There are a few times in my life when I remember my dad being an AWESOME dad. One was when he bought an entire comic store's worth of Magic: the Gathering cards and would periodically shower us with new packs randomly. That's not to say that I played or still play Magic: the Gathering. No, I'm way too cool for that.
Another time was when he stood up to my principal in high school when I said some really, really, deplorably embarrassing stuff. He saved my ass from some seriously bad punishment, and I actually never expected how vigilantly he defended me. His usual response was, "you got in trouble, you deserve your punishment".
But this whole Penn State disaster made me start thinking about the other major time when I remember my dad being a great dad.
I was in 6th grade, and my dad was stationed in Italy for two years. I went to a school that was on the military base there, and every military base has an intricate system of teachers that are all sort of shifted around between all military bases. Going to school in a military school is very, very interesting. You'd be best friends with a whole group of awesome kids, and the next month, you're totally alone, because all those kid's parents would move away to their next deployment.
Growing up like this is tough for kids. Especially overseas, where there's such a shallow pool of friends or support, and their parents are usually caught up in whatever job they're doing for the military. So the kids are usually pretty misbehaved.
So teachers there are all pretty haggard, what with the constant changes in their classrooms, and overall troublesome kids.
My science teacher in 6th grade was Mr. Science (definitely not his name). I remember him being a total geek, and I constantly made fun of him, but in a 6th grade sort of way - nothing mean or malicious. I would be rebellious because he was teaching us stuff I already knew, like why temperature changed throughout the year. Or how plants grew. And even though I was rebellious, I could tell I was his favorite student.
I could tell this especially when we were in a computer room, and he was teaching us the basics of computers. I had already pretty much mastered MS-DOS, so I was acting up again. He came behind me while I was on the computer and put his hands on my shoulders in a really weird way, which made me shudder, and try and wriggle free. Then he said, "Why won't you ever let me touch you?" and I don't remember what I said, but I remember being freaked out. I don't remember if he touched me before, but I'm pretty sure he did. In any case, this was DEFINITELY a touch with a creep factor of 10.
I told my dad about it, and he basically went into his room with a missile launcher and blew the guys head off. Mr. Science was fired almost instantaneously because of the firestorm my dad caused. I think he even got the Commanding Officer of the base (the military equivalent of the Mayor) involved.
I don't remember many instances of him defending us from the outside world, or many instances at all where I'd say my dad set a good example in any remote way, but I'm glad that there were these two situations.
Especially now that I'm raising my own kid in a world with grimy assholes like Sandusky. And now, apparently, Bernie Fine.
Showing posts with label fatherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fatherhood. Show all posts
Monday, November 21, 2011
Friday, August 19, 2011
Go Ahead, Extrapolate. Just...Do it Where I Can't See You
Every week, about three times a week, we drive past a house on our way to my in-law's place. Inside that house is just some random dad of three boys. His kids are all under the age of 10, and they've got just about the coolest dad ever.
The dad and his three boys built a catapult from scratch out of a bunch of 2x4s, a giant rubber band, and a coffee can. It's probably 8 feet tall, and they use it to launch payloads at their neighbors or each other. Or neighborhood girls a la Calvin and Hobbes.
The dad and his three boys built a bunch of benches, camouflaged them, and have been selling them for $25. They've got the sign attached to the bench, and it seems like they're doing pretty well so far. I mean, who wouldn't want a camouflaged bench? On second thought, it might be hard to see if you put it in the garden.
The dad and his three boys have a giant tree house in their backyard, which, I presume, the father built and they're using as a base camp for all kind of awesome father-son adventures.
The dad and his three boys have at least 300 nerf guns and go around shooting each other with them at least three times a day. ...Ok, i've never actually SEEN this happen, but I'm assuming. Because it seems like something they'd do. Because I know them and all.
And every winter, at least when there's enough snow, the dad and his three boys always build some kind of enormous structure that they use for amazing snowball fights. One year it was an honest-to-god Igloo. The next it was a snow fort the size of a small house. Still another year they built a snowman that was without exaggeration the size of their two story house. I'm still unsure how they did it.
