Explaining Yourself

Anyone out there ever feel the need to explain that something you weren't in the room for wasn't your fault?  My wife and daughter went to bed last night and were lying in her bed when I walked in.  Nothing special so far, and this occurrence isn't uncommon.  However, my other daughter - the six month old one - has had trouble sleeping all night recently after doing it like a champ for a couple of months.

Before heading into my bedroom, I went into Rachel's room to check on them.  Just as I step foot in there, Amelia starts crying.  The first words out of my mouth were, "I swear I didn't go into her room at all and do anything."

This was a defense mechanism.  My wife has done extraordinary things with taking care of Amelia, but I know that the late night work sometimes makes her edgy, so I have to do all I can to not disturb the Little Miss and pre-empt the sleep cycle.  I've done this before, and the scathing looks could melt butter.

Sherry didn't scold me or say anything.  She just got up and headed to Amelia's room to quiet our daughter.  I sat down on Rachel's bed to tell her good night and that I loved her, and what were the first words out of her mouth?

"Daddy, you really shouldn't have woken Amelia up."

I can't win unless I strap a camera to my face 24/7...and even then the outcome would be far from certain.

Russ

Hello my name is .... dad who can not resist!

Recently at church, one of the children's classes spent weeks practicing the Matthew West song "Hello My Name Is." (Give it a quick listen, just the first 20 seconds or so.) My daughter was in the group. They were to perform the song on stage during a special church dinner one Sunday night.

My daughter looked forward to it. She loves to sing, and isn't shy about performing in front of large groups. For an 8-year-old, she's immune to stage fright. But as I would find out, she is susceptible to embarrassment.

The big night came. My daughter was one of three kids with a solo. All eight were lined up on stage, behind mics. The audience was 120-plus strong, sitting at round tables on the gym floor. All eyes on the performers. The teacher hit play on the CD.

Showtime!

Whoa oh ah oh ah oh oh!
Whoa oh ah oh ah oh oh!
Whoa oh ah oh ah oh oh!

The music was loud. You could just hear the actual West vocals of the song. The young singers overpowered him.

"Hello my name is regret ...," the first soloist began. "I’m pretty sure we have met .... Every single day of your life ... I’m the whisper inside .... That won’t let you forget."

Then came the next soloist, who sang the second refrain. Then all joined in loudly for the chorus (Kids love a good chorus). I was sitting in the front row, camera recording. The third refrain was my sweetie's big moment. Here it comes! 

She stepped closer to the mic. A split second of hesitation. Then she sang.

I am no longer defined .....
By all the wreckage behind ...
The ...
*pause*
one .. who ...
*pause**pause*

She stopped. Her eyebrows shot together, then just as quickly darted apart. She shyly smiled and murmured into the mic. "I forgot the rest."

The teacher up front did quick circles with her right arm, the universal sign of "keep going." So my daughter just stood there ...  smiling. All the kids just stood there ... smiling. The audience just sat there ... smiling. The music continued ... unaccompanied. Two years later finally the chorus hit again. The kids sprung back to life.

"HELLO MY NAME IS CHILD OF THE ONE TRUE KING! ....."

I felt pangs of empathy. But my girl seemed to quickly recover. When the song ended they all took bows. The event was done and people rose to leave. My daughter left the stage, and ran to me pleading.

"Let's leave. Now."

As we departed, a couple of people saw her and attempted to tell her what a great job she did. She refused to look at them, much less acknowledge their words. When we were alone outside she let loose the pain.

"I'm a laughing stock!" she said, somewhat dramatically. "I'm the laughing stock of the whole church!"

"No no no no. No you're not," I said. "Sure, you made a mistake, but the point is you were on the stage to begin with. You were doing something to make people happy. No one laughed at you. They appreciated you being there. Heck, most of those people wouldn't be brave enough to just stand on that stage, much less sing. You were great!"

She remained inconsolable. I worked hard to be the caring, understanding dad. We continued talking about it in the car on the way home. She detailed her pain. I consoled her. Eventually she relaxed. Drama remained, but it was now bearable .....

..... until I could resist no longer.

This was too good an opportunity. Some things just had to be said. I could not pass this up. I had the perfect setup.

So I waited a couple minutes. There was silence. Then I pounced.

"So sweetie, I have something to say, but you won't like it" I said, as kindly as I could.

"What?" she asked gently.

"I guess now .... *pause* ... ♪♪ your name is ... re-gret! ♪♪."

I laughed. She's sworn revenge.

- Rob

Poisoned Coins

My daughter, the budding playwright, decided she needed us to truly get into character for her latest script.  She's writing a play about a wicked woman who wants to give a fairy princess a set of poisoned coins to kill her(Snow White, anyone?).  So that we could get the underlying story, she made a simple statement.

"Okay, I need you guys to imagine, like, if I died.  What kind of tombstone would you get me?"

My wife's face went white and I nearly fell out of my chair.  Imagining your child dead isn't what one would call the most pleasurable of pastimes.  We tried explaining to her that parents don't like imagining their little girls in the process of decay, but she just didn't get it.

"But it's just a play," she protested.  "I'm not really going to die."

On an intellectual level, I understand.  On an emotional one, I say "no way in Hell."

This made me think back to a time my own brother and I were playing around in my mom's car during a trip somewhere.  We were saying our wishes, and I said something to the effect of, "I wish you were dead."  I thought my mom would explode.

It took me 30 years to understand the reaction.  It's amazing how those little moments make you question your own sanity, as well as your commitment to staying intellectual.  I could have rationally explained it to her or played along, for it is just a play, and I don't want to dampen her creative spirit.  However, the dad in me came out.

"Don't ever say such a thing again," I said.  "Now go read Green Eggs and Ham."

