Three little words.

Now I Understand.

I read Jon Katz’s short story, The Wannabe Singer, this morning. (http://www.bedlamfarm.com/2014/03/30/short-story-the-wannabe-singer/ )

It struck me deeply. My parents supported so many choices when we were growing up. Guitar lessons, a set of drums, pick-ups after play practice and band practice, summer programs. If we were interested, and it seemed remotely healthy and creative, they would find a way to help us make it happen.

I grew, slowly, into adulthood. I got married at age 22, and divorced a few years later. My world was exploding into the great outdoors, while she would have been content to build a house on the corner of her father’s farm and raise babies. I went back to school. I changed majors, floundered financially, and eventually dropped out.

The only constant was that I needed to be outside, preferably in the back country. Preferably climbing. Preferably surrounded by BIG air, in really high places, no one around but my partner and maybe a peregrine or a hawk.

I worked in an outdoor equipment store. I taught climbing and outdoor skills at Ohio State and the University of Cincinnati. I filled in the gaps with construction work. I had very, very little. But, I had in excess of my needs, which fits philosopher John Locke’s definition of wealth.

My father never sought wealth. In fact, I know he turned down promotions that would have involved moving our family. Stability was the prime directive, and this was his plan for it: The children will have a rock-solid anchor. They will grow up with life-long friends. Their universe will have a well-defined center.

And, it was great. We had all of those things. We never did without anything we truly needed. We knew where “home” was. We were encouraged to be whatever we wanted. But, that took its toll on Dad.

When I chose what was perceived to be a really unstable, impoverished life, I think it really shook him up. Mental illness had devastated members of my mother’s family, and I’m sure he feared me going off the deep end. What I lacked the words to explain was that, in following my heart, I was finding a form of stability that spoke to me. I’m not sure I understood it myself at the time. I just knew that working hard for money wasn’t the end-all for me. I had held a well-paying job, owned a house, had a hard-working and loyal wife, all at a very early age. It was the All-American package I had been raised to seek, along with almost everyone I knew. But it wasn’t my dream. I wasn’t happy.

So, I started ditching things. Job. Marriage. New Car. I bought climbing gear. I climbed. I scrapped. I guided friends out west in the summer, and stayed in their houses over the winter.

In 1993 I began working seasonally for the Colorado Outward Bound School. It was a huge breakthrough; I could earn money in the wilderness, teaching others, ALL SUMMER LONG.

I turned 34 years old that summer. In the fall I returned to Ohio. My father asked, “What are you going to do for the winter?” I told him I would find a job. I was staying with friends in Columbus. The stress on his face frightened me a bit. I thought he might have a heart attack right there. He mumbled something, and the conversation ended.

I know that the mere thought of me climbing scared the hell out of him. He never really wanted to see the slide shows from my trips, although he sat through them. I could hear him sucking through his teeth at wildly exposed images from Devil’s Tower, the Middle Teton Glacier, and other places. But, I kept climbing, and kept coming home safely. I don’t think he ever came to peace with it, but eventually he settled down a bit.

Seasons passed, and I began working year-round with Outward Bound. Summer mountaineering courses led into autumn wilderness leadership semester courses, which carried into spring semester rockclimbing camps at Joshua Tree, and Utah canyoneering courses in March and April. By May I was training the new hires for the mountaineering program, and the cycle would start over.

During that time, Mom and Dad retired and moved to Florida. One spring they informed me they had been riding bikes on the rail trail, and were up to fifteen miles on their outings. They wanted to come out to visit, and spend some time with me. Where was I going to be?

I was shocked and proud. They were now more active than ever, and were coming my way. “I’ll be in Moab in May. I would LOVE to show you around the canyon country!”

I bought the book “Easy Hikes in the Canyonlands”. I asked my friend Wren to give me a short list that I could check out before they came. What she didn’t know about the Moab area wasn’t worth knowing. We went out hiking together and picked out three or four good ones.

Mom and Dad arrived, and we did a couple of rim hikes in Canyonlands National Park, and some nice rolling walks among the Arches. At one point, along the rim looking down on the Colorado River, my Dad said, out of the blue, “I want to go INTO a canyon. I want to walk in one.”

I stopped by Wren’s place, and she suggested Negro Bill Canyon on the River Road (“the river” being the mighty Colorado). The mouth of Negro Bill Canyon was across the road from the Colorado River, and we could enter the canyon from the bottom- not always an easy thing to do.

The trail had one rock band of about three feet in height- just enough to sprain or break an ankle if one of them slipped and fell. With a bit of pushing and shoving, we cleared it.

The canyon country of Utah, in May, is hard to match in raw, and I mean RAW, beauty. Most every cactus is blooming in full color. Penstemon, claret cup, globemallow, all splash off of the spring greenery that only shows itself this time of the year.

We walked about a mile down a nearly flat, sandy path. Wren, you chose well, my friend. We roamed past aromatic sage, flowering prickly pear, wild ephedra, flowering purple sage, and loco weed. We were surrounded by red rocks and blanketed under a deep blue sky. The sun was not yet over the rim of the canyon. We were in full color, yet in full shade. Canyon wrens fluttered, ravens croaked. Lizards did push-ups on the rocks. A golden eagle soared overhead. If I had called on all of my friends to give testimony to my life in the backcountry, it would have had little effect compared to this.