I am guessing that either the dad owns his own business and works only a few hours a day, or he's a stay at home dad.
Growing up, the most my dad did with me was bring me and my brother on really long and grueling trips to terrible jungle locations with lots of cannibals, fire ants, and lava pits. And when we weren't on some arduous journey through Mordor, he was at work. Yeah, he worked hard and all, but when it really comes down to it, he missed a lot of our childhood - and we missed a lot of our father.
I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to say here, but there's definitely something to be said.
The dad and his three boys built a catapult from scratch out of a bunch of 2x4s, a giant rubber band, and a coffee can. It's probably 8 feet tall, and they use it to launch payloads at their neighbors or each other. Or neighborhood girls a la Calvin and Hobbes.
The dad and his three boys built a bunch of benches, camouflaged them, and have been selling them for $25. They've got the sign attached to the bench, and it seems like they're doing pretty well so far. I mean, who wouldn't want a camouflaged bench? On second thought, it might be hard to see if you put it in the garden.
The dad and his three boys have a giant tree house in their backyard, which, I presume, the father built and they're using as a base camp for all kind of awesome father-son adventures.
The dad and his three boys have at least 300 nerf guns and go around shooting each other with them at least three times a day. ...Ok, i've never actually SEEN this happen, but I'm assuming. Because it seems like something they'd do. Because I know them and all.
And every winter, at least when there's enough snow, the dad and his three boys always build some kind of enormous structure that they use for amazing snowball fights. One year it was an honest-to-god Igloo. The next it was a snow fort the size of a small house. Still another year they built a snowman that was without exaggeration the size of their two story house. I'm still unsure how they did it.
I am guessing that either the dad owns his own business and works only a few hours a day, or he's a stay at home dad.
Growing up, the most my dad did with me was bring me and my brother on really long and grueling trips to terrible jungle locations with lots of cannibals, fire ants, and lava pits. And when we weren't on some arduous journey through Mordor, he was at work. Yeah, he worked hard and all, but when it really comes down to it, he missed a lot of our childhood - and we missed a lot of our father.
I'm not entirely sure what I'm trying to say here, but there's definitely something to be said.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Tattoos and Piercings on Children
I have three tattoos. They are badass. I used to have my eyebrow pierced and both nipples pierced. The piercings were also classified as badass. With the piercings combined with the tattoos, I was doubly or maybe triply badass. But then I grew up and took out the piercings when I graduated college; I thought that's what a grown up would do.
And now, a couple years later, I don't think I'd ever get a piercing again, but I'd love a new tattoo. I've just gotta overcome three problems.
#1: I want it to be something incredibly awesome and timeless. I'm thinking about the first line to Anna Karenina in the upper center of my back: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." (only in Russian). Any other suggestions?
#2: I want to either put it in a place that will not succumb to my inevitable obesity/gravity, or to start putting money away for monthly liposuctions (tattoos on morbidly obese people look...well...not pleasant).
and #3: I need to convince my wife, or drug her with chloroform so she'll wake up and it'll be too late.
But this post isn't really about MY tattoos and piercings. It's about the ones Sammy can never have. *Sob*
My wife and I disagree on many things when it comes to raising Sammy, but nothing divides us as much as tattoos and piercings.
You see, in Russian culture, the only people who had tattoos were people who came from prison. I imagine there are exceptions, but from what I understand, this isn't hyperbole - literally NO ONE had tattoos other than ex-cons. And as for piercings, they don't understand why anyone would injure themselves purposefully and put stupid rings in their faces/bodies. So imagine the in-law's surprise when their daughter brought me home.
Growing up in this culture, you can imagine my wife's stance. No son of hers will be seen as an ex-con, or an idiot.
For me, I think that there's absolutely nothing wrong with him getting tattoos, as long as he enacts the 6 month waiting period. Think up a design, make a decision, and then wait 6 months before putting it on your body. If you still want to put that design on you in 6 months, you're more than welcome to (provided you pay for it). And as for piercings, who cares? The only downside to my piercings is that my nipples are always hard from the buildup of scar tissue in the nipples. Other than that, there's nothing wrong with getting piercings. Newsflash: They're removable.
