to work.  I finishit (finished) the first at the first sunrise!  I fisist (finished) the secont (second) one at the secont (ibid.) sunrise!  I fisilsht (oh for God's sake) the last one at the last sunrise.  The king was varey (ibid) happy.  He toled (told) me to work with him at the casal (castle) in a cra7tsman shop!

"Barmy" Rootstock is really Lester the Hatmaker, Cratfsman to the King.  He's making this all up, folks.  His not even an artist, he is but a craftsman.  He went so far as to hire a kid to pretend he was his endearing son telling all about the befuddlements and intricacies of some game, allegedly on the innerwebs, called Mineshaft, or Minecraft or Hatcraft or Hatshaft or whatever - which I am sure he made up as well - and he taped and posted the entire scripted event in this post.  Like anyone is going to believe that a twelve year old is that sweet and comfortable with his seemingly hapless, hilarious dad.  I ain't buyin' it.

And why, dear Lord, is this information addressed to "Mom?"  Is she auditioning new husbands?  Is there a vacancy opening up soon?  What the hell!?  Why is my son drawing pictures of "Barmy" Rootstock?  My brain hurts.


You know what?  While I'm at it I'm gonna call out another dude who is clearly made up as well.  No one could be as picture perfect, as sweet, as talented and, just, well, as keen, as "Brent" at Designer Daddy.  The website is perfect, an old-timey refrigerator door and those magnetic letter magnets you make cusswords out of spelling out the title.  It's cool and fun and... no one person could possibly do all that has been done there.

"Brent" did this great post using magnets as a clever device to voice his support of gay marriage.  It's insanely witty and refreshingly unbombastic.  "Brent" wrote a song, that is both catchy and sweet and he tells a story about where the song came from that is so thoughtful and sincere that I teared up at the strength of his love for his beautiful son.

Maybe, maybe, I'll buy all that, but, really, he sang The National Anthem in front of the Supreme Court building as the DOMA decision was coming down.  C'mon!

Clearly Designer Daddy is a consortium of some sort, maybe ten or twelve really talented guys pretending to be one wonderful, enlightened, talented and generous gay man.

Also, and this is the kicker, does anyone believe that one person could have had the time, the vision, the insight and the audacity to do this piece called "The Father's Day Gallery of Greatness".  Right, one guy did this for so many, with nothing to really gain but awesomeness.  Impossible.

(Yes, thanks for asking, those are pictures by my boys called Still Life One and Still Life Too.)


So, I need to show you this, "Brent", some designs "I" did:

Cincinnati Candles

Seattle's Silver Spotted Leopards

The American Maroon Meercats

The Yellowsone Yellow Yettes

Yep, some professional sports team logos.

Yellowstone was on a budget ...

Also, out design this, "Brent."

Yeah, I thought so, your whole design team couldn't do this in a year.

                        __________________________________________________


Well, that's all said and done and, now I go a little deeper.  I'll drop the attitude and I'll tell you something I have come to realize, something important.  I have been deeply affected by both of these fine men, they are ennobling a medium so often maligned and shorted.  Good things are going on in the blogarena, funny stuff, heart-wrenching stuff, honorable stuff, enlightening stuff, decent stuff.  And, here's the hard part, people aren't seeing it.  And, that's too damn bad.

I'm not in charge of fixing this, I really don't know who is, but, I can point the way, pay it forward as best I can, and I can be sure that these guys and so many others know that they have inspired me, fed me, taught me, empowered me and made me a better person.

There's another guy who seems made up to me, but, I know he's not.  He's just an expat in New Zealand who tells stories so lovingly rendered and so carefully crafted that he renders me breathless at times.  His words are on a blog (more a memoir, really) called Dadding Full Time.  If there is a more intelligent, thoughtful, funny and loving piece than "Cussing Kids Are Clear Thinkers", I haven't read it.  He is the real deal, pop on over there and have a lookabout, you'll be glad you did.


Thank you, Barmy, Brent and Brian.  I mean that.

Wordlessness

I am unoften without words.

