I used to think there were few things worse than hearing the sound of my own voice played back to me. That nasally, frenetic, aimless voice that rambles through the bramble like it’s in no hurry to get anywhere. Anyone like hearing the sound of their own voice played back? Nope. But the other day I realized there is something so much worse: Like watching myself on old family videos. Realizing in full color and high definition not only what I sound like — a marauding rock slide — but also what I look like to the real world. And the truth is: I look kind of like a lunatic. My daughter was on the computer watching old movies when she frantically called me in: “Dad, you have GOT to come see this.”
Who needs a relaxing Canadian vacation, eh?
“We don’t take relaxing vacations, do we?” said my wife. We were driving south along the Icefields Parkway, near Banff, Canada. Actually not near Banff. Nowhere near Banff. Banff is civilization, and out here we had already driven 3 hours into this desolate land of other-worldly beauty. A land of glaciers and bighorn sheep. Of no cellphone reception for at least 100 kilometers. Does such a thing exist? My wife, daughter and I saw mother bears foraging with cubs on the side of the road. We drove through snow falling across the sub-alpine landscape … in June. JUNE! We took an ice explorer – picture a bus atop a monster truck with the attitude of a bulldozer – and then walked across a glacier. A GLACIER! The temperature hovered at freezing, and the winds gusted to 50 mph. It stung my face, made my teeth burn and a child in a puffy jacket was nearly cartwheeled away. A guy dug a hole in the ice so we idiots could drink the glacial water flowing below. I stepped in a snowdrift that swallowed my leg to the knee.
Tennis tips and cruel drills from a middle schooler
There are very good reasons why children aren’t allowed to be coaches. Truth is, they would be good at it. BUT they think everything is funny. And everything they think is funny usually involves making people do extremely ridiculous and cruel stuff while they point and laugh … then dream up something even more ridiculous. “OK, why don’t you hang upside down from that sketchy tree branch while you shoot your next basket … AND THE BALL’S ON FIRE!!!” My daughter and I went out to hit some tennis balls the other morning. It was one of those mornings when it was clear out, the temperature had already hit 96 degrees and the humidity was about the same as you would find on the bottom of a lake. I am what some commonly refer to as a tennis idiot. It means I understand the beauty and grace of the sport, but when I play it, I have the beauty and grace of a rhino on an icy lake. Plus, I think the whole objective is hitting the ball seven zip codes over.
Summer is here, school is out … let the flying of shoes commence
It was like a jail break, wasn’t it? A feeling of euphoria. Total freedom. As if the floodgates had opened and set you — this raging torrent of water — upon the world. Nothing could hold you in. It was total liberation. And chaos! As the bell rang on the last day of school, kids raced from the classrooms. There was great yelling and shouting. Books flew in every direction. Shoes, too. Shoes! Why did shoes always sail through the air in the scrum and hootenanny of that final release? Who knows. If you had a pulled a fire alarm you wouldn’t have gotten such a flurry. But now, kids ran in every direction. Not even stopping at their cars. (“Johnny, where are you going?” parents yelled.) Just running wild and free with delirious smiles on their faces. Seven miles out they would finally stop, look around and think, “Mom? Um … where am I?” I’ll tell you where, little Johnny: You’re in summer!!! And there isn’t much in the world better than that. (Well, unless you’re lost in an industrial area on the south side of town, but the cops will locate you soon enough.) I was thinking about all of this one night earlier this week as our family sat at the dinner table.
Thou shalt: The code to parenting an athlete
My daughter finished up her first season of middle school tennis last week. She’s played sports before, but never on a team like this. And even though she will probably let all the air out of my tires for saying it … I’m so squeakin’ proud of her! It was awesome as a parent to go watch and cheer her on. But, I’m also learning there are a whole lot of ins and outs to being the parent of a kid playing a sport. So this week I’ve written the Code of Athlete Parenting: • Thou shalt not blurt out “Doh!” loud enough for your child to hear if he or she misses a shot, or sends a ball into lower Earth orbit. The next shot might be aimed at your head. • Thou shalt not blurt out loud enough for everyone to hear, “Yeah! That’s right! Eat it, punk!” when your child brilliantly tucks a ball in an un-returnable corner. And if you do happen to do this and people turn around to glare at you, just blame “medication” and start drooling. That will buy you at least a pass or two.