Where do you all stand on tattooing your children?
(With their consent, I mean. Not like branding them. And obviously after they turn 18, not right now.)
And now, a couple years later, I don't think I'd ever get a piercing again, but I'd love a new tattoo. I've just gotta overcome three problems.
#1: I want it to be something incredibly awesome and timeless. I'm thinking about the first line to Anna Karenina in the upper center of my back: "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." (only in Russian). Any other suggestions?
#2: I want to either put it in a place that will not succumb to my inevitable obesity/gravity, or to start putting money away for monthly liposuctions (tattoos on morbidly obese people look...well...not pleasant).
and #3: I need to convince my wife, or drug her with chloroform so she'll wake up and it'll be too late.
But this post isn't really about MY tattoos and piercings. It's about the ones Sammy can never have. *Sob*
My wife and I disagree on many things when it comes to raising Sammy, but nothing divides us as much as tattoos and piercings.
You see, in Russian culture, the only people who had tattoos were people who came from prison. I imagine there are exceptions, but from what I understand, this isn't hyperbole - literally NO ONE had tattoos other than ex-cons. And as for piercings, they don't understand why anyone would injure themselves purposefully and put stupid rings in their faces/bodies. So imagine the in-law's surprise when their daughter brought me home.
Growing up in this culture, you can imagine my wife's stance. No son of hers will be seen as an ex-con, or an idiot.
For me, I think that there's absolutely nothing wrong with him getting tattoos, as long as he enacts the 6 month waiting period. Think up a design, make a decision, and then wait 6 months before putting it on your body. If you still want to put that design on you in 6 months, you're more than welcome to (provided you pay for it). And as for piercings, who cares? The only downside to my piercings is that my nipples are always hard from the buildup of scar tissue in the nipples. Other than that, there's nothing wrong with getting piercings. Newsflash: They're removable.
Where do you all stand on tattooing your children?
(With their consent, I mean. Not like branding them. And obviously after they turn 18, not right now.)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A Balanced Approach to Kicking Sammy Out
This was me yesterday on my way to work:
Which is why I didn't post anything.
The reason? Sammy is being a ridiculous person, and the wife is following suit.
You see, we've had him sleeping in our room ever since the beginning of time. Never in our bed, but always in his crib/bassinet. But when we first started out, we could play the bagpipes, throw tambourines at each other, and play the penis game but with megaphones. Whatever we did, Sammy wouldn't wake up.
But now, his highness needs absolute quiet in order to sleep soundly. And you know what? I DON'T MIND. He's a baby, and that's what they do/need.
But you know what I DO mind? His sleeping in our bedroom. Or let me be more clear: my wife's insistence on his sleeping in our bedroom. And the fact that no matter how quiet I am, she still yells at me to be quieter. So what follows is a plea to her - to get her to agree to move him into his own room, down the hall.
Reason #1: The following is a list of things that make sounds in the bedroom with very little perturbation (yes, that's a word) and there's nothing to do about it: The door hinges, the creaky floor, the creaky bed slats, the clanky curtain shades, the bathroom faucet, the toilet, the drawer sets, the closet, the clothes in the closet, your slippers, the computers as we're going to bed, the door to the bathroom, the alarm clock in the morning, the beeping of the bottle warmer.
Reason #2: When you shush me to be quiet, you actually are louder than anything I've done to provoke said shushing.
Reason #3: I almost guarantee that he'll sleep better in another room where I won't be constantly trying to fairy-flit around like giant 200+ pound tinkerbell/ballerina in boxer briefs.
Reason #4: I almost guarantee that WE'LL sleep better not having to constantly shush each other.
Reason #5: If WE sleep better, we'll be happier, and I'll be able to pour more effort into this blog, which will garner attention from large bigwigs, who will want to sign me up to write the next great American novel which will bring in gazillions of dollars which we will use to buy lots of really sweet nerf guns.
