tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48306420004175355912024-03-12T18:23:22.171-07:00Daddio De NovoA father's thoughts, observations, ramblings, and reflections from the first bun in the oven to now.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.comBlogger164125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-65380056958681893122019-02-23T11:38:00.003-08:002019-02-23T12:54:57.082-08:00Kicking Off Kind“My dad kicked Mr. PT in the face,” said Gus to dozens if not hundreds of people since the ill-fated event took place at a pool party last June. By way of back story, parents and kids were playing a soccer volleyball game. My teammate and friend PT went to head the ball at the same time I wound up to kick. My boy, as he tends to do during any kind of backyard sporting event had pulled up a seat as close to the action as possible, so he had an extreme close-up of the kick now told around the world by Gus.<br />
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To my amused chagrin, Gus frequently initiates conversations with friends and strangers alike with this topic serving as the ice breaker. Due to the combination of his excitement to share and his challenged elocution, not many people catch the gist of what he’s saying without clarification by mom or dad.<br />
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In light of World Down Syndrome Day (WDSD) being a month away, it seemed only appropriate to begin our conversation the same way that Gus would if he were standing in front of you.<br />
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How did we get here? I am still in shock when I step back and look at the evolution of our annual kindness tradition. My wife’s brainchild started out as a simple opportunity to demonstrate the value of altruism to our kids. I don’t know if we expressed it exactly in these words but it was almost like “Hey, watch how happy this will make someone and then remember how nice it feels inside to know that you did it.”<br />
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Since WDSD inspired the concept, we realized the interaction between giver and receiver of the kindness provided a platform to spread a message about inclusion and awareness for our friends with the bonus chromosome. It was the perfect marriage.<br />
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Enter our extended family, friends, educators, and surrounding community. Close loved ones were on board from the get go, which helped plant the seeds among their social contacts. As word spread and momentum grew, the network of enthusiastic participants grew exponentially. The kids’ teachers and schools embraced the idea with ease, especially since the message dovetailed so appropriately with their inclusive philosophy already. And then local businesses started stepping up and offering extremely generous philanthropy. Next thing you know, a freaking television camera was in our house!<br />
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A lot of people have asked what they can do. Honestly, the short answer is literally anything you want. The gesture does not have to be elaborate at all. Simple is sweet. However, the opportunity certainly invites creativity so have fun with it. And if you have a “kindness card” with Gus’ smiling face to accompany your gift, that is wonderful - but not necessary.<br />
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We heard that some people were reluctant to post their photos on the group FB page last year. If the hesitation was because you’re on the bashful side - totally understood. Pics are of course not mandatory to participate.<br />
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But if you paused because you’ve never met Gus or our family for example, or were worried for appearing to seek attention for self-promotion, just know that the whole point of image sharing is to celebrate the event jointly with all participants both near and far. Remember, it’s the thought that counts here, not page views. While I cringe at the thought of the haters who roll their eyes (because there is always that rotten apple out there,) those of us who get it know we are participating and sharing photos for all the right reasons.<br />
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I suspect that Michelle will drive around Easton for a month stalking unsuspecting friends and strangers alike, only to stage an ambush and give them one of the many donated gifts from the very charitable business partners who get on board. She will likely subject you to taking a few dozen photographs as well, so be warned!<br />
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For the folks out there who have participated before in our little acts of kindness movement for Gus or other homies with extra chromies, the Teravainen family extend our heartfelt thanks! The other day, I walked into a restaurant in town and saw Gus’ kindness card taped against a wall. I beamed with pride at the thought that someone may have bought a margarita for a stranger.<br />
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For those of you who will be first timers this year, we can’t wait to hear what you did.<br />
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So in the next few weeks, let’s go out there and kick this new season of kindness off - preferably <i>without</i> kicking your friend in the face.<br />
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Happy 2019 WDSD!
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<br />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-7423790625040262042018-10-06T18:57:00.003-07:002018-10-07T07:22:41.011-07:00When Irish Eyes Are Smiling<i>My grandfather Thomas Kirk passed away at 95 years old last Sunday. I started writing a blog after he died, but I got interrupted so many times I never finished prior to traveling to New York for his services. <br /><br />At the wake, a binder full of tributes that Grandpa’s children and grandchildren wrote for his 80th birthday was among the photos and personal effects present. Curious, I perused what I wrote. Turns out, my note was eerily reminiscent of the rough draft blog I intended to post. Strange how the brain operates. <br /><br />Also, I should add that I found inspiration from my uncle’s wonderful eulogy and my father’s lovely toast at the reception. </i><br />
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As an homage to my grandfather, I would like to tell you a story. He loved telling lawyer war stories. A story involving lawyers and judges and courthouse personalities and peculiar cases. The tale would be a very long story. One that goes on and on. And on. A story that would seemingly have no end in sight (for those not sure by my sarcasm, I write this with absolute affection) until - thankfully - my grandmother would interrupt and gently guide her husband to sit down and tell her how beautiful she looked that night. <br />
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But bittersweet for me and anyone who knew them, both Grandma and Grandpa Kirk are in the midst of a long awaited reunion in the cosmos. So you will have to settle out of court (sorry I couldn’t resist) for my own version of a love story. Or perhaps better stated as a love letter. <br />
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It was certain to me as a child, beyond any reasonable doubt, that my grandfather was an extremely important person. The evidence was clear based on the volume of mail that he received on a daily basis. Piles upon piles. It was as if he received a tangible piece of paper mail for every message that any one of us receives on any given day in our spam folders. <br />
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From a corner in the dining room, I watched in awe as Grandpa methodically opened piles of envelopes while seated at the head of his table. He deftly sliced and diced envelopes with his letter opener, like a master craftsman whittling a sculpture, then squinted through his glasses to skim through a myriad of correspondence. I don’t know if my memory is incorrect, but I like to believe that a WNEW broadcast, Sinatra, or Irish folk tunes would be playing in the background.<br />
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One of the counselor’s favorite pieces of mail back in the day were his sweepstakes applications. I don’t know the details but he somehow won a maroon Cadillac Seville that he drove proudly around the streets of West Hempstead and Garden City. The plush leather interior, automatic windows, and fancy dashboard full of lights and buttons, impressed me immensely. Before our trips to and from the post office and bagel shop, he relayed a pre-flight checklist to an imaginary control tower on Mayfair Avenue to confirm that Air Teravainen was ready for takeoff. As his co-captain for the trip, I beamed with delight that we were pretending together. <br />
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Years later while attending college, I received a letter from Grandpa announcing that he was initiating a cruise initiative vastly different from the joyrides we had in the Caddy. “Kirkfest” became a tradition whereby Grandpa purchased a cruise vacation for all of his children and grandchildren. We traveled the Caribbean together as a family at least six or seven times. Grandma and Grandpa watched in delight as my cousins and I reinforced our bonds teasing one another incessantly. Framed formal portraits of our sunburned relatives posing awkwardly while straining against varying levels of impatience abound the walls of my parents, aunts, and uncles. THE WIFE even made it into the last Kirkfest I was able to attend, which is a special memory for me. <br />
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My grandfather’s quiet generosity impresses me not just because I can’t even fathom having enough savings to ever retire without reverse mortgaging our house, but because he didn’t need to flaunt his success to anyone. Grandpa could have paid to have his name emblazoned on a wall somewhere at St. John’s. Instead, he modestly established college funds for his great grandchildren. And, in addition to his family whom he spoiled with support and assistance when needed or not, Grandpa patronized many other charitable causes that were important to him. His obituary asked that in lieu of flowers, donations issue to one of many different charities he loved, or the one of your choice. He supported many worthy causes, not because they are a tax deduction, but because he truly believed in the purpose of living charitably. He was a devout Catholic in all the right ways. <br />
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Grandpa’s charity was not limited to just financial contributions and gifts. Tom Kirk not only received lots of mail: he was also legendary for the frequency of correspondence that he sent to those he loved. Religious themed cards were a staple for almost all holidays and birthdays. Even better was when he enclosed a news clipping that pertained to politics (the historical nadir of presidential administrations currently may have expedited his death,) an article about the importance of mammograms, a how-to on applying for dual citizenship from Ireland, or anything in between. I loved seeing an envelope from Grandpa in his handwriting.<br />
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To be fair, my grandfather was not perfect. He pushed all of our buttons in different ways, which need not be rehashed. But the love he had for his family was perfection. It was unconditional. It was abundant. It was selfless. <br />
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See. I told you this was going to be a long story. But you won’t get an apology from me because I can’t succinctly express how much my family and I are going to miss this man. <br />
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Grandpa, I said goodbye to you already but I’ll say it again. I love you so much. You were the only grandfather I was ever able to know, and you set the bar very high. I hope I make you proud as a man, a husband, and a father. I will do my best to follow the example that you set. Please tell Grandma that I love her and miss her so much, too. I am comforted to know that you can rest in peace together. <br />
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I will finally stop writing my story now and tell my wife how beautiful she looks. Or maybe I’ll send her a love letter instead.<br />
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<i>Because the newspaper that published Grandpa’s obituary somehow mangled it with various typographical and grammatical errors that would have likely tortured my grandfather into writing a letter to the editor, I took the liberty of revising it in a manner that would hopefully be an acceptable version to the scrutinous eye of Thomas S. Kirk:<br /><br />Tom Kirk was a graduate of Brooklyn College and St. John's University Law School. Tom served in the U.S. Army and was recalled in 1950 when he changed branches of service to the U.S. Air Force. He represented the Air Force in claims made against it by local individuals. Tom served in various bases until he was transferred to Mildenhall Air Force Base in England, where he met and married the love of his life, Pauline Cullen, in September of 1952. After admittance to the New York State Bar, Tom's career was associated with various insurance companies throughout his career. He became a Senior Trial Attorney in 1962 and ultimately a resident attorney for 19 years with Liberty Mutual Insurance Company as in-house counsel. <br /><br />Tom was married to Pauline Rita Cullen Kirk for 59 years until her death in 2009. He is survived by his children, Margaret Teravainen (Dennis Teravainen), Deborah Mendoza (William Mendoza), Lorraine Domitz (Howard Domitz), Terrence Kirk (Gabby Kirk), Timothy Kirk (Bruce Martinelli), and Thomas J.F. Kirk (Claudia Kirk). He also has seven grandchildren- Dennis, Thomas, Megan, Kate Lyn, Lauren, Brian, and Katherine, in addition to 11 great-grandchildren. <br /><br />A wake will be held on Wednesday, October 3, from 2- 4:30 p.m. and 7-9:30 p.m. at Barnes and Sorrentino, located at 539 Hempstead Avenue; a Mass of remembrance will be held at St. Thomas the Apostle Parish, at 10 a.m., 24 Westminster Rd., West Hempstead. A celebration of Tom's life will be held immediately following the Mass. It is also Tom's request that in lieu of flowers, please make a donation to the Edmundite Fathers in Selma, Alabama, Doctors Without Borders, Feed the Children, Save Our Aging Religious: SOAR, The Smile Train, or the charity of your choice.</i><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-60244374058236863362018-08-17T19:34:00.003-07:002018-08-17T19:52:24.229-07:00Obstructed ViewEvery time I look back at any of the baseball games I’ve ever attended, a consistent theme emerged. Most of the people who were there with me are peeps who are special to me. My immediate and extended family. Buddies from home, college, and Boston. Mostly dudes, but not exclusively.
Most of the games have been at Fenway, but Yankee and Shea stadiums too. One Philly game. One Baltimore game.<br />
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I think THE WIFE and I have gone to only one Sox game together. It was early on in our courting stage. At some point, the jumbotron panned a view in our vicinity in the highest level on the first base side. Just as the camera was about to capture my image, THE WIFE jumped across me with her arms outstretched waving wildly, mouth and eyes wide open, whooping it up. We laughed and high fived.
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The only time anyone in my party ever got a ball was the first time I went to Fenway with my sister. We were in the right field seats in the front row. Wakefield rolled a ball on top of the bullpen roof. Mega snatched it up real quick.<br />
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My buddy Scott and I chatted it up with Bernie Williams under the center field bleachers at Fenway during a rain delay. My nephew and I took in a Patriot’s Day Marathon Monday game together.
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Living near Fenway after college definitely helped. In the late 90’s and early 00’s, I averaged maybe four to eight games a year. In recent history, though, I honestly can’t recall the last time I went.
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Usually the tickets came about as pass offs or hand me downs. So and so can’t make it, do you want to take them? Hey, my employer has season’s tickets but no one claimed them tonight - are you in? Standing room only okay for you? Yes, yes, and yes. In.<br />
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The seats I’ve experienced run the full gamut. Nose bleeds? Check. Craning my neck around some kind of obstruction to see? Check. Drunken idiots around me heckling players and fans alike? Check.
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So this week, the e-mail inbox showed a new message from an old ultimate frisbee friend. Something about baseball tickets. He and I bonded as Yankee fans in the minority of our crew full of Sox fans. I clicked open, curious. THE WIFE is away this weekend after all.<br />
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After a quick scan through the message and registering the key words “free” and “tickets” plural, I furiously punched out a reply trying not to fat finger my response. Not long thereafter, I got the confirmation that we’re good to go. The freeloading T family are at it again!<br />
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Although Greta has blatantly declared her allegiance to the Patriots much to my chagrin, the door has been left open on getting her into the Yankee camp. Gus and Tilly have yet to declare any allegiance. Naturally, my “Operation Hearts and Minds” was launched and continues in full blast. We’re headed to the Bronx and the House that Ruth Built tomorrow morning.<br />
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My understanding is that our seats are pretty sweet. I won’t believe it until we get there so I’m not going to jinx us. Not sure how many innings will capture the full attention of my three kiddos, but we’ll find out soon enough.
If the location of our spot turns out as good as I expect, I’m (only a little bit) hesitant.<br />
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Shouldn’t the first MLB experience be in a place very far away from the field where a fight or two might break out and everyone cheers when security drags out some idiot with a ripped and beer-soaked shirt? Shouldn’t the kids be subjected to some very uncomfortable seats and maybe a pipe awkwardly extending above our heads so we can’t quite stand up all the way? Shouldn’t Tilly look at me sheepishly after someone sitting near us drops an F-bomb when the Yanks leave the bases loaded and squander an opportunity to score?<br />
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The short answer is - no. Whatever it takes to get the kids on board with my Yankees, I’m in. All I know is if the jumbotron pans over our way, I’ll summon all the old man strength I have left and hoist all three of them into view to make their mama proud.<br />
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Let’s play ball!
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-29085728890735461612018-08-11T07:39:00.001-07:002018-08-11T08:03:19.689-07:00Pep's PondAs I sipped a beer in the parking lot of Storyland yesterday, I … wait, hold on. No, I didn’t hit rock bottom. I wasn’t doing my best Cousin Greg in Succession when he smokes a joint before wearing a mascot costume at a family park - and then voms through the eyeballs of the creature in front of horrified kids and parents. (It is an instant classic scene, I promise you.)<br />
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No, I was celebrating my first trip to the Glen Beverage Company. Since our first family vacation in the North Conway area in 2011, I have driven by this store advertising 500 different kinds of beer about 500 times and always wondered what kind of operation was in there. Because we were always on some kind of a schedule, I never stopped in.<br />
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This year marks the last time that we will be staying at the Madison, NH vacation home owned by my step-father-in-law Leo - better known in our circle by his grandfatherly alias Pep. (In our version of Modern Family, my kids have been extremely fortunate to have three grandfathers in their life who love them abundantly - the kids’ bond to each grandfather is oblivious to whether the connection is based on blood or marriage.) The house, dubbed by the kids as “Pep’s Pond,” is under agreement to be sold next month. We are very happy for Leo, but the occasion is bittersweet for us freeloading Teravainens.<br />
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In the last seven years, Pep has graciously allowed us to crash at his vacation home without accepting a dime. His generosity freed us up to be more flexible on finances so that we were able to afford way more adventures than if we were renting out a vacation home, be they meals at restaurants or excursions to destinations that charge a premium for fun.
