Seeing Things for The First Time

Late again.

It’s 10:04 pm.  I had hoped to be halfway home by now, but we’re still sitting at the gate.  An issue with the jet-bridge.  I won’t crawl into bed next to my already-sleeping wife until well after midnight.  My mouth tastes like airport food – a combination of greasy cardboard box and preservatives.  My nostrils still harbor that airport bathroom smell.  I have a mark on my cheek from a run-in with a fellow traveler’s backpack.  I’ve been on the road all but two weeks since Valentine’s Day.  It’s getting old.

Very old.

I’m in the window seat of the exit row.  The perk of the extra legroom is offset by the surprisingly scary quiz I receive from the overzealous flight attendant.  She looks like your grade school lunch lady who accidentally put on a navy blue uniform.  Only not as friendly.

“What do you do in the event of an emergency?”  She glares into the eyes of every one of us seated in the row, pausing to make sure we catch her direct eye contact.

“Uh… open the door?” says my seat-mate, sarcastically.

“Are you sure?” she says, knowing that each of us has read the safety briefing card with the same rigor as the warning label on a Hot Pocket.

We sit motionless.

“What if you see fire out there?” she prods.

“Leave it closed?” answers the guy in 21D.  The tone of sarcasm replaced by genuine doubt.

“What about smoke?”

“Closed?” Our cautious guess.

“Debris?” she continues.

“Closed?”  At this point in the questioning, we’re looking for the bare light bulb hanging above our head and the ropes tying our hands behind the chairs.

“What about strange faces?” she rattles.

“Strange faces?”  We’re dumbfounded.  She answers for us, spitting the words in a forced staccato.

“Not long ago, a plane landed and came to a stop on the tarmac.  Hijackers stormed the plane.  A person in the exit row panicked and opened the door.  The hijackers came aboard, took the plane, and killed a passenger.”

She paused for effect.

“We don’t open the door for strange faces.  Ever.”

She left without saying goodbye.  We sit in stunned silence.  Then, I hear 21D mumble,

“I know what strange face I’m afraid of.”

Flying used to be fun, but all the joy is gone.  Replaced by mild irritation and angst.  So now I need to wash the icky off of me.  I close my eyes and remember last Monday night.

We were in Cincinnati squeezing in some vacation time in a rare off-the-road week.  I decided to take Jake to his first big league game.  I’m not a huge baseball fan, but taking your kid to the ballpark is a father’s right of passage.  A must-do.  I talked my brother-in-law into coming along, taking his boys and a friend.

Being that Jake is only five years old, I didn’t expect much.  Maybe three innings and $412 worth of snacks before he got bored as a stump.  As a preemptive strike, I bought a bag of peanuts from a vendor outside the stadium and stuffed them into my cargo shorts where they mingled with a packet of fruit snacks and some gummy worms.  Unfortunately, as I was describing both the wonder of salted-in-the-shell-peanuts and the value of “snack smuggling” to my child, he tripped and fell and skinned his knee.

Blood = tears.

My kid was already crying and we hadn’t even made it inside the ballpark.  I imagined this could ruin the whole night for him.  My every attempt to take his mind off the pain failed miserably.  I shrewdly used his bawling to distract the ticket taker from noticing the peanut warehouse in my left pocket.  He gladly pointed us to the first aid station.  On our way in, we grabbed our “Let’s Go Reds!” free souvenir towel.

At the first aid station, Dr. Mike, one of the team’s trainers, patched up Jake’s knee.  He let the boy apply the Neosporin using a giant Q-Tip, and covered the whole mess with a bandage the size of movie theater curtain.  Jake’s mood improved immediately.  Towels and baseball gloves in hand, we found our seats.

We were on the lowest level behind first base, about 30 rows from the field.  From this vantage point, we had a prime view of the action, and some shade from the Mezzanine above.  The cover also provided a nice echo when the first vendor came by 17 seconds later.  That’s when it all started.

“Lemon Freeeeeeeeze!  Getcha’ Lemon Freeeeeeeze heah!”

Jake’s pupils dilated.  Never before had he seen the miracle that is roving snack sales.  You could see the wheels turning.  You mean the food comes to me?!?!?!?!  It was as if he had witnessed the discovery of fire.  I quickly distracted him with the smuggled peanuts, and held his attention after promising further sweets in return for adequate hot dog consumption.  He buried himself in the oversized bag of nuts while I quickly made my way to the concession stand in search of protein before the inevitable onslaught of high fructose corn syrup in its various forms and shapes.

I returned several minutes later with hot dogs and giant lemonades for the whole crew.  Jake’s knees were covered in peanut shells and he was grinning ear-to-ear.  He grabbed his dog and took a huge bite.  Then, almost instinctively, placed the rest in his baseball glove.  ‘Cuz anyone knows the best way to store a ballpark dog is in your little league mit.  The lemonade cup, which doubles as a wading pool on the weekends, was no match for the kid.  He easily drank 29 of the 32 ounces.

