Single Dadhood: Rain On My Parade

Ever have a dream? A dream of youth? Dragons to slay; hearts to win; things to do; someone you wanted to be? So have I.

At age 15, I decided that I was meant to be a songwriter. I wrote poems that read like song lyrics and I sold my drum set and bought a guitar. Turned out I had no skills with any musical instrument at all, but I could write a decent lyric.

So I became a lyricist, writing the words that made the whole world sing… (that’s not mine, by the way). Anyway, I tried for years as a young man to make a success of my talent with minimal success.

One day I turned 35. I had a wife and my first child on the way. I also had the opportunity to get a job with the Las Vegas Municipal Court, with a regular income, benefits and a chance to properly provide for my impending family. So I grabbed it, putting aside my natural talent and inclination for security and a regular income.

So I dwelled for 13 years, retiring as a pretrial services officer. Then, one day I came across a file of old lyrics. I read them and rewrote most of them to reflect the lessons learned after 20 years of living. They were good. So I decided to present them again to the composers of the world (through MySpace) as “A. D. Varrone – Lyricist” in the hope that I still had “It”.

I made a great mistake here. I told my closest friends about my effort.

The feedback I got was supportive, in a back-handed way.

No, actually, patronizing.

“Oh, it is so nice that you a working on your little hobby...”
And “It must be nice to have a pension that allows you to indulge yourself…”
My friends rained on my parade. Not a many, but enough to hurt.

Except for my family.

Samantha and Marina can recite my lyrics from memory. (Try to find teenagers that can recite even their locker combo from memory), yet my girls admire my writing. They are my biggest fans and are the first to call down my detractors. They admit that I not only write well but paint pictures that are not seen in this world where “lyricist” is synonymous with “rap”, but in landscapes painted in the colors of language.

Insanity does not run in my family. It gallops then stops and jumps up and down a few times, and then it does a pirouette and a moonwalk, transitioning into a skipping thing. Then it simply strolls away as if nothing happened.

Such is the world of the Varrone family.

Yet, my children love and respect my work much more than my so-called friends.

Why?

Perhaps I worked too hard for appreciation and my kids are an easy sell? No.

Maybe I am the dreamer of fame that others see as false? No.

Maybe my daughters are the children of their father, who support whatever dreams he may concoct without question? No.

Maybe I am just that damn good. Yessssss.

Notes on Back-to-School Daze in the Dadhood

- Approaching autumn, and the bitter-sweet Back-to-School season is tickling once again at the goofiness center of my paternal brain-box…

- All three of my daughters, who have for the last three months treated sleep as though it were an elective, will be forced to return to a schedule bearing some semblance to normality. My efforts during this past summer in this regard have taught me a stern lesson: At the same time children develop the ability to reason (i.e., the need for rest to growing bodies), they develop the ability to refuse to abide by it…

- Then there is this semi-annual Hell called “Back-to-School Shopping”.

I say “semi-annual” because; through some process of karmic attrition, 90% of what is bought today will have to be replaced by the second semester.

I hear you, fellow parents... No, I don’t know how it happens either, but it does.

- Marina is in her senior year of high school. Eden is starting 6th grade in middle school.

These facts represent two diametrically opposed priorities and fashions that cannot be ignored, and which will, due to youthful exuberance and insistence, undoubtedly leave me dazed and penniless on the floor somewhere in the Boulevard Mall, clutching my chest and whispering. “Rosebud…”

- Samantha, my eldest, fortunately is working and attending community college. So far, she has asked nothing financial of me. Therefore, she has retained her place in my Will (or my “Won’t”, as we laughingly refer to it when speaking of my impending demise during family get-togethers).

- So now, the moment of truth. I don my Suit of Lights: Sneakers, cut-offs and my “Don’t Ask Me, I Live Here” t-shirt (to bewilder the tourists; this is Las Vegas, after all).

- I have given my “Day-trip-by-CAT-bus” instruction lecture (see earlier posting), which will be studiously ignored by all and sundry, and I have made out a strict shopping list of required educational items (likewise). I’m ready!

And we are off…

- Tally-ho!

It's Showtime in the Dadhood!

“ALL CITY Water Show”, the hand-out read, “Hosted by the City of Las Vegas”.

I knew that Eden, my youngest, had been going twice each week to the local public pool for “synchro-swimming class” since school let out for the summer, but I did not expect the aquatic equivalent of a dance recital!

Most of you know what I mean. Those presentations that are meant to be the pay-off to parents for their investments of money, time and patience so that their children may nurture whatever latent gifts they may possess in the creative arts.

Actually, latest studies indicate that attending such events releases a heretofore unknown hormone into the system that induces a short-lived form of schizophrenia which presents in an outward affect of a rictus, almost maniacal, smile combined with an obsessive-compulsive need to clap one’s hands and nod one’s head approvingly, regardless of the quality of the stimulus. Internally, the parent-subject endures a Battle Royal of primal emotions: Apprehension, Magical Thinking, Empathic Stress, Boredom, Self-Loathing (for being bored), Fight-or-Flight Syndrome accompanied by its manager, the Stopped Clock Illusion, among others. All combined in a Steel Cage Match to the Death (or the end of the show, whichever comes first).