When we first started finding our bearings in vacation mode as a family of four in 2011, (forgive the self-promotion, but these posts have held up over the years: http://waitingforbabyt.blogspot.com/2011/08/what-news-from-north.html) we were almost paralyzed by the enormity of all the crap we had to carry whenever we left the house! It is honestly a miracle that we even left Easton.<br />
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But at the same time, when you have a family with children who are little, the challenge to find fun is proportionally small. We could have pulled beach days at Pep’s Pond for seven consecutive days, and three year-old Greta was in Nirvana. I distinctly recall walking around a Christmas-themed store in North Conway for an hour when Greta and Gus were young. They had an absolute blast. And that was literally the only main attraction of our entire day. As the kids grew, we adapted our daily trips through the area to suit their capacities.<br />
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Before our trips up in this section of the 603, I had never spent any significant amount of time in the White Mountain Valley. As a native Granite Stater, though, our trips gave me extra satisfaction to become more familiar with the place I most consider to be my home state.<br />
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If you polled the kids, I would guess that their favorite activities have been Story Land, Santa’s Village, Whale’s Tale, and any of the several ice cream establishments we’ve visited anywhere between Ossipee to Jackson.<br />
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If you ask me, my favorites have been any of the excursions into the woods or water: Sabbaday Falls, Lower Falls, Cathedral Ledge, Diana’s Baths, tubing on the Saco River, Middle Pea Porridge Pond, and random stops along the Kanc.<br />
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Reflecting on the last few summers, I realize that we started off here still knee deep in bottles, diapers, naps, water wings, and strollers. Now, the kids can make their own breakfast if we neglect them long enough, we are potty trained (most of the time at least - a post for another time,) they swim out to the dock on their own, and the Bob stroller is collecting dust in our garage. One caveat: I usually piggy-back Gus and Tilly here and there when their little legs are fatigued. Next summer, I can only imagine the kids will be that much more independent - in whatever location becomes our new destination.<br />
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As for Story Land, I am happy to never return. Or at least, not for the next 20 years or so. The first time that I ever went to the place, Greta puked before we even pulled into the parking lot. Talk about an introduction!<br />
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The park is totally fine and I’m not here to rip it apart. I am just done with it. We have logged weeks worth of time in this amusement park. We have been participants in or a witness to hundreds of sun exposure/sugar crash-induced melt downs. We have been on every single ride dozens of times. We have engaged in endless debates with the kids about whether they are allowed to get face paint, ice cream dipping dots, colored hair extensions, play games, et cetera, et cetera. THE WIFE has treated me as the invisible man - the point in the day when I am literally dying to leave but she pretends to not see the exasperation in my face - more times than I can count. If I hear the clang of that effing bell or that freaking song playing in the Old Mother’s Shoe area again, I might require institutionalization.<br />
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So, getting back to that beer in the parking lot. I made my first visit to Glen Beverage and picked up some Granite State IPAs. I selected one to enjoy by myself in the shade of the lot across the street away from any cars, like a creepy weirdo. When I got THE WIFE’s text message asking if my field trip was complete, I took a deep breath and finished what was left in the can. Then I went inside for one last stroll among hysterical children being dragged by the arm with tears smearing their rainbow butterflies or Spiderman faces.<br />
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This morning, we are packing up for our trip back home. I’m putting the finishing touches on my last blog post ever from Pep’s Pond. I will miss this place. However, I am also excited at the prospect of a change in the routine next summer.<br />
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Most sincerely, Pep, we thank you very, very much for enabling us to make such a special connection as a family to the White Mountains - and your pond - these last seven years! It has been a blast.
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Saying goodbye to Madison, NH yesterday.<br />
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The maiden voyage to Storyland - Bartlett, NH. Greta is not pleased.<br />
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Greta and Gus at Remmick Farm in Tamworth, NH 2012 (?) - two of my favorite pictures of them. And Tilly marked her arrival at Pep's Pond that year in a fashionable two piece.<br />
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My absolute favorite picture of Gus from Storyland - Bartlett, NH. 2015. Priceless.<br />
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Tilly outside the covered bridge over the Swift River. Conway, NH. 2015.<br />
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A shot from the base path to Diana's Baths - North Conway, NH. August 2018.Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-58196495272982204912018-08-08T07:02:00.000-07:002018-08-08T11:28:41.894-07:00Don't Breathe On MeWith the vast majority of our relatives living in New York, my parents piloted many a family road trip in the 1980’s to Long Island and Brooklyn when I was a kid. Depending upon whether our destination was an old standby or a new location, the driver and navigator relied upon memory, a road atlas, hastily written directions scrawled on a napkin while calling from a pay phone at Denny’s, or simply the kindness of strangers steering us back to the interstate.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eu1yUazrUSw">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eu1yUazrUSw</a><br />
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Instead of Google Maps or Waze offering alternative routes due to a traffic back-up, we suffered through many painful constipated treks along the Mass. Pike, I-95 in New Haven, or attempting to access Long Island via the Throgs Neck Bridge. For some reason, it seemed as though road construction was always taking place during the peak of traffic volume throughout a holiday weekend.<br />
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Neither our four-door Chevy Impala in the early 80’s nor the Chevy Celebrity station wagon in the later 80’s contained television screens for the passengers’ viewing pleasure. (As an aside, I would love to be a fly on the wall of the General Motors R+D department when they decided to name a vehicle “Celebrity.” How the hell that ever got approved is beyond any comprehension.)<br />
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Meanwhile, a passenger’s Walkman might be a temporary escape, but Murphy’s Law correctly predicted that I either 1) forgot to load fresh batteries or 2) only remembered the Men at Work and Huey Lewis & The News cassettes. Usually, I would read until I felt like I was going to puke and closed my eyes to catch some shut eye. <br />
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The indentation of hard plastic from my sister’s car seat impaling itself into the skin of my cheek may or may not still be visible: a curvy longitudinal trace from eyebrow to chin, giving me the temporary appearance of a juvenile (and slightly paler) Chalky White/Omar Little. Speaking of which, I need this for my next phone: <a href="https://www.redbubble.com/people/obillwon/works/21053435-omar-little-the-wire-famous-people?p=iphone-case">https://www.redbubble.com/people/obillwon/works/21053435-omar-little-the-wire-famous-people?p=iphone-case</a><br />
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A/C was not an option for our family to consider, because that is a privilege only people who drove Volvos or Saabs enjoyed, i.e. the rich folk who were tan and had beautifully feathered hair. How can I ever forget the thrill of victory when breaking the nearly unbreakable fusion between the sweaty underside of my pvc-sized, clammy quads and the glistening vinyl of my seat during a Fourth of July excursion to West Hempstead? <br />
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Fast forward to 2018. My family and I are traveling in a Chevy (naturally) through the White Mountain National Forest - one of the most beautiful places in New England. Our air conditioning capacity incites debates amongst the passengers about whether one should wear a sweatshirt - all while exterior temperatures are in excess of 80 degrees Fahrenheit. (To our European readers, multiply by 1.8 and add 32.) <br />
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We can drive confidently to any destination relying upon directions calmly spoken to me through the dashboard by any celebrity or accent of my choosing. <br />
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As a last resort for entertainment, in utter disregard for the natural beauty everywhere around us, we can queue up any song or video that our heart desires onto a hand-held television screen with the click of a button - at the price of a small fortune as we inevitably spill over on our allowable data. <br />
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And yet, notwithstanding all of the technological advancements of the last 30 years creating what would seem like an oasis for family interior driving environments that was conceivable only during a Stark Trek episode or the World of Tomorrow exhibit at Epcot Center, there is still room for discord in the environs at least among my Party of Five.<br />
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“Dad, tell her to stop humming!” “Your chewing is so loud - shut up!” “Get your head off my shoulder!” “Ahhhhhhhh - [he/she] just poked me in the eye/punched me in the face/pinched my arm.” <br />
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Yes. I could have used the mini-van instead of the Malibu. The individual seats for each child would have ensured at least a small buffer of space virtually eliminating inadvertent physical contact/breathing into perceived personal boundaries. We also wouldn’t have to play Tetris in the trunk rearranging luggage around my various lawn sports paraphernalia.<br />
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But why incur lease miles and pay for gas that would otherwise be better burned by the company car? Especially considering that in the past few days of shuttling around from our savings-depleting adventure locations (I think Whale’s Tale water park tickets cost $28 apiece for anyone between the ages of 6 months and 85 years - or maybe it’s 90?) we are spending a small fortune (Live Free or Die baby!) across the great Granite State. Well, I’ll give you two good reasons for the forced family fun.<br />
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Reason 1: Sunday. Due to the absence of any cell connection, devices were useless. The family was forced to [gasp] talk. As we crested that apex point between Conway and Lincoln on the Kancamagus Highway, the radio connection to the Portland Maine pop station got kinda fuzzy. So we turned off the music and began our coast downhill somewhere around the Kancamagus Pass, I guess? Don’t know why, but I decided to put the windows down. As the air whooshed around us, the girls started busting out a roller coaster song I’ve never heard in my life but is apparently old hat if anyone who uses Youtube kids knows anything: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSDxhF6GIUU">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GSDxhF6GIUU</a>. Next thing you know, all three kids start holding their hands in the air and chanting all the words with extreme enthusiasm, up to and including through the hairpin turn and finally past the entrance of Loon. Their silliness set the tone for the rest of the day.<br />
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Reason 2: Butt cheeks. Or perhaps chocolate butt cheeks. Although I can’t recall specifically which, I’ll go with the latter. <br />
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Monday was approximately 120 degrees so I was craving a meal in a restaurant with air conditioning and a full bar. We went to a place we’ve enjoyed in the past that the Google said was open. Unfortunately, it was closed. (Technology be damned!) THE WIFE and I were forced to improvise and argue through clenched teeth and feigned smiles about locations and directions. Meanwhile, all open restaurants in a 25-mile radius were rapidly booking up to the point that we might have to wait 45 minutes or more! I know. The horror. (Yes, we are on the highest echelon of high maintenance and zero patience when it comes to our restaurant habits.) <br />
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After 12 miles of driving unknown roads while feverishly tripadvisoring and yelping with spotty cell connections, I executively decided on a previously unknown Mexican restaurant in Moultonborough. I should’ve left as soon as I realized the A/C only worked near the entrance of the restaurant. After a margarita first served with a fly inside and later re-served (no discount) sans the fly, plus a rubbery steak fajita for THE WIFE, we burned rubber back towards home. I remembered an ice cream place passed previously en route, which turned out to be abandoned and condemned - further alienating the trust and love of my family. I needed a shot of caffeine to sharpen my senses in the hopes of any redemption. <br />
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As I pulled up to an Aroma Joe’s drive-thru in Tamworth, a little voice from the back seat that was barely audible poked out through the back seat window before I could order my cup of coffee.<br />
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GUS: I’ll have two chocolate butt cheeks please.<br />
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Hilarity ensued throughout the car. I was so proud and blown away by my son’s bathroom humor, I even waited two minutes longer than I normally would before driving away because the drive thru employee was taking too long to take my order. <br />
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By the time we arrived at Dunkins in Albany and ditched THE WIFE in the bathroom as a prank enjoyed by all except my beautiful bride, we finally arrived at the general store for ice cream at a place we haven’t tried yet. Naturally, they were out of chocolate (Gus was PISSED) but he came around after settling on the Mocchiato ice cream shake. Granted he didn’t fall asleep until around midnight, but that’s neither here nor there. Long story short, we made it.<br />
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Bottom line, I love forced family fun. Special thanks to my parents for putting up with my brother and I rubbing keytars on our heads after that Christmas at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s. I think you were on the verge of infanticide by the time we got to Sturbridge so thanks for letting us off the hook. And big shout out to THE WIFE for being my co-captain on Air Malibu this summer and always. Love you and our little bugs, bug!Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-37115772390499112452018-08-04T08:30:00.002-07:002018-08-04T09:04:11.710-07:00Michael Strahan & The TriumviratePart One: Michael Strahan<br />
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I almost titled this as “Of Gaps in Teeth and Blogs” but then I realized it was stupid and chalked it up to being rusty on the writing front. Went back to the drawing board. Eventually, former Kelly Ripa co-host/current GMA employee Michael Strahan jumped to mind because that is my buddy’s go-to codeword for a solid gap due to the legendary Giants defensive end’s phenomenal diastema.<br />
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[Pssst:<br />
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<img height="90" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/HRV12PKxDnjWoqe1HRw3o-Q8NisAqxh_-cWyR_GNM0s2RzIUs1Z6OzFbdccadxuBuA93U2BsAR4u8ZjENIHsnT-_ldOURIv3473omGH5UdoVovqvO-Kqpk5FWtzsmWzW0SDl2p4q" width="400" />]<br />
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And:<br />
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(If I can somehow cut and paste a glorious zoom-in of Michael Strahan’s gap tooth, so let it be in this exact spot Baby Jesus:)<br />
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<img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/oXz362qQxIpqoQHP34dEk2fYgFDbHok2whu-xqlfOTnNlSluxJRGDDhzD9W4fiAYYzf1Z3FfVgAQrx7jkHxOq4S2H0EBgqCk0EC9o94MUJ4ofjp0C-HokTiNoO0Z42k4mZjJ_BEv" /><br />
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Notice the resemblance?<br />
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<img src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/yFFCOHapvn-nstLZqGznw9dGM-FZRmrq5dK1gIjBINtIVKjogH4hb1cmzopSzAglZXe94Kj8ig97883s5sn1ugDIK1C_8hyeoDZUAPk3RTkETeP4LMrXDm01Fh2w-WHUQ0Bj0uOd" /><br />
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And finally … notice the analogy to the gap in time between the current blog and this one?<br />
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<img src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-Sc-_yRQTukOia7gLwEiPw1mMDtp2wO3SVomCwBqY4oEWBCWnN98fkGy-l81xJKMqSNl5-Pa9X9zrSdMKOJebEjdKNLWNU19NWg6MIFlzZz9xZ6A2JgSECzdYJ49Hm5UrqOxFWfg" /><br />
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Oy. That is just horrendous. Way too much time between posts. I take full responsibility. <br />
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Without digging too deep, I have more of an explanation than an excuse about why I haven’t written. Basically, the inertia of my different daily commitments (family, work, friends) have taken priority and left little room for anything else. Somewhere along the way, that opportunity every week to reflect quietly in peace at the laptop disappeared from my routine. When the rare moment of spare time occurs, I usually drain the brain by watching a show or reading something followed by sleep a half hour later. I’m 99% certain that you, most beautiful reader, are in the same boat whether you have a kid, spouse, career, and/or a modest social life. I’m not unique in that sense, nor am I complaining. <br />
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However, the urge to write sneak attacks me all the time. The ideas strike inevitably when it is most inconvenient at work or driving. I jot down some notes and plan to revisit some other time. And then the other time never happens. Repeat again. And again. Next thing you know, it’s been 15 months and a stale old blog post is still sitting up there like a dusty relic sitting on the shelf of a musty library.<br />
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The other day, I was speaking with a colleague (God I hate that word so much but I can’t think of an appropriate synonym) and we started chatting books. He told me about a study of Marcel Proust. Later that day, I opened an account on audible.com and took a stab. I was so struck by this quote:<br />
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<i>“I think that life would suddenly seem wonderful to us if we were threatened to die as you say. Just </i></div>
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<i>think of how many projects, travels, love affairs, studies, it–our life–hides from us, made invisible by our laziness which, certain of a future, delays them incessantly.<br /> ‘But let all this threaten to become impossible for ever, how beautiful it would become again! Ah! If only the cataclysm doesn’t happen this time, we won’t miss visiting the new galleries of the Louvre, throwing ourselves at the feet of Miss X, making a trip to India.<br /> ‘The cataclysm doesn’t happen, we don’t do any of it, because we find ourselves back in the heart of normal life, where negligence deadens desire. And yet we shouldn’t have needed the cataclysm to love life today. It would have been enough to think that we are humans, and that death may come this evening.”</i><br />
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What a phenomenal concept - “where negligence deadens desire.” That is so spot on, I can’t even handle it. So in other words, at least as I translate the above, once we stop trying to fight the momentum of daily routine - the initiative to pursue our true inner passions will gradually erode until it exists no more. Good call, Marcel. Brilliant. (The irony that my day job literally is an endless exercise in arguments as to whether negligence has occurred or not - one billable hour at a time - is just another reason for me to chuckle.) <br />
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Proust’s comments caused a bit of an epiphany. It honestly kind of scared me. I’m not done writing. I’ve just been on a Ross and Rachel break. I don’t want to write something that’s going to be half-assed and not well polished. The inner perfectionist standard is a blessing and a curse. But at the same time, I realize it is possible to take so long that I may never end up finishing anything. And let’s be honest - I’m not going for a Pulitzer. I just hope that someone is reading this for a laugh while they sip on some coffee or sit on the bowl.<br />
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Long story short, I’m back baby. I may be rusty. I may be long-winded. The writing may be a bit clunky. But c’est la vie. (That one’s for you Monsieur Proust.) Time to pretend again that the apocalypse is near. Anyway, mind the gap. Let’s go. <br />
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</div>
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Part Two: The Triumvirate<br />
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Unlike yours truly and THE WIFE (of course,) my kids are far from perfect. Each one of them can be a stubborn pain in the ass, whiny brats, or high maintenance little shits at any given time. I blatantly open with this caveat at the outset because now I’m going to brag.<br />
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Gigi</div>
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Outside the presence of someone familiar, Greta is almost always quiet on the surface. Possibly shy, or even bashful - particularly in large group scenarios. But don’t let that poker face trick you. Her antennae are up and her wheels are spinning at all times. She hears and sees - everything. Her instincts about people are pretty keen. And I fucking love that quality about her. She has incredible depth and sensitivity. She also has an extremely playful and goofy side that she reserves only for those in her comfort zone. <br />
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Let me put it this way. I miss G so much when I haven’t seen her for a while. I don’t “tolerate” when we spend time together. I genuinely desire to be around her so we can talk and laugh and dance and goof around and get philosophical. My brain explodes when I think about us in the years to come having a chat about politics or religion or zombie movies over a glass of wine. <br />
