Two Swarthy Things

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2004Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Tomorrow is my son Seth’s 5th birthday. He has declared that to celebrate this big event we must go to Ruby’s for dinner. Ruby’s is his favorite restaurant for two appropriately 5-year-old reasons: 1) they serve macaroni & cheese; and 2) every kid’s meal comes with a toy. Inasmuch as his other favorite place is McDonald’s, I think Ruby’s is a fine choice.

The real birthday celebration took place last Saturday when Seth and 10 of his pals gathered for the Pirate Party of the Century. As usual, my wife Dana was in charge, which guaranteed two things: 1) the affair would be over-planned, the loot bags overflowing; and 2) the kids would have a deliriously good time. Because of the theme, I had to stop shaving for a week (don’t you love those rare occasions when sloth becomes virtuous?) and sport a do-rag for 3 hours on a Saturday afternoon. We planned to hold the big bash at the Atlantis Play Center in Garden Grove, a public park which includes, among other things, a slide that looks like a dragon and a pretend sailing ship—the perfect place to fire the imaginations of our little buccaneers.

Provided, that is, that it didn’t rain.

Well, as luck would have it, it did rain, which meant two things: 1) anyone going down the dragon slide was going to end up with a wet bum (yes, there were some tears shed over that little blast of reality); and 2) we had the place literally to ourselves. We were able to stay dry for the most part thanks to the protection of a pavilion which was abandoned to our benefit by another group less hearty than ours. Fortunately, the rain was never really heavy, so when we did venture out into the park (for the obligatory treasure hunt, for example) the kids held up pretty well. Considering the disaster that might have been ours had it really poured, we were pretty lucky—smug even that what we ended up with acres of essentially private park.

What fun it was to see the delight in those children. Dana outfitted each one with a pirate hat, a hook (of course), an eye patch, a cutlass, a bandana with the jolly roger, and just for good measure, a stuffed parrot. They even got fake mustaches. Very scary indeed. Had you seen our swarthy crew (at least, I think that they were swarthy—what’s that mean, anyway?) you would have turned over your gold doubloons on the spot, especially had they let loose with a terrifying “Aaaaar!” (which they did, I should mention, with great frequency). Once they were fully decked out, two things were certain: 1) no buried treasure in the park was safe; and 2) most of those fake mustaches would be in the trash before the day was over.

Needless to say, we’re glad it’s over, and pleased to see that Seth was so pleased. I share this with you for two reasons: 1) I thought it was fun to tell about; and 2) because I knew you’d be disappointed if I didn’t end this letter with two reasons.

How are things with you? Drop me a note some time. I’d love to hear from you.

PW

Serious Goofing Off

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2004Leave a comment

Dear Will:

The new year brings with it a new routine for my Sundays. Because our ward shares its smallish building with another, we must alternate between the 9 a.m. to noon schedule and the 1 p.m. to 4 p.m. This year it’s our turn to congregate in the afternoon, and frankly I don’t like it.

I like having church in the morning. By noon, I can slip into some sweats and loll about with the kids or visit family in a nearby town. Having to postpone our meetings until after lunch just seems to throw of the rhythm of the day for me.

Still, I must admit that there is something to be said for having the morning off. This morning I didn’t flop out of bed until 7:30—decadent self-indulgence given my usual 5:30 a.m. alarm setting. After showering I came downstairs and discovered Bryn (she’s my nine-year-old) giving Seth (who’s 4) a piano lesson. It wasn’t going well, frankly, but the scene was charming nonetheless. After spending a few minutes with the morning paper, I threw some food in the crockpot (pork, sweet potatoes, and onions—yum) and then set to work on the French toast with homemade apple syrup. We didn’t eat breakfast until after 9 a.m., but the pace was marvelously unhurried. Around here, that’s a rare thing indeed.

After breakfast, I played Monopoly with Luke while his siblings cheered us on (my three houses on Boardwalk did him in) and then watched as the youngest two skipped out the door to take Barnum (the monster dog) for a walk. About that time I could hear my wife stirring upstairs. She has been fighting a bronchial infection but is always so crazy busy that she doesn’t get nearly enough rest. So it was that, guilt-free (well, almost) she slept and slept and slept. It was what she needed most, I’m sure.

And so I sit down to tap out this letter to you, reminded that it was a long, long time ago that God gave Moses (and the rest of us) this excellent counsel:

Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it. (Exodus 20:8-11)

Isn’t it great that God not only gave us permission, but a commandment, to take a day off to veg out and spend unhurried, unharried time with family? I don’t think I could get through my week without it. It provides therapy for both the body and the spirit. I highly recommend it.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some serious goofing off to do.