My father stopped, scanned the canyon walls, and paused.

“Now I understand.”

I was to turn forty years old in a few weeks. My father was in his sixties. I didn’t know if I would ever hear those words. I would still have led my life my own way, but a burden had been lifted. I was more free than I had felt in years.

Mom and Dad were tired. They assured me they could get back to the car by themselves. They left their video camera with me in case I saw anything they might like.

Once they were down the trail, out of sight and sound, I set the camera on a rock and hit “record”.

I showed them a few skills I had learned, building a fire with sticks and all of that, then put all of that stuff away. I looked into the camera, into their eyes, and told them just how important they were to me, that they had succeeded so fully in encouraging me not to follow my own drummer, but to BE my own drummer. I told dad how important it was to me that he could understand why I was here. I turned off the camera and headed deeper into the canyon. They wanted me to. They expected me to. To turn back on their account would be to ignore their wishes for me. I videotaped and narrated some natural and human history, showed them some petroglyphs, and headed back to the trail head.

“Stability” for me has always been about keeping my mental bearings more than keeping a well-stocked bank account. It was always tough. Relationships and money never lasted long enough. Transportation was always a bit of a folly. I single-handedly killed three Chevrolet Chevettes. In a row.

But, I became crazy-resourceful. I spent a winter in Leadville, Colorado, at 10,000 feet above sea level, doing winter maintenance at the Outward Bound base camp. The winter nights at 10k, with no light pollution, are indescribably clear. And wickedly cold and brutal. At other times I slept in vehicles along some of the mightiest rivers, wildest canyons, most remote places in this country. 

At the end of it all, I woke up one morning next to Laura, on her first visit to see me in South Dakota, in my van. The back doors were open, and a huge herd of buffalo whispered past the van, parting in front, then reconnecting at the back of the van, only a few feet from us. Hundreds of them meandered past, gliding across the prairie. There was no sound but the wisping of their hides on the tall grass, and it’s a sound I will never forget.

What became clear to me, after a decade without an address, without bills, without a phone, is just this:

Home is, indeed, where the heart is. But it doesn’t have to be a place. So long as you follow your heart, you will always be at home.

Call me an a$$hole, but...

What would I tell someone about having a child later in life?

Well, for starters here is what I would NOT tell them:

It'll be the best thing that ever happened to you.

This assumes that everyone wants to, and needs to, and should be a parent. This gives you nowhere to put all of the incredible things you have done. This says, "You HAVE to feel this way or you are a total asshole." What if parenthood destroys your marriage? What if you are unable to deal with the child's needs- financial, emotional, educational, social, and on and on...

It may be that becoming a parent will be a truly wonderful, fulfilling experience, and a highlight of your life. However, let's leave words like "best" out of it. Please don't ask me to line up everything I have done in the last half-century and place my son somewhere on that scale. It's just not a fair question. Studies have shown that people with children usually place their children at the top of the list of their sources of happiness. It also shows that those people are less happy than those without children. I don't always place a great deal of weight on studies, but here is my bottom line:

I love my son to the end of the earth and back, but I would never dare to tell you what sort of an experience you will have, or should have.


And the there is:

You're gonna just LOVE it.

Well, you may and you may not. There are days that are amazing, and days that threaten to break me. I don't think that's age-related; it's just a part of parenting. If anything, I appreciate having more background and history to draw upon to get through those rough days, and to give perspective to those times of magic. I am glad that I spent time in the mountains with a friend who made such a strong point about my four favorite words (thanks to him), "This too shall pass."


And of course, 

Enjoy these moments; they grow up so fast.

Those words are true, but you don't need to hear them from me. You've already been told by every single person walking the face of the earth who ever had a child. If you're not living in these moments, no amount of cajoling from friends, family, or strangers will snap you back to the present. You'll just wake up with strange whiskers in the sink (or bathtub), laundry odors you don't want to identify, and a cell-phone plan that rivals your mortgage. Remember, everyone (but me) warned you...


But then there is this;

By waiting to have a child, you will see that child become able to outrun you much sooner, but you'll be wise enough to sit still. They'll be back. 

You'll become friends, if you are so inclined, with younger people. For me, this has always been a key to staying young. People my age rarely share my interests. Younger people, especially younger parents, help me to connect with the world that my son will see. They help me feel younger, to be younger than my years.

Your years with your child will be fewer, but more precious if you choose to make them so. There is an urgency to make the most of the time available. The challenge is to not become overbearing, not to have a need-to-be-needed that overwhelms and creates a push-back.

It will be a challenge to prepare your child for life without you, to promote independence, perhaps at the expense of your own desire for closeness and connection. My goal is to just be a person my son would like to be with. Given a 50-year age difference, that won't always work. Even now, it's obvious he loves being with me, but not all day- every day. We both need a break, as almost any relationship does. 


Finally, this:

Becoming a parent can make you a better person, if you're willing to put in the work. I find myself working on my temper, my conflict resolution skills, my communication, my health and activity level. I seek creative self-development. I make time for myself, I try to follow through on my words and my plans. 

I want to be the person Jay would like to become. It's the greatest gift my parents gave to me. If I am strong enough to pass that on, it'll be the greatest gift I can give to Jay.