A child’s epic, audacious Disney World plan
There is just no way to describe the pride and joy that I felt as I watched the Powerpoint presentation. Of course, I have always loved my daughter. But now here was a moment I felt we had transcended space and time, melding minds on some ethereal plane. My wife and I had been summoned to a presentation in the study. It was led off by a promotional video for Disney World, and then the Powerpoint came up. I once tried to chew my leg off to get out of a Powerpoint, but now I was riveted to the screen. It ran through our planned itinerary — no, a master strategy! — for not just arriving at the Magic Kingdom when the park opened, but actually making it there half an hour early to ensure we beat the usual 90-minute wait for the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train. How audacious! Tears flowed down my face as the slides detailed specific times to wake up, how to eat breakfast while running at full sprint and where to drive cross country through a swamp in order to shave 3 minutes off the Google maps route.
Coping with embarrassing dad syndrome
“Whatever you do, DON’T GET OUT OF THE CAR!” she said … through clinched teeth. Lives seemed to depend on it. I felt the weight of the words, and thought carefully about what I should say next. I’m a mature, thoughtful, relatively intelligent parent who thinks deeply about things. “Say WHAT?!?” I exclaimed. “This is America! You can’t tell me what to do. I have rights, you know? I’ll get out of the car and roll around on the hood like a bad 1980s music video if I want! Don’t think I won’t, either.” Yep, pretty much nailed it. Mature, thoughtful dad – 1. Kid – O This was all over tennis practice pickup. I was being dispatched to collect my middle school daughter from the courts. Seemed simple enough. I had to be there by a certain time … SHARP! I felt kind of like an Uber driver and a stock car racer rolled into one. I thought about buying driving gloves. I felt cool! Then I got my real orders: DON’T GET OUT OF THE CAR! Stay out of sight at all times. If you are seen by anyone — even a Chinese spy satellite flying over — that’s IT for you. You’ll never be allowed out of the house again. You won’t be able to walk me down the aisle one day. I will sell all your financial passwords on the Dark Web. It’ll get real, dad! You got that?
Memo for a Winter Spectacular
Memo to Dad Subject: Upcoming performance of ‘The Winter Spectacular’ Because you are known NOT to pay attention, I am writing you this memo to go over important instructions for my performance of “The Winter Spectacular.” As you may recall, but probably don’t because you had that blank look on your face at dinner, “The Winter Spectacular” is when I dance and spin colored streamers to the delightful sounds of Christmas music. It is for select family members and takes place in the dining room. You remember now? All coming back to you? Your role in the performance is very simple … which is why I’m worried. Whenever something is “simple” you either: 1) over-complicate it, or 2) don’t pay any attention. LIKE RIGHT NOW! Are you paying attention!?! Come on, stay with me. OK, so here are some key things you must remember: • The performance will last approximately 4 hours. There will be seven 20-minute intermissions, and an encore that should take a little over an hour depending on how long the applause goes on for. • You are strictly forbidden from taking bathroom breaks, coffee breaks, breaks to complain about how long the show is or any mention of soccer matches on TV that you’re missing. We all know you’re DVR-ing them!
Long live Halloween, said the dad with the stretched waistband
At the last moment, Halloween was saved. My worst fears — that a pyramid-sized pile of candy wouldn’t materialize from my daughter’s well-worn trick-or-treating pumpkin — were allayed. Long live Halloween … the night when dads gorge themselves on the spoils of their children’s hard work. But this year, it wasn’t looking so good. My 11-year-old daughter had decided a week or so ago she wasn’t going to participate. No dressing up. No trick-or-treating with friends. No pyramid of sweetness for dear old dad. She would just give out candy at home … THAT WE HAD TO BUY!!! My daughter only eats about a third of her candy from Halloween: pink and red Starbursts, a scattering of Skittles, Whoppers and a few other sugar-laden, artificially-dyed brands. They have to meet her high standards, and not seem tampered with. (If a cat so much as looks at my child funny, she blacklists the house, quarantines the candy as “tampered with” and turns it over to me.) All that candy – Almond Joys, Snickers, Baby Ruths! – all become mine.
It’s 4-year-old party time … spark the chain reaction
A nuclear chain reaction occurs when subatomic particles collide in spectacular fashion, causing the particles to change (they become generally grumpy, irritable and complain a lot) followed by additional reactions that release incredible energy … and burn your face off. The closest you should ever come to experiencing such an event is attending a 4-year-old boy’s birthday party. In this case, you will see a blast of white light, feel intense, overwhelming heat and find yourself balled up in a corner screaming, “Why, Lord, why?!?” This will inevitably prompt a curious 4-year-old to wander over and ask in the sweetest, most consoling voice: “Do you like Transformers? Because I like Transformers!” At this point, you will wish that your face HAD burned off.