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.

...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…)

The Difference Between Eating and Dining

My mother began teaching me to cook when I was tall enough to see over the stovetop. Not gourmet dishes, but eggs any way you want them, even omelets, with bacon, sausage or ham. How about some homemade hash browns and biscuits with honey-butter? Yep, can do! My father, following Italian family tradition, taught me how to prepare basic Italian dishes and proper garlic bread to go with them. I may never have my on show on The Food Channel (though I do love yelling “Bang” when adding spices), but I can put together some pretty good eats.

When Sam and Marina began to show an interest, I gleefully passed along my culinary knowledge to the next generation. Both became dab hands at breakfasts, quickly expanding their repertoire into the French toast and pancake areas (though, in both cases, their omelets come out, well, unfortunate-looking). Sam has become a coffee maven, an art in it’s own self, while Marina can put together pasta dinners that, I believe, make my father look down from Heaven and smile.

Then, a while back, Eden, my little one, started asking to learn to cook. I can offered her chances to make Pasta Roni side dishes for dinner or to help with the general preparation in some respect. That was enough for a while…

Until one morning, while the rest of us were asleep, she decided to surprise us with a pancake breakfast! Hey, she had watched her sisters do it a hundred times! Just some pancake mix and some water and some oil! And some chocolate chips and some peanut butter and, hey, how about some jellybeans? Bet Dad and sisters never had jellybean pancakes!

And coffee for Dad! Hey, he likes two cups of coffee in the morning so I guess two cups of water in the coffee maker will do, and two cups-full of fresh ground coffee in the hopper and that’s ready to go!

My Lord, she was a cookin’ genius that morning…

We awoke to the sound of her singing her Cooking-Breakfast song, which she made up to go along with the beat and pitch of the smoke detectors.

Since she did not yet understand recipe-speak, a tsp. and a tbsp. were treated as the same and I later suspected that there had been some confusion about the proper place for cooking oil in the scheme of things because her major complaint was that the jellybeans kept sticking to the bottom of the pan and the burner was on “High” so as to have breakfast ready before we awoke.

In counterpoint to the oily smoke emendating from the stove, she provided a holiday atmosphere to the occasion by leaving a blanket of white pancake mix on every flat surface, inside all the burners, and on both of the cats.

I cannot, to this day, even discuss my “coffee”… syrup.

Time heals all wounds, I’ve learned. The kitchen walls and ceiling finally lost the soot. The stove finally gave up its spot-welded areas of baked jellybeans and fried pancake mix. The cats finally came out from under the couch. My coffee maker… it was never the same afterward. The event has found a place in the Varrone Family Archives. I know this because I burnt some toast last week and Eden’s only remark, with that Eden grin, was,“Well, at least you left out the jellybeans, Dad!”

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round...

There are few experiences that engender more learning possibilities than riding public transportation. The girls and I have been riding the city bus, here in Las Vegas called the Citizens Area Transit (CAT) system, for about eight years. In that time we have had the opportunity to meet more people from more places, for more reasons, sitting in the next seat or hanging one strap over during rush hour, than most cities of comparable size can claim.

For the most part, the lessons have been pleasant, even constructive, but with a small effort the most unpleasant experiences still have created opportunities for familial edification.

One early such happening concerned a man we dubbed Mr. Effity Eff, for his profound, continual and therefore repetitive use of certain four-, six-, and twelve-letter anglo-saxonisms that one would be unlikely to find in, say, your average church bulletin, and he often shared his fondness for scatology with his fellow bus passengers, without regard to gender, age, sex or social status; a true equal opportunity annoyance.

His proclivity in this area made for some interesting (read: nerve-wracking) explanations at our home, usually consisting of two parts: 1 – What a word (or group of words) actually meant, and 2 – Why it was not a good idea to use such words in your next school book report or letter to great-aunt Eunice.

My point was that the English language is the richest and most prolific in the world and that the core character of a person could be surmised from the way that person expresses him/herself. I took much satisfaction from the fact that my point of view seemed to make sense to the girls. I also took much relief that I might not have to revisit the subject again. Silly man that I was…

Some time later, Mr. Effity Eff, drunk and loud, was finally and effectively shamed into silence one day by a tiny, soft-spoken black woman whom we had never seen before. She planted her small frame in the seat next to him and in a calm voice accompanied by many gestures, transformed that large terror of a man into a “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” machine.

As we got off of the bus at our stop, Samantha, then 12, put into perspective the outlook for any parent attempting to keep our children on a verbal high road in today's world when she observed to me: “At least someone got the f*%&@r to shut up.”