South Park

South Park, made famous by Trey Parker and Matt Stone in their cartoon series of the same name, is indeed a real place in Colorado. It’s not a town, but a “park”, an open, un-forested area in the high country of the Rocky Mountains. Sorry, but there is no Cartman in this story.

The true “South Park” lies between the smudge on the map known as Alma, and the town of Fairplay. Officially at 10,578 feet above sea level, Alma can now lay claim as the highest town in North America. Before incorporation, for most of its history, it ceded the name of “highest town in America” to neighboring Leadville. Five peaks exceeding 14,000’ look down on the town.

When I was last there in the mid-to-late 1990’s, Alma consisted of a few cabins, a convenience store/ post office/ video rental center (36 selections; plan on seeing the same movies a few times over the winter), and the South Park Bar and Grill. There are a very, very few real townies. The 2000 U.S. census listed the population at 179. There is an Alaskan feel to the town; people choose to be there because they are extremely competent, rugged, and rock solid in the worst of conditions, or because they are dysfunctional to the point of needing a pretty anonymous escape portal. Alma provides much for people at each end of the Functionality Spectrum, and precious little to those in the middle.

My friend Glen lived there for a year after escaping Pittsburgh to find his way in the Wild West. He found work distributing for M&M/ Mars, and his cabin was a stopping point for me on the way to Outward Bound base camps and my next teaching assignments. Glen didn’t have to be there; I could just stop, sleep, and raid the cabinets for outdated Milky Way bars and M&M’s to take on the trail. Two years later, after paying his dues rafting the Yukon River in Alaska, Glen joined the ranks as an instructor for Outward Bound. He would be assigned to the Southwest Program to teach rafting and canyoneering.

A few years later Glen had moved over the mountain pass to Breckenridge. One winter night we decided to hop over the pass; it was one of those “road trip” moments younger people have (I was in my late 30’s; have I mentioned I was a late bloomer?). In February, in the high country at about 9000’, “Let’s go to Alma!” with snow falling and almost no money in our pockets sounded like the most incredible idea we’d had all winter. We picked up our friend Bruce. Bruce was even older than me, and was a former OB instructor who had moved into the administrative ranks to preserve his knees and back.

We hopped into Glen’s Forerunner, popped it into four wheel drive, and slogged up the switchbacks. Eventually we crested, and slid slowly into town. We pulled up to the South Park Grill.Glen’s former landlord, Jack was there, and the bartender. By now over a foot of snow had accumulated, and there was no sign of it slowing down.

The four of us spent the night shooting pool and drinking. After we finished all of the palatable beer, the bartender gave us the keys to the pool table and went upstairs to bed. “Maybe you should lock the front door when you’re done, but really, don’t worry about it. Naaaaaw, just leave it. Someone may get stuck and need to get inside.”

That’s the way mountain towns are. Leave the doors open in case someone is in desperate shape and needs help.

As pool balls clacked, Bruce gave us a lesson on brandy. Apparently it was an invention of the Napoleonic wars. Napoleon had contracted to send a certain amount of alcohol on the ships with his troops. Six ball, far corner. The best way to do that apparently was to send highly concentrated wine, or brandy. There you have it. Combination; nine ball into the twelve, side pocket.

Bruce went on to show the proper way to pour; rest the glass (snifter) on its side. Eleven ball, bank, corner pocket. Pour until the brandy just reaches the edge. Now, when you stand the glass, the top of the brandy is at the widest part of the glass. This allows for the most aroma to be released, which becomes concentrated at the narrow opening. Eight ball, side pocket. Game.

Rack ’em.

We finished the brandy. Now what?

Scotch.

The doors to both restrooms stood open as there was no need for privacy and the doors were serious hindrance to a guy in a hurry.

Much, much earlier in the evening it had become clear we were going nowhere. The bar was built and outfitted for busier times than this. There were four pool tables, and four of us.

After another game or two, and another foot of snow, we each picked out a table. You don’t go out on a night like this without some provisions; we brought sleeping bags in from the truck. We each racked out on a table. I have sleep apnea, made more strident by high altitude, but I had spent much of the winter up here. Slowly, one by one, snores filled the room. I was the last to fall asleep. The room sounded like it was filled with idling snow mobiles. Soon I added my dull roar to the cacophony. 

Around 2 am someone did indeed pop in. We told him the tables were full, but he could pull up some floor. We pushed his car out in the morning, went next door for some eggs, and grilled them up back over at the South Park.

We spent the morning lazing around, waiting for snow plows. We followed a plow down the pass and back to Breck. Glen went to his winter job renting skis to tourists, and I crashed out on his couch for the afternoon.

Mountain towns, mountain people. Both have had immeasurable influence on who I have become. I HAVE been a late bloomer. Nothing pushes a person to grow up, and simply to grow, like strong people and a strong landscape. Nature is indifferent, uncaring, it exists and does its work regardless of our presence.

Mountain people are much the same- not so uncaring, but you had better be able to saddle your own horse, so to speak. There are rarely encounters with anything “middle of the road”, with either people OR the terrain and weather. A person will grow, or weaken. There is no standing around.

I will include stories of my history here from time to time. They will be here for my son to read, and for you to look in on with my blessings. I hope they will explain, in some way, what the hell I was doing all this time instead of raising a family. I hope they will inspire him to go to interesting and challenging places, and meet and grow alongside interesting and challenging people. 