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When I reach to hold her hand as we cross the street these days, and she contorts her arm so that my fingers can’t make contact, I understand and accept that this is just my 9 year old telling me without saying so that she isn’t a little kid anymore. But that doesn’t mean a microscopic piece of my heart hasn’t just shriveled up and died somewhere deep inside my core. <br />
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Gussy</div>
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Insert any occasion in any location at any time. Shopping at the mall? Eating at a table in a restaurant? Waiting in line at a supermarket? Getting cash at the ATM? Sunbathers laying on blankets at the beach? Sure you name it. No one is safe from Gus-man’s potential approach.<br />
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GUS: Hi, I’m Gus. (extending his hand) What’s your name?</div>
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Whether the other person understood what he said or not, the aspiring Mayor of the World breaks the ice for everyone else in his party.</div>
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GUS: This is Den. This is Shell. That’s Greta. That’s Tilly.<br />
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Reactions run the full gamut. Polite smiles. Awkward nods and waves. Hand shakes and follow up questions. Full blown conversations where said stranger eventually explains to us that he has a relative with special needs, or she works as a paraprofessional at such and such school, or he volunteers at Special Olympics. It’s uncanny. I would say the positive vibe reaction and connection rate from Gus simply introducing himself is somewhere around 80%-85%. <br />
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My little man has more quirks and eccentricities that could merit a blog unto itself. So I’ll hold off on that for the time being. <br />
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But let me say this - in his 8 brief years on this Earth, my son has been the conduit between our family and (conservatively) hundreds of amazing, wonderful, warm, and solid people in this world. For anyone who knows him, I needn’t say another word. You get him. You know what I mean.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The Force Awakens</div>
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My little Matilly Till Till. When she laughs, she cackles uncontrollably with an infectious mischief. When she hugs, she takes a running leap and launches Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka-style into my arms. When she yells, she doesn’t just raise her voice. She screeches like a banshee. <br />
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When Tilly approaches an activity, there is rarely a middle ground. There is either zero. Or a Spinal Tap amplifier eleven. <br />
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If Greta’s outward displays of affection toward me have waned in the last few years, Tilly’s demonstrations of love are steadily superlative. I love that she puts my face between her hands and smooches me on the lips with an audible smack. Every so often, I’ll be halfway through my dinner and engrossed in convo with THE WIFE when suddenly a little spider monkey has scurried her way like a mini-ninja into my lap. <br />
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Some may say that my youngest is, ahem, strong willed. Or even fiery. At this juncture in her life, THE WIFE and I simply do our best to avoid the epic marathon standoffs that occur a little less frequently every day. The tantrums involve doors slamming, feet stomping, arms alternating between animated gesticulations or crossed over her chest, and teary monologues citing long-held grievances. <br />
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(I know. I know. This is supposed to be a humble brag. Just keeping it real for a second.) <br />
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Honestly, the signs of Tilly’s more mature self are beginning to poke through. She is a deep and intense thinker. She gravitates to helping people - particularly peers - who need an extra hand. She is very sweet and giving. (She rubs lotion on my feet for me and gives me massages!) And again, I am so in love with all of her - even the parts that drive me crazy. I am going to sob like a baby when I drop her off at college.<br />
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Fini</div>
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Hoping I’m not one and done this week. C’mon back and visit. Stay tuned.</div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-84354380338138614522017-05-21T05:53:00.000-07:002017-05-21T05:53:20.697-07:00Open Mouth, Insert FootThe first time I wrote for reasons unrelated to a school assignment was during my freshman and sophomore years of college. The name of this very enlightening opus? "Life." (Even just the first word of my maiden literary voyage is nauseatingly embarrassing due to the pompous self-importance.) The entire story was an autobiography from the perspective of my experiences with soccer. I thought my writing was super edgy because it contained lots of swears. The piece was also environmentally conscious because it had a font size of 10, plus it was single spaced and double sided. The last time I read it was probably ten years ago and I wanted to barf because it was cringeworthy on so many levels. Thank the lucky stars I was unaware of blog sites at that time.<br />
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If "Life" had a thumbnail overview on Goodreads (which would never happen because it was so atrocious,) it would read something like this: <i>in this poignant novella, nineteen year-old Dennis describes the resurrection of his love for soccer when he became a junior high school coach following the devastating agony of being cut as a player from his college team. The young man reflects upon the contrast between his triumphant high school experience and the abysmal failure of his short-lived collegiate career. </i>Again, I fully recognize how melodramatic this sounds and I want to hide as if I've just discovered at 5 p.m. that my zipper has been down for an entire work day. <br />
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Long story short on the soccer front, I had a high school coach who believed in me more than I believed in myself. He brought out the best in a good athlete who happened to play soccer. I was never a skilled or polished player. But I was so hungry with hustle, it was enough to get me some recognition. <br />
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When I went to college, my lack of skill was exposed quickly by the higher quality of players all around me. And I had a coach who just plain disliked me at first, then ultimately hated me. <br />
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Getting cut turned out to be a blessing in disguise, however, because an opportunity arose to coach a junior high boys team. The experience operated as a personal renaissance of sorts because it reinvigorated my love for soccer. Teaching the guys about the game turned out to be really fun and rewarding for me. And after multiple seasons with the same core group of kids, I became emotionally attached to them. Soccer was suddenly fun again even though I wasn't playing.<br />
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Fast forward 20 years later to Easton. Greta started playing rec soccer in kindergarten. I agreed to coach because honestly she wouldn't take the field without me there. But at the same time, <i>of course </i>I was going to coach. C'mon man, it's my sport! Plus, I got to participate in an activity with my big girl while getting to know Greta's peers and their parents better. There was nothing but upside.<br />
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A few seasons went by and Greta joined an impromptu indoor team for girls her age this past winter. I was surprised she was interested enough to play because I thought she was starting to lean more towards dance and gymnastics over soccer. So when she said she was up for it, I jumped in to coach with two other parents. <br />
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As the weeks went on with the indoor season, I became smitten with Greta and her teammates. Seeing them gibe as a group and improve so significantly from beginning to end was about one million times more satisfying and fulfilling than anything I have done in the last 15 years of my day job. I am almost ashamed to admit it, but I would actually start pacing with anxious anticipation during the hour before our games. During car rides, my mind would wander for practice ideas. <br />
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This is a strange but explanatory question. Have you ever given a compliment to a 7 or 8 year-old girl? They are not yet mysterious and complicated teenage enigmas who demonstrate feelings like professional poker players, so when the positive message of approval is received and resonates in their pony-tailed heads - they beam with personal pride! Their emotional states are still so transparent, you can almost see the sudden bounce in their step from even something so simple as a heartfelt "Great job!" I tell my wife over and over again how just one smile from one girl in one practice or game is just, well, everything. That moment is precisely why I love coaching so much. If I can make Greta or her teammate feel good about herself for even just a brief moment because she made a nice play of any sort, then we are doing something right together. <br />
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At this moment, Greta is at an interesting crossroads for her soccer odyssey. She has her first tryout next week to determine which travel team she will play on next fall and spring! (Maybe another time we can lament whether this level of competition and stratification at such an early age is good or bad, but not now.) It is so pathetic, I know, but I am literally tossing and turning about what is to come. I signed up to coach whatever team Greta lands on but the coaches are not consulted (and I whole heartedly agree this is the right way to do it) about selecting the third grade teams' players. <br />
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Now before you assume I am some kind of a dad like the one Emilio Estevez' character tearfully describes in The Breakfast Club, I don't care whether Greta makes the A team or the Z team. I honestly do not. The only thing that bums me out is the very high likelihood that she will not be grouped with all of the same girls who were on her indoor team over the winter. (The numbers just don't work out due to roster sizes as compared to the total number of kids trying out.) She has a comfort and familiarity with all of them that brings out the best in her. And selfishly, I am already connected emotionally to these girls whom I am so excited to see continue with their growth and development.<br />
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Honestly, I think I'm going through some kind of emotional trigger because I had such a bitter exit from the game as a player and I never want G to ever experience anything like that in any aspect of sports. In order to explain it effectively, I have to give you some of the nitty gritty details. (Hey if you've made it this far, you might as well get the full story.) <br />
<br />
In the fall of my freshman year at UVM, I played on the B team for a coach (not the varsity coach) whom I'll call Dick. In the second to last game of our season, we played Dartmouth. A varsity player rehabbing from injury played with us, which was part of the B team's purpose. We were getting absolutely waxed like 5 to nothing or maybe even worse. The varsity player (who sucked) started reaming us all out when the ship started sinking, basically placing blame on everyone but himself with every goal scored against us. Dick also joined in and started hammering away at me. By that point in the season, I was a basket case. My confidence was shot. I hated soccer. I hated Dick. I hated that my coach didn't see anything good in me. Something inside me just snapped. I walked off the field because I couldn't take it anymore. <br />
<br />
I sat on the bench. Dick asked me if I was hurt. I said no. He literally never spoke to me again after that moment. The next game, I didn't play. The season ended.<br />
<br />
In the winter and spring, all of the B-teamers played with varsity as part of a tryout to see if we would be invited to camp that summer. The varsity coach, Ron, was our only coach for that season. Dick was gone. I suddenly had hope again. I played as hard as I could. When the spring season ended, we had exit interviews with Ron when he would tell us if we were coming to camp.<br />
<br />
During our talk, Ron told me he loved my toughness and hustle. But my skills were weak. I wasn't being invited to camp. He was right. And I appreciated his honesty. I was bummed but I was at peace. We shook hands and I thanked him. I got up and started to walk out.<br />
<br />
But here is the part of my exit interview that still haunts me to this day. As I was leaving the room, Ron said "And for someone who walked out on his team ..." I didn't hear anything else that he said after that sentence. My mind went totally black. In that moment, I realized that I had been labeled as a quitter. I had been fighting an uphill battle to change his perception of me the entire winter and spring. I don't think I ever had a realistic shot at making the team. And he couldn't have been more wrong about me. Not one person had ever asked about my side of the story at Dartmouth. If Ron or Dick had known the real me at all, they would have realized that I would have given absolutely anything to be on that team. <br />
<br />
When I coach Greta and her teammates, that final conversation always lingers somewhere in the back of my head and my heart. I remind myself constantly to keep an open mind and avoid labeling at all times. I will always give a player every opportunity to prove herself, especially after a mistake. More to the point, I only strive to bolster a player's confidence to bring out the best in her ability - never to tear her down. And let's not forget, we're talking about 8 year olds here! Make it fun for them as much as possible. <br />
<br />
Next Tuesday, I hope every girl at the tryout has a fantastic day. I hope they make it really hard for the evaluators to rank them all. Of course, I'll be rooting for one little girl in particular to show what she's made of. <br />
<br />
If anyone sees a nervous looking forty-one year old man pacing in the parking lot frantically chewing gum, don't mind him. He's just working through some issues. <br />
<br />
Good luck G! Just be yourself. You've made your father very proud already. <br />
<br />
<br />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com51tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-2872100725299500832017-04-10T18:30:00.002-07:002017-04-10T18:30:21.434-07:00No. Thank you!<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It sounds counterintuitive to say thank you for making my wife cry. So let me explain it in a much longer way.</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-307bea26-5aa1-2dc9-43a5-164fffcbc50a" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Michelle was inspired to start the “Random Acts of Kindness” exercise every March 21 after she read about a similar idea practiced by a family who lost a loved one to leukemia. The timing was just before World Down Syndrome Day, so she just took the ball and ran with it on a whim. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After witnessing this annual event the last few years, two overarching themes seem to be going on here. The first theme is really just a simple exercise in altruism. The second theme, obviously, is spreading awareness for those impacted by Down Syndrome. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When Michelle first spearheaded her movement within our immediate family of five, the adults and kids alike were all so struck by how fun it was to see the reaction of strangers or friends on the receiving end of a kind gesture. It just felt so good to give for the sake of giving - whether it be homemade cookies or buying a cup of coffee. We are not religious people but this was an excellent example for our kids to witness and learn from, which probably speaks to any spiritual affiliation. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The experiment caught on quickly among our own relatives and close friends. Everyone was more than eager to get in on the act. A lifelong friend of Michelle’s graciously contributed her artistic talents to create the 3/21 cards featuring our little Gus man - and has continued to do so every year since. As my family became more entrenched within our own community over the years, our neighbors and friends joined in on the fun too. Eventually, families connected to our kids’ schools got involved. Ridiculously generous and creative gestures came out of the woodwork - some shared on the Facebook page or word of mouth, and some performed quietly and anonymously. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Emboldened by the enthusiasm showed by others, Michelle solicited and received overwhelming support from many many business in and around our town. Examples include but are not limited to Staples, Village Toy Store, Stone Forge, Hilliards, Ultimate Pizza, Back Bay Bagel, White’s Bakery, and Mario’s Trattoria donating gift cards, merchandise, or other generous gifts with very little convincing needed. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The momentum just seems every year to spread further and further as our network spreads even well beyond outside our familiar circle to other peoples’ own friends and families. We are always pleasantly surprised to learn of random acts by total strangers using our Gus cards - especially in places far outside the 02356 zip code or 508 area code! </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am not exaggerating when I say that a kind of tipping point occurred in this event once our local educators became involved. Honestly, is it any surprise that elementary school teachers and paraprofessionals for kids with or without special needs turn out to be the greatest advocates and facilitators of the Random Acts of Kindness? Without question, our family was touched most profoundly by the overwhelming enthusiasm demonstrated throughout the schools of our town and especially Gus’ school, Parkview. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To be honest, the attention almost embarrassed me at times. We are friends with lots of families who have a loved one with DS. I didn’t want any of them to think we were claiming some kind of exclusive right to World DS Day. At the same time, I know all of us celebrate 3/21 in different ways. Some are low key. Others go kind of crazy (ahem, my wife) and hope that a local news channel or reality TV star will help spread the word next year. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This brings me to the most important - and sobering - theme of spreading awareness. As unbearably painful as it is to fathom, I know that someday, somewhere, somehow - Gus will be taunted or ignored by another kid. Probably many times. He will not be invited to a birthday party. An adult will assume based on his appearance that Gus is less competent than he truly is. Someday, I will have to explain what the word “retard” means. My heart is in my throat and tears are welling in my eyes as I type these words.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unfortunately, the offender will have absolutely no idea how hard Gus and his community of family, friends, educators, and therapists work every single day on the most banal activities that we take for granted. Pronouncing words clearly. Writing his name. Ditching pull-ups forever. Just engaging another kid his age in a prolonged conversation. These are all milestones we are pursuing at the moment. And we are going to get there eventually. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fortunately, we will have the strength to encounter any rotten apple moments because we know people like you and your children are all out there who can step in if we aren’t there to protect our son. The parents who teach their kids to embrace differences without judgment. The friends and neighbors who are unafraid to speak up for Gus to protect him when necessary. The educators who teach and lead by example with their messages of support and inclusion. You all are our saving grace. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last month, our family received many wonderful gifts both big and small from a bunch of you people. We are so blown away by your thoughtfulness and generosity. It was heartwarming to say the least.</span></div>
