Monday, February 16, 2015

Father-Daughter Zobmondo

An email message from the school district dated January 23 laid out the next month's fun-filled school calendar:

Jan 26 -- PTA Meeting - Special guest speaker and NFL quarterback Jay Cutler reveals how he struggles with NFL defenses when he can't manage 2 (two!) kids at the same time without flipping his lid. Just get Mom home stat. AMIRITE ladies? Who am I kidding. I probably sent a few texts like that back in the day.

The silhouettes know what they're doing here.
Feb 4 -- Student Led Conferences. These are not your kids' fathers' parent/teacher conferences, the ones that were not only NOT led by you, but where the teacher and your parent representative made you sit in the hall while they discussed you like a science project. These days the kids LEAD the more sitting out in the hall, for better or worse.

Feb 12 -- No school. It may snow. We're just calling it now.

Feb 13 -- 100th Day of School/Show and Tell - Bring 100 of your favorite things to show your classmates, and be prepared to share 3 fun facts about each of these 100 things. Given class sizes these days, there will be no fewer than 2,500 things in class that day and 7,500 facts. Bonus points to the kid who brings 100 bouncy balls.

Feb 20 -- Father or Other Significant Male/Daughter Dance

I have met scores of teachers from all grades-- kindergarten through graduate level college-- encompassing well over 1,000 years of classroom experience. I talk to some of these people weekly. One of them, I speak with daily. They have studied behavioral patterns of children of all ages and have taught adults how to recognize these patterns in children. Some have written books on the subject. Nobody has EVER clearly articulated to me why we celebrate the 100th day of school.

If you feel strongly enough about eradicating this pointless day from schools, start a religion, call yourselves the 100th Day Adventists, and 100th Day would be gone from our schools tomorrow. Teachers could still mark the occasion but would have to name it something antiseptic like "Frost Fest," "Random Day in February," or, in keeping with Common Core "(50+20+10+1+1+1+1+1+(115-100)) Then Write a Paragraph About It Day."

But it's the last item on the calendar that has me wondering. I really thought by the time we were old enough for one of these, that the Father/Daughter dance would have slid out of style, yet here we are. These things have proven such successful fundraisers precious moments that dads spend with their best girls, the trend has only picked up momentum, so much so that schools are now trying to double down with mother/son dances with mixed results. This, even though 4 of 5 parents report that their girls run off with their friends the minute they enter the building.

I'm not sure about this. Never mind that if I had thought of this and invited school-age girls to my own house, I'd be labeled a sex offender. How exactly are we dads supposed to act at one of these? Would you rather dance like an idiot in front of your kid's friends and faculty or go sit in a corner and make small talk with strange men? 

Both dancing and small talk are the introvert's kryptonite. So who knows? You're equally likely to see my patented Gangnam-Style Corn Cob Stuck Up My Ass Shuffle as you are seeing me in the corner talking about sports, or cars, or sports cars, as you are seeing me in the corner by myself looking at my watch 8 minutes in. Though I hear there's pizza :-)

This sounds an awful lot like a date. I've forgotten how to date. It's been almost 20 years since that happened, and if form holds, I'll be nervous enough to show up a half hour late with an empty gas tank, then forgetting to put the car in reverse in her driveway, or spill marinara all down the front of me at dinner. I hear there's pizza. :-(

The dress code is semi-formal. Like semi-sweet chocolate chips that are still plenty sweet enough, semi-formal is still PLENTY formal. A tie? Come on. I've worn a tie ten times in the last seven years.

Word on the street is that some dads show up in limos...I had no intention in turning this into the Prom, but if that's the case, I can go find my 1991 Toyota Corolla with no power steering and a back seat that can't accommodate today's standard-code car seats. Or we just show up in a minivan. 

I try to gauge my daughter's interest in the event. She has shown less than zero interest so far in attending Take Your Child to Work Day in April, so maybe this has gone off the radar, too. No. She squeals with glee and performs a series of cheerleader-y jumping scissor kicks. So there's little chance she'll forget. 

The follow-up question, then, is "how do these things work?"