I write now, while I can still pull upon details. The stories may be more interesting once I have to make most of them up, but I'd rather he know that they were interesting on their own merits anyway, and not just the yammerings of a senile old man.

Jay may find some inspiration or enlightenment in them, or not. They will become his stories to do with as he pleases. I hope has he ages they will gain more meaning, and maybe he'll be able to tell his children, should he choose to have them, a bit more about me.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

Time for a couple of hours of Jeff time. 

After I dropped Jay off at daycare this morning, I faced a decision. Return home? Or go over to my gallery/ office and work there? The office cuts out an hour of driving, and the roads aren’t great. But it lacks one important thing:

My bed. 

Mmmmmmmmm… a few hours of tempur-pedic solitude sounds awesome right now. Flannel sheets, one of mom’s quilts wrapped around me with no need to share, a warm fat cat toasting herself on my belly…

The office won. I’m too tired to drive anymore. I’ll save some gas money, get more work done, and spend some time out of the house and in the vicinity of friends.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to sell out on this "special time" of life with Jay. And no, there should be nothing out of the ordinary about spending three consecutive days more or less “home alone” with him. I’m not big on dads who consider staying at home with the kids to be “babysitting.” It’s child-rearing, as in my child, as in having the opportunity to influence who he becomes. As in being a parent, specifically being a dad, and defining what that means to this child.

BUT…

Phew. Those three days presented increasing isolation each day for both of us. As the winter storm dumped, and then blew another foot and a half of snow, our cozy home got cozier and cozier. Downright small, one might say, for both of us. 

But, we were well-protected. We stayed warm. We had a great view of the mountains, the horses, of the blowing and drifting snow. We spent time yesterday, in 18-degree air covered with cirrus clouds, stacking chunks of plowed snow into a snow family in the same spots where we re-arranged puddles in 56-degree sunshine 48 hours earlier. The amount of fun had was the same in both cases.

The effects of no nap yesterday spilled into this morning. I was supposed to visit Mettawee Community School over in Vermont to scope out their pre-school at 9 am. That meant leaving the house before 7:30. At 7 am Jay was still snoring away. I opened the door to his room to allow some ambient house noises creep in, and hopefully wake him gently.

It worked.

If by "gently" you mean smacking mom and yelling at both of us, “NO. Don’t change me!” Then, just:

“NO.”

This was your non-specific, “bugger off” sort of ‘no’. Whatever you’re saying, doing, thinking, the answer is:

“NO.”

Sigh. Time to dodge and distract, Dad. “Go look at the mountains! They’re pink! They’re beautiful!”

I set him on the floor, and he waddled around his heavy overnight diaper and Thomas the Tank Engine sleeper into the living room.

“WHOA!”

He was impressed. “Wow, Mommy! Wow, Daddy! I see pink! I see red! I see orange!”

“Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh!”

 By the time he was dressed, she was almost a half hour late for work and I was just as late to leave. I called Mettawee School to find out what they wanted me to do. The secretary asked, “Are you sure you’re supposed to come today? We’re on an in-service day. There’s hardly anyone here.”

Seriously? I am a big believer in “choosing my battles”, and I just fought a completely unnecessary one. We all took a deep breath and relaxed. Jay could feel the release of tension as well. He was still not too keen on me, but he let mom get his shoes and jacket on. On the plus side, I didn’t end up driving all the way from Glens Falls back out to Vermont only to find out there was no one at the school.

When we pulled into Debbie’s house, where he goes for daycare, Jay let out a big “Yay! Debbie’s!!!”

I think he was ready for a change of scenery as well.

So, today I’m here, in Glens Falls. I’ll do some writing, and plan some lessons for an upcoming photoshop class I’m teaching. I’ll catch up on correspondences, and print some images that were juried into a show that opens in a couple of weeks. Maybe I’ll shop around for some other shows, and other markets for my work. You know, “Jeff” stuff.

This week has been a good warm-up for Debbie’s vacation week at the end of this month. No daycare means lots of time for the "Js" to hang out together. Hopefully the roads will be clear that week, and we can get to some of the things we like so much- the library on Tuesday, tumbling class Wednesday, art day at the Hyde museum Thursday, and Wonderfeet children’s museum on Friday. All of these are half-day outings at best, leaving us plenty of time together for “the Jeffs”. Whatever comes, we’ll work it out.

Snowball fight. The week drags on.

Just get me through this day.

And the cat too, if it's not too much trouble.

If a day was made for those beautiful four words, "This too shall pass", just maybe today was it.

Truthfully, in the grand scheme it's all fine. we're in a warm house. Our power stayed on. A few swipes with a broom cleared the satellite dishes, so we're connected to the outside world, even if we can't get there ourselves.

Tuesday we got out to the library after a tough negotiation that ended with no winner. Getting Jay to leave the library involved a similar level of stress. He did get a nap, and in all the day was not too bad.

Yesterday we braved a snowstorm, trading an hour of tumbling (which we couldn't get to) for ten minutes in a grocery store. We made it home safe and sound. We ate yogurt as if it were a fresh kill on the Serengeti. I swear I heard bones crunching. Eventually Jay sacked out on my lap around 3 pm. By the time I got him down on his blanket on the floor, I had about ten quiet minutes before Laura walked in. She was home early from work. So much for a nap or "Jeff" time. This morning the roads were awful again. It happens this time of the year, especially at the end of a rough winter. Snow plowing budgets were shot a month ago. Instead of keeping up with big storms, officials tell us to stay home and they clean it up after it's all done. So rather than go to daycare today, Jay is here again.