<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Over anything else, though, what we sincerely appreciate the most is knowing that you have Gus’ back and the backs of any homie with an extra chromie. Your support is the greatest gift. A most sincere thank you to everyone who paid it forward - even if you made Michelle cry. </span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-16688090656578188732016-11-20T07:39:00.004-08:002016-11-20T07:39:31.553-08:00I'm With You<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A few weeks ago, my lovely wife took me to see Grouplove at the House of Blues. It was a birthday present she gave me over the summer. It was a thoughtful gift because this band has become a staple in my typical daily playlist. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hadn’t been to a show on Landsdowne Street since it was still known as Avalon. Didn’t know what to expect as to the venue, but it definitely exceeded expectations. Our tickets were for standing room on the ground floor I don’t know maybe 30 or 40 rows away from the stage, if seats actually existed down there . </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We grabbed beers (tall boy Harpoon for me - solid) and caught the tail end of the opening act. Then we waited patiently with our fellow attendees. They were mostly twentysomethings who interact with their friends by standing in packs while staring down at their smartphones, then briefly looking up to speak a sentence before returning their gaze downward to their devices - faces aglow in blue light. By contrast, Shell and conversed using only our voices. Our phones were safely stowed away in pockets on vibrate mode, just in case the babysitter needed to reach us. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My excitement was building for lots of reasons. Mostly, I just love this band. In addition, though, Shell and I hadn’t been to a concert together since I think Ray Lamontagne back when she was preggo with Greta. Plus, this was a date on a school night(!) if you can believe that, so that in and of itself was an aggressive move by two suburban parents floating in a sea of millennials. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A young couple in front of us asked me to take their picture while we waited for the band to take the stage. I was pretty sure I nailed the shot but then we saw them later taking about a dozen selfies or so and posting all of them to Instagram, which leads me to believe they weren’t particularly satisfied with my shot. I think we saw the same couple fiercely frenching each other later on in the show, which may or may not have been streamed to Facebook Live.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyway, Grouplove released a new album recently, so I wasn’t sure what if any of the songs I would recognize once they started playing. While I’m a fan, I’m not a superfan. In this day and age where I literally haven’t bought an album or a song for years (sorry to all musicians) because of Youtube, Spotify, and Pandora, I admit I rarely even recall names of songs anymore. I hear the music. I like it. I add it to a playlist. But without that physical handling of a CD case, it’s rare that I commit anything other than the band name to memory. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the band ultimately took the stage and actually started to play, I was a blank canvas. Down in my insides, I really hoped they’d play a few of my favorites, which were all familiar songs from prior years. Still, it isn’t fair to have any expectations about what a band should play when they are on tour for a new album. Understandably, they would be jazzed to play any new stuff live. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When the first notes played, I was overcome by sensory overload - in a good way. We were much closer to the musicians than I expected to be. The stage design and lighting were really cool. I felt myself getting locked in. And they opened with a familiar song “I’m With You.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here’s a little clip: </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_kTUWrtDKiU" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_kTUWrtDKiU</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My go-to head bob and mild shoulder shimmy kicked into gear thanks to a Pavlovian muscle memory response to good tunes. It was all systems go from there. I bopped around, I jumped up and down, and sang along enthusiastically and without self-consciousness. I yelled my approval with applause at the end of every song. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The set list was kind of like that perfect menu of tapas for my auditory appetite at that moment. For the record: </span><a href="http://www.setlist.fm/setlist/grouplove/2016/house-of-blues-boston-ma-23fae043.html" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://www.setlist.fm/setlist/grouplove/2016/house-of-blues-boston-ma-23fae043.html</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As for the quality of the music, I thought Grouplove was superb. Let’s be honest, as much as these musicians are artists, they are still doing a job to an extent. On a given day, any one of us - artists or not - may find ourselves in a zone where we just don’t want to be doing our job in that moment. To their credit, Grouplove made no impression other than being locked in for the ride. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They sounded super tight. As much as I love live performances precisely for those moments of imperfection, I can’t remember anything wonky or distracting. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The band members are consummate rock stars, each with their own quirky “look” in clothes and hair and movement and style and sound. I love bands that have men and women singing. I love bands when the lead singer plays an instrument. I love bands with keyboards. I love bands with positive energy. I love when bands play a cover of other songs that I like. (We got a sweet cover of the Beasties’ “Sabotage” that night.) Grouplove had it all.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I swear I’m not aiming for hyperbole here. I just had such a fucking great time. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I smiled. I danced. I sang along. I escaped my life’s worries for a couple of hours. If I was in any kind of funk before the show, I was out of that place afterwards. What else could you ask for? </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-71a757ea-8263-847c-f576-1e8059457c51"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the best part was that I got to experience it with my best friend beside me. We might not have played tonsil hockey during the encore, but holding hands was just as good in my book. Next time, I’ll upload that image to our tumblr page. </span></span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-85727704546880431562016-05-13T19:11:00.002-07:002016-05-14T05:22:07.644-07:00Hi Guys<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No time to craft a balanced post with a coherent message, so I’m just going with the flow today. Brain diarrhea. Go...</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-71b81a05-ad00-48c9-5bd8-cb1c4f074c3e" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Does the smell of yogurt ever make you want to gag? Like you catch a scent of it and you dry heave for a second? And yet it still tastes great. But - that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">smell</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. It’s like low tide, kinda. Or entering a men’s bathroom in the old Boston Garden. With the troth. Or a kiddie cup filled with milk left behind in a hot minivan with the windows up. Or the smell of bread baking in a Subway restaurant. What? No? Oh okay, me neither…</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You know how in Lord of the Rings whomever held the ring got kind of cracked out and addicted to keeping it? It is literally the only analogy I can think of to describe how I feel when I see a “Box Top” on food packaging. Once I see that beautiful pink rectangle/pencil insignia, I immediately stop what I’m doing, locate the scissors, and cut it out in the hope that Mrs. Resca’s first grade class has a chance at winning an extra recess this year. I think any sequel to "Fight Club" should have an opening scene with a support group for people who can’t restrain themselves from cutting Box Tops. This is Jack’s metacarpal...</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Best parts of my dinner out solo with the kids earlier tonight:</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Greta’s genuinely stoked reaction when she saw her friend eating with her family at the same restaurant - my selection of the establishment suddenly became validated;</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gus eating a piece of pasta off of the floor from the same restaurant;</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tilly bringing her purse that contained only a rectangular lego that she said was a cell phone covered in paper decorated by Greta - a cell phone cover, obvi;</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tilly eating a piece of gum that fell from Greta’s bubble gum ice cream off of the floor from Daddy’s Dairy; and</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gus telling the girls at Daddy’s Dairy “I love you” while blowing kisses as we left the joint...</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I admit my cell phone voice volume is slightly above average compared to the typical phone talker. There are a few explanations. Sometimes I’m just very excited by the identity of my caller. I like hearing from my buddies. It makes me happy. Part of this phenomenon is also due to my diminished hearing. Years of head phone use is beginning to take a toll. Also, I am a Teravainen. Hollering is just normal communication. Furthermore, I’m often dubious of the quality of my phone’s microphone. I just want to make sure my caller on the other end of the line can hear me. THE WIFE inevitably eye rolls/wide open eyes on this subject matter, but please disregahd her antics...</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To buy us a few more minutes of sleep in the morning, THE WIFE and I let the kids melt their brains with an iPad until breakfast time. I suppose our parents did kind of the same thing when we watched cartoons or the artist dude with the big fro’ who painted landscapes. You know, on one of the seven television channels broadcasting at 6 a.m. on any given day.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So Greta can enter any search terms she wants on Google. Gus knows his apps by icon. Tilly has figured out the voice search option on Google.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No, we don’t have any controls activated on the account. Yes, we know they could potentially scar themselves for life by clicking on the wrong link. Yes, Youtube has a strange combination of “recommended videos for you” on our home page. No, you’re right - we are horrible, reckless, and lazy parents…</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, over the last few months, I’ve discovered the girls tend to watch a lot of videos on a Youtube channel called “Disney Cars Toy Club” or as the kids call it “DCTC.” (Yes, I feel elderly saying that last part.) DCTC has a bunch of links to pick from but the two I see over their shoulders most often are scenarios where toys are used in pretend skits or egg surprises. It is kind of a fuckin weird situation if you’re not expecting it. Let me put it this way - I watch the videos just bracing for the part in the middle of the clip when something inappropriate occurs. But, fortunately, that has not occurred.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One girl - actually a grown woman I think - is the most frequent narrator whose voice is very recognizable because of its high pitch and weird monotone. I imagine she either smokes a ton of weed, or belonged to some kind of cult where toys weren’t allowed when she grew up. (And by the way, I am 99.9% certain she makes a ton more dough than the Bank of Tera so high five to you, weird girl with the nice nails and eerie voice.)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the toy skits, she’ll take say, Barbie and Skipper, who need to walk the dog but are interrupted by Ken along the way who wants to take them for a ride in his new convertible. She speaks the voices of the toys and plays out some kind of a scene. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the egg surprises, the narrator opens chocolate eggs (or play-doh covered eggs) that contain a toy inside - like an Elsa figurine or a Shopkin - and provides commentary the whole time. After the toy is revealed, the speaker reacts depending upon how rare the toy is that was located inside. Yes. That’s it’. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, the girls are absolutely riveted when this is on. They do not hear a single word that I say to them. It is the yin to THE WIFE’s Real Housewives/Dance Moms yang. If a DCTC episode was on the iPad at the same time Kate Gosselin or a Duggar family member or Tori Spelling were on TV, I could walk around the house clad solely in Sorels and an oversized foam “Jets are # 1” finger on my hand and no one would say a word.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anyways, I realized that Greta and Tilly now pretend play together often where they are acting as though they have their own DCTC channel and show. They pretend that a camera is filming while they arrange dolls in a scene. They provide the dialogue and improvise the plot. The girls “open” the show with a “Hi Guys” and maybe a “welcome to our American Girl Doll Club channel. We hope you leave a comment at the end of our video.” It is awesome.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you really want to make Greta’s day, please click on the following link: </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MtlntQpUtc" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0MtlntQpUtc</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Fast forward to the very end so the view counter clicks and it appears as though you watched the entire video - and I will be able to tell her that she had more than one view of her new video we made on Saturday. It’s not exactly Terrence Malick a la The Thin Red Line cinematography but...</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you want to see one example of the many takes that go in the trash bin, check out this gem where Tills comes in halfway through and ruins Greta’s day - classic death stare that unfortunately gets somewhat cut off: </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmrJv1pLgaM" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmrJv1pLgaM</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">____</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the kids become more adept at search engine optimization for locating online videos of choice, their tastes in music and videos have also become more refined. All three are big Top 40 fans, which is clearly high end. And all five of us Ts have eventually come around to become devout Beliebers. I’ve managed to convince Tilly that it’s worthwhile to listen to Justin Beaver, even though he threw eggs at someone’s house. (I have no idea where she heard about it but Tilly was seriously a bit crestfallen by that anecdote.) Hearing her say “The Beeps” with her lisp just makes my day.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anywho, I don’t know which video is our fave. “Sorry (PURPOSE: The Movement) is fantastic for the dance moves. I wish I could pull off just one of those gyrations but I’m confident a chiropractor would receive a house call. “Where Are U Now” [sorry I don’t know how to put the umlauts over the u] is pretty cool for the visual effects. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As for “What Do You Mean?” This is totally age inappropriate, for any kid, I know. But that’s what you get in exchange for sleeping an extra hour on a Saturday morning to make it to 7 a.m. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So after having watched the video about ten times, the plot line suddenly began to show some holes from my vantage point. (Yes, it took me that long before I actually questioned the narrative flaws.) Now granted, this is kind of like breaking down “Point Break” or “Road House.” You either just watch it and question nothing, or otherwise you find yourself asking “Wait, that makes no sense” every other minute.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although the music video is only 5 minutes long, questions abound. Let’s start at the beginning.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 0:00 to 0:26. Cue the rain. Why? Why did this conversation need to take place in a downpour with thunder and lightning? Why does John Leguizamo need to have a spider tattoo on his hand? Why doesn’t either Justin or John have either a rain coat or an umbrella? And has anyone ever seen a wad of cash that thick before in real life? Is that a poorly veiled reference to Justin’s manhood? Am I analyzing this a little too deeply? Yes. Yes, I am.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 0:27 to 2:01. Is there any motel room in the world that has a pink neon light circumventing the room? How much do actors get paid to appear in a music video? Did Calvin Klein pay money to have product placement of their boxer briefs? And yes, again, this is totally age inappropriate for a 4 year-old to watch.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 2:02 to 2:49. Kudos for the creepy masks. The presidents’ masks in "Point Break" were also excellent choices.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 2:50 to 3:25. Did Justin Beaver do his own stunt here? I imagine this would be kinda cool. Haven’t seen this move since Martin Riggs in the first "Lethal Weapon." </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 3:26 to 3:37. Um, what exactly is 51 year-old John Leguizamo doing at this party? Isn’t he the consummate creepy old guy in the midst of a mid-life crisis that no 20-something woman speaks to by attending this event? And if we recall correctly, wasn’t it 3 o’clock when the original break-in/abduction occurred? Are we convinced this many people are going to make the effort to attend the hot girl’s twisted surprise party at this late hour?</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 3:38 to 4:34. Do you notice that the Beebs is on the skateboard for a few shots? But only one shot shows him skating in front of the huge crowd of peeps. The rest are with no one else on the half pipe. Just sayin.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 4:35 to 4:36. I originally believed that Justin totally wiped his nose with the same hand that he subsequently uses to high five a passing skater. After watching this a few times, though, I realized I was wrong. But I was watching! (And speaking of runny noses, what's the deal with Post Malone and his nasal drip in the "White Iverson" video? I digress.)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time - 4:37 to end. No comments. Just kinda wishing I could be abducted like this for my 41st birthday. Call me John Leguizamo. Let’s make this happen...</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that’s a wrap. My Saturday night at home solo with the kids is clearly an exciting one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hi guys! We hope you enjoyed our American Girl Doll Channel and you leave a comment at the end of our video.” </span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-7734334412108055102016-02-20T09:18:00.001-08:002016-02-20T09:25:27.254-08:00Part III of III: Tilly, the Barbarian<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I assume that somewhere in the Irish and Finnish blood that flows through Tilly’s veins, there are remnants of DNA from a Viking or two. For fans of the show on the History Channel (a new season begins this week,) Tilly would probably be the love child of Lagertha and Rollo if they made a baby. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-ccbb53f5-ffb0-62b4-f3b0-c2ead6ff9673" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On one hand, we have a hilarious, smart, endearing, unabashed, affectionate, and adorable little peanut. She (supposedly) behaves at her twice a week school and gets along with her classmates. She rarely has any reluctance to speak with grown ups or kids alike. Her facial expressions and mannerisms are more like a seventeen year-old than a four year-old pre-schooler. She thinks and moves quickly on her feet. And she can make anyone laugh. The Tills loves leopard prints, sequins, kitty cats, and most any outfit with some kind of flair or pizzazz. Her taste is like a combination of Punky Brewster, Lady Gaga, and Cyndi Lauper. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A trend we’ve noticed lately that Tilly has taken to is a self-appointed role as the nickname creator. She is the only one I know who calls Greta, “Gret.” Officially, Greta dislikes it but I think she kinda digs it deep down inside. BFF Alysha is “Aleesh.” BFF Dillan is “Dilly.” I am Dadoo, which Gus has adopted and calls me now, and I love it when any of the kids use it. Nana is Nanny occasionally. And so on.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the other hand, we have a child occasionally possessed by Lucifer. Her stamina for over-the-top tantrums is actually kind of impressive. On a bad day, Matilda has a hair trigger that activates the flip sesh. In other words, practically nothing will set her off. Not being able to wear a certain pair of pajamas because they’re in the washing machine. Not being allowed to go outdoors in the winter sans pants. Not being allowed to watch a show because it’s dinner time. No dessert. Basically, if she just hears the word “no.”</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whatever the cause, the fuse gets lit at the initial confrontation. She is indignant at being denied what she wants. She pleads that we reconsider. The more we dig in, the more inflamed she becomes. Voices are raised. Feet are stomped. Sometimes THE WIFE and I maintain our cool. Sometimes, well, we kind of lose our fucking heads too. Next thing you know, voices are at a holler pitch. Doors are slammed. Ridiculous threats are issued on both sides. (“I am going to leave this family!” “Fine, go ahead! Here’s some bus fare.” Etc.)</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The true sign of a complete meltdown is this crazy move that Tilly does where she is lying on the floor and basically executes what looks like a jack knife dive as she lies on her side. Except she does it at pace that makes her look like someone trying to do ab crunches in a crossfit competition. Or maybe a deleted scene from “The Exorcist.” It’s weird and funny and disturbing all at the same time.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh Tilly. She drives THE WIFE and me to our absolute limit and further. I’m ashamed at how badly I can bark back at her when she has pierced my (albeit thin) layer of calm patience. She possesses a degree of fiery insanity that I’ve never observed in another child.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And yet, when you get the happy and behaved version of Till-Tills, all you want to do is hold her in your arms to cuddle and kiss and squeeze. She is like a pet spider monkey who can scramble over any piece of furniture to plop herself into a lap. She also has an uncanny ability to spill any size drink no matter how many warnings you give. I swear she could find a way to spill one of those coffee mugs for boats that are like empty upside down flood light bulbs.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I think Matilda is yet another example of how youngest siblings get the shaft in the parental effort department. At six months old, Greta ate organic, free range, humanely raised, antibiotic-free baby carrots washed in imported Icelandic water that was hand ground into pulp and mixed with almond milk. As a snack. Meanwhile, Tilly was told that if she was hungry, she could go into the kitchen to pour herself some stale Fruit Loops and borderline spoiled chocolate milk. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have thousands of photos of Greta with first steps and first words recorded forever. Hundreds of photos of Gus. And maybe a few dozen of Tills.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tilly’s crib had all of the residual bite marks of Greta and Gus-man on the gate. She gets Greta’s hand-me-down clothes with the pre-existing stains. Hell, this post is even a month later than the ones about her brother and sister. As a result of the neglect, it’s easy to see how we as parents contribute to her projecting an already loud voice louder, her already big personality bigger. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other night, I was sitting on my bed reading the computer with my headphones on for tunes. Tilly scaled her way into the bed and cozied up right beside me. She asked me with her little lispy voice what I was doing as she pulled one of the phones off of my ear and onto hers. Then she instructed me to play some Katy Perry. Fearing the Viking and loving my cuddlebug, I queued up the “Roar” video for the umpteenth time in the last six months and just enjoyed the moment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suppose this is the part of the story where I just sigh and shrug my shoulders with a smile. My baby is one of a kind, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t trade her for the world. I think. </span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-30176391933242377202016-01-24T05:17:00.002-08:002016-01-24T05:45:59.817-08:00The World According to Gus<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Part II of III</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-9c835f6c-73c7-eb61-8635-fa54b2ad036f" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The five and a half year-old Gussy loves his routines. Here is a typical day for the little man.