Words, howsomever, take time, energy and clear perception

Lately, I have none of the three.  Well, perhaps singularly, or even in pairs, I may have, but, altogether in one cohesive space/time continuum, not so much.

I can still wonder and marvel, laugh and love, respect and honor, witness and learn, savor and remember.  That's what I set out to do here a couple hundred or more posts ago.

Yeah, I got time for that, I got the energy for that and I definitely have a clear perspective on that.

I'll try anyway.

Zack's made a few of these and they defy all logic and somehow make all the more sense for it.  Marci showed me how to scan the two halves of this and paste them together on the computer (who knew?), all I could think to do was this:

Yep, I took a picture of it.  (Of course I once considered taking a photo of all the indecipherable notes I had stored on my phone, true story.)

I can't begin to explain my befuddlement at this.  Not because I think it's silly, or funny, or cute but because it is brilliant.  You try it,  I'll wait...

On the right are some handy graphics; as you can see, the blue is the bottom floor, red in the middle, and the top is yellow and there is a design in place for a triple peaked roof.  What the hell!  I can't draw a convincing stick-figure and he is putting his ideas into three dimensions?  Good Lord, imagine what he could do with a working knowledge of drafting and perspective and physics and, well, a ruler.

It simply flabbergasts me.

We found this the other day in Nick's wheelbarrow full of stuff he brought home the last day of school:

I know he called it a phoenix, a mythology he gleaned from a Magic Tree House book  or Aurthur or, more likely, Phineas and Ferb.

There is a somewhat odd, and, honestly, grim detail down there in the bottom right corner:

A baby in a stroller saying "AAH!" as a mother says "Shhh!"  Why?

And who is "fre .d bern?"  And why is there a fifties-style UFO above it all?  And why the hell was he doing this at school?

(Apparently, I did have some words today.)

I am sometimes - in a sideways sort of way - accused of making fun of the boys around here.  I'm not.  Anyone who knows me knows that.  Actually, the truth of it is the opposite, I stand in awe of them.  I admire them.  This creativity, this innate intelligence, this cleverness, leaves me gobsmacked most of the time.  And, honestly, embarrassingly, I remember that I, too, had it once and have squandered it away in adulthood, forgetting the wonder, forgetting the hope, forgetting the unbridled optimism that is childhood.

I'll keep looking for it in their souls, in their eyes, in their hopes and loves and dreams and in this utterly essential childhood nonsense.


From Marci's "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

Z: "Italians get to eat pasta every night."

N: "And they are known for their French toast."


 And Eskimo pies...

"It Used To Be a Maraca ..." (or Nine-Thirty)

I feel so often that I should try to broaden my readership, when, in truth, I should remember to narrow it.  I feel the need to apologize; I've gotten off track, again, and I will, again.

I want to be liked, but, when I change the way I am for you to like me, I usually regret it.

So let's try to get back on track.

          __________________________________________________

There's a keeper box around here, and another staging area for potential keepers and, finally, there are archives waiting to self-combust under my bed and in the closet.  Oh and various piles on my desk; I'm not really sure where those go.  It's a convoluted process.

When the boys came home from school with rented wheelbarrows full of papers and stories and paintings and laminated birthday books and more pencils and markers then we sent them with, we didn't really have the patience desire time to organize it all.  Mostly because each piece had to be explained, not once but twice, remembered, not once but twice and judged as to its keeper potentiality - a ten hour process in and of itself, twice.

However I did glean some really great stuff, like these horse pictures from N:

I've seen horses "in love" and that's not how I recall it.  Don't horses have longer tails and seem a little less happy than these guys.  I think they are neutered unicorns.

This is not a horse, but it was mixed in with the horse "pichers":

I believe it's a member of the Transylvanian Olympic ski-jumping team, or, uh, something else skeletal deathy in nature.

I found this interesting math equation:

I still don't know if that one's right or not.  He seemed sure it was.

There is one more thing I'd like to add today.  I think the boys have been missing school a little bit so they decided to have a school for their stuffed animals, well, only a select few - you know how elite these things can be.  They figured out a plan and what they should do, and, there's a schedule:

Check out the nine-thirty slot, "learning to love."