And, because I was always taught to weigh the counter arguments:
Counterargument #1: But he's too little!
Reality: Psh, he's got adult sized poops. That's the only metric I go by.
Counterargument #2: But the room isn't ready yet! There are no cute animal stickers on the wall!
Reality: Amazon has 2-day shipping for a reason. Problem solved.
Counterargument #3: But I'll miss him!
Reality: if, in the middle of the night, you miss him so terribly, I won't have any problem with you going down the hall to kiss him and hug him and rub his face with your face as much as you want. No problem at all.
Counterargument #4: But what if he gets up 9 times a night like he is now?
Reality: Ok, this is really the only legitimate argument. I still maintain that he's getting up solely because he's we're making sounds in the room that are above 0.001 decibel. Or because he's teething and grumpy. We could do a trial period. Three nights. Two to get over sleeping in a new place, and one just for good luck.
Counterargument #4b: Yeah? and Who's going to get up to take care of him?
Reality: If we do it over the weekend, and I'm allowed to take unlimited (or just one) naps during the daytime, I'll take the brunt of the workload. Just to prove a point. If I'm wrong, we'll bring him right back and wait until he's a year and I'll be completely silent about it. And I'll work on levitation.
Please, people, send some support for the cause in the comments! She reads all of them!
Which is why I didn't post anything.
The reason? Sammy is being a ridiculous person, and the wife is following suit.
You see, we've had him sleeping in our room ever since the beginning of time. Never in our bed, but always in his crib/bassinet. But when we first started out, we could play the bagpipes, throw tambourines at each other, and play the penis game but with megaphones. Whatever we did, Sammy wouldn't wake up.
But now, his highness needs absolute quiet in order to sleep soundly. And you know what? I DON'T MIND. He's a baby, and that's what they do/need.
But you know what I DO mind? His sleeping in our bedroom. Or let me be more clear: my wife's insistence on his sleeping in our bedroom. And the fact that no matter how quiet I am, she still yells at me to be quieter. So what follows is a plea to her - to get her to agree to move him into his own room, down the hall.
Reason #1: The following is a list of things that make sounds in the bedroom with very little perturbation (yes, that's a word) and there's nothing to do about it: The door hinges, the creaky floor, the creaky bed slats, the clanky curtain shades, the bathroom faucet, the toilet, the drawer sets, the closet, the clothes in the closet, your slippers, the computers as we're going to bed, the door to the bathroom, the alarm clock in the morning, the beeping of the bottle warmer.
Reason #2: When you shush me to be quiet, you actually are louder than anything I've done to provoke said shushing.
Reason #3: I almost guarantee that he'll sleep better in another room where I won't be constantly trying to fairy-flit around like giant 200+ pound tinkerbell/ballerina in boxer briefs.
Reason #4: I almost guarantee that WE'LL sleep better not having to constantly shush each other.
Reason #5: If WE sleep better, we'll be happier, and I'll be able to pour more effort into this blog, which will garner attention from large bigwigs, who will want to sign me up to write the next great American novel which will bring in gazillions of dollars which we will use to buy lots of really sweet nerf guns.
And, because I was always taught to weigh the counter arguments:
Counterargument #1: But he's too little!
Reality: Psh, he's got adult sized poops. That's the only metric I go by.
Counterargument #2: But the room isn't ready yet! There are no cute animal stickers on the wall!
Reality: Amazon has 2-day shipping for a reason. Problem solved.
Counterargument #3: But I'll miss him!
Reality: if, in the middle of the night, you miss him so terribly, I won't have any problem with you going down the hall to kiss him and hug him and rub his face with your face as much as you want. No problem at all.
Counterargument #4: But what if he gets up 9 times a night like he is now?
Reality: Ok, this is really the only legitimate argument. I still maintain that he's getting up solely because he's we're making sounds in the room that are above 0.001 decibel. Or because he's teething and grumpy. We could do a trial period. Three nights. Two to get over sleeping in a new place, and one just for good luck.
Counterargument #4b: Yeah? and Who's going to get up to take care of him?