PW

Furball of Mayhem and Destruction

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20031 Comment

Dear Will:

Ask our kids “What do moms need?” and in dissonant unison they will moan: “Order.” That simple truth has been drilled into them like a catechism. Which is only one of the reasons why it is so hard to understand why in the world we ever agreed to get a dog. Correction: Furball of Mayhem and Destruction.

Excuses abound. The truth is that it is hard to say no to a freckle-faced nine-year-old girl who keeps jumping over every hurdle you place in her way. Bryn was so desperate for a dog that she spent hour upon hour, month after month, online checking out the current canine inventory at each of the local animal shelters. She declared that the fourth Saturday of every month was Visit the Pound Day. She did her homework. She helped her little brother. She even did her chores—no small feat considering how hard it is (now) to get her just to empty the wastebaskets. It’s not so much that she is unwilling, mind you; it’s just that she is so easily distracted. Bryn’s imagination knows no bounds, which means that sometimes when she should be, for example, reviewing the Associative Law of Mathematics, she is instead daydreaming of her debut on a Broadway stage.  Somehow, in spite of these frequent digressions, Bryn still gets excellent grades—so it should be no surprise that she outsmarted us and through conniving charm and unrelenting persistence convinced us that it was time for us to bring home Barnum.

Already we’re wishing she hadn’t been so charming and persistent. For example, it turns out that dogs chew on stuff. Nerf footballs. Briefcases. Dinner. (Note: Keeping Dana’s meal warm until she gets home from ballet: good idea. Leaving it unattended on the table: bad idea.) Dogs also pee when they get in trouble, especially on the carpet, and especially when chastised for climbing up on the dinner table and polishing off most of Dana’s five-spice pork. (And don’t even get us started on what happens to the carpet the morning after the five-spice pork caper. Can you say “Ewwww! Gross!”?)

What’s more, dogs like to nip at things. Things like Luke. And for some strange reason Luke does not enjoy being nibbled. It took Barnum, oh, about a minute and a half to realize that growling could fill Luke with great consternation, and about two minutes to realize that filling Luke with great consternation was fun. For Barnum. Still we wonder why Barnum has chosen to try to separate the large male from the herd. We’re guessing that in addition to being a few servings short of a full ration, Barnum may also be attracted to Luke’s unique couture: mismatched socks (always), green pants (almost always), and a ubiquitous bucket hat. Or perhaps he has mistaken Luke’s fascination for medieval warfare as a sign that Luke is always spoiling for a good skirmish. Whatever the reason, this much is certain: If Luke is watching one of his many Lord of the Rings DVDs, Barnum has almost certainly been ushered (OK—heaved) outside for the duration.

Most perplexed by this newest member of our little society is Seth, who sees Barnum both as playmate and predator. Often you’ll hear him calling Barnum to join him outside while he reenacts the previous weekend’s football game, complete with play-by-play. At some point (usually about the time Barnum recovers a fumble and refuses to give the ball back) Seth is hollering at Barnum with the full range of his four-year-old vocabulary. (Not pretty, especially for those who have armed the four-year-old with said vocabulary.) Barnum also shares Seth’s fascination for dinosaurs, but he expresses it in a slightly different way. Whereas Seth might chew up a chunk of his afternoon reenacting the final hours of the Late Cretaceous, Barnum might simply chew up a chunk of a plastic pterosaur. To each his own, you might say—although if you’re Seth you might express it somewhat less diplomatically.

Thus our life is spinning in disarray, in no small part because there is now a mutt where once there was order. We long now for Bob, the semi-animate albino toad that Luke once kept as a pet. We always considered him the least interesting pet imaginable, but uninteresting is good when order is your goal. It has also occurred to us that plastic pterosaurs make excellent pets as well—provided, that is, that you can find one reasonably intact.

Alas, it’s too late for any of that. And so we return to our catechism and ask anew: What do moms need? Well, for starters moms need some kind of round-the-clock electric vacuum thing to suck up the black dog hair which has now become a central feature of our home’s décor. Some time away couldn’t hurt either. As for dads, what they need most is . . . well . . . order, come to think of it. And if you don’t understand that, then you obviously haven’t spent enough time reviewing the Associative Law of Mathematics.

What any of this has to do with Christmas and New Year’s is anybody’s guess. But it is a little scary to think of our house full of decorations, a tree covered with baubles, and brightly wrapped presents down at ground level, all there to intrigue any curious furball. Did I mention that dogs chew on stuff?

PW