Our work here is done.


From Marci's "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

“It used to be a maraca ... now I want it to be a spaceship."


Yep ...

Guarding Innocence

I don't really do many reviews or the like around here, a lot of really great bloggers do, but, I don't, mostly because I don't really like to do that sort of thing and, uh, well ... no one has asked me.  However, we watched a movie tonight that was pretty good, spectacular, really, Rise of The Guardians.

I get a lot of grief from a younger generation of bloggers on my position about Star Wars and the endless supply of movies and merchandise it has spawned, because I think my kids are too young to see them.  In fact I was included in this white paper on Dorkdaddy on the right age to expose your kids to these movies.  I voted never, and I had a lot of snarky and flip reasons why.  You can take a look if you want, I'll wait...

Tonight though, as we watched this movie, I blundered upon what I would guess was the real reason I don't want my kids to watch jacked-up overly- amped movies like the trilogy and so many others:  What the hell are the going to expect later?  I mean if they see these highly engaging, boisterous, crazy funny, clever and cloyingly didactic spectacles as EIGHT-YEAR-OLDS, what on earth is going to satisfy them as teenagers, let alone adults?

I mean, really, I didn't have anywhere to go but up from reruns of Petticoat Junction and Gilligan's Island, both excellent and exciting (read sexy) shows but hardly "epic," as Zack described tonight's movie.  Speed Racer had nothing on that super-charged sleigh Santa was rocking in Rise, and Bambi seems mundane in comparison to dancing penguins and talking Zebras.

So often, when I mention - and subsequently am made to defend - the position that I think a lot of movies kids see today are way beyond them, visually, contextually and, frankly, metaphorically, I am made to feel like some under-mediaed Luddite who wandered out of Norman Rockwell's studio and was hit with a turnip truck.  I ain't.  I get it - these movies are exciting and creative and, well, epic.  They fire us up and get us very excited and anxious and ... a kid doesn't need that.

Yet.

A kid needs to learn storytelling from Aurthur, before he can take on the complex moral ambiguity that is paramount to the plot - which is believing in Santa and The Tooth Fairy and Mr. Sandman and Jack (whateverhappenedtohim) Frost so hard so the evil Bogeyman won't take all the light and joy and wonder and happiness away from the children of the world.  Hell, Nick just wants everyone to be happy and sincerely hopes George wins the chess match.

A kid needs to dream of becoming a fireman or a veterinarian or dream of having their own restaurant before he can aspire to Defender of The Universe.

He's got to understand the dangers of a house fire and lightning before he can begin to understand the fiction that is an exploding man-made planet (I am such a loser, the DeathStar, is it?) or flying fortresses that fall, assuredly killing everyone.

He's got to cope with Old Yeller's death or Aunt Bee's little drinking problem before he can handle who Luke's Father is/was.

A boy needs heroes and hopes, dreams and love, pain and humility, humor and failure all explained to him very carefully.  Plopping a kid in front of a sixty inch plasma TV and showing him movies that you loved as a teen or young adult, hoping to "pass it on" to him does not serve that child well.

Folks tell me times have changed, that kids are exposed to so much more so much earlier, that they can handle it.  The internet and mass-media have changed how much stuff we see and, mathematically, because a lot of kids watch a gazillion minutes a week of it, they are ready for these things a lot younger.

Yeah, I agree, times have changed but, the heart of a little child hasn't.  It isn't their fault times have changed, it isn't their fault we forget to let them be little, naive, joyful and free.

I know this position will annoy some folks, and, that's fine.  I also know that some folks know exactly what I am saying.  The folks who feel that guarding innocence is more valuable than passing a few hours and checking off a movie, or seven, off of some foisted-upon them childhood bucket list.  I know that people long for less violence and more decency, fewer explosions and more hugs, not for themselves, but for their kids.