Reality: If we do it over the weekend, and I'm allowed to take unlimited (or just one) naps during the daytime, I'll take the brunt of the workload. Just to prove a point. If I'm wrong, we'll bring him right back and wait until he's a year and I'll be completely silent about it. And I'll work on levitation.
Please, people, send some support for the cause in the comments! She reads all of them!
Friday, July 22, 2011
Guest Posting at Daddy Runs A Lot!
Today, I have the grand honor of guest posting over at Daddy Runs A Lot - a blog about a dad who...you guessed it, runs a LOT. Once, he just walked outside, willy nilly, and busted out a half marathon without even thinking twice about it.
I knew I liked the guy when he talked about his love of opera. But then, he sealed it with an accurate discussion of the different types of zombies available to choose from when deciding which one to run away from first. The list even includes the often contemplated "Rule 34 Zombies", who are at all times sexy, weird, and brain-hungry.
So, if you please, head on over to his place and peruse the merchandise, then read some blabbering monologue I put together about how impatient I am about Sammy growing up.
I knew I liked the guy when he talked about his love of opera. But then, he sealed it with an accurate discussion of the different types of zombies available to choose from when deciding which one to run away from first. The list even includes the often contemplated "Rule 34 Zombies", who are at all times sexy, weird, and brain-hungry.
So, if you please, head on over to his place and peruse the merchandise, then read some blabbering monologue I put together about how impatient I am about Sammy growing up.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Investigation into my Wife's Sanity
So Sammy's been going through a little bit of a growth spurt. How do I know this? Because a week ago, he was all cute and playing on his play mat giggling and laughing as if the world had no limit to its happiness and hugging us with a determined look of complete love and adulation, and this week, he has declared war on us by attempting to shatter eardrums with his yelling, peeing on everyone, holding his poop until the exact moment he's got his diaper off, needing constant food, and generally hating everything.
So either he's magically leaped into his teenage years, his old and senile years, or he's going through a growth spurt.
This means that just about every night, he needs to wake up, and scream at us Gordon Ramsay style to make sure we're moving fast enough with the whole "Get Milk or Die Trying" shtick. Last night, we both got about 4 hours total of sleep.
But this morning, my wife, who was suspiciously cheery eyed and bright and much more beautiful than usual (though not necessarily a statement that she doesn't look good normally, just a statement that on this specific day, she was particularly stunning...I'm not sure how to get out of that one), looked over at me while she was getting ready for work, and she asked, "What's wrong?"
I turned towards her, picked my knuckles up off the floor, wiped the drool off of my face, and made a herculean attempt to seem less like the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse and said, "What? Are you insane? Or merely not human? What have you done with my wife? Did you manage to travel back in time a few hours just so you could sleep a bit more?" (please remind me to look into this) I'm pretty sure, though I can't be certain, that I went on like this for a good hour or two.
The peppering of questions slightly annoyed her, and she lost her entirely unnatural early-morning sense of humor. "Seriously, what's wrong with you? What would make you feel better?"
Ahh, of all the the potential options, even after four hours of sleep, I could answer this question perfectly. I could literally answer it in my sleep, because I wouldn't NEED to answer the question then. And the amazing thing about this is that my wife didn't know the answer to her question already.
Problem: Lack of Sleep. Solution: ? let's see, um...hamburgers? uh...drinking pickle juice?
Which leads me to ask the question...what's wrong with HER? I have deduced the following possibilities:
So either he's magically leaped into his teenage years, his old and senile years, or he's going through a growth spurt.
This means that just about every night, he needs to wake up, and scream at us Gordon Ramsay style to make sure we're moving fast enough with the whole "Get Milk or Die Trying" shtick. Last night, we both got about 4 hours total of sleep.
But this morning, my wife, who was suspiciously cheery eyed and bright and much more beautiful than usual (though not necessarily a statement that she doesn't look good normally, just a statement that on this specific day, she was particularly stunning...I'm not sure how to get out of that one), looked over at me while she was getting ready for work, and she asked, "What's wrong?"