With the kid’s belly temporarily satisfied, we got down to business.  Time to teach the kid about the game.  About five minutes in, I realized that baseball is far more complex than say, tic-tac-toe.  It’s a game full of heady concepts.  And, when explaining them all to a preschooler, one soon realizes the game lacks any semblance of comfortable logic.  Sacrifice flies.  Infield fly rule.  Double-plays.  It’s OK to run on a dropped third strike.

This night could get long.

And there were numbers all over the scoreboard.  Runs.  Hits. Strikes.  Balls.  Outs.  Pitch speed. Batting average.  Bail bondsman phone numbers.

And he soaked it all up like a sponge.  Filled with awe.  Overflowing with questions.

“What’s this guys, name, daddy?”

“The batter’s name is Drew.”

“Go Drew!  Get a hit!”

And Drew Stubbs hits a home run in the third.  The crowd goes crazy.  Jake jumps up and waves the towel.  Like he helped will the ball over the fence.  Throwing high fives.  Screaming.  I half expected the kid to start taunting the poor Cubs fans.

The rest of the game was more of the same.  He spent the better part of two hours stuffing his cake-hole, cheering on batters, calling out the pitch speed, and watching the giant scoreboard.  There was another home run in the fifth, lots of action, ten runs in all.

Since we were spending the next day at King’s Island theme park, I tried to bail out during the seventh inning stretch.

“I thought you said there was nine innings, daddy?”

It’s all new.  The first time.  Grass as green as Crayola.  Crowds cheering.  Popcorn.  Peanuts.  Candy.  Action.  Lights. Why leave, daddy?  Why leave?  What else is there to do?  What’s so darn important?  Are you seeing what I’m seeing?

So we learned the art of late-game seat exchanges during blowout victories.  And we learned the art of graciously getting bounced from said seats in the top of the ninth.  As we walked out of the stadium, fireworks popped overhead, signaling a Red’s victory.

And so much more.

Now I’m hearing a familiar voice over the intercom,

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have started our descent into Nashville. The captain has asked for you to return your seat backs to the upright position, stow your tray tables, and power down all electronics.  Your flight attendant will be coming by to collect any cups, cans and glasses.”

My seat mate is snoring in 21E, and hogging the armrest.  Ms. Cruella StrangeFace just came by and gave me the “stink eye.”  I’d better shut down my laptop lest the flight protocol police put me on the no fly list, never to experience air travel again.  Honestly, this would have sounded like a godsend just 75 minutes ago.   Pure bliss.

But not now.  Not anymore.

I’m gliding through the air in a 140,000 pound chunk of metal, with a bird’s eye view of God’s creation.  A miracle, to say the least.  Something most of the world never gets to experience.  Outside my window I catch a glimpse of a twinkling sea of jewels.  Diamonds. Rubies.  Sapphires.  Amethyst.  All on a black velvet background.  Stretching out into forever.

Which is how long it’s been since I’ve noticed.

Too Much Pomp for the Circumstance

Please forgive my candor, but I’m a little miffed at all of you.  More than a little miffed, actually.  I’m experiencing an anger that falls somewhere between being shorted one McNugget in a six-pack, and being told by your doctor that you’ll need a “do-over” on that last colonoscopy because the nurse forgot to turn on the video recorder.

Why?

My son graduated last week, and not a single one of you sent a gift.  Not even a card.  How could you be so thoughtless?  If you had seen him toiling away all these years months on macaroni art projects and hastily-drawn stick figures, you would see that the sacrifice and mental energy he has exhausted in the dogged pursuit of his preschool diploma are worth recognition.

That’s right.  I said preschool diploma.  Jake is five.  Allow me to refuel my sarcasm tank, as I’ve just depleted it in that two-paragraph rant.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good celebration as much as the next guy.  And I’ll admit to being the annoying father in the front row, snapping photos like a papparazi at the door of a celebrity rehab clinic.  I’m proud of my kids, love them dearly, and am happy to post saccharin-sweet photos of them in a vain attempt to make myself feel more attractive, as if I had something to do with their cuteness.  Still, a new phenomenon has me scratching my head.

* Jake (pictured here with Gracie – the love of his life) graduated Magna Cum “Loud”

When I was growing up, graduation was something that happened when you completed 12^th grade.  You waited for it for years.  Then came that magical day when so many dreams were realized.  For the students, graduation signaled that you were now ready for the freedom of adulthood, be that college or the world of work.  For the parents, they could now legally kick you out of the house and make you fend for yourself, which, I now realize, is something they had dreamed of since the first night they brought you home from the hospital and you pooped immediately following the 3am diaper change.

Graduation was an accomplishment.

Over the past two weeks, Gabby and I have attended no fewer than four “graduations.” My two nieces graduated from junior high.  Other nieces and nephews graduated from fifth grade.  A neighbor graduated from first grade.  This is all fine and good, but I’m not sure I would call this an accomplishment.  In fact, if you don’t complete fifth grade, I believe your parents get thrown in prison.  It’s like giving a kid a medal for not getting struck by lightning.