We had a good morning. We left the TV off, and played with crayons and paint. I made Angry Birds out of play-doh. Jay got out the animal matching cards made for him by Aunt Billie, and we played with those. We changed three diapers without a single real battle. Diplomacy works, at least sometimes. It just takes more patience and time than seems to be readily available. After writing yesterday's post, I decided to listen to myself. I refused to allow him to smell anxiety or impatience.

Somewhere in this room there are four dessicating Angry Birds and a crusty green pig. That'll be fun to find.

Ewww. Excuse me. I just heard a really nasty splatting sound. It came from where Jay is crouched by the coffee table. Time to work on how HE really wants a freshy. Gotta work fast, the blue cloud is rolling this way. Be right back...

Make that four diapers, in increasing levels of nastiness. We're still passing this GI bug around. It has flattened me this week. I'm tired, dehydrated, and my hands are raw from washing. And, maybe it has crept back to Jay. Oh joyous day! We had a bit of a chase this time, but got to take his thirty-inch tall Bruder crane truck onto the changing table with him, so we were good. The blue cloud lingers, but we've had worse.

Laura called at lunch time to let me know the roads were still in bad shape. So, I scratched plans to go for an afternoon drive. We read a few books, and I spent about two hours selling the idea that building snowmen outside would be more fun that reruns of Wild Kratts. We settled on one episode, then we would go out.

We were out for almost an hour, which I took as a victory. It was 18 degrees, and his little face got pretty red. After this new snow, the wall at the end of the driveway exceeds eight feet in height. Within the next three weeks we need to get a couple hundred bales of hay into the shed beyond that wall. Yeah. Looking forward to making that happen.

So, what had been a heavy, wet snow had dried out as the temperature dropped. It was now powdery, and not good for the creation of snowpersons. Jay picked up a chunk of packed snow, and wandered around the driveway saying, "I have the head, Daddy. I have the head." It was more than a little creepy. I found a couple of larger pieces, stacked them, and he laid the head in its resting place. 

Then, he initiated a snowball fight. With a football sized wedge of rock-like snow. Thankfully he could only get it waist-high, and he bounced it off my calf. Apparently that was hilarious, and he fell over laughing. I popped him on the leg with a small snowball, and it was on. He kept coming at me with huge artillery, barely able to walk under the load. Each time he giggled himself senseless. It's contagious, of course. Eventually we crashed together onto the snow. 

Jay looked over at the sidewalk, or where the sidewalk was yesterday before the storm. It was under three feet of drifted snow. "It's all gone!"

Yup, it sure is. Wanna dig it out? He did. So, we got out shovels and dug, me pitching load after load off to the side, while Jay scooped snow from the sides and filled it back into the middle. We reached the front door, and decided it was time to go back in and warm up. 

He wanted to bring a snowball inside. A boy did that in the story we read last night- "The Snowy Day." The book is the winner of the prestigious Caldecott Medal, one of the highest honors for children's books. So, from that book my child learned about snowball fights and bringing snow into the house. Cool. I briefly tried to talk him out of it, then decided to let it be an experiment. The snowball is in a clear bowl on the kitchen table. I can't believe how long it's taking to melt.

I made Jay his first-ever cup of "hot" (warm) cocoa. Sadly, he wasn't impressed. It's a good thing there is some pretty obvious evidence that he's my child; his lack of love for chocolate is certainly contrary. We sat at the kitchen table, me, Jay, and the snowball, and talked about our time outside. Then he leaned over, placed his cheek on the snowball, and said "Awwwwwww... I love you."

Not to me.

To the snowball.

Thanks, kid.

So, we went through the day sans nap. We paid for it tonight. Getting him changed for bed was a long, noisy process that involved kissing and biting some pretty stinky toes (given this week and the taste in my mouth, and the fact that Laura had an easy day at work, it may be a single-malt night). The boy will get a bath tomorrow.

We made it, he passed out dead to the world halfway through Curious George and the Costume Party, and the cat is still healthy and as happy as he can be. It passed. Tomorrow he'll be off to daycare while I check out a preschool in West Pawlet, Vermont. We're leaving the house early, which means we're up early. 

Bedtime. 'Nite all... 

Snow Day, the Sequel.

Storing up for the evening assault...

We headed out to "Stuntman School" this morning, after a pretty noisy disagreement about whether or not to go. Jay wanted to stay at home and watch TV. I kept reminding him we were going to Tumbling School with Miss Candace. He would get excited, but then didn't want to actually get dressed and change a dirty diaper. After a long, steady period of enthusiastic coaxing, he began to relent. He lay down for the change, and I went straight into pants on, socks on, shoes on, jacket on. 

When the mighty mo, momentum, is in your favor, keep pushing the ball forward. 

It had been snowing some throughout the morning, but Laura had called from work a while back to tell me the roads weren't too bad. So, we packed ourselves, lunch, and a diaper bag into the van. I wasn't going to push it by staying around for the hopes of lunch at Friendly's. Rutland, Vermont is about 50 minutes away in the best of conditions, and I expected today's drive to be slower. The drive home, in another 3 hours or so, might be worse.