I turned towards her, picked my knuckles up off the floor, wiped the drool off of my face, and made a herculean attempt to seem less like the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse and said, "What? Are you insane? Or merely not human? What have you done with my wife? Did you manage to travel back in time a few hours just so you could sleep a bit more?" (please remind me to look into this) I'm pretty sure, though I can't be certain, that I went on like this for a good hour or two.
The peppering of questions slightly annoyed her, and she lost her entirely unnatural early-morning sense of humor. "Seriously, what's wrong with you? What would make you feel better?"
Ahh, of all the the potential options, even after four hours of sleep, I could answer this question perfectly. I could literally answer it in my sleep, because I wouldn't NEED to answer the question then. And the amazing thing about this is that my wife didn't know the answer to her question already.
Problem: Lack of Sleep. Solution: ? let's see, um...hamburgers? uh...drinking pickle juice?
Which leads me to ask the question...what's wrong with HER? I have deduced the following possibilities:
- SHE is the first patient in the coming zombie apocalypse, and I should stock up on shotguns and their corresponding ammunition
- She has been replaced by a Pod Wife, a la Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and I'll go outside one day to find her real body zipped up in a pea pod.
- She has converted to Surrealism, and she will randomly change both emotions and appearances with no apparent purpose, pattern, or goal.
- She is ALSO sleep deprived, though this is probably the least likely scenario, due to her increased attractiveness this morning. Everyone knows sleep deprivation and attractiveness are inversely related. Just like happiness and how many spiders there are on your face.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Proper Way to Raise a Child
For Russians living in North East Philly, raising a child is a magical thing. A magical, but intense thing.
Ok, maybe not magical. Intense is probably more along the lines of adjectives that describe this phenomenon. Intense with pangs of guilt, and judgey-ness. Because you describe anything that happens in Northeast Philly without using the descriptor "judgey".
You see, my thoughts of childhood were always rife with memories of playing war in the backyard with the neighborhood boys, pretending I was treating a patient as a leading physician with the neighborhood girls, and living my life according to the tenets of Calvin and Hobbes before Bill Watterson even knew what a "transmogrifier" was. I even played a version of Calvinball,but I called it "Billy-Ball". Seriously.
But that's not how it works within the Russian Community. You see, if you're a child being raised by Russian immigrants, your parents traveled across the entire world to give you a better life, and you'd better live that better life exactly as your parents dictate, goddamn it, even if you turn into a miserable wreck. It's a life-long guilt trip, and nobody does guilt better than Russian Jews.
As Sammy grows older, and discussions stray away from the consistency of his diaper droppings, the conversations are starting to get more centered around what activities we're going to involve him in.
My parents are advocating the position of the free range child - opening the door to the back yard and kicking him out until dinner time, and if he doesn't make it in for that, he'll make it back in for bedtime. The more dirty, the more broken bones, the more trouble he gets into, the better. Structure, for them, is bad parenting. This is probably why I can't concentrate on anything for more than thirty minutes, and I've constantly got three hundred grandiose plans steeping in my brain matter - each one of them still on step 1. This is definitely not an option, because I want Sammy to have at least some structure in his life.
But my in-laws are about as opposite as you can get. Their position is typical of the entire Russian immigrant community: the more classes and extracurricular activities the better. "Because WE never had these classes growing up, and we have decided for you that your future success will depend upon how many activities you've participated in before you graduated from diapers."
So Sammy is in for it. There are already plans for him to go to chess classes with a former chess grand-master, who will allow breaks from learning the Monkey's Bum Opening with mathematics tutoring. Apparently, Sammy will also be involved in dance. I've been trying to compromise that if dance is a must, then let it be break dance. How awesome would that be?? But the rest of the family wants either ballet, or ballroom. "Look how far it got Maksim Chmerkovskiy!" is pretty much the best argument for anything, even those subjects not including dance. There have also been long discussions over the optimum sport in which to participate. Being a former swimmer, I suggested swimming. But apparently, there's not enough strategy involved, and it has been suggested that Soccer would be a better choice. And over the summer, I've always dreamed of having a kid that went to Boy Scout camp, where he learned how to shoot bows and arrows, and build shelter from twigs and leaves, and not shower for a week. But, there's a very good Science summer camp where he will be introduced to the basics of chemistry, physics, and biology. Also, he must either play the violin, or the piano. There is no room for argument there.
