Tag: family

Lumberjacks, Cartwheels and Soccer Trophies

On By Peter WatkinsIn 20041 Comment

Dear Will:

In spite of our best efforts—or perhaps because of them—we are compelled to admit that we live in a fairly strange place. For instance, earlier today Seth was playing a matching game called Husker Du. He said he was winning, which seemed a little strange inasmuch as it appeared that he was playing alone. He soon clarified: “I have 4,” he said, “and my soccer trophy has 2.” (Immediately you think to yourself: “Ah, so the kid learned all of his social skills from his old man.” Perhaps so, but you’re missing the point.) Seth’s imagination is only limited by the number of hours in a day. It’s all fun, with or without a living, breathing friend to play with.

For instance, every day when he gets home from school Seth goes directly to the back yard to play whichever sport is in season. It’s more important than lunch, even if—and this should give you some idea of his fervor—lunch is at McDonald’s. He plays all positions on both teams (so far the trophy has not been invited to join in) and also serves as the announcer. Thus, rain or shine, you’ll hear backyard play-by-play delivered (who knows why?) in an impassioned falsetto: “Three-pointer by Seth! UCLA leads the Pistons 57-23! . . . Pistons have the ball. SETH STEALS IT! Slaaaaam dunk!”

Although he is only five, Seth has already revealed himself to be the most ardent sports nut in the household—which, though cute, is also irritating if you’re hoping to read the sports page before you go to work. Each morning he examines the box scores as if he were checking the status of his Wall Street investments, reading them out loud, one-by-one, under the apparent assumption that everyone cares deeply whether the Hornets beat the Warriors and by how much. “Dad, the Pirates lost to the Expos!” he’ll shriek, and then he’ll run into the other room to share with Mom the shocking news. His favorite teams include some obvious ones (Angels, Lakers, Bruins) and a few not-so-obvious ones (um, the Toronto Blue Jays?–don’t ask). Also, if there’s a game on—no matter what the sport—you can pretty much count on him rooting for whichever team is ahead and becoming distraught should they fall behind, even if he never heard of them before he turned on the TV.

Speaking of falling behind, we tried to send Bryn to bed an hour ago and she still hasn’t so much as brushed her teeth. We’re guessing (hoping) that’s fairly normal, but what we suspect is not normal is that it took her 7 ½ minutes to go 10 feet down the hallway to get her toothpaste. How is that even possible? you ask. (Well, maybe you didn’t ask, but we ask it all the time.) The simple yet maddening explanation is that there is nothing linear about Bryn. For instance, she cartwheels everywhere she goes. Down the hall, into the kitchen, across the crosswalk, even heading to the bathroom at a highway rest stop, Bryn twirls and spins and does one-handed round-offs as if it were the most practical mode of transport available. It may make it harder to finish your homework, but isn’t life about more than just homework?

Apparently so. Thus Bryn’s hyper-imaginative, ten-year-old mind has her alternately composing music, producing stage plays, writing poetry, devising recommended reading lists—all while (supposedly) doing her chores. She organizes, plots, devises. Plays the piano and (squeak, honk-honk, screech) the clarinet. Sings Broadway showtunes. And more than anything, she dances. Beautifully.

In fact, Bryn is at the ballet studio so much (about five days a week) that Luke insists that she is never around. (“It’s a good thing too,” he says in typical big brother fashion, “because she is so annoying.”) All that time at the barre is paying off (not literally—it’s costing us a fortune) as Bryn has begun dancing en pointe and was recently cast for the first time in her life as a soloist in her company’s winter concert.  No doubt Seth is hoping she’ll get a trophy out of the deal, and Luke is hoping he doesn’t have to attend. As for us, we’ll be satisfied if the discipline she is learning as a dancer at some point will help her brush and floss in less than 20 minutes.

Luke’s passions are no less obvious than Bryn’s, but they produce a wider range of emotions in his parents:
1—writing (thrilled, proud); 2—computer games (aggravated, intolerant); and 3—girls, or should we say, girl (panicked, hyperventilating, freaked out big time). Since he’s fourteen we shouldn’t be surprised by any of this, of course; but at the same time, did we mention that he’s only fourteen!? (pant, pant, palpitate).

To better cope with his reactionary parents, Luke has enrolled in the Orange County High School of the Arts, a secondary school dedicated to the production of actors, dancers, and other future restaurant workers. To be fair, the kids there are fun and quirky and extremely talented, making OCHSA a very cool place indeed. Luke is enrolled in the Creative Writing Conservatory, through which he receives 12 hours a week of after-school writing instruction. This semester his coursework includes: Literature into Film, the Art of the Short Story, Screenwriting, and Hiding the Fact that You’re More Articulate than Your Parents. (OK, so we made that up, but we’re hoping they’ll offer it next semester.) It makes for very long days, but when you consider that’s three additional hours of parent-free existence, you might go for it as well.

Besides, attending school with a bunch of highly creative people has its perks. For instance, every Tuesday Luke attends the weekly meeting of the Lumberjack Club—which we’re guessing you haven’t signed up for yet. The purpose of the club is a little fuzzy, but it seems to involve a secret handshake, flannel shirts, eating flapjacks (“not pancakes,” we are reminded), and watching “lumberjack movies.” (Question: Lumberjack movies?) Like we said, these kids are quirky—and probably having a lot more fun than the rest of us. Kind of annoying, isn’t it?