* A photo taken by a friend in a mall parking lot.  When Makenzie graduates high school, I believe her parents are running an ad during the Super Bowl.

Granted, I think my kids are wicked smart, but to have an entire graduation ceremony for children that can’t even tie their own shoes seems a bit over-indulgent to me.  Heck, some even have trouble with the Velcro.  But at Jake’s preschool, they wore their special caps, were introduced by name, and received diplomas.  The double-bonus was a Bible embossed with their names.

One of the fifth grade graduations lasted longer than a feature-length film.  They even had a keynote speaker.  He made his message interactive and memorable.  He first asked the kids to clap.  Then he said, “Remember the word clap, because that’s the subject of my talk today.  C-L-A-P.  What do you think the ‘C’ stands for?” he asked.

“Character!” one kid yelled.

“That’s right,” he answered in a congratulatory tone.  “How about the letter ‘L?’”

After a few “L” words were called out, someone finally came up with “Leadership!”

“Right again!” he answered.  “And the ‘A?’”

“Excel!” called out one brave student.

“Not quite!” the speaker politely deflected, amid chuckles from the audience.

Mind you, this was at the “good” school in a strong district.  I don’t want to know what happens in the “bad” schools.  Still, each kid received a diploma, and I received a case of bleacher-induced scoliosis.

After the fifth grade ceremony, we went to the reception held in the school cafeteria.  There were four, long lunch tables completely covered in homemade cookies.  Yes, you read it right.  Roughly 150 square feet of cookies.  It was the most beautiful display of made-from-scratch goodness I have ever seen.  Girl Scouts would be jealous.  It made your church potluck dessert table look like a handful of petrified peppermint candies.

There were Red Velvet cookies.  Chocolate chunk.  Snickerdoodles.  Brownies covered in cream cheese icing and topped with a fresh strawberry.  Cookies that only exist in dreams.  Cookies that didn’t exist at my high school graduation.

Perhaps it was a feeble attempt to rewrite my own school experience, or better yet, to relive my childhood as a suburban kid in modern times.  Or maybe it was the scoliosis talking.  Whatever the case, I created a Mount Everest of cookies on my plate.  There were easily six or seven.  And I ate every last one.

Then I went back for seconds.

They had brought out some new varieties, so I sampled them all.  I knocked fifth graders out of the way.  I even stuffed my face while standing at the buffet table, which, after second thought, probably crossed the line of buffet etiquette.  But I didn’t care.  They invented sneeze guards for guys like me.

Then it got disgusting.  I went back to the table and ate all of the cookie fragments that Gabby and the kids failed to finish.  I realized I had crossed the line into full-on gluttony when I grabbed for half of a Rice Krispy Treat and Gabby swatted my hand away.

“Slow down!  I’m still working on that!”

“Sorry.  I had assumed that unless you were cramming your pie-hole with two hands, then you must not be eating.”

Then it happened.  It started as a mild cramp in my belly.  By the time we got to the car, it had morphed into a slight nausea.  When we rolled in the driveway, I started to sweat.  The cliché your mother warned you about is indeed true.  If you eat too many sweets, you’ll make yourself sick.

And the metaphor isn’t lost on me.

Praise and recognition is healthy in moderation.  Unfortunately, this whole graduation madness is a symptom of a much greater problem.  There is a culture of excess that comes with parenting today.  There are entire magazines devoted to parenting that make the child the center of the universe.  The pride of calling yourself a good dad or a fantastic mom is like a tiny mountain of ice bobbing in a sea of “ought to’s.”  But just below the surface is this giant iceberg of guilt that will sink the Titanic if you don’t provide for every want and need of your child.  It appears that we are all supposed to strive to give our kids a childhood that none of us had.

And it makes me throw up in my mouth a little.  But not because of the cookie binge.

My parents provided for me.  I had everything I needed but they knew better than to give me everything I wanted.  Instead, when other kids wore the hip Reebok High tops with the velcro ankle, I used a Mr. Sketch marker and some scrap paper to make my own Reebok label and taped it over the Fast-Baks logo of my knock-off sneakers.  I was 35 years old before I owned my first Atari gaming system.  And, if you’re a regular blog reader, you know my lust for Moon Boots was never satiated.

So here I am, asking.  No, BEGGING you to tell me I’m not going crazy.  I want to hear that there is value in sending kids to bed without dinner.  I want to know that it’s OK to deprive your children.  I want to believe that moments aren’t special because you label them “special.”  Instead, I want it to be acceptable to wish for your kids to grow up, remember the mundane, and label it “special” because it reminds them of a childhood well-lived.  A childhood where they learned to be their own person.  To work hard, and never feel entitled to anything.

So, to all you parents out there, I ask you to share a story with me.  Not all the things you wished you had as a kid.  But rather, what did the “not having” teach you about life?