                               _______________________________________________


Speaking of Mayberry innocence, we went to a Columbus Clippers game the other night, we had a lot of fun, as much fun as we had last year.  On the car ride home, after the boys read for a while and looked out the windows and chatted, they had a little improv between their stuffed bears, Bear-Bear and Barry.  I didn't catch most of it, I was driving and listening to classic Country thinking how odd it was that I knew all the words to all the songs, and I don't really multi-task, but, when we got home and had everything put away, the little dudes made these:

The Beartown Claws played last night, minor league team, but they do have their own "platypus limo."

Zack also made this, the cryptographers are still working on it; they think it's significant:

As I walked by the dining room table, where so much of this nonsense foments, Nick held up this piece of paper:

It says the same thing on the other side:

He thought that was really funny.


It's weird here.


From  Marci's  "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

Z: “When I level up, I get the carrier.”
N: “When I level up, I get the chicken.
You know, the gun chicken.
He has guns on his wings ...
... and on his beak.
The gun chicken.”

(Why do I feel there is a theme song coming?)

The gun chicken, dumbass...

Post Father's Day Post

(I wonder if I titled last Father's Day post that?  No, I did not, I put a 'The' before it.)

I usually try to write about a holiday or celebration after the fact, mostly because I am using this forum to help make memories for the boys, and, uh... me.

Here's the thing, I've got a couple of cute, fun, adorable crafts from the boys I want to show you, but, first I want to try to explain something.  I am a Midwesterner and we don't really like to speak on emotions 'round these parts, but - I think Father's Day is a very difficult day for a lot of men.

It's not just emotional for current fathers, watching with memories so close to our minds, mixing our childhoods with our children's, watching our kids through our father's eyes.

It's not just hard for an at-home-dad like me - to whom the whole notion seems absurd when you realize, as you look at Mother's Day cards, that they'd be more appropriate for you - who must suffer the media stereotyping and bumbling dads mythology so sometimes searingly, heartbreakingly thrust at us.

It's not just painful to men who aren't dads, aren't even considering it, or men who had deadbeat dads or no dads at all, or for men who are still forming, all wondering what is happening, why this journey?

I am struggling with the words today.  In a way that's a good thing, it means I am struggling with an idea, with an emotion, with myself.

Simply put:  Father's Day expects to much of us.  It's a needy, Hallmark holiday, unnecessary and difficult.  Do we celebrate our own fathering or reflect on our fathers?  It's sort of hard to do both, the first so joyful and sacred, the second melancholy and inviolable.

For me, I absorb the joy of my own fathering every day, it's easy and I make a point of noticing their smiles and freckles and breaks and burgeoning dreams at every opportunity.  I notice them daily.  Also, I remember my own father in a very deep way, I rely on his foundation for my own faith and, hopefully, integrity, in a way that forgoes time, not in some heady philosophical way, it just exists in an out-of-time plane along with hopes and dreams and demons and sadness.

For me - and I mean this - if the above is true, and I think it is for a lot of men, every day is Father's Day.

                   ______________________________________________


So, I got breakfast in bed, toast and fruit and eggs even, and I got a funny card from Marci, and a couple of homemade cards from the boys:

 This one is from Zack, I just love the "hammer in a heart" logo, and I do "do much work."  I love you, too, Zacky.

Nick had a little more time but he made a fatal design error; he wanted a pop-up guy inside and he wanted a cutout for the cover.  Mom rescued him with a piece of a ziplock baggie to line the heart.  His poem, heartfelt and accurate: "You love Meat,/ Meat loves you,/ you love me, too!"  ..love me, too, meat too.  Ha!  Great stuff.  I love you, too Nick.  (All of this he created with his right hand and arm in a cast up past his elbow.)

I am not sure where he got this little photo of me, I haven't been to a Renaissance Fair in a number of years.

It's definitely me.

I got these nifty coupons good for stuff.  I'm gonna use the "giting money" one soon.  I am not sure who's going to cut the grass if I use that one.  One is good for "loving" and one simply for "LOVe".  I think I'll keep those for now

So, that's how I feel about the whole thing and what I got.  Thanks for coming around.


From Marci's "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ..."

"I ripped it out so we wouldn't hurt it."

... huh?

 It's boy logic, we can't fathom their depths ...