“When are we going to the gift shop?” Those were the words from my daughter. It was the 3,200th time I had heard it. In the last 20 minutes. We were in the nation’s capital. In the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. We were surrounded — literally swarmed — by towering rockets, Mars landers, lunar rocks, Wright brothers planes and lots of lost tourists who thought they were at the White House. They couldn’t figure out why there were satellites hanging from the president’s ceiling. “Look at this!” I told my daughter. “An actual Apollo command module! This thing went into space. See the burn marks from re-entry. See! See! See!” “Eh,” she said. “Now, is the gift shop upstairs or down?” Aaaghhh!
The grown-up backyard
My daughter, and a carpenter bee the size of a VW Beetle, were not happy with me. This was detailed in a letter I received from my child that read: “Dad, I am not only mad, upset, and disappointed in you because you took down a piece of my childhood, but also because somebody was living in there.” The somebody was the gigantic bee. He, or she — I didn’t stop to ask — was hovering above the pile of cut and rotting wood I had stacked up. I heard little buzzing curses directed my way. Whether they were coming from the insect or my daughter, I wasn’t quite sure. Clearly, I had not made friends. The pile was what remained of my daughter’s fort — an elevated playset with a green plastic slide, a steering wheel and telescope, and enough memories to fill a book.
The mind-whirling Star Wars card game
“Couldn’t you have a simple card game, like Old Maid?” I asked the boy. An 11-year-old cousin. Visiting for a week. He came complete with a couple pairs of underwear, a thirst to take a ghost tour in town and a Star Wars card game that requires a Ph.D. in quantum gaming. “I already had Old Maid,” he said. “Lets get back to the instructions. Now leave your objective cards face up next to the force cards in the player area …” The instructions! Whew. I stared blankly, trying to take it all in. Secretly I was hoping a grizzly bear would crash through the front door, creating a big enough disturbance that I could run away. (Or eat me. I was fine with either one.) This was no easy-to-master card game. Not like Blackjack or Go Fish. Those you could learn in a sitting. This came complete with a 32-page instruction booklet. Thirty-two pages? I hadn’t read a book that long all year!
A TRUE Disney dream come true
Some people dream of riding rocket ships. Climbing to the top of Mt. Everest. Traveling to far off lands where they teach remote villages how to play “Candy Crush” on their iPhones. Then there is me. My dream? Much more epic: To arrive with my family at Disney World’s Magic Kingdom just as the park opens, allowing us to scamper about, deliriously riding whatever we want while unimpeded by crowds. In my fantasy land we do everything … twice! … before most people even get off the parking lot trams. There is a parade for us. Triumphant music plays. Park management declares we have broken a Guinness record for accomplishing 220 rides before 9 a.m. They give us each a medal while we recover in the medical tent (possibly while we are hooked up to IVs.) THIS is my dream! Last weekend I came as close to accomplishing it as I have ever been. It wasn’t easy. To make it happen, I first had to make a spiritual journey. I had to go to another “place” where I was transformed into a new person. I call him: “Lunatic Dad.” Lunatic Dad rises before the crack of dawn, drinks about $45 worth of Starbucks coffee and then proceeds to march about the hotel room screaming like a drill sergeant: “People! Do you have no respect for yourselves?!? Do you think Small World will come to your pretty little behinds?!? Do you think the rest of the 15 million people going to […]
Time for family reading night
It sounded impossible. Unfathomable. A nice idea, sure. But nothing that could possibly pan out. Not today. Not in 2015. Not in our cell phone tweeting, video screen blaring, media invading, attention-free world. Nu-uh. Never happen. Nice idea, but not realistic. Whose idea was it? Strangest of all, it was the kid — not the parents — who dreamed it up: Family reading night. She wanted to read to us. My daughter had been planning it. Spending who knows how many hours coming up with the perfect book — “Abby Cornelia’s One and Only Magic Power.” (Ironically, it was written by personal technology consultant David Pogue.) She teased it for days. She must have had a huge marketing budget. Planes flew over the house advertising it, and there was a laser light show that flashed: “Coming to a night near you. Get ready for some reading!”