As I stood waiting for Jay to climb into his seat, I checked the clock on the dashboard. It was 9:30, and class would start in a half hour. We would miss half the class. Still, I felt like we needed the outing. Okay, maybe I needed the outing. One thing we didn't need was a day of cartoon reruns. 

And, now Jay wouldn't get into his car seat. 

Jay is really getting into identifying his letters. The back of the car seat has LOTS of letters. Letters like "W-A-R-N-I-N-G", "C-A-U-T-I-O-N, and the like. So now, especially when he would like to stall, he invokes his right to education and to assert that Dad is an asshole if he wants a certain little boy to "just PLEASE climb into your seat. We have to get going." Of course, the best way to slow a child down at anything is to let urgency creep into your voice. Animals, especially predators, sense fear. Toddlers sense grownups in a hurry at a level that would make hyenas guffaw with approval.

I'm sad to say that, after repeatedly offering him the chance to climb in by himself, I ran out of patience. We wrestled, and thankfully I won, but only physically. We were both emotionally defeated.

I know that lines have to be drawn. Things need to move forward. People need to learn that there are agendas other than their own. I know that he has to understand that he doesn't make all of the rules. Still, it's hard when these things break out. I don't want to break his spirit, but we do need to figure out how to make things happen in ways that allow some sort of grace and dignity. That's a lot to expect; he's not even two and a half. I'm Old-School, and at a bit of a loss for this whole 21st century discipline thing. He is fully aware of a number of manipulation schemes, and separating those from viable and reasonable choices on his part is such a huge challenge.

Once we were both strapped in, I put on the old, classic Sesame Street CD. Within a few minutes he was singing with Big Bird. Between songs he broke away from the album for an important message. 

"I love you Daddy." It was a search for approval, a request for validation from me: Are we okay, Daddy?

"I love you too Jay. We're okay, right?"

"Right, Daddy."
"I got two eyes. one, two, and their both the same size, one two..."

We're okay.

But that car isn't. There was a gray sedan down a 15-foot embankment. It was upright, but there were no tracks from the car yet. There was nowhere to safely stop to help- the roads were very snowy, we were on a long curve, and visibility was dropping. We stopped at the church about a quarter of a mile down the road. There is no cell service in this area, so we needed to find a land line. Someone beat us to it; the accident was called in and help was on the way. Given the toddler in the back seat and the fracture boot on my right leg, walking back to check on the driver wasn't feasible. I let my First Responder training get squelched by my Dad-Spidey senses, and backed up to turn onto the highway. 

By this time Jay had a great deal invested in reaching our destination. There was the long "letting go" process at home, the fight over the car seat, and the realization that oh yeah, Miss Candace rocks and Tumbling School is a blast. Enough with these delays.

"Tumbling School, Daddy. TUMBLING SCHOOL!"

Sigh. After all of this, it was clear that driving to Rutland was a bad idea. He needed an outlet, and I needed some sort of outing just as badly. There isn't much to do in our area. But, we needed just a few things before we became housebound by the snow, so we went to the one place we can count on to meet other toddlers in carts: 

the grocery store.

I opened the side door to the van. Apparently I'm forgiven. 

"DADDY!!!!!!!!" Arms open wide, he hasn't seen me in six or eight seconds, we were re-united. I unbuckled him, and he jumped to the van floor. 

"I caught one Daddy! I caught one!" He reached his hands out of the van door. "I caught another one!"

Snowflakes blew into the van, and no amount of gold or glitter could have had more value. I picked him up and carried him to a cart. "It's raining, Daddy! It's raining!"

It's snowing, honey.

"NO, Daddy, it's RAINING." We went back and forth, laughing and snorting, and getting soaking wet. Wet enough that it was hard to argue with him. Okay, Jay, it sure feels like rain. We caught a few more flakes and went inside. 

Whichever direction I pointed the cart was the wrong way. Over there, Daddy. That way. THAT way. THAT WAY! NOOOOOOO. 

Bananas, soy milk for daddy, sorry, no Thomas balloon or greeting card, yes ground beef, no donuts.

Sigh. We spied a mother and small child. Jay yelled, at the top of his little lungs, 

"HEY!"

The mother laughed, and said "Hey!" back. Jay waved to them, and said "Hi there." The conversation was cut short by the Yogurt Sighting.

Yes, yogurt. I SAID yes, we're getting yogurt. I know, honey, YES. We're getting yogurt. I'm putting it in the cart. We'll eat it when we get home. Because you need a spoon to eat it, and we don't have one. You can have a banana after we pay for them. Yogurt WHEN WE GET HOME!!!!! You know the answer to that. As soon as we get home. No, after all of this I think we'd better leave it in the cart. Boy, you have a long reach. Those are mommy's flowers. For mommy. I know; they're pretty! And free! Why free? Because we're waiting until we get home to eat our yogurt. And because we're paying for all of our bananas. That's how it works here. We pay for everything and we wave to the other children and say hi (as opposed to screeching at them like a zombie/ vampire), and sometimes we get free things like flowers for mommy. Pretty nice, huh?

"Pretty nice, Daddy."

We checked out without incident (not always a sure thing). I opened the side door and pulled him from the cart. We both tensed a bit when I put him on the floor of the van. He climbed halfway onto his seat, and began pointing out the letters on the seat back. I let him show off his knowledge while I put the groceries on the floor and the front seat. I pushed the cart aside, and stood next to him. "Ready to climb in by yourself?"