As you may expect, last night I sat dutifully through the entire show with a smile that would have made the Joker envious, clapping like a seal on Ritalin and wondering silently just how pruney these children have to get before the whole thing is raided by Child Protective Services for over-saturation of minors.

When Eden’s team came on, of course, the hormone took over and I was dazed and amazed at the wonderfulness of her talent and aptitude as she swam, splashed, rolled and kicked her way through the routine. Then I made the startling historical connection: Eden’s grandfather, Danny, my dad, once worked as a stage manager for Billy Rose’s Aquacades in New York City, back in the 1930’s.

I heard myself proclaiming loudly to those around me, “Sure, she’s a natural. It’s all in the genes!!!” Ahem… yes, well... I’m feeling much better now…

And I praised my little girl to the skies, to her and anyone who would listen, because that’s how we roll in the Single Dadhood. We understand that, as a side benefit, the hormone also causes any memory of noticeable flaws to disappear, while magnifying to our eyes and embossing upon our hearts, the sheer joy in those little performing faces at the chance to entertain us.

Thankfully, for them and us, that is what we are graced to remember at the last…

The Silence of the Dadhood

The hats and horns are put away for another year. My birthday has passed. I’ve noticed a new marker for the advancing years. It is come to my attention how little of my own birthday trappings I am allowed to pay for myself. Not bad, in fact rather gratifying.

Right now, for a short while, I have the house to myself. Feels like rehearsals for retirement. Maybe it’s only a sampling of the silence of an empty nest. Of course, silence is not silent. It’s the small noises left when the big noises are gone. Ironist that I am, I can appreciate such musings without dwelling on them overmuch.

My Dadhood has caused me to lose certain skills besides relishing a quiet house. Skills like making a meal for one. My lunchtime creation tastes like something you would eat to avoid torture. All that is missing (thank God) is liver, okra or lima beans.

Tomorrow the house will be full again. The sweet sounds of girls giggling, cats meowing for attention, CD player fighting against television for the background noise championship will resound throughout our apartment and carry out into the street. Once again, I will be surrounded by the maniacal glory of family noise.

I will savor it now as I have forgotten to before. Before I listened to the lessons of silence.

The Longest Day-Trip

My daughter’s dentist called to tell us that it is time for their 6 month check-up. My first reaction was, “Great, they don’t want me. Wheee!” My second reaction was, “Damn, I only have two weeks to put this together!”

See, the thing is, since we are proud users of public transportation, there is no such thing as a quick hop to anywhere. Every journey must be planned with military precision. Actually, more than that because soldiers know how to take orders and stick to a battle plan…

I usually adopt the persona of General George Patton planning his invasion of Sicily, though the results are more reminiscent of General Chaos and his invasion of the U.S. economy…

“Men, er, girls, um... hey, you guys, listen up! Our objective is this dental facility on the far side of the Las Vegas valley where we will rendezvous with the native group of Medicaid-friendly oral hygienic personnel. Now, as usual, transportation is to be provided by elements of the Citizens Area Transit, or CAT, bus system. While I understand that CAT bus drivers operate with wildly fluctuating degrees of temperament and reliability, keep in mind that these traits are the hallmarks of any business that has a monopoly on their services, so try not to take any attitudes personally.”

“OK, troops, ah, girls... hey, listen up already! Regarding supply lines: there are none, so each of you will requisition equipment and supplies to be self-contained, appropriate to summertime conditions in Las Vegas. Therefore, you’re TO&E will start with the following: light-weight clothing, to include clean socks and shoes that fit. Sandals are strongly discouraged because, as you may recall, the last foray we attempted with sandals caused each of you to get blisters and I had to carry everyone home. Since that incident you have all grown significantly taller and heavier, and I am sufficiently older now, so if anyone is going to be carried home this time, it will be me!”

“Next… Eden, where is Marina? To make a sandwich? You have not been dismissed for chow!”

“Marina, report back to the briefing room, you have not been dismissed! What? Ok, but I want mine with mustard and some chips on the side if we have any left, please, and some of those little pickles...”

“Alright, next men, um, girls… hey, pay attention! Augmenting the uniform of the day will be sun specific apparel, i.e. sun hats and sun glasses. Accessories will include sunscreen, SPF 75 or better, lip balm, eye drops and umbrellas for shade. Water bottles are to be filled with water. (This last instruction must be included or kids will leave the house with, 1) empty bottles, or 2) bottles filled with any beverage never intended for staving off dehydration.)”

“In addition, you will provide for yourselves the standard compliment of the following: books, writing/drawing paper, playing cards, pencils, pens, crayons, CD players, mp3 players, hand-held games and small toys. These items are important against the threat of boredom, bickering and smacking among you people; high blood pressure spikes and homicidal or suicidal ideations in your father.”