"There are two slow dances and the rest is freestyle." Somehow she knows this even though she's never been to one; she has connected friends. Freestyle reminds me of a swimming pool though, so maybe I can pull off a few hold-your-nose-shimmy-down-to-the-ground-with-one-finger-in-the-air moves. Not sure I can sustain that for two hours without an on-site ambulance. 

"So we need to practice slow dancing." 

That's the least of our worries. I'd go for two hours of slow dancing if it wouldn't lend a funeral's atmosphere to the proceedings. But when I tell her I'm feeling kinda nervous about the whole thing, she plays her trump card:

"You can make new friends."

Sigh. We'll see. The introvert's go-to move is not exactly making friends. All I need to do is make small talk or dance like nobody's watching. Hoping nobody is watching. 

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

The Chronicles of Skip-Bo, Volume III

The final in a three-part series examining the mental fortitude required to survive a game of Skip-Bo. To get to Part I, go here. For part II, go here.

As the game muscles its way toward a conclusion, interest is waning across the board. You wonder if and when it ever really waxed, but we have entered a tangible decline stage. The piles sit a little messier and muddled together. Players other than me need pokes and reminders on their turn. Sixes start to look like nines. Every turn requires a full recap of which cards will play.

"You need a 2, 4, 6, or 11," my daughter informs me.

Immediately I go back one generation. Two, four, six, and 11 were the channels we got on TV growing up. "4" (ABC) came in clear pretty much all the time. "2" (CBS) was a little staticky but was clear enough. "11" (NBC) came in OK as long as it wasn't snowing, raining, sleeting, foggy, hazy, hot, humid, partly sunny, mostly sunny, partly cloudy, mostly cloudy, or some other "weather event" or weather non-event. "6" (also NBC but from a million miles away) required the rabbit ears to be set to a 34-degree "less than" angle (<) and one family member to dress in tin foil while standing on the roof holding an open umbrella. "13" (PBS) came in as clear as a lark and, if we're being honest, at times it scared the hell out of me, but nobody ever bragged to their friends about getting 13. Nobody under 30 years old understands anything I'm saying right now. But these days I get just enough channels to see Matthew McConaughey douching out in a Lincoln, "dint dewit tuhbee kewl..."

Too many cards
"What do I need again? Two, four..."

I hold a 3, 5, 7 and 9 with a dreary tableau of 12s in front of me. But I draw a card that leads to an avalanche of card-playing. I empty out my hand, my extra crapload of cards down in front of me, and a fair portion of the vital Skip-Bo pile. An epic run like this earlier in the game would have caused anxiety, dread, tears, and a dented mini-basketball hoop. Now my opponents are rooting me on like a marathon runner on Mile 25, go, go GO, you can do it daddy! But I can't close the deal. Alas.

It's anyone's game now but nobody really wants it. All those 1s and 2s that we couldn't find earlier are sprouting up when we need higher numbers. People are asking out loud, "Can we be done playing Skip-Boo?" No. Because if we're learning from this interminable ennui, it's to finish what we start and not quit because we're bored or losing. And we ARE bored. And losing. We press on.

Wait, is that how this game is pronounced? An ancestor of mine pronounced it "Skee-bo" (rhymes with Tebow) and my wife pronounces it "Skip-Boo," a curious pronunciation that actually involves an inside family joke. (When your jokes center on the game of Skip-Bo, it may be time to re-examine?) A cursory internet search reveals what we all thought..."Skip-Bow" is the proper pronunciation. Let's not complicate things.

With that out of the way, a last push brings finally the game home to my daughter, who led wire-to-wire and held off my furious, one-hand avalanche rally and a few advances by my son who remains the unluckiest Skip-Bo player ever. Agony of defeat gives way to sheer relief, and we can all get back to our lives and our laundry after that Easter Vigil game. Whew.

"Now we'll see who comes in second."

Are YOU kidding me. I came as close as ever to cheating but gritted my teeth, Only a few more turns and I finally got my cards out. The boy then, relegated to third place and not usually one for drama but a veteran Sesame Street watcher, does a full-on Bert Faint and cracks his head off a bookcase. Injury has sufficiently augmented insult. My lame attempts at comfort don't work..."if this were the Olympics you'd have taken home Bronze..."