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Almost always the first kid to wake up, Gus strolls casually into his parents’ room on a quest to locate the iPad. With the objective accomplished, he returns to his room and closes the door. That is a detail that cannot be left out. He has a thing about keeping his bedroom door closed. If someone leaves it open, he sighs, stops what he’s doing, gets up, and closes the door. Then he returns to his iPad.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every morning, Gus eats a bowl of dry cheerios and some mini-chocolate chip muffins. And I mean, every morning. Usually we get a banana and a smoothie in him as well but not always. Two Flintstones’ vitamins go down without a fight. As O’s drop and bounce haphazardly on the table, chair, and floor, he demands a book to be read during breakfast - often leaving the table to bring one over and jam it into your face for emphasis.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gus has a slight obsession with books. And he always wants to read six of them for some reason. I don’t know why but that’s his magic number. Gerald and Piggie are his go-to. Pete the Cat is acceptable. “M is for Metal” still rocks his world. (Thank you Goldberg-Kelly family.) He would be pretty much content to have a book read to him for an entire day if someone was willing to indulge him.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After breakfast come the clothes. He pretty much rejects any pants nowadays that aren’t sweats or warm-ups. (Dressing by himself is still kind of a chore but we practice every night with PJ’s.) If it’s a school day, he inevitably complains. And if it’s a really bad day, he spaghetti leg squats onto the floor and flounders around to thwart being handled. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gus is still wearing a pull-up but 99% of the time it’s only for a pee. I’d take that option over the alternative any day of the week and twice on Sundays. </span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">His speech is improving every day, too. There are occasional moments when Gus will go on an unprompted tangent such as … anything having to do with riding in my car. (He absolutely loves cruising in the Malibubonic with the windows down and the radio on.) He will launch into a twenty question deposition asking “ah we taking Daddy’s cah?” and “where ah we goin?” (The Mass. accent seems to be rooting.) When he goes on rolls like this, THE WIFE and I just look at each other and grin with unspoken pride. Granted, those outside of his inner posse often struggle to understand what Gus says without a “translator” nearby but honestly, he’s getting there bit by bit every single day.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So eventually, one of us somehow gets Gus onto the “bus” (technically, it’s a tricked out van) with Miss Vera (the sweetest lady in Easton) when she arrives around 8. We chat it up with the other kiddos while we buckle Gus’ seat belt. After we exit, all family members present do this thing we call the “deet-dee-dee-deet” by sticking our thumbs in our ears and making antlers with our hands. We nod our heads side to side and say “deet-dee-dee-deet” over and over again until the bus pulls away. Most of the kids on the bus do it in return like a salute goodbye. Then we blow kisses and flash “I love you” in sign language. As McGoo-corny-Disney movie-Hallmark movie-American Girl movie-hoaky as it may sound to the curmudgeon, it’s one of the best parts of the day in my book.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Then, Gus goes to school for six hours and we have no clue what the hell happens. But that’s another blog for another day.)</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mr. Nick (great dude) drops off Gus around 2. G-man rarely volunteers anything about the day’s events. He just comes in on a mission to play with whomever is home or watch a show (usually Yo Gabba Gabba or Super Why.) He strips off his neon New Balance kicks immediately (he much rather prefers his Crocs) and marches into the living room to roll around in weird positions on the couch cushions. If he had a butler, he’d ring a bell for Goldfish. And milk. Please. (He is very polite.) </span></div>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">At dinner, Gus will eat pasta and cucumbers. And pretty much nothing else. And when he eats his cucumber, our Anthony Bourdain only eats the inner seedy flesh. The uneaten outer portions sit on the plate like the remnants of a watermelon rind complete with bite marks. </span><br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On good nights, we have a post-dinner dance party in the kitchen. Gus’ favorite song hands down is “Honey I’m Good” by Andy Grammer. He literally gets bullshit when anyone else tries to sing because it’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">his</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> song. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">G-man’s patented dance move is a rocking side to side bounce that alternates one foot in the air while patting his arms on his thighs. Gus also has a little kick move that busts out every once in a while when he’s fired up. We’ve recently started expanding on the choreography, so stay tuned for updates on his candidacy for “So You Think You Can Dance.” </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Next comes tubby time. Although it’s getting tight, we still try to bathe all three of the kids at once. They generally fight within two minutes of entry if they’re not already fighting about something. And all of them are equally to blame. Then brushing of teeth. Then reading of books.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In addition to the standing order that we read </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">six</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> books, the reading must take place in mom’s and dad’s bed. Once done, finally, he’s off to bed. However, Gus’ particularities don’t end there.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First of all, Gus insists on his </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Monsters, Inc.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sheets like a celebrity insists upon 5000-count Egyptian cotton linens. And when he finally lays his head down on the pillow, Sully and Mike have to be right side up facing him - not Squishy and Terry/Terri who are on the other side. If I forget to turn on his sound machine or pull down his shade, Gus will grunt with indignation and beckon me back to take care of business. Then. Finally. It’s lots of kisses and squeezes, I love you’s, and the light is off.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">~~~~</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Every once in a while, Gus and I will be out and about somewhere when we encounter a small child with his or her mom or dad. That child, innocent as can be, might stare at Gus with wonder. The child knows that something seems a bit different about Gus. Some say nothing and move on, or they may say “His eyes look funny,” or something else totally innocuous and honest. The poor mother or father nervously smiles or laughs and attempts to distract the child to avoid any awkwardness. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Let me say right away that I totally get it. Our feelings are not hurt whatsoever. If I had no child with DS, I would probably react the exact same way. I would have no idea what the right thing to do or say in that situation is either. Just know that from our family to yours: it’s cool. Your child is just calling it like it is.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Gus is different because he is as unique as any other kid in the universe, but also because he has DS, and also because he loves “Honey, I’m good” and cucumbers. He is a little love but he’s not above reproach. If he misbehaves - or makes a bad choice as we like to say around here - then he needs to be disciplined accordingly. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are very compassionate and caring people out there that blindly love people with DS because they are “special” or some other synonym. Those folks are not wrong and we absolutely love that supporters like them are out there. We welcome their encouragement without reservation and thank them for watching our backs.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But here’s the thing. As parents, we want Gus to continue winning people over with his charisma, sense of humor, sweetness, affection, quirks, and everything else that is wonderful about him. However, we don’t want him to get a free pass just because he has Down’s. Make him earn your love.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Don’t get me wrong. We love all our homies with extra chromies no doubt. But we love anyone who is our family’s homey with or without extra chromies period. </span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I hate to get all philosophical or lecture mode on you, dear reader. Especially on a day when peeps might be going to church. So, let me steer us back to where we started. Andy Grammar - cue the music for our re-mix:</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh no, honey we’re good. Gus loves your jam. And he rocks it all the time. He’s. Got. A family at home. Who loves him a lot. And..”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sorry Gus just grabbed the mike and he’s running away with it. We’ll catch up with you next time!</span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-23231430093919034402016-01-23T10:10:00.000-08:002016-01-24T04:56:17.075-08:00Greta, the ThinkerHi world! We have a lot of catching up to do. I promised a new installment before Tilly's birthday. It's long overdue. So here comes part I of III below. <br />
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After we get you up to speed on my peanuts, I'm hoping to post on a more frequent basis. No guarantees, but just know that I'm trying. <br />
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^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^</div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My parents had a small statue of Rodin’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Le Penseur</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> in the house when I was growing up. I never gave it much attention until an art history class in college made me realize what it was. Anyway, I failed to give it further thought (no pun intended) until recently while observing Miss Greta Jane. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-1204af01-6fac-55db-e02d-82c09cec2cb3" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">While she seems to be flourishing in school (she loves reading, writing, and art in particular,) the “thinker” side of Greta that I love is not necessarily related solely to academics. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so proud that learning is fun for her and seems to be going well. But there is another side to Greta’s pensive nature that I appreciate even more.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Analysis. Greta can sit and mull over a topic, digesting it. Marinating it. Without any urgency. It might be a few minutes, or it might be a few days. Once the thought has fermented, she volunteers an opinion that is insightful, thoughtful, and smart. I would smile and laugh out of love but that doesn’t go over very well. (More on that below.) In any event, her knack for reflection makes me excited for the potential depths of our future conversations to come. I just marvel at how her brain works.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For example, a few weeks back I decided to try out a church in town. I brought her along for the ride. We both hated it. But at least we tried. Anyways, while we were driving she asked me some questions about God. I was super stoked already because these are the kinds of parent-child conversations that get my juices flowing. So we’re going back and forth until we encounter a pause. A moment or two later, G suddenly pipes up. “So God is kinda like Santa Claus?” I wanted to jam on the brakes and hug her, I was so proud. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Second, and probably even more important, Greta has a keen sense of vibe. Reading people or even a room. Actually, let me rephrase on the people part. She doesn’t trust adults implicitly. With kids, she seems to want to play with anyone near her age. Great kids. Bratty kids. Nice kids. Shy kids. Grumpy kids. Doesn’t really matter. (I suppose that’s fine for now, but come high school, I obviously hope she stays away from d-bags and riff raff.) But as for adults, you need to earn her comfort level first. If you give her bad juju, Greta keeps you at an arm’s length. If she feels the love, you know it. She will seek your engagement in a conversation or game or art project or impromptu dance performance, etc.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As for a room’s vibe, our recent trip to Edaville is illustrative. We had recently discussed the issue of not talking to strangers because of a failed abduction in our town. We were taking a break in a cafeteria. Two older guys were sitting next to us without any kids. I didn’t take much notice of them. Eventually, they left. Greta mentioned how the guys seemed suspicious to her. When I asked why, she said something like “well, two people tried to steal a kid in Easton and those were two guys at a kid park without any kids.” Again, her brain just blows me away.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the flip side - and I don’t mean this as an insult - she is very sensitive. Very reminiscent of her mother. And perhaps a bit of her father too. Sensitivity can be a wonderful strength. But it can also be a cruel weakness. And this is where I start to live in fear of Greta’s transition from young child to elementary school kid. </span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here’s what I mean. When we sit at the dinner table talking about her day, we spend very little time on ABCs or arithmetic. Instead, the focus is almost exclusively on how a girl didn’t want to sit next to her on the bus, or how another girl ignored her at recess, or how someone wasn’t filling her bucket. She cried at dinner a few weeks ago because her name was mentioned on the announcements but none of her friends mentioned it to her during the day. (I swear I’ve eavesdropped on some version of this same conversation during one of THE WIFE’s telephone chats with a girlfriend.)</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When these anecdotes first arose, my instinct was to say “Oh that’s too bad” and move on. But THE WIFE - to her credit - will instantly go into therapist mode and engage in a half-hour long exercise discussing how the experience made Gigi feel. That’s where I tune out Spaceman Spiff-style and go into Homer Simpson/singing songs inside my head mode while everyone talks.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These new scenarios scare the shit out of me because: 1) Greta has a problem; 2) it pains me to see my beautiful child unhappy or sad; 3) I am only good at proposing solutions to problems; 4) I have about a 20-second tolerance for listening to someone express their feelings about a problem rather than focusing on a solution; 5) my proposed solution in this case is “ignore her and you will find that she comes around later”; and 6) Greta hates my proposed solution. Therefore, I am useless. AND WE’RE ONLY TALKING ABOUT FIRST GRADE! </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What kind of complex problem will Greta disclose when she is 13 years old? What about 17 years old? I don’t even know how to operate Snapchat. I’ve never seen Tinder. I still have a hotmail e-mail address for Christ’s sake. I’m already feeling unqualified to maintain dad credentials. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The other day Greta told me she was looking for her “fuggs.” I said “What are fuggs?” She said, “Fake uggs.” How the hell does she know what real uggs are or not? Fortunately, she seemed fine with the knockoffs but what happens when only the name brands will do? Not to mention the need to get a third job at that point, the prospect of a future “Mean Girls” situation involving clothes or body image makes me cringe even more.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pause. Deep breath. Smell the roses. Chill. Relax. Okay. Namaste.</span></div>
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<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m treasuring how when Greta walks through the house, she can’t go more than 20 feet without practicing a cartwheel or a dancing twirl or the move when she puts both arms on a surface, leans forward, and kicks her legs behind her. She sings without self-consciousness. Hell, she still feels comfortable enough to walk around the house naked in front of her family. That reminds me she is still a little girl. But the transition to bigger kid is already upon us. And I really am so excited to be along for her ride. Even if I have to ask her to explain how Uber works. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At least going out for ice cream still works as a plan B to make her feel better. I have to enjoy that as a solution while it still lasts!</span></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-47590065801945265332016-01-09T09:03:00.004-08:002016-01-09T09:03:41.515-08:00Timing of Kids' Interruptions While Speaking With THE WIFE<img 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" />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-84003184960509949312015-07-02T18:19:00.002-07:002015-07-02T18:19:47.844-07:00Hoohoos and Vajayjays<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anatomy and physiology was my favorite class in high school. While some of the ladies may have enjoyed the class more because of our teacher - rumor had it that Mr. K was easy on the eyes - I enjoyed it mostly because of the opportunity to answer questions using words (particularly when studying the reproductive system) that might otherwise be accompanied only with a stifled Beavis and Butthead giggle. Plus, I was under the mistaken impression at the time that my future career would be sports medicine. Even after my medical career was abandoned in college after a freshman year of mediocre science grades, I still memorize body parts (and world capitals) just in case they end up as categories when I audition for Jeopardy some day. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast forwarding to our parental experiment, THE WIFE and I made a conscious decision early on to use appropriate anatomical verbiage when identifying body parts in conversation with the kids. Rather than use the polite euphemisms of flower, vajayjay, tutu, wewe, etc., we've said vagina and penis since Greta's early days. Proper terminology aside, it's still difficult to avoid a smirk or chuckle like junior high schoolers whenever such a chat arises. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At her current age, Tilly seems to have the most interest in discussing body parts and bodily functions. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To understand the following, you should know that closed bathroom doors still mean nothing to her.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: (sitting on the bowl, perusing an almanac for the world's longest rivers by continent)</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The bathroom door flies open. Tilly marches in, satisfied that she located me.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: Oh, they you are. Hey Dad.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Hi bug. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: (she surveys the room and strolls casually) Are you pooping?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Yeah.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: Oh.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Can I help you with something?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: (glancing downward towards the bowl) You have a penis.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Yes I do.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: Beguz you're a boy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: That's right.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: And Gus has a penis beguz he's a boy.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Yes he does.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: And I have a fagina. [she mispronounces too many words so cutely, I can't correct her.]</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Yep.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: And Mommy and Greta have faginas. Beguz they’re girls. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: That's right.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(brief pause while TIlly tries to drink from THE WIFE's contact lens storage case)</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: Honey, please put that down. Can I have some privacy please?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: Where does poop and pee come from, Dad?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: (stalling to answer appropriately) Well, uh, after we eat and drink, our bodies take energy and vitamins and stuff from the food and water. Then our bodies poop and pee what we don’t need. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: But we don’t eat or touch poop or pee right?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: That’s right. Never. Ever. And you should always ask for help when you’re wiping because you get spicy bum when you don't - </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: Where does poop come out?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: There’s a hole in your bum.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: THAT’S FUNNY DADDY! (laughing)</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: (tempted to say cornhole or one of the dozens of other better nicknames) No seriously, it’s called an anus-</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: And it’s naughty to say “butt,” right Dad? That’s why we say bum. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: That’s right.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: And “shut up” is naughty to say, too, right Dad? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: That’s right.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: But Shrek says “shut up” to Donkey.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ME: TIlls, can I have some privacy?</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">TILLS: Gussie said “stupid” today and Mommy gave him a time out…</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so on. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The trending topic of late has been “boobies” so we’ve tried to steer them towards chest and nipples instead. THE WIFE rolls her eyes, frowns, and shakes her head at me when she thinks I’m going overboard. I’m pretty sure that happened when I tried to explain areolas during the “boobie” discussion. I suppose I have to pick and choose my spots. </span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-7d41efa9-5177-eeb4-cdc2-98119b8ecf74"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.6666666666667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">THE WIFE and I haven’t yet covered feces, urine, bowel movement, testicles, vulva, or perineum with the kids. But feel free to do so if Tilly happens to barge in on you during your “private time” on the potty. Anyway, I’m off to find a quiet place for reading the almanac. </span></span>Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-5412814178428851582015-06-02T12:52:00.001-07:002015-06-02T12:52:18.939-07:00Happy Belated Birthday Grizz!<i>My father celebrated his 65th birthday with our extended family at a nice dinner party a few weeks ago. Greta tagged along, which was great to have her with us. Unfortunately, we had to hit the road early because it was a "school night." The following was a toast I wanted to share at the post-party we never attended, which I e-mailed to the family later. Figured it was worthy of a blog post!</i><br />