Not my most shining moment, but how many parents would have reacted differently?

Russ

My Daughter NOT the tree!

     I begin this blog knowing in advance that I will probably upset some people.  Please cut my hypocrisy some slack and understand I am a heartbroken mom who can't stand by for another fifth year to witness her daughter's heart broken.  Jerry Seinfeld's mom's heart was probably broken when she listened to him try and sell light-bulbs over the phone.  Or Brad Pitt dancing in a chicken mascot costume at a restaurant?  My heart would break too.  Whoopi Goldberg worked in a mortuary.  Julia Roberts sold shoes at an Athletic Foot Store.  Madonna worked at Dunkin Donuts.. So on and so on.

      Getting your first start in acting is rough. But it shouldn't be.  It just shouldn't be.

      My oldest daughter Susanna is 10 years old.  She is in the fifth grade and in her last year of elementary school.  OK.  My Susanna is amazing.  Really.  She is.  She is beautiful, smart, funny, happy, and honestly one of the sweetest people I have ever known. 

Truly. She is.

     Every school year since kindergarten beginning in August, Susanna begins looking forward to the start of the Drama Club.  She practices her expressions and accents; for weeks she acts out every commercial she watches on television.

Then, the lines for tryouts are given out.

     Every year she has practiced and practiced.  Right up until the last minute of the beginning of the first try out.
 
     Then she auditions.  We wait days anxiously and then.........she does NOT make the play!

     So for five years she has NOT made the drama club!  WHAT?

     Here is where my hypocrisy comes in.  I am the mom that always thinks it is annoying that on field day either nobody or everybody gets a ribbon.  I feel like if you are faster and you win, you should actually win.  I think it is so annoying that the school system doesn't want there to be a winner and loser because life is filled with winners and losers.  Our kids need to know how to work hard for something and the thrill of the win.

     This leaves me in a yucky position because according to my usual beliefs Susanna should not get into the drama club if she isn't as good as some of the others.  The problem is that she is my kid and she has tried so hard for soooo long and shouldn't that count for something?

     I know this is a double standard but.....well I guess but nothing.  So here is the letter I wrote to the school in response to her fifth denial in her fifth year:

Dear Drama Club Leaders,
     My name is Jennifer.  I know that you have no idea who I am because in the past five years my daughter has never made it past tryouts, so the opportunity for us to meet has never presented itself.  I am a firm believer that those who are the best should be the ones that are rewarded.  However I also believe that the hard work and determination my daughter has exemplified in the past five years should count for something.  I totally understand I am not the mother to the next "Drew Barrymore".  I totally understand that you need to choose the best for the play but honestly after five years and numerous attempts by my daughter could you really not just out of the goodness of your heart have made her a tree? A shrub? A sun?  Anything?  I think that at the very least you could have let her help decorate or hand out pamphlets on the night of the play!  My daughter being the person she is will of course be a good sport and continue to show support of the play and the chosen children.  Honestly that is how she is!  I on the other hand hope your play really sucks!  In case you ever get curious as to who I am please just look out your window on field day......I will be the mom handing out ribbons to the winners.
                                                        Thanks for all your support,
                                                                                         Jennifer

   You know what?  I hope my Susanna continues to persevere.  I hope that she never, ever lets go of her dreams of one day being in the Drama Club; because if Jerry, Brad, Whoopi, Julia and Madonna gave up on their dreams, the movie screen would be void of some pretty amazing talent.
             
   -Jen

Shame goes good with Chinese

Recently my kids became aware of the process by which one neuters a male dog. I was ignorant of their new knowledge until lunch this past Sunday. 

My wife, two kids and I were seated at a booth talking about whatever it is our family tends to talk about. Mom and daughter were on one side, me and the 6-year-old boy facing them on the other. Somehow the topic of babies came up, and my 8-year-old daughter started picking on mom.

“You need to have another baby, mom!” she said, as brother egged her on. “Have another baby! You need to!”

Mom just smiled a sneaky smile, throwing a sly glance my way. “I’m not going to have any more babies. We can’t have anymore.”

“What?” said my daughter, a mixture of wry amusement and shock. “Were you fixed!? Have you been fixed mom!?”

Brother joined in. “Yeah mom, have you been fixed?”

Mom just grinned. “Nope. Not me.”

Suddenly both siblings turned their heads my way. They then questioned me with a two-word phrase as silly as it is cringe worthy. 

“Dad? Have you been fixed,” they started to ask, before reiterating at a slightly higher volume. “DID YOU HAVE YOUR WIENER BALLS CUT OFF??”

They exploded in merriment. My wife joined them. I said nothing. I just looked at each in turn, then looked down at my plate, chin almost to chest, with my best sad face. I wasn't so much acting as emoting.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA … YOU DON’T HAVE ANY WIENER BALLS NOW DAD? .. HAHAHAHAHAHA … YOU REALLY HAD YOUR WIENER BALLS CUT OUT??”

I folded my arms on the table, then buried my head in an elbow.

"DAD DON'T HAVE HIS WIENER BALLS! DAD DON'T HAVE HIS WIENER BALLS!"

As they sang I slowly slid my nestled pillow of crossed arms off the table to the side, and dropped it down to the seat. Dave Chappelle couldn’t get a better reaction.

I didn’t mind the laughter. It was the repeated use of the phrase “wiener balls” that hurt. Not as bad as the actual procedure to which they crudely referred, but still … not pleasant.

As the giggling finally died down and I returned to an upright position, my son asked if he could have some ice cream from the dessert buffet. Mom said for him to ask dad to get it. So I rose with him to retrieve his sweets. As I passed my wife I whispered, “As least I’m still good for something.” She just winked. 

Wiener balls ….. ugh.

- Rob