Soon he's back up on his feet; otherwise I'd make him clean up the game. And that's the biggest contest of them all...get out of the room before Dad can get out of the criss-cross-applesauce position that reduces his joints to a fine powder. "Hey, can somebody help me put this away..."

And they're gone. Probably not to do laundry, but they're gone. They'll be back soon to take another crack at Dad and as I stare at the burgeoning laundry pile, I'll be willing to play a thousand more of these games with them. The laundry can wait.

Friday, January 23, 2015

The Chronicles of Skip-Bo, Volume II

The second in a 3-part series examining the possibility of playing a game of Skip-Bo and still having an enjoyable weekend. Part One is
Once again the obligatory photograph per "blogging" "rules."

Earlier we examined the pain suffered in setting up a game of Skip-Bo and wondered aloud if the cards had been properly shuffled to ensure a fair game devoid of any unnatural runs.

It's apparent early in the game that those fears have been allayed. Like ship wreckage, all of the 1s, 2s, and wild cards that would have opened the game with a flourish have filtered to the bottom of the stack, leaving all three participants with an unplayable morass-- the Skip-Bo equivalent of a Scrabble rack full of vowels. Any hopes of a quick, clean game have thus also sunk to the bottom of the drain. Sigh.

Here we invoke the 33rd Law of Cards: In any non-poker card game, you will at some point hold what would constitute easily your all-time best poker hand. This hand, in tandem with inexorable patience, impeccable timing, steely nerves, sunglasses and the face of an asshat, would win you $800 kajillion dollars on ESPN's World Series of Poker. (You may even get to wear an asshat.)

Instead you're stuck with four 11s with a 12 kicker when only 1s and 2s will play in the middle, and a 9 on your Skip-Bo pile, left to continue wondering how college will get paid for, when ESPN will start televising Skip-Bo tournaments, and where your weekend is going. And if they had Skip-Bo tournaments, would you even play, just out of principle? Pretty sure they would be held in a smoky, dark, joyless room full of Skip-Bo nerd-snobs who look down their noses at you when you make a joke about a bad beat. As you convince yourself no, no you wouldn't play in their stupid tournaments, you feel the room grow quieter and quieter, the activity seemingly waning...

"Oh, my turn?"

"YES, Daddy!"

The next card you draw holds a ray of hope. It plays in the middle, and while it is only one card, maybe it will help break this game open. Then the competitive fire gets you. You see that if you play the card, you will open up your son to play off of his Skip-Bo pile. Conflicted between just moving the game along and not letting your kid win under any circumstances, you hold the card, prolonging the agony but remaining comfortable with the knowledge that you're playing the game as it was meant to be played. Plus if you opened up the game for only one child, the other one will get upset and accuse you of hating her, just like she did that time you accidentally bought the orange juice with the pulp...

"Daddy! Your turn!"

"Sorry, sorry..."

At some point after several turns, when you were wondering why only orange juice has pulp, your daughter has managed to reel off a big run that has sliced her Skip-Bo pile in half. It slipped your notice because your younger child no longer screams in protest at the slightest hint of a sibling's good fortune nor throws his shoes in the fireplace in protest. He just rolls his eyes like a teenager even though he's 5, already learning the art of smug.

Meanwhile, you haven't played a blessed thing off your pile, that 9 still staring you in the face, but now the middle piles accept only 11s, 12s, and 8s. You have a wheelbarrow full of 11s but no tantalizing 8 that will lead you to the Promised Pile. You re-arrange your discards like the deck chairs on the Titanic, not realizing that the 11 opens up your son's 12. You're thankful your daughter doesn't notice, doesn't care, or doesn't mind your letting someone back in the game. She's nice like that. Surely there are there other juices with pulp, no? Let's Google it...

"Daaaad. Quiiit playing on your phone..."

What happens next? Does Dad launch a big comeback and steal the game from his daughter? Does the son launch a medium-sized comeback and secure his first ever win at this wretched game? Does the 3-year-old fly off the coffee table like Superman into the middle of the cards and wreck the game completely? (Spoiler alert...) Stay tuned for the stunning conclusion when we wrap up this Iran-Contra-affair-length game of Skip-Bo.