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When I was applying to colleges, I fell in love with UVM the minute I first visited there. But money being money, it was going to be a challenge to finance the tuition as an out-of-state student. Since 1993 was essentially a pre-Internet age, I borrowed a library book about scholarships and started hammering out applications on our electric typewriter. </div>
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During this process, Dad told me how there was a scholarship offered at work. Immediately, because it was his idea and I already knew everything I needed to know as a wise 17 year-old, I was skeptical and poo-poo'd his suggestion. Undeterred, Dad told me to just "do it" and see what happens. After much arm twisting, I filled out the application and away it went.</div>
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Months went by and the deadline to enroll in school was getting closer. By spring, I was working part-time at the mini-golf and batting cage place behind the Brick House ice cream shack in Hooksett. I was either dispensing tokens or raking up baseballs when I looked up and saw Dad walking over. He had a big shit-eating grin on his face. I noticed he was carrying some kind of oversized UPS envelope. He handed it to me and told me to open it. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">Sure enough, our ship had come in. I got the scholarship and we (me and the bank of Mom and Dad) were able to afford UVM. He was right. I was wrong. As usual. </span></div>
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Growing up, I had a few shining moments in sports or school or other stuff where he had witnessed whatever the occasion was. He was subtle in his praise, always encouraging me but also making sure that I not let my head get too big. </div>
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But when the AIG scholarship came through, Dad seemed genuinely proud. Now part of his satisfaction was probably due to his being right and me being wrong (see above) but I think part of it was also that he was proud of me. And that felt really good.</div>
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Fast forward nine years later to 2002. I was in my last year of law school and working during the day. I was living at 83 Westland. Late one Sunday night, Dad showed up after a hasty phone call an hour earlier to make sure I was around. When Dad arrived, he was carrying another letter. He handed it to me and told me to open it. </div>
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Sadly, the letter was from Roshaun's mother telling me that he had passed away. To be honest, the remainder of that night is kind of a blur looking back. All I know is that we grieved the loss of our beloved friend together. I am tearing up now just thinking about it. I'm glad I only have to write this story rather than tell it out loud to all of you because I would probably be a chin quivering mess.</div>
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My point is that in really good times, my father has been there for me to celebrate and enjoy the afterglow. He has also been there for me in the tough times, as well. Not only was Dad there metaphorically - he was literally present to deliver the news, both good and not. </div>
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As a father and a friend, how could you ask for anything more than that? As a father myself now, I will always appreciate and treasure those two moments as a lesson in parenthood and friendship. </div>
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Thank you Dad for all of your love and support these past 40 years. I love you for always being you. I hope I can measure up some day.</div>
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Love always,</div>
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Den</div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-13518676945133109702015-05-15T04:50:00.000-07:002015-05-15T07:30:32.709-07:00The WeekenderA long time ago in a galaxy far, far away ... there was a couple. Who were simply just dating. Who were without children. Who dared to have serious conversations, uninterrupted, while enjoying a meal that dared to be warm at the time of consumption. Who slept - on a whim - for ten uninterrupted hours at night. Who spontaneously ... <i>did things</i> without having to book a babysitter three months in advance. Who ... went out to brunch on Sunday mornings and ordered Bloody Mary's instead of firing up the minivan to go to soccer practice, then to wiffle ball, then to swim lessons, then to a birthday party, etc. Who debated about whether to eat dinner at Rainbow Dragon or Farragut House, instead of whose night it was to make pasta again and pack lunch boxes.<br />
<br />
Then the couple got married. And had kids. The end. <br />
<br />
(dramatic pause)<br />
<br />
However, there is that once a year opportunity for THE WIFE and I to turn back the clock. You know that trip I'm talking about. The re-connector. The "just the two of us" getaway. The "oh yeah, this is why we love each other" weekend. The two or three days when you ditch the kids with grandparents and possibly come home with a new addition to the family, assuming you were procrastinating on that vasectomy. This much coveted, temporary, time travel away from reality is also know as ... the Weekender.<br />
<br />
THE WIFE and I have our annual sojourn coming up soon. And it got me thinking. I need to prepare accordingly. <br />
<br />
There are some classic do's and don'ts I follow when getting ready for a Weekender. Here is a sample of the refresher course I read to myself in the mirror during the countdown to escape...<br />
<br />
In the days leading up to a Weekender, it's important to maintain health at all costs. Specifically, in the week before the trip, boost up the immune system. DO take Vitamin C supplements and echinacea. DO drink plenty of fluids. DO get some extra rest. In other words, DO wear a hazmat suit, if possible, when interacting with your kids and especially when conducting any pick up or drop off at day care or schools. Then disinfect said child(ren) thoroughly upon returning home. If outright quarantine is possible, by all means take advantage.<br />
<br />
[I unfortunately learned this lesson the hard way shortly after arriving at the Chatham Bars Inn a few years ago. A 24-hour stomach bug struck me just as we got settled into our hotel room. All I remember from that weekend is watching <i>Inception</i> on demand while wrapped beneath a comforter as THE WIFE ordered room service. Good times!]<br />
<br />
DO avoid engaging in athletic or outdoor activities that you do not typically perform. Sustaining a lower back injury during a first time cross-fit workout or pulling a groin during bikram yoga can severely impede late night - or God willing maybe even afternoon - activities. <br />
<br />
DO make a little extra effort in your appearance for the weekend away. Wax that back or nair the shoulder hair. Manscaping is a good way to show your lady that she's not married to Wolverine.<br />
<br />
DO NOT consume foods that cause chronic flatulence. The rest of the year may be filled with unrestrained, spontaneous gas triggering dirty looks or wide eyed facial expressions, but the Weekender calls for impromptu morning cuddle sessions that DO NOT include Dutch ovens. <br />
<br />
DO limit conversation about the kids and child rearing during meals to ensure that there are other topics about which the two of you may focus. For example, one's favorite <i>Yo Gabba Gabba </i>episode or whether Tilly is ready to sleep without a pacifier, are discussion pieces to be avoided. Instead, focus on fun topics like "did you read anything interesting in <i>Us Weekly</i> today when we sat by the pool?" Or perhaps, "Should we have red wine tonight or bubbles? Or both?" Then reminisce about the wine we drank during our honeymoon as we stared out towards the caldera. <br />
<br />
DO NOT get jealous when THE WIFE begins to speak about how talented Adam Levine and Justin Timberlake are. Although the seemingly innocuous statement is easily misunderstood code for "I would definitely swap you out for said performer and seven seconds of heaven," you must recognize that the observation could also mean "I want you to dance with me if we hear one of their songs when we go to a bar later this evening."<br />
<br />
I would write more but I can't because one child is swinging from light fixtures and the other two are entangled in WWE techniques. Get here soon Weekender.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-82938850696739464912015-05-01T21:14:00.002-07:002015-05-01T21:14:22.411-07:00Back in BlackI could bore you with reasons why there's been such a gap in any posts, but there's too much good stuff to catch up on. <br />
<br />
"M Is For Metal" has become Gus' recent book obsession. We temporarily lost the book a few weeks ago. Gus noticed. He started asking for the book when THE WIFE and I would ask the kids what they wanted to read before bed. Or at breakfast before school. (Yes, the kids like to have a quick read during their Cheerios or Puffs or Chex or whatnot.)<br />
<br />
Finally, the book resurfaced. And now all three kids can virtually recite the book word for word.<br />
<br />
"M Is For Metal" is a cute but also fairly edgy ABC book that pays homage to some of the classic hard rockers of years past. The book describes itself as "The loudest alphabet book on Earth." <br />
<br />
Like most books of its kind, the outline follows a simple formula. In alphabetical order, a short blurb takes inspiration from the respective letter in order while applying the musical genre's them. For example, "O is for Ozzy who cleans up dog-doo. He rests on the Sabbath and other days too." The illustration depicts the former MTV reality show star clad in tatoos and slippers ironing, while surrounded by flying bats and a dog who, well, has clearly left a deposit near Ozzy's feet." It's cute, I swear.<br />
<br />
After a hundred reads or so, THE WIFE and I have taken a few liberties and added our own spins to various entries. The kids have incorporated our creative additions and included them in their own unique ways. Mostly, the humor is lost on them. And the subjects of each entry are totally lost on them.<br />
<br />
So, this morning as we proceeded through our ritual of breaking fasts, I decided to provide a little video perspective to help better explain the musical innuendo. The results were amazingly entertaining. The following is a loose transcript of the experiment.<br />
<br />
"Q is for Queen, who were fruity as mango. Scaramouche, scaramouche, can you do the fandango." The accompanying illustration shows the band in their classic silhouette diamond pose from the Bohemian Rhapsody video but with different fruit on their heads. And naturally, THE WIFE and I rarely resist singing the next few words in the song. <br />
<br />
Me: There's Freddie Mercury. He's one of the best singers ever.<br />
Tilly: (confused) Are they boys? Or are they girls?<br />
Me: They're boys.<br />
Greta: Why do they have hair like girls then?<br />
Me: Well, that was kind of the style back then.<br />
Tilly: (not giving up) Are they girls?<br />
Me: They're boys, Tilly. You see-<br />
Gus: STOP IT! READ THE NEXT PAGE, DADDY!<br />
<br />
"W is for Windmill, that Pete likes to do. But just who is Pete? Who-who, who-who?" Pete stands in his text book pose windmilling next to the blurb. There is also "D is for Drums..." and Keith Moon is drumming wildly for the adjacent image but the percussion - inexplicably - is not exploding. <br />
<br />
Me: Check out this clip of Pete doing the windmill and rocking out.<br />
Greta: Why is he smashing the guitar?<br />
Tilly: That's so silly, Daddy.<br />
Me: I know Tills. That's why he's so cool.<br />
Tilly: I want to smash a guitar! Can I smash a guitar?<br />
Gus: STOP IT! READ THE NEXT PAGE, DADDY!<br />
<br />
"K is for Kiss, with make-up that runs. Gene is the one with the longest of tongues."<br />
<br />
WIFE: Look guys, this band always performed with the crazy make-up on their faces.<br />
Greta: Are they boys? Or are they girls?<br />
Tilly: Make-up is silly. Why do you wear spicy lip stick Daddy?<br />
Me: It's chap stick, Tills. Burt's bees.<br />
Tilly: Yeah, but it's spicy.<br />
Gus: STOP IT! READ THE NEXT PAGE, DADDY!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"E is for Everyone stuck up the back. This next song's for you ... it's called 'Back in Black.'" Dunh. Duh-nun-nuhn. Duh-nun-nuhn.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cue the questions about Angus in a school boy outfit and Gus ordering us forward to the next page. Tomorrow morning, we'll be back for more ABCs from AC/DC and friends over eggs and bacon. Hopefully, the volume will stay below 11.</div>
<br />
<br />Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-16287553026412345452014-09-13T21:53:00.000-07:002014-09-15T19:08:28.764-07:00An Overdue Update<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been too long and I won’t bore you with my
excuses. Let’s just jump right in. I’m ranting because too many weeks of
unfinished drafts have passed. So here
goes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Greta is in kindergarten.
Gus is back at pre-K. Tilly is
pumped to have the house to herself.
Pause. This is where my head is
at on all three of my little people. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Gigi</u>. I can
see how one may be dismissive about a child’s depth. Can you really discuss philosophy, religion,
politics, or fiscal responsibility with a five year old? A conversation regarding a “high brow” topic might
go like this:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ME: Greta, do you think NATO should get involved with the
Ukraine-Russia crisis? Where do you
stand? Should the U.S intervene?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
G: What? Where do you
stand in a crane? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ME: No, Ukraine. It’s
a country in Europe. Remember, we looked
at different countries on the globe?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
G: Uh, we live on Gawaine Road. Not in a crane - <i>Dad</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, here is an example of how Greta has
matured to the point where her thinking already fascinates me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Weeks ago or maybe even months ago, Greta asked what it
meant to be dead. I pulled the classic
stall tactic of answering the question with a question. Why do you ask? She said her friend’s daddy was in heaven and
she was unsure what that meant. Sizing
up her brain with my fatherly x-ray vision, I was struggling with how to
explain my spiritual beliefs and thoughts about morality while juxtaposed
against my distrust of institutional religion.
After collaborating with THE WIFE, we settled on an explanation about
how all of us leave this world one day and we believe they continue to exist in
some way where they can watch over the people they love. (Not exactly my theory but acceptable enough as
a translation for the now.) THE WIFE and
Greta then started talking about angels with wings and I can’t help but think
Greta was imagining some kind of metamorphosis upon death into a Tinker Bell fairy. Greta then asked if our old cat Wally was in
heaven and the conversation steered into whether we’ll ever get another pet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A night or two later, Greta was crying in bed so I went in
to check on her. She explained how she
was sad because she didn’t know how an angel could wear clothes with wings on
their back. I said something lame about
how you get special shirts or something with holes in them, which made Greta
feel worse because she wanted to know who cut the holes and then her concern
transitioned into a downward spiral about her celestial wardrobe. Long story short, I was amazed about how my
little girl was suddenly capable of considering the very deep concept – if not
the deepest – of life and death. And she
was thinking about it independently without provocation long after our initial
discussion. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This isn’t a “my kid is better than your kid” kind of
statement because I’m sure most parents out there have encountered similar
scenarios with their children. This is
just one of the reasons why I continue to love my daughter with all my
heart. Her manner of thinking and her
thoughtfulness are already blowing me away.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the last five years, Greta has morphed from a shy and
almost bashful personality into a more mature, outgoing, and confident
individual. She seems to have this
amazingly inner happiness where she is able to find joy in the simplest of pleasures. I love sitting at a table with her as she
colors a picture and I can hear her humming happy hums. I am so proud when I see Greta interact with
other kids without holding back so much anymore, laughing and playing and
pretending. Just being a kid. She is honest to the point where she
confesses to transgressions before we even discovered the crime. Best of all, she is kind, thoughtful, and
sweet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now comes kindergarten.
On one hand, I am so excited for her.
She loves to learn. She needs to
be stimulated by her peers and out of our house, away from the chaos of her
younger siblings and the distractions of television or iPads. She yearns for art and recess and friends and
music and reading. Greta is so ready to take
the leap to the next level. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, I am so scared that this is when I begin
to lose her. I’m so reluctant to accept
that her development is officially traveling to a destination far away from me
where my influence will gradually diminish into hardly anything at all. I’m scared to death of the negative forces and
peer pressure that she will obviously encounter in life, but hopeful that she is
already savvy enough to make the right decisions. I suppose this reality is precisely what
every parent must endure when the school process begins because we can’t be
there for our kids all of the time.
Still, the realization of this inevitability I’m experiencing as a dad
is daunting because it is suddenly here and now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For now, I’ll relish that Greta still cuddles with me on the
couch and tells me she loves me. Yep,
I’m gonna be a sobbing mess on her wedding day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>G-man</u>. What
can I say that you probably don’t already know about my little man
already? No doubt, Gus is a people
person. This kid has an unquestionably
positive influence on almost anyone who crosses paths with him. It’s kinda crazy. You can see it in the eyes of those who truly
know him. He just has an uncanny way of
reeling people into his energy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adults from any of our circles call Gus by name. They may not know anyone else’s name in the
family but they definitely know his.
Even some strangers go out of their way to say hello if he and I are out
and about at a store or something. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since Gus began attending Parkview (Manch peeps, I call this
place Parkside all the time) last year, I noticed how there are random little
kids who nonchalantly say “Hey Gus” as we’re walking by at the ice cream joint or
the playground or the tee ball field. Some
of them even come up and high five or hug.
It warms my heart because it makes me feel a little more secure that a
growing alliance of “safe” peers are out there who might look out for him in
the future when we’re not around to watch.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still, I remind you, Gus is not without a devilish side. Many a time, Greta or Tilly come running out
of a room crying after some kind of altercation with their brother. And his new go-to saying that utters after he’s
convinced to do something that he was previously resisting is this “Okay,
fiiiine” saying that makes me laugh even though he’s kinda being a little punk. Even better, he’s started asking “Why?” after
any of my commands. As soon as I answer,
he just says “Why?” again. It drives me
nuts. Moral of the story, don’t let him
off the hook because of the charm and cute grin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for the barometer of where Gus is at developmentally, my
assessment changes daily. I’ve been
buggin out lately when it comes to dressing and undressing. At two and a half years old, Tilly will
disappear for a few minutes at any given time in the day, then re-emerge from
her bedroom dressed in some outrageous combination of snow pants and a tank
top, or a cocktail dress at six in the morning, or nude for dinner, etc. Meanwhile, at four years old, Gus still
struggles to get a shirt over his head by himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Situations like that make me feel like I’m doing a
disservice to Gus. Am I working hard
enough to challenge him? Am I
perpetuating a delay because I’m choosing to do something for him that he
should be doing himself? Even though
it’s faster and easier to just throw the pajamas on after a bath, I have to
remind myself – wait. Try to make Gus
put those pants on. Don’t let him coast
by putting on the clothes for him. Take
the extra five minutes and work with him to practice. It sounds easy on paper, but when I’m just
dying to get the kids to bed so I can finally clean up from dinner and
eventually sit down to chill out, the path of least resistance is to just jam
Gus into his PJ’s and move on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, it seems like every time I suspect an area of
Gus’ skill set has plateaued or stalled, a situation arises the next day when
he contradicts my concern and reassures me that everything is headed in the
right direction. Something as simple as
announcing that he has to poop makes me smile and run to the bathroom with
him. After dinner the other night, the
girls were dancing and singing as our live entertainment for the evening. Kitchen utensils were microphones. Forward rolls and spontaneous ballet kicks
were aplenty. Next thing you know, Gus
goes running up there for his own turn to sing.
He immediately demanded that we clap at the end of the performance, then
marched triumphantly back to his seat.
Granted he smashed Tilly on the head with a wooden spoon on his way back
from the stage, but it wasn’t on purpose.