Sort of like this letter. Rather than put you through any further misery, then, let me conclude by making it clear that the eccentricities of this threesome have almost nothing to do with genetics (although Dana can be a bit bizarre from time to time). Dana and I continue to try to set an even-keeled example for them, but it is for naught: they quit paying much attention to us several years ago.

Finally, on behalf of all of us—the parents, the kids, the dog, and the soccer trophy—may I wish for you more of what you need, less of what you don’t, and a generous smattering of what you want.

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

The Lord and His Lady Give Fanks

On By Peter WatkinsIn 2002Leave a comment

Dear Will:

Anon, the Lord and Lady of the Manor return to their castle. (Editor’s note: Anon? Castle?) Noting well the declining state of his family fortune, once again this year the Lord has chosen—alack!—to postpone the digging of a moat until more prosperous times. And tho’ a drawbridge would indeed annoy the Homeowners’ Association, he knows that it would likewise be the envy of the neighborhood—especially should the Huns perchance lay siege to Orange County.

They steer their coach toward the garage, and yet they cannot park, for their path is impeded by the personal effects of the fair maiden Bryn, to wit: a scooter, rollerblades, a copy of Little House on the Prairie, a ballet bag, and a pair of all-purpose, playground-style balls which for some reason she chooses to call Dorothy and Shirley. Ere they are aware, she charges forth on her five-speed.

“Felicitations, my beloved,” says the Lady of the Manor, exiting the half-parked vehicle with flourish both regal and stately. “Prithee, fair one, place these items as before in yon toy box lest my regal and stately demeanor turn unbecomingly common.”

“As you wish, Mother,” the child proclaims reassuringly, skipping off. Alas, the lass lacks both short-term memory and follow-through, and thus the Lord and his Lady remain somewhat less than reassured. Yet tho’ they are vexed, even so are they perplexed and fascinated, unable to comprehend the ways of an eight-year-old girl.

As the nobleman parts the castle doors, the servants scatter—which is to say they scatter socks, books, papers, and markers about the Study as if to conceal the carpet therewith; and therein ‘midst the sundry oddments, Sir Luke sits majestically at the computer. Indeed, since Luke decided to become a writer, he has often been found in this very position, composing his latest text. Tonight’s folio bears the name “Detective Rat and the Curious Case.”

As his master enters, Luke neither genuflects nor kneels to kiss his master’s signet ring. Indeed, it might be noted that he does not acknowledge the presence of the Lord of the Manor in any way. “Beloved son,” his lordship cries, “knowest thou what hath befallen these quarters?” The lad responds not, as is his wont. Indeed, from his mother Luke has inherited an ability to focus on any chosen task without distraction—a gift turned weapon when wielded by a teenager-but-for-the-birthday 12-year-old.

Of a sudden, the Lord of the Manor recognizes that the debris is the product of Master Seth, who, though only three, has decided that nothing brings greater joy than doing homework—doubtless because his older siblings complete their schoolwork with such unabashed enthusiasm.  (Editor’s note: That business about unabashed enthusiasm? A total crock.)

Nearby in the Ballroom (Editor’s note: OK, so it’s a dining room with no furniture), the Lady of the Manor finds more evidence of Master Seth’s handiwork: a bizarre structure that rises and sprawls from the cut-pile carpeting like a mutating organism. It is a veritable mishmash of wooden blocks and cardboard bricks, some jutting skyward with Babel-like determination, others lined end-to-end like a Chinese wall for Weebles. Within the courtyard of said monolith, stoic as sentries, one beholds an assortment of plastic animals, including a zebra, a giraffe, a gazelle and several other favorites. They are assisted in their vigil by various plastic dinosaurs: triceratops, pachycephalosaurus, perhaps half a dozen stegosaurs or more. These are the chosen few, the “guarders” of the diorama; for meat-eaters, “mean guys” in the common parlance, are clearly a threat and are left outside looking in.

There, in the midst of this menagerie, sits Master Seth, the architect himself, who looks up with a grin. “I’m building Baby Elephant’s Cage,” says the boy, as if such an explanation were needed. Although his fortress-like creation has often been razed and raised again, never with the same design, it has always been known simply, consistently, and somewhat inexplicably, as Baby Elephant’s Cage. Somewhere within, Baby Elephant (a plastic piece perhaps 1½ inches long) stands ensconced, consistently and inexplicably accompanied by a small plastic dolphin which has never once had any kind of structure named for it.

Anon (Editor’s note: There’s that word again) the dinner hour approaches. From within, the alarum is sounded, beckoning all to sit and eat with the Lord and his Lady. And yet the children come not. Again the alarum is sounded, and again the children come not. The Lady of the Manor remains unperturbed. Demurely she importunes her husband. “My lord,” says she, “prithee beckon the children that they hie to the table, that we might sup together.” At once the Lord rises from the table and. . . . (Editor’s note: The manuscript at this point becomes garbled, with dubious references to tantrums and indifference and insubordination and threats.)

Once gathered, the family bows in reverence. “Let us pray,” says his lordship. “It’s my turn,” says Seth. “Fodder in Headen: Fank you for da food. Pwease bwess it. Fank you for Mommy and Daddy and Wuke and Bwyn and Seth. Fank you for my famwee. In the name of Jesus Chwist. Amen.”

Fank you indeed.

PW