Monday, January 19, 2015

Couldn't Have Said it Better Myself

Forget my pointless, meandering's some stuff worth reading when the mood strikes:

Sarah Hartley starts it off with a few fine posts, including a post that my wife and I wholeheartedly agree with concerning the benefits of putting your child in Day Care:

and one with a little self-doubt (been there)

plus one about spit-up (a girl after my own heart)

Special for the folks in Michigan: 7 people this Michigander (David Stanley) can't stand in winter.

Lorne Jaffe has a daughter with a fear of owls Here's how he's dealing with that conundrum:

Plus, the difference between MILFs and DILFs from Dave Lesser...

And finally, shameless! One by me on Sarah's site on the inexplicable phenomenon called Preferred Parent Status:

Enjoy, there will be quiz at the end of the week.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Born At the Right Time

Did you know during this week in 1919 the city of Boston suffered a disastrous Molasses Flood? A Boston Molassacre, as some called it?

A molasses flood? Right, and I was mugged by a gang of snails.

Looks like my kids' bedrooms. Too soon?
I had never heard of this awful event until a few days ago. But it truly was awful. Twenty-one people and several horses died. Scores more people were injured. After the poorly constructed tank exploded in the unseasonable January Boston warmth, it sent molasses down the streets of Boston at 35 mph, tugging people down with it, complicating rescue attempts.

It's one more reason to be thankful I live in the era in which I do. I am totally ill-equipped to handle and protect my family from a molasses flood. Aren't we all, really? But I more than most. I'm thankful to live in a time when giant, out-of-code vats of molasses aren't just sitting around, given to spontaneous, rocket-propelled floods that will carry my loved ones to their death, or worse, Philadelphia.

But even if for some reason all that happened, I'm thankful for cars that can travel faster than 35 mph so we can beat the sloppy goop to safety--assuming we're not stuck in downtown Middletown, DE, where traffic flows slower than the traditional molasses, the kind that's not shot out of a drum and wrecking everything in its path.

I'm thankful for media that would alert me right away to this mess if my family were somehow near the affected area--though I'm not thankful for the fact that they'd call it "Molassapocalypse" or "Molassamageddon". "Molassacre" works just fine, thanks.

Mostly I'm thankful for the cars, though.  Any transportation is better than horses. To wit, I also learned through some amateur family genealogy that my great-great-grandfather William died when his horse and buggy got hit by a train. Typical. I can totally see this happening to me, provided I ever learned how to properly mount and direct a horse in the first place.

According to the story, in 1903 William and his friend tried to cross some railroad tracks and got stuck, but rather than bailing on the operation as his companion did, William stayed the course and got destroyed by the oncoming train, his left leg "being mashed into a jelly, apparently without a whole bone remaining." He lived for about 20 minutes after the crash.

I'd rather be washed away by molasses, given a choice.

Still, horses. I've ridden horses two times and both times ended poorly. The first, I was seven or eight years old, riding some old nag that could barely move, and I fell off. Just fell off. No reason to, no explanation, the horse was barely moving. Just fell off onto some gravel. The second time, about 10 years later, I rode another allegedly docile horse in a wooded area, only to have the horse spooked by a car and take off through the woods, dragging my face through some low-hanging branches while I suggested a leafy "whoa" (more like a "Whooooooooaaaa") in vain.

Ultimately I came away from both incidents unscathed, or at least much less scathed than poor William. But I did walk away from the second horse incident swearing off (and at) horses and haven't gotten back on since. However, last summer I took one of my sons to the racetrack and to a place on the grounds where you can pet the horses after they've raced. Like a noob I stood with my son in the worst possible spot, behind the horse...if something had scared the horse, his hind legs probably would have kicked my 5-year-old-son right in the face. Three old men nearly had heart attacks when they saw where I positioned my son, and I started swearing at horses again. Never again with these damned animals!!

So I'm very thankful for living in an era where horses are purely optional. And while I generally try to show my kids enough varied experiences so they have no fear later in life, if they see a horse and immediately run away crying, I won't blame them, they'll just be chasing me.

I've been blessed, I think, with some longevity genes. William was 83 at the time of his accident which translates to about 157 in current years. I've known several people on both sides of my family who lived well into their 90's, even without push notices and alerts about confectionery floods. I have a chance to live a long life and be there for my kids as much as possible. Just gotta steer clear of molasses and horses.