Of course, if it was on purpose that would just be typical brotherly
love anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t brag about this kid enough. He warms my heart and makes me proud. What else can you ask for?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>The Tills</u>. One
may have friends and enemies. Or besties
and frenemies. Or a nemesis. Tilly is my bestfrenemesis. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tilly is kinda like a chocolate covered pretzel. Or a pickle with ice cream. Or cornbread and hot wings. Equal parts sweet and salty. My yin and yang. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I get home from work, Tilly goes into a full sprint and
barrels into me. If I don’t position
myself defensively, her head is a missile into my (snipped) nuts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At dinner, Tilly is likely to ask “How is ya day Daddy?” in
her ever expanding Mass. accent. I’ll
rattle off anything that might be interesting to her and the kids. Maybe, “I saw the key-tar Bear today.” Or “Uncle Tom and I had a coffee.” Distracted, I’ll miss that Tilly is stealing
the first sip out of my drink leaving some floaties behind as the cup goes back
on the table. If I do catch her in the
act, I might stop and look at her sideways like “Yo dude, what’s up with
that?” But she just continues with her
follow-up questions while jamming pink finger tips into my salad to steal some
feta cheese or a mushroom. She’s a thief
that smiles while she’s stealing from you.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fiery temper, however, is still within a lightning fast
reach. Our wake up call every morning
typically arises with Tilly hammering away at her locked bedroom door (yes, I
installed the knob back into the door but backwards so we can lock her in)
demanding that she be released. If I’m
careless when getting the kids into the car, she almost always goes for anyone’s
seat other than her own. When I try to
cajole her into her car seat, the back arching and protesting ensues until she’s
finally wrestled into her straight jacket – I mean, the belts of her seat. Let your guard down in the kitchen and I
guarantee you’ll find her in the pantry like a raccoon in a garbage can
aggressively trying to tear open some prepackaged food product intended for a
lunch box. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But just when my buttons have been pushed and my RPMs are
approaching the red zone, Tilly will disarm me with one of her go-to comments: “Are
you happy Daddy?” The question always
make me check myself and take a breather.
She can see it in my face that I’m struggling to maintain
composure. She is so damn good at
reading body language or the temperature of a room, it makes me wonder if she’ll
be some kind of undercover cop or a diplomat or a teacher.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With every passing week, I feel my bond strengthening incrementally
more with Tilly. She can drive me
absolutely insane in one second yet in the next moment, she has won me over
with a kiss or a bear hug. I just get
her better now. I wouldn’t want her any
other way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
~~~~<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So that’s where it’s at over here in our neck of the woods. To be continued, to say the least.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-67598471798743514262014-06-13T22:06:00.006-07:002014-06-14T07:27:05.925-07:00Junk In The Trunk<div class="MsoNormal">
No, this is not a post about J-Lo’s derriere, Lady Gaga’s bucket, or Nicki Minaj’s
posterior. (Although put a headband on
them and game over.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In British parlance, I’m talking about the boot. For Porsches, it’s located in the hood. Speaking plainly, for those of us not driving
911s or living in the U.K., I’m referring to your good old trunk of a
car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cars that my parents owned during childhood were
aplenty. And most of them seemed to
require an inordinate amount of maintenance.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The earliest lemon we owned that I can recall was a silver
AMC wagon with wood paneling. I’m not
sure if this car ever started. I just
remember it sitting in the carport a lot and my parents stifling curse words
within earshot of me and my brother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Asian imports began to gain in popularity following the
gas shortage crisis triggered by OPEC and oversized American cars, my family
chose a sky blue (or maybe it was grey?) Datsun over a Honda. Bad mistake.
My dad used to place a light with a hook in the engine to keep it warm during
cold Granite State winter nights. It
made a lot of sense to me back then: the light was hot, it was cold outside, so
naturally the engine should turn over when my dad tried to start it the next
day. It makes a lot more sense to me now
because my dad did a lot of weird things like that in retrospect. In any event, the Datsun also seemed to spend
a lot of time in the carport. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next up, we transitioned to a Volkswagen Beetle. It was yellow. And it had a really cool sticker of a bass
fish on the back. I think it had a stick. And of course, the trunk was in the
front. I don’t recall that car sticking
around for very long, though, either.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, my parents returned to the home country’s vehicles
with a long string of American vehicles.
Mostly GM products. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The forest green Impala had a long tenure at 2 Bert
Street. I remember lots of trips to and
from New York. A highlight was anytime
we passed the Polar Bear billboard in Worcester. I also remember lots of uncomfortably hot
naps with my face leaning into the hard plastic of my sister’s car seat. Now <i>that </i>car had a sizable trunk. No Thule racks for my original family of
five. The trunk fit everything and the
kitchen sink. We even threw a canoe on
top when a fishing expedition ensued occasionally. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Sometime thereafter, we had a battleship grey Chevy
Celebrity station wagon. Before getting
my license, I used to sit in the far back seat facing traffic traveling behind
us. Even with the seat there, our bags would
be stacked Tetris-style around me as I stared out the rear hatchback. Once 16 arrived, I got pulled over for doing
neutral drops at red lights on Maple Street in Manchester with that ride. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere along the way, Chevy models came and went: Lumina,
Corsica, Malibu, and Caprice Classic. My
dad really upgraded when he scored an Olds 88 with a sun roof and leather
seats. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one constant throughout all of the rides used by my
dad? A ton of miscellaneous items stored
at all times in the trunk. Sporting
equipment of all types but definitely balls from most any sport, a stickball
bat, a Frisbee, and a racquetball racquet.
Jumper cables. First aid
kit. Fishing gear. A bottle of wine. Tools.
Work files and folders. A winter
coat. Extra sneakers. WD-40 and quarts of oil. A spare tire that probably would not have fit
on the car in question. A box of recyclables
for the next trip to the town dump. Soft
cover books on philosophy or haikus and hardcover treatises on workers
compensation law. “You gotta have
backup,” is one of the many mantras my patriarch is known to announce. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
None of this would surprise anyone who knows my father. He is the same man whose only luggage checked
on the plane during our most recent pilgrimage to Key West was a makeshift
portable cornhole board folded in half, which contained assorted tools and plastic
bags of screws and bolts so he could complete assembly once we arrived at our
condo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I go too far with the razzing, however, I am reminded
of the old saying about glass houses and throwing stones. To my amazement and dismay, the trunk of my
own current Malibu (not the baby blue 78 Chevelle I drove to college) has evolved
into a 2014 version of my youth.
Multiple frisbees? Check. Racquetball racquet? Check.
Jumper cables? Check. You get the picture. The only major differences appear to be my
golf bag (Grizz isn’t a fan of the sport) and my cold weather sleeping
bag. (Hey, you never know when that could come in handy.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, at least in this isolated sample of quirky automotive
antics, I suppose we have a clear example of like father, like son. A chip off the old block. Following in the footsteps. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe some day, my little Gus man will be giving me shit for
all the junk in my trunk. That will make
me smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad, if you’re reading this, I hope you have a wonderful
Father’s Day in 2014. I am not embarrassed
to follow your example. (I've even started wearing dark socks with shorts and sneakers.) I love you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, if you could only teach me how to hit that hook shot
while holding a glass of wine, smoking a cigar, while wearing a v-neck sweater
and loafers…<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-45839928345413948682014-06-01T18:57:00.002-07:002014-06-01T19:04:11.263-07:00I Can't<div class="MsoNormal">
THE WIFE has a tendency to say “I can’t” when someone gives
her a good laugh. The joke has to be on
the better side to trigger the catchphrase.
Actually, when she says it, THE WIFE tends to repeat the words a few
times while nodding her head side to side as the intonation of her voice
ascends in pitch. The funnier the joke,
the more she says it. Allow me to
illustrate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During any given telephone conversation with (former guest
blogger) Kristen Frazier, for example, THE WIFE will pause whatever we’re
watching when the call comes in. As I’m
staring at a frozen screen of Don Draper scowling or Walter White grimacing, I’ll
overhear the following:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WIFE: Hi!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
KRISTEN: [Charlie
Brown’s teacher’s voice on the other end.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WIFE: “I
can’t.” Ha ha ha. (indicating no with her hear) “I can’t.”
Ha ha ha. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
KRISTEN: [More
of Charlie Brown’s teacher.]<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WIFE: “No! No!” Ah
ah ah. “I can’t! I can’t!”
(her voice getting higher) Ah ah
ah.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so on.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, neither Greta nor Gus have ever mimicked the phrase. But Tilly, on the other hand, has taken it to
a new dimension.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tilly doesn’t say “I can’t” as a means to catch her breath
and laugh at a funny. She just says it
matter-of-factly in a cute little high pitched voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ME: TILLY,
get back over here and give me back my sawzall right now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TILLY: (her
voice trailing as she jogs hurriedly away) I can’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<<>><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tilly’s addition to my clan of offspring definitely pushed
our daily state of chaos from manageable into barely within our control/totally
unpredictable. (I was basically jogging
into the urologist’s office on the day of my vasectomy.) Part of the dynamic change was due simply to
the numbers and going from man to zone coverage. However, part of the challenge was because
Tilly’s personality is so much more fiery than her siblings. I’ve probably complained about this in
multiple ways since she arrived 2+ years ago.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In all fairness to Tills, however, I have become completely
smitten with her over the last few months.
Citing to the “I can’t” example is just the tip of her iceberg. The bigger picture is that she is such a
funny and adorable kid. I don’t know
where to start so I’ll just fire off some of the endearing little tendencies
she has, which make me want to kiss and hug her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First of all, she is the only one of my kids with a Mass
accent. It’s wicked hard core (read:
hahd coah.) There is probably no
coincidence that Tilly’s sitter, Sam, has one of the strongest Bay State
accents I’ve ever encountered. So when
Tilly pronounces words, you have to picture an “ah” for words that contain an
“er” or “ar.” (Interestingly, Tilly does
not substitute “er” for words that end in “a,” as discussed in detail during
the infamous “Idears On An Accent” post a few years ago. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Irregahdless, Tilly says “Nana” or “Greta” as
English intends, rather than “Nan-ner” or “Gret-er” as many folks from Revere
(read: Re-veah) or Quincy (read: Kwin-zee) might say. We could go on forevah on Mass accents, but I
digress.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tilly is a bit of a paradox.
On one hand, she can be fearless.
I find her standing on kitchen countertops or tables fairly often. She terrorizes Greta and Gus with her brute
strength and bear hugs. She is happy to
make a run for it outside if THE WIFE or I leave the front door unlocked. She couchdives when left unsupervised.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On the other hand, Tilly is still my baby child. Another go-to phrase of hers is “I scared”
(read: ska-yid). During any Disney
movie, Tilly will jump off the couch and bury herself into my lap and arms when
the scary part occurs. Big dogs and loud noises also trigger the “I
scared” declaration.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a freckle on one of my lips that Tilly pointed to and
asked “What’s that?” I told her it’s a
freckle. Every few days when it catches
her eye, Tilly points to my face and says “Daddy’s freckle, I scared.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My little lady is also very affectionate. She often puts her hands on my cheeks and
kisses me (while dodging the freckle of course) without any notice. When I get home from work, the biggest
reception is almost always from Tilly.
She comes barreling in for a giant hug and a squeeze. Then she holds my hand and drags me around
the house to discuss anything noteworthy from the day. “Look Daddy, Frozen!” Or, “Gussy pinched me!” Or, “I fed the ducks with Sam today!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When she wants to be held, Tilly doesn’t say “Hold me.” She says “I hold you.” It kills me.
I love it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And so on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone knows the youngest child always gets shafted in
many ways. They have the fewest baby
pictures. They wear all the
hand-me-downs from older siblings. They
have to share their toys when the oldest had free reign at the same age. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By extension, my blogs have probably shafted Tilly as
well. I write many fewer posts first of
all. When I finally get around to
doing one, they rarely focus solely on my baby child. She was due for some air time. (Tills, when you read this as a teenager who
can’t stand me, just know I am sorry for the delay.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I conclude my effort to count all the reasons why I love
you Matilda, Tilly, the Tills, Matildees – well, I simply find that “I
can’t.” There isn’t enough space to
write. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love you, honey.
You will always be my little baby.
Now don’t be scared of the freckle and give me a kiss!<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-14868300342966876472014-04-12T19:12:00.002-07:002014-04-13T05:09:38.953-07:00Letting Go by Sevainen Terdannis<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Nothing like dropping a pop culture reference five weeks after its
occurrence, but here goes anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I experience vicarious public speaking anxiety whenever I watch awards
shows for some reason. Can’t explain it. Maybe I pretend that I’m the person who is
giving the speech and I don’t want him/her to mess up. Thank God I wasn’t watching the Oscars when
John Travolta committed his now infamous gaffe when introducing Idina Menzel as
Adele Dazeem. Oh how I cringe so painfully
any time I see footage of that video. My
stomach grows a pit every time. In any
event, this post’s by-line was an homage to Vinny Babarino and a nice segue to
the meat and potatoes of today’s discussion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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For those without children or grandchildren under nine years old, <i>Frozen</i> is Disney’s latest epic fairy
tale animated feature that recently eclipsed $1 billion in gross ticket sales
worldwide. The big song from the movie
is “Let it Go” as performed by Menzel, which won an academy award for best
song. Menzel is the voice of Elsa who is
one of the protagonists in the story.
The co-lead character is Elsa’s sister, Ana, who is played by Kristen
Bell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The movie is pretty cute. And
the soundtrack’s music is catchy to the point of flu contagious. In fact, my family cannot escape listening to
the album anytime we enter the kitchen.
All three of my kids are obsessed.
And THE WIFE is just as bad as the little ones. I can’t explain it. No children’s film has captured our family’s attention in such an all
consuming fashion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
To make things worse, I’ve been singing the fucking songs in my head
while I type up reports at work. I find
myself humming the crescendo of “Let it Go” just before Menzel belts out the
climactic portion of the chorus, followed by my walking out of the copy machine
room re-enacting Elsa’s movements firing clouds of ice crystals to construct
her snow castle. It’s pathetic. My only hope is reducing my inspiration to a
post that may help to exorcise the demons of <i>Frozen</i> from my subconscious.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Song 1: “Frozen Heart”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
For the record, this winter sucked.
Lots of snow. Lots of cold. It ended unofficially, I think, about three
days ago when the thermometer finally went into the forties. I realize that complaining about the weather
is about as entertaining and uplifting as watching a national Fox News
broadcast , but the observation merited a discussion nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Being cooped up indoors with the three kids was a challenge to say the
least. The nadir of my winter occurred during
a puke bug attack about two months ago. I
caught some of Gus’ vomit in my mouth during a futile effort to carry him
mid-blast during a sprint to a toilet.
Let’s just say that playing outside has an upside in many ways, not the
least of which is fewer colds and illnesses for all of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Song 2: “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Listening to Tilly re-enact the lines from this scene in the movie is
priceless. She starts off the song, Gus
takes her cue and joins in, then Greta takes over and re-creates the
choreography. Once THE WIFE chimes in,
all three generally complain and beg her to stop. Great stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Songs 3 and 8: “For the First Time in Forever” and the reprise<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Here is a perfect example of my biggest gripe with fairy tale
movies. Why is it that every parent with
a child who has some type of stigma (super long hair, turns into an ogre at
sunset, turns into a peasant at midnight, shoots ice out of hands when upset)
locks up their kid in an isolated castle or tower? Kind of an extreme solution, don’t you
think? Why don’t these parents just
address the “embarrassing” issue with an open dialogue among their family or
friends? I mean most of these parents
are the rulers of their kingdom, so they could just execute or imprison anyone
who makes fun of their kid because of their particular abnormality if push came
to shove. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
In <i>Frozen</i>, the king and queen
(surprise, surprise) shutter their entire castle and lock up their eldest
daughter indefinitely because Elsa accidentally shot her sister Ana with a snow
beam while they were horsing around an ad hoc living room ice skating rink. Fortunately, a friendly tribal elder of
trolls cures Ana’s injury. However, he
has to erase Ana’s memory so the little sister doesn’t goad the older one into creating
a zamboni that goes haywire and injures Ana again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
As a result, Ana grows up with a complex that she has no friends or
social life with no one providing an explanation why the castle is locked off
from any outsiders. So when Ana and Elsa
host a party after years of isolation, Ana feels happy “for the first time in
forever” even though she’s had a silver spoon in her mouth her entire
life. Ana occupies <i>the</i> highest rung of her kingdom’s upper class, yet she still needs
more. Talk about an entitlement
complex. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Song 4: “Love is an Open Door”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I swear I’ll move on from the spoiled brat theme, but Ana’s line about
her whole life having involved “doors in her face” is a joke. You’re a princess, God damn it. Get over yourself. Imagine how the chamber maid feels. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Anyway, Kristen Bell deserves kudos for her singing prowess. I was totally impressed by Veronica Mars’
pipes in this flick. She really
surprised me. And if Bell could do a
nude scene in <i>House of Lies</i> some day,
I think I speak for every warm blooded straight dude that Christmas will have
arrived early. Sorry, but it needed to
be said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Song 6: “Reindeers Are Better Than People”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Perhaps, Hans, you are correct that reindeers are better than people. However, Sven should’ve been a Siberian husky
in my opinion. Just saying. On second thought, though, “Husky’s Are
Better Than People” doesn’t quite have as good of a ring to it. Moving on. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Song 7: “In Summer”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Olaf is the comedy relief character in the film. I thought he was voiced by Jonah Hill but the
actor is actually Josh Gad who nailed the character. (Re-reading that last line made me realize
how much of a tool I sound like, but I’ve gone this far so why turn back?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The instrumental accompaniment in this jingle is exactly what I imagine
a traditional musical’s “funny song” to be.