No, Daddy. It was a very quiet voice. I asked him to show me some letters. There was no hurry at this point. We were heading home, and the road might be blocked at the scene of the accident. He proudly pointed out the ones he knew. I offered to help him with some others, but he didn't want help. This was about pride, which meant my help would accentuate what he didn't know. He needed to show me what he knows. Point taken; carry on my son.

"Tumbling School, Daddy!" 

Oh, he doesn't forget a thing. This is why we got into the car in the first place. I pointed out how bad the roads were, and said "I'm sorry Jay. It's not safe. Let's go home and eat some yogurt."

Sigh. "Okay, Daddy."

When got home, Jay ravaged a cup of yogurt, a large pile of cheerios, a big bowl of noodles, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. God help us. Laura had better keep climbing that USDA ladder, or Jay will need to go to work at say, seven years of age. 

I had spent last night with him on the floor of his room because he woke up at 12:30 am, and I was too tired to get into two or three hours of hard-assed Ferberizing to get him to put himself back to sleep. So, I have been exhausted all day. He is napping now, and Laura just showed up, home from work an hour and a half early. I just found a tablet of construction paper which Jay deconstructed all over the floor before he fell asleep. We'll find something interesting to do with that after dinner. 

And, we'll show mom the progress Jay has made in learning the choreography to the Fresh Beat Band's "Go Bananas". We studied it over and over this afternoon. I wish our DVR had a continuous loop mode (and that I remembered my earplugs). He has about half the song down. 

I think I know how he can start paying for all of that food he's eating... 

This creative child

Sigh. 

I really, really need to learn to embrace messes.

I think that some of it comes down to a paradox I can't explain:

Why is it that as I get shorter (I'm two inches shorter than I was in my 30's), the ground gets farther away?

Cleaning, especially that which puts me on my knees, is not a task I have ever enjoyed, looked forward to, or taken as a source of pride. It gets in the way of almost anything else I want to do. So, my approach is to keep things sort of clean from the get-go.

I got schooled by my sister-in-law last night on this. She did some fun "experimentation" with Jay and his cousin Max. The last game had the boys covering their hands with baking soda, while she poured vinegar over them. Yes, the old home-made rocket fuel. The boys loved it. This was done over a glass cake pan. The vinegar collected in the baking-soda-lined pan. Then, the obvious happened. Max slapped his hands in the pan. And again. And again. Jay got into the act, and soon the boys were covered in sticky paste. As was the floor, the dining room table, and several relatives. They had an absolute blast. 

And, it was cleaned up in minutes. A small price to pay for THAT much fun, I would have to say.

I really gotta learn to lighten up.

So, that's on my "better dad" agenda these days. Along with that is an effort to use more positive words, and to develop an overall "why not?" ethos, rather than doing the Hollywood slo-mo "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO..." every time I see something out of order. 

Poor kid. Dad's kind of a wimp when it comes to a rapidly-expanding work load. It IS exhausting, but hey. What else am I here to do? I want him to explore. I want unfamiliar things to hold endless possibilities. Well, okay, not endless. "Should I stick it up my nose?" and "Should I stick it up Daddy's nose?" would be two possibilities on which we don't need to follow through. But for the most part, I hope he'll have an enterprising curiosity. 

For me, creativity is just that. It's saying "I know the rules, but what else is there?" It's seeing things without blinders, without self-imposed limitations about how to use, see, or process those things. If every paint is a finger paint, fine. Ummm... so long as the paint stays on the paper, right? That's okay, isn't it? As opposed to the refrigerator, the carpet, or the cat...

I just need to manage the setting better. Drop cloths, tarps, maybe a fire hose... kidding.

Maybe.

Really, it'll be about the power of encouragement, or the power of discouragement. The former needs to win. He's already in love with music, and dances and sings with contagious energy. That one's easy; you can't spill music all over the floor. Sort of. He does dig out his CDs and is close to being able to identify and play them on the stereo. There is often a need to pick them up and clean them off. It's a simple fix, but I cringe when I watch his chubby fingers smear jelly all over them. My solution is to rip the CDs onto my computer hard drive, and give him copies.

Painting is a growing love. Everything- paints, crayons, markers, are all washable these days. However, when you read the fine print, there are limitations- "may require repeat washings", and "wash immediately in hot water" are favorites. Still, what am I worried about? That he'll smear the red window crayon all over his cummerbund? It's not like we're that attached to most of his wardrobe. It's virtually all hand-me-downs from friends. So, at the very least he can wear one of my dirty-job tee-shirts when he wants to explore his inner Monet. If that's not enough, we'll wash repeatedly, immediately, in hot water. Or not.

I gotta lighten up.

I say "No" too quickly, and often too loudly. I feel like I am, way too often, the voice of "Nope." Jay has even learned that "Sorry" means that someone is about to be disappointed, and uses the word in that way with me. 

"Jay, please pick up your train tracks."

"Sorry, Daddy." 

Translation: No.

I'm working on it. Exposing him to books and the library, music and plays, and classes, are great starting points. However, if that isn't backed up when he gets home, it's not really going to take him anywhere, other than frustration. 