“Our objective must be attained no later than 1015 hours. We will depart the staging area no later than 0830 hours in a high state of readiness. All latrine necessities must be accomplished prior to departure. No toleration will be afforded despite any whining, crying or pleading while en route. Consideration may be extended for the most creative and vigorous potty dances only on a case-by-case basis.”

“Alright, men, ah, girls, oh hell, you know who you are, you have your orders.
May God bless us in our endeavors and may God bless America!”

...Another Dad's Treasure - Part 2

...then as the day wore on and we actually started to see carpet beneath the rubble, I secretly began to dread The Trunk, and what we would find within. The Trunk is a large, old fashioned steamer trunk that I picked up at an estate sale about 20 years ago. As I began to collect more daughters and more memories that I wanted to keep for them, I dedicated The Trunk to that task. Of course, in the timeless fashion of so many projects begun with the best intentions, I had not actually gone through it’s contents since I went solo five years ago and now I was concerned about old memories, old lives, old wounds...

We broke for lunch, PB&J sandwiches, string cheese, grapes and pink lemonade (Chef Eden presiding, you see) and complemented ourselves on the fine job we had done.
“So, what’s next?” Marina asked, knowing the answer but wondering at my hesitation.
“The Trunk. It’s all that’s left.” I responded grimly, trying to keep a brave face in front of the children. Don’t think they bought it…

Fast forward one hour.

We are going through hundreds of pictures. Some are in albums, most are not. Digital photography predates these photos (except the grainy black and white ones on my childhood) but, Luddite that I am; I used a film camera for all of these.

My daughters looked exactly alike until about age 3, I notice. Marina and Eden, up to about age 7. Most of the infant pictures are of Sam because she was the first child and as parents of multiple children know, the picture occasions seem to get fewer with each succeeding newborn.

Milestone moments in their young lives. First born. First baths. First steps. First pony rides. First school days. So many birthdays, play-in-the-park days, swim days with pontoon-like floaties, swim days too-big-for-floaties-now-Dad. Watch me dive. Watch me Daddy! Singing with various choirs. Singing solos, center stage, all by themselves.
Some of daughters with Dad. Fewer of daughters with Mom.
None of Mom and Dad together.
The camera knew, it just couldn’t say.

I guess I got some dust in my eyes, maybe, so I left the girls to go through them.

“Yes, you can pick some out for your scrapbook.”

“Sure they had color cameras when I was a boy, we just couldn’t afford one.”

“Yes, if you want to. I think getting them into proper albums would be a fine idea. After all, they will be yours someday.”

I think, “No, I don’t really need to see the rest of them right now, m’loves. I hold each moment where they will never get lost or damaged and I can treasure them forever, and do…”

...Another Dad's Treasure - Part 1

“I am NOT a packrat.” So I told Marina as we were cleaning out our storage room today, “I just have a profound sense of history.”

She rolled her eyes in the manner that I’ve come to recognize as Stage 1 of the “He is Unbelievable” alert. It is a behavioral quirk shared by all three of my girls, traditionally handed down from mother to daughter to sister to sister. I have no idea how, or why, the tradition got started and no one will tell me…

We were repacking some of my books into new boxes when I noticed that she was relegating some of my favorite volumes to a growing pile next to her. I pointed out to her that she seemed to have missed the box. She informed me that these book’s bindings were broken, pages were missing, or sundry bugs and rodents had used them as a source of nesting material, therefore these books were garbage.

“Garbage!” I cried, rising indignantly to my full, fearsome five feet seven inches, “How can you call a hardcover third edition of George Carlin’s 'Brain Droppings' garbage?”

“Dad, this book has been left out in the rain, survived the Great Hot Water Heater Bursting of ’98, and been dropped into the bathtub water at least twice that I know of. It is swollen, stiff and most of the pages are stuck together. It’s time to let go, Dad. Just let it go...” she counseled with infuriating calm.

“This will be a collector’s item soon, you know, since he passed away.” I said earnestly as I bowed my head with what I hoped would be interpreted as reverence.

“And this book has gone the way of its author, Dad. Time to move on...”

Kids today have no respect for great literature.

After decimating my reading materials, we began digging through a trunk containing the souvenirs accumulated in my travels, when I was young and carefree (i.e. before becoming a permanent resident of the Dadhood). Once again, Marina began making a pile next to her of some of my treasured artifacts. When I protested, she said, “Fine then, if you can tell me what these 'treasures' are and where they came from, you can keep them. OK?”

She was setting me up. She knew it. I didn’t.

She held up one item that I remembered vaguely from the seventies. I seem to recall it had more pieces, though, when it could still be played. Or worn. Or hung from my car antenna.
Oh yeah, good times.
I just couldn’t recall why.
Hey, it was the seventies, man!

I lost that game of show-and-tell and so watched traces of my youth dumped out among the orange peels and coffee grounds…

(To be continued…)