And I generally detest musicals, especially those that have jazz hands
dance numbers involved. But the lyrics
are clever and entertaining enough to win me over. Josh Gad’s big finish at the end is a perfect
exclamation point. Well done, Josh
Gad. Well done.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Song 9: “Fixer Upper”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
The damage inflicted upon our house is well documented. I’ve threatened to start deducting from
college funds, but the kids haven’t budged.
Paint is peeling from walls. Wood
floors are dinged on the daily. I take
toys with wheels that crash and gouge into moldings and huck them out the front door like
Olympians throw hammers and shot puts.
But how many people can actually say they have ducks falling in through
their roofs? I mean seriously.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Songs 5 and 10: “Let it Go”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
For the last two years, I’ve basically walked around at various times
in a hazy stupor of sleep deprivation, grumpiness, seasonal affective disorder,
unpredictable extreme highs and lows, temporary insanity, and/or frustration. I repeat myself at least four or five times
telling somebody not to (fill in the blank) pinch their sister, get out of the
pantry, take off their pants, etc. until my voice escalates into a yell and expletives
under my breath. I hate myself about
five minutes later.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Somehow, THE WIFE has stuck with me through it all as a spouse and a
co-parent. And the kids’ love and
affection for me persists even after moments when I don’t deserve it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
Driving home from work the other day, I think I had an epiphany. I need to grow up. I need to be stronger. I need to be less selfish. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
One of the (many) things that other parents didn’t tell me before I got
into this whole having kids business is that the experience forces you to
confront your selfishness. The
compromises a parent must make on a regular basis aren’t simply just sleeping
less, suffering through an excruciating tantrum, or taking 45 minutes to put
shoes on three kids’ feet. It’s much
deeper than that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I’ve stated many times half-jokingly and half not, that I’m an 18
year-old stuck in a 38 year-old body. The
mantra was well intended as a reminder to be young at heart. Be playful.
Stay fun. Don’t age too
fast. The philosophy can be a blessing
in some ways, but equally a curse as well.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I’m quick to criticize THE WIFE when she dwells on something and refuses
to move forward. But I realize how
hypocritical that is of me to gripe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I’m not 18. I’m not single. I’m not an unemployed college student who can
live off of loans and a monthly stipend from my parents. I can’t just sleep in tomorrow, jet off to
Europe for the weekend, jack up the credit card, and come back home whenever I
feel like it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I am 38. I am married. I am a father. I have a job and a mortgage and
responsibilities. By the way, I asked
for all of this. And you know what? It’s a pretty freaking good life. Even with all of its challenges. So I need to deal with it already! <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
I don’t know why it’s taken so long for all of this to set in. But I think, and I hope, that I am ready to
move on. In other words, Elsa, I’m going
to let it go. <i>Let it go. Let it go. Here I stand.
And here I’ll stay. Let the storm
of ducks falling in through my roof rage on.
I’m never going back to 18 years old.
The past is in the past. In the
light of – </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
Alright enough already. Can
someone please get that damn song out of my head!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-24673451416131310312014-02-15T15:09:00.001-08:002014-02-15T15:09:39.079-08:00Tight White Tees and Ts<div class="MsoNormal">
In the morning before heading out of the house, my dad usually
conducted a ritual of interrogations before giving us clearance to join our schoolmates
at the bus stop. The daily questions
included, “Did you drink your juice?”, “Did you clean your ears?”, “Did you
have a proper breakfast?”, and “Did you brush your teeth?” Aside from the probably less common ear hole hygiene
inquiry, there was one other question my dad posed during the cold weather months
that was a bit quirkier: “Did you put on
an undershirt?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hold that thought from the 1980’s and time travel with me to
2014.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many mornings, I zombie shuffle into the gym before work in
the still dark hours. At least once
monthly, I forget to pack a critical toiletry or item of clothing for the gym
bag. Many a time I’ve either bummed
shaving cream from whomever is standing next to me at the sink, gone commando because
of forgotten undies, went beltless, or pulled a Nantucket wannabe going
sockless in my dress shoes. It’s always
something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, I was in the locker room after a shower. When I went to extract my clothes for the
day, sure enough, I forgot the tight white tee.
While the threat of a sweat pit soaking through the button down is a
terror watch color of red from May to September, we were in the midst of an
arctic freeze. Seeing as we were smack
dab in February, the risk of a pit stain was low to very low. So, off I went without any concern that I’d
have to alligator arm that day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty minutes later, as I crossed Federal Street towards my
usual breakfast haunt, I suddenly became very self-conscious. I wasn’t worried about the turkeys being done
with or without my parka pulled tight around me. No.
What was it? I felt, well, braless
without my tight white tee. That
comforting layer of support around my upper torso and man boobs was conspicuously
vacant. And the absence of cloth didn’t
feel good in a free balling kind of way.
It felt more like I was walking around with a broken fly, yet there was
nothing I could do about it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Brief tangent: speaking of breast support, do women not
named Autumn or Zephyr EVER forget to wear a bra to work, or does that warrant
an immediate trip to the department store with the winter coat zipped up all
the way? Or is this kind of oversight
only more likely to occur with an A or B cupper? Or is cup size irrelevant in such a
scenario? Would any woman ever even
forget a bra under any circumstance before heading to work? I digress.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During the remainder of my workday, I reflected on tight
white tees while kicking myself for not packing one the night before. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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~~~~</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jBBXg8xnLus/Uv_y42y1OTI/AAAAAAAAA4M/6fYNpnEFjpY/s1600/Wife+Beater.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jBBXg8xnLus/Uv_y42y1OTI/AAAAAAAAA4M/6fYNpnEFjpY/s1600/Wife+Beater.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I only occasionally dabble in the so-called “wife
beater” – a terrible term I know but tank top fails to conjure the image
immediately – they were more fun to wear when I was 20 and taking supplements. I also can’t shake the thought of a permanent
mustard stain. In any event, I rock a regular
old crew neck about 99% of the time. </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AqFHrSQTTh8/Uv_zF6WIO1I/AAAAAAAAA4U/-d0vHE8HPbg/s1600/Vee+Neck+Tee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AqFHrSQTTh8/Uv_zF6WIO1I/AAAAAAAAA4U/-d0vHE8HPbg/s1600/Vee+Neck+Tee.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>As for the classic V-neck, I’m unaware of anyone within 20
years of my age who ever wore one on a consistent basis other than my old buddy
Roshaun. (He wore a vee with glee
because of that undershirt’s oddball status.)
Hell, I don’t recall seeing anyone younger than 60 wear one since.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WCmS9uwqPEA/Uv_zP-QsR2I/AAAAAAAAA4c/23CxiWhGUIY/s1600/Tight+White+Tee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WCmS9uwqPEA/Uv_zP-QsR2I/AAAAAAAAA4c/23CxiWhGUIY/s1600/Tight+White+Tee.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When it comes to Gusto, we follow a pretty standard “like
father, like son” scenario. My post-work
uniform typically consists of a tight white tee and shorts or jeans after I’ve
stripped off the work monkey suit. So
when I’m helping Gus into his PJs after bath, the first article of clothing
that goes on after the pull-up is a 2T/3T crew neck. The smaller, the better because of the
support. Once I wrestle the neck hole
over his head, and guide his hands through the arm holes, we high five each
other with a “Tight white tee!” celebration.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Gigi also likes to point out when she’s sporting a tank top
with frilly shoulder straps as her own version of the tight white tee. As for the Tills, she’s typically donning a
onesie over her diaper, which may or may not be prominently stained with cranberry
juice that leaked through her overlaying top. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Where the hell am I going with this? Nowhere really, but any time I’ve nixed the idea of blogging
about the undershirt, Gus or Greta will randomly come along and flash me to expose
their tight white tee underneath. It had
to be done. So to all you wife beater,
vee neck, crew neck, tank top, or other undershirt wearing peeps, we Ts salute
you on your tight white tees. Stay warm out there.<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-73905090841786637722014-01-12T11:24:00.000-08:002014-01-14T03:52:37.819-08:00Taking the T Family Temperature<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i>[EDITOR’S NOTE: The post
originally began drafting last weekend during the “Arctic Freeze.”]<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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At bed time last night, the cell phone thermometer read negative 8
degrees (Fahrenheit, so as not to confuse our international readers) with a
forecasted low of negative 15 around 5:00 a.m.
By far, a record low for us since moving to Easton. The historic low temp – at least since we’ve
inhabited Casa de Teravainen – inspired me to record a new entry in the annals
of the family blog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t specifically recall when I became aware of the term
“trending.” The web site,
urbandictionary.com, explains that trending is a <i>“mutilation of the English language that means ‘currently
popular.’ It derives from a sad
misunderstanding of the verb ‘to trend’ as meaning ‘to become a trend.’”</i> (Tell me that passage wasn’t written by a
real life version of the dean character in “Scent of a Woman”?) The articulate belly aching continues by
blaming Twitter and pop culture for the root of all dumbness in modern day
society. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For better or worse, trending has gained traction in the modern day
parlance of our digital media readers and writers. The term also serves as a co-inspiration for
today’s posting, along with the feezing temperature outside our windows. Here goes nothing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Temperature/Trend Level</u>: Randy’s and Michelle’s Wasabi on NYE
(Translation: A Forest Fire in Your Mouth)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tilly’s speech is suddenly off the charts. Far and away, the best example is when she
says “Yessssssssssssssttthhhh” with a slight lisp… Sully and Mike. Either of the Monsters’ movies has to be the
kids’ consensus favorite… Pop
Tarts. No clue where that came
from. They sat for weeks in a box
untouched in the pantry and suddenly they’re like Downton Abbey circa halfway
through Season 2… Tilly’s constant
relocation of chairs for use as a ladder to wreak havoc on anything previously
safe on a surface over three feet tall…
Gus’ plumber crack/pencil holder sightings are off the charts. Granted, the five of us collectively probably
show waxing/waning moons on a daily basis, but he really needs longer pants… <o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Temperature/Trend Level</u>: Siracha/Cholula/Our Fourth Child<o:p></o:p></div>
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Greta’s guitar playing, singing, and hip shaking performances after
dinner. Anyone outside of our party of
five probably has a better chance of seeing a Sasquatch than seeing Greta sing
live but all the more reason that the phenomenon be recorded in our history
books. Granted we’re not talking about a
successor to Hannah Montana, but the songs about unicorns, rainbows, lady bugs,
and butterflies might even make someone with a bitchy resting face smile… Gus’
random utterance of “Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas” still pops up even though
we’re almost half-way through January.
It kills me every time I hear him…
Tilly’s transition from high pony to real pony… Adult foot injuries from stepping blindly on Barbie
accessories in the living room…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Temperature/Trend Level</u>: Medium Rare Plus<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Pee-pee and poo-poo on the potty for Gus. He’s totally fine with going on the
bowl. We are asking him more often than
he approaches us to announce that nature calls, but still, it’s an
improvement… Tilly’s transition from
crib to big girl bed started off rocky, but it’s dramatically improved since we
installed a lock and removed her door knob.
This topic could be in the Cholula club, but I don’t want to speak too
soon… Typical, topless cups are making a
resurgence in the market share of our household’s drink containers. Although Gus and Tilly drink most commonly
from Nalgene cups, they at least try to copy Greta at dinner. When they are all drinking from topless cups,
my bonfire of covered cups will be glorious…
Speaking of beverages…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aq8ep-x2CtM/UtLrif8FhOI/AAAAAAAAA3I/5OSpq7gmMSk/s1600/BEVVY+CHART.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aq8ep-x2CtM/UtLrif8FhOI/AAAAAAAAA3I/5OSpq7gmMSk/s1600/BEVVY+CHART.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<u>Temperature/Trend Level</u>: Switzerland/Goldilocks’ Porridge
Preference/Hot Cold Parkers<o:p></o:p></div>
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The average night’s sleep (for me at least) is probably between 6.3 and
6.7 these days. However, I must disclose
that THE WIFE gave me the only gift I wanted for Christmas (not what you’re
thinking,) intercepting all kids before they could blitzkrieg our room, and let
me sleep late once last weekend and this weekend. It felt glorious to wake up at 8:30. For reals.
That might be my go-to request gift on any occasion from now until 2022… Sign language has really fallen by the
wayside. Although we all sign “I love
you” as much as we say it, we probably only continue to use a handful of signs
because Gus’ speech has been coming along.
Granted, it may be difficult for others to understand him as well as THE
WIFE and I do, but we’ll take it…. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Temperature/Trend Level</u>: Last Saturday and Sunday morning/The North and South Poles pre-global warming<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cribs, booster seats, and sleep sacks are now officially endangered
species in this house. I fired up my
Sawzall for the first time (Father’s Day or last year’s birthday gift) and tore
through the crib Tilly was using before she upgraded to the toddler bed. The crib was held together with zip ties and
c-clamps, but it still felt good to saw into smaller pieces... As for the booster seats, I really miss the
seat belt feature because it kept the little ones locked into their spots at
meals. Toward the end, they were just
unbuckling themselves so it became a moot point. Now they just get up and walk around at will
so much when we eat, it feels like I’m back at the Central High cafeteria during
Mod F... Red blends not named Decoy or
the 90+ Cellars Shiraz Viognier combo just don’t do it for me anymore... My outdoor Christmas light display this year
was somewhere between pre-school art project and Charlie Brown Christmas
tree. It was a sad, sad sight. Next year, I promise to channel my inner
Clark Griswold. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
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So there you have it. I’d say my
New Years Resolution will be to blog more frequently, but I never make it with
resolutions past February. Still, Happy
New Year to THE READERS!<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4830642000417535591.post-55539749308331106752013-11-08T09:05:00.000-08:002013-11-08T14:26:02.643-08:00Dasvidaniya Vasa Deferentia<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, it’s official.
My sperm bank has closed for business.
Forever. Seems like just
yesterday that the blog's arrival in cyberspace had its premise based on a discussion of my
swimmers: <a href="http://www.waitingforbabyt.blogspot.com/2008_10_01_archive.html">http://www.waitingforbabyt.blogspot.com/2008_10_01_archive.html</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s right, my vasectomy completed about an hour ago. Henceforth, the little guys will be swimming in
a pool that no longer has any exit chute.
Apparently, they’ll snorkel around in circles going forward until
becoming reabsorbed into the filtration system. Visions of a garden hose flailing aimlessly in my scrotum keep playing like a projection reel in my head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sitting here on my bed with an ice back over my tender cajones, I have absolutely no regrets. My
party of five just feels right. I have
no inkling or desire to expand our family’s population. I know better than to say never, but my
trifecta of children suits me just fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After the kids were in bed last night, THE WIFE said, “You’ll never guess what Greta
said to me today.” “What?” I asked. She said, “I want to have another brother.” THE WIFE asked, “Why?” Greta apparently said something like, “There
are two girls with me and Tilly, so there should be another boy with Gus to
make it equal.” I laughed probably too
quickly and loudly because I detected a look in THE WIFE right away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t tell me you want one more,” I questioned with my
eyebrows raised. THE WIFE kinda shrugged
and said she wouldn’t rule it out. My
eyes bulged as my brain branded THE WIFE temporarily insane. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Meanwhile, my own level of sanity is the closest to normal that
I’ve experienced in the last two years since Tilly was born. THE WIFE and I are in a really good
place. The kids and I are in a really
good place. I feel like we are finally
ready to rejoin society as a semi-functional unit.
Hell, I might even consider going to a restaurant with the whole family. (Probably a Panera or Papa Gino’s only, but
still…) <o:p></o:p></div>
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I actually experience relief and joy when I walk in the door
to my house after work now. A few months ago, I’m
ashamed to admit that dread predominated most of my commutes home. Back then, it seemed like every entrance into the house was greeted by some fit or fits of hysteria before I could even take off my shoes. Today, I might encounter someone
mid-meltdown but my psyche has adapted so it’s no big deal if that’s the
case. </div>
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What has changed? What’s been the biggest difference? Honestly, I don’t really know and I don’t
really care. If I had to guess, it’s a
combination of things. Every day, the
kids creep forward incrementally towards being that much more independent. Every day, I creep forward incrementally
towards being a little less selfish and a little more of a real man. Communication between THE WIFE and I seems to
improve and strengthen with every day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Would it be the end of the world if we ended up having
another baby? Well, for one – I would
definitely need a permanent second job.
Seriously. (Please tell anyone
considering law school to go into the military instead.) Two, THE WIFE and I aren’t spring chickens
anymore – forty, gulp, is just around the corner. I discovered my first gray hairs last
week. Three, THE WIFE has had three
c-sections and I’m not sure how safe it is to have one more. Four, we are only four years away from not
having to pay for day care. Five, I am
going to toilet paper the front yard of my house the day when Gus and Tilly are
out of diapers. Six, we are only about
ten years away from sleeping past 7 a.m. on a weekend. I’ll spare
you from the rant by concluding with this: I’m content.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Will Greta, Gus, and Tilly ever have one more sibling in
the future? Is it possible THE WIFE and
I may find the urge to add one more personality to our organized chaos? Of course.
We’ve always been open to the possibility of adoption. But, for now, I love my family as is. If the clock ain't broke, don't fix it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dasvidaniya vasa deferentia.
We had a good run. You gave me
three great kids. Now, please heal soon
so I can stack some logs and feed my fourth child. <br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Dennishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11720820387176685451noreply@blogger.com2