I think I just need to put more planning into it, to free my mind from the negatives, and to increase my own investment. My right brain is fully into it, but my left brain, the part that has to help clean up, to urge/ beg/ drag him back to clean up, that part of the brain which has to manage the home and animals and furniture and all of those other things, is lagging. 

This week, Wednesday and Thursday are looking like snow days. We're expecting 10-16 inches of snow, so we'll likely be house-bound. That's a long time to be tacked on after Tuesday/ library day. Normally Jay would be at daycare on Thursday, but I need to plan on the roads being unsafe for travel with him. So, I'll check on the paint supplies, maybe find a drop cloth, and dig out a couple of work shirts. If he trashes a few brushes, we can get more. Or, ask him how to use them now that they have no hair? We'll look up a few experiments, and stoke up that curiosity. 

There are worse things than being covered in baking soda. I'm potty-training a 2-year-old boy. I should know.

Small Talk

“Hey there, buddy! How’s your day going?”

Holy crap. Did I just hear that? From the mouth of a 28-month-old child? Much of what comes out of his mouth is programmed, repeating what he has heard in other settings. Where did he hear THAT one?

He also was using it quite appropriately, in a conversation between two of his dinosaurs. Maybe something from one of his new favorite shows, Dinosaur Train? Whatever. It’s cool. He’s learning the ins and outs of small talk, and practicing with his toys. 

Yesterday he made sure to let his cars know that he had to check out for a moment,

“I have to get my diaper changed. I’ll be right back. Okay?”

(In another voice) “Okay!”

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to my room.” He waddled off…

Small talk. What does it matter? Why do we need to fill the dead space in the room with “idle” chatter?

Well, it keeps us connected. It helps us to know what’s going on, and tunes us into subtle undertones and accompanying body language. Comments about the weather may tell us much about someone’s daily challenges. And, some people just don’t like silence.

It may also tell us whether or not someone finds interest in the day-to-day, ordinary things in life.

I have known many, often highly intelligent, people who had great difficulty with the nuances of everyday life. If you actually know the Krebs cycle, got an “A” in organic chemistry, or have read all of Marx, Kant and Nietzsche, then a cheery “How’s the weather?” probably seems banal to the point of ridicule. Yet, waiting for the extraordinary to land at one’s doorstep seems like a great way to lose much of one’s life.

“Cold enough for ya?” can certainly be maddening on the surface. Yet, what it means is that someone finds me worth a connection. There are days where I long for that, especially in such a long, cold, isolating winter.

I hope Jay will enjoy chit-chat. He already seems to have a knack for it. We’ll look for ways to find an exceptional life within the world of the ordinary. He has brought a new excitement to pizza-making. After he helped me to sprinkle cheese and vegetables on our pizza Wednesday night, he charged the door when Laura walked in. Hopping up and down like a kangaroo, he yelled “MOMMY! MOMMY! I made PIZZA! I made PIZZAI I SPRINKLED! I SPRINKLED!!!!!”

I’m glad he got the part about making pizza out there first. I can only imagine opening the door to be greeted by my 2-year-old child yelling that he “sprinkled”.

Pizza making is now on the list of “Big Deals.” It’s big for him, but now it has become a big deal for me as well. It’s hard to deny the infectious nature of a child, carefully studying, then adjusting my instructions to fit his own agenda, and bouncing around the house in excitement.

In this never-ending winter, the ability to re-invent the living room has been critical to our survival. Window crayons have turned our south-facing wall of light into an ever-changing mural. Jay’s growing ability to hold things with his chubby fingers makes painting an option. A few new reading books, play-doh, and crayons are great staple activities. We can’t always drive to a party palace for bouncy houses, but his crib mattress, pulled out onto the living room floor, fills the gap nicely (we have just enough couch cushions and bean bag chairs to pad the landing zone).

The calendar will have taken us well into April before the grass reappears, as the snow runs off or is absorbed into the ground. I expect a late and long mud season. Eventually, the simple things of spring will bring us new lessons- flowers, eggs in nests, leaves and buds, the greening of the grass.

The new hay shed needs a couple of coats of paint. THAT should be fun. I’ll be fencing in the garden this year (Laura is tired of sharing so much of the fruits of her hard work with the deer and rodentia). There will be sticks to pick up in the yard. Oh yeah. There will be balls to kick and throw, and we’ll probably move up to a big boy swing this year. So much to do!

It IS about the simple things, things that happen every day. We are surrounded by the extraordinary every day. On one of my very first Outward Bound courses, we were joined by China Galland, author of “Women in the Wilderness”. China’s epic 10-year journey was chronicled in “Longing for Darkness: Tara and the Black Madonna”, a study of female faces of “god” from around the world. Although she was there to observe the women instructors with whom I worked, she was gracious and warm with me. We had numerous, meaningful conversations. I was grateful not to be marginalized by having a Y chromosome, and told her so. 

In “Women in the Wilderness”, China wrote that our main task is to:

“become leaders of our own lives, heroes of our own stories. We have only to find out what that means.”

For me, now, as a father it means finding something wondrous to share with my son every day.

We can wait and wait, forever in search of the exceptional, the epiphanous, the wondrous, the A-HA moment, growing old and tired and jaded, wondering what happened? How did life become so dull? Worse, we can become lofty and arrogant at those who seem so happy with the ordinary and simple. I hope that I will remember to reach out anyway, and let Jay see that sometimes the best thing to say could be,

“Warm enough for ya?”