The board game switcheroo
My daughter and I will have to come to terms with something pretty soon. For her, she will have to understand that for much of her life I’ve been mostly letting her win at games, or at least giving her a fair chance. Parents do that, right? Don’t want to discourage their children, so they let off the gas. Give them a shot. Feign exasperation as they’re completely dismantled by their little one. It happens. But me, I will have to come to terms with the fact that she’s 9 years old now and none of that matters anymore. Those days are gone. Letting off the gas is stupid because it makes me look stupid. She can beat me out right. I learned that the other day playing Monopoly. When I didn’t have to feign anything and was completely dismantled by a not so little one. At one point she had a stack of $100 bills that must have been a foot tall. I had $32, mostly in $1 bills. I don’t know if it’s her getting smarter, me getting dumber, or just the natural order of things. That I should start asking her to cut up my chicken and drive my friends and me to the movies. Boy, some of that could be great. But for now it’s disorienting. To have lost fair and square in Monopoly! She had a hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue when I went out. A HOTEL on Pennsylvania! And she owned all the railroads. On […]
Re-learning the childhood game of ‘playing’
It took me a moment. Or a few. It always does. We had walked down to the churchyard to knock the soccer ball around. That was the promise from my daughter. The plan. “Want to kick the soccer ball?” I distinctly remember her asking. She knows I’m a sucker for it. Like an overly excited dog who learns he’s going to the beach. “YEAH! YEAH! YEAH! Oh no, I just wet myself.” She got a World Cup replica ball for Christmas — a swerving wave of color that screams, “kick the stitches out of me, will ya?” I planned to. But I forgot children don’t make plans. They break them. They lure you in with one thing, then pull the carpet out from under you in a classic bait-and-switch. How quickly our simple game of kick evolved into something that involved no kicking whatsoever. It started subtly. “OK, so here’s the thing,” she said. “My goal is from there to there…” She pointed from Lawrence, Kan., to outer Ft. Myers “… And your goal is this tiny twig that I’m going to snap in half and bury 11 feet underground.” Huh? “Ready? GO!” she yelled, and the game was on. It lasted for exactly 13 seconds before she stopped, thought about it and then tried to convince me to play chase instead. “Chase?” I said. “I don’t want to play chase. I thought we came here to play soccer!” and I tried to steer us back to simple kicking. Sensing […]
A birthday party for the brave
“You’re very brave,” one of the parents said while surveying the scene — 10 kids at a birthday party. In a bowling alley/arcade/seizure-inducing crazy fun land. Ringed by big screen TVs, retina-scarring lights, howling video games and enough screaming kids to scare away bears. I shook my head and smiled. No problem-o. I wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth, delusional or just didn’t want to show fear. That she was leaving her priceless child with a man who was on the cusp of losing complete control. That we were a good five minutes away from the riot police being called. It was a birthday party for my daughter. She just turned 9 on Dec. 26, and this year we decided to throw a shindig somewhere besides our house. Preferably somewhere with concrete walls that could survive a Cat 5 hurricane, or whatever damage 8- and 9-year-old children could cause. “OK. So, I’m just going to go run a couple of quick errands …” and she didn’t even finish her sentence. She just turned and ran for the door screaming, “Poor delusional fool!” I wondered if I would ever see her again. And if it was as bad as it seemed. The chaos my wife and I were overseeing. Let’s see: We had a kid topple backwards over the seat. My daughter dropped a bowling ball on her finger. Another kid had a bowling style that resembled Olympic shot putting. She would launch the ball off her shoulder high […]
The crazy-grandfather-mafia-“this-is-happening” Christmas gift list
I’ve never heard my father talk that way. Stern. Forceful. Commanding. A little like a general. It scared me, a bit. He’s an understanding man. A great listener. Compassionate. Reasonable. One who would rather help you see the way than simply tell you which direction to go. I appreciate that about him. It’s a great trait. But this was different. “OK, just go away,” he said. I think it’s the only time in my life he’s ever spoken like that to me. Head down, I trudged off. I knew I was doomed. “And shut the door, please,” my daughter said as I went. I left her alone in the office. On the computer. Using Skype. With my dad. To talk about … CHRISTMAS PRESENTS!!! He has been bugging me. Cryptic emails that read, “For your eyes only!” in the subject line, and then Web links to a toy page on Amazon.com. It had specific instructions: “identify the circus ones she most likes and RANK them (and no holding her back, I’ll filter them).” What does that even mean? Aside from the fact that I have completely lost control. That the mild-mannered man has gone Christmas mad and has every intention of doing whatever he wants. Grandfathers spoil kids. They can buy whatever they want. I’ve learned that now. For a half hour the two of them chatted back and forth on Skype, wandering through Web page after page as they mulled over various Playmobil sets. I sat in the other […]
The ever-expanding Christmas decorations
The Empire State Building had been erected in my living room. It tottered and teetered from size-to-side, threatening to topple. The weary dog, trembling, was busy packing. She had the car keys. Was fleeing town. I heard boards in the floor creak. We all stood around it and stared. This tower of … of … of … Christmas decoration boxes! It touched the ceiling. Shoot, we could skip the tree and just decorate it. The stack was taller than the tree. We would start a new tradition. But how had our collection of holiday stuff grown to this monstrosity? “Did you get the box of Christmas books down?” my wife asked. My head cocked toward her. The way a zombie would. My spinal cord had long-since become detached from my body, ruined by all the life-threatening trips into the attic. I was the Christmas Sherpa. And I was lucky to be alive thanks to the wobbly fold-out stairs. “The box of Christmas books?” I said in disbelief. “You mean there’s more!?!” “Oh yeah,” she said. “It’s right next to the box of Christmas CDs, and the box of Christmas 8-track tapes, and the box with the note that reads, ‘Don’t throw away, but don’t put out. Too hideous for company!’” The wha … never mind. I fetched the box. It didn’t used to be like this. Once upon a time, there were one, maybe two, Christmas decoration boxes. A manageable lot. Decorating wasn’t a monumental task. It wasn’t like unloading […]