Maybe we should also get him some really awesome glasses too? What the military calls "BC" glasses! or perhaps a luxury pocket protector with matching calculator case! They would be especially helpful on his trips to his math tutor's place! Pretty much the only thing I'm 100% in agreement with is that they're also huge advocates of some kind of martial arts. Good. This way, when people who lived normal lives want to beat him up for being such a math and science loving tool-bag, he can protect himself better than resorting to throwing pawns at them.
There's also the worry that if he DOESN'T do these things, all of the other Russian parents and grandparents will look down on him, saying "Oh, look at Sam-a-yul over there, who is already three years old and does not know how to do multi-variable calculus! His family must not love or care about him. What is he going to be able to do with his life? He can't be a lawyer, or doctor, or financial professional, so he will obviously be a homeless drug-addict."
Ahh, Northeast Philadelphia, if it wasn't for all the shish-kabobs and vodka, I don't know if our relationship could last.
Ok, maybe not magical. Intense is probably more along the lines of adjectives that describe this phenomenon. Intense with pangs of guilt, and judgey-ness. Because you describe anything that happens in Northeast Philly without using the descriptor "judgey".
You see, my thoughts of childhood were always rife with memories of playing war in the backyard with the neighborhood boys, pretending I was treating a patient as a leading physician with the neighborhood girls, and living my life according to the tenets of Calvin and Hobbes before Bill Watterson even knew what a "transmogrifier" was. I even played a version of Calvinball,but I called it "Billy-Ball". Seriously.
But that's not how it works within the Russian Community. You see, if you're a child being raised by Russian immigrants, your parents traveled across the entire world to give you a better life, and you'd better live that better life exactly as your parents dictate, goddamn it, even if you turn into a miserable wreck. It's a life-long guilt trip, and nobody does guilt better than Russian Jews.
As Sammy grows older, and discussions stray away from the consistency of his diaper droppings, the conversations are starting to get more centered around what activities we're going to involve him in.
 |
| I'm the third one from the left. |
But my in-laws are about as opposite as you can get. Their position is typical of the entire Russian immigrant community: the more classes and extracurricular activities the better. "Because WE never had these classes growing up, and we have decided for you that your future success will depend upon how many activities you've participated in before you graduated from diapers."
 |
| This man is definitely not gay |
 | ||
| "BC" stands for "Birth Control". |
There's also the worry that if he DOESN'T do these things, all of the other Russian parents and grandparents will look down on him, saying "Oh, look at Sam-a-yul over there, who is already three years old and does not know how to do multi-variable calculus! His family must not love or care about him. What is he going to be able to do with his life? He can't be a lawyer, or doctor, or financial professional, so he will obviously be a homeless drug-addict."
Ahh, Northeast Philadelphia, if it wasn't for all the shish-kabobs and vodka, I don't know if our relationship could last.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Blah Friday
Ok so here's the deal. I just wrote 8 pages to get something into my Professor for MIS by 12:00pm. Class is officially over monday night.
I want to do two things.
First, I want to discuss with you the requirements that are beset upon those in the Russian community in regards to raising their children. They are insane. And hysterical.
And second, I want to create drama. A cliffhanger. So this wonderful, and imaginitive, and well-researched and discussed topic will be discussed in great length on tuesday. After the MIS exam. I start drinking heavily immediately after the exam, and thereafter I will be hastily writing extensively.
From all the writing today, i'm adjective'd and adverb'd out.
So I will describe this photograph in only nouns.
Gangster. Chronicles of Riddick. Geordi LaForge. Grandpa. Cyclops.
I want to do two things.
First, I want to discuss with you the requirements that are beset upon those in the Russian community in regards to raising their children. They are insane. And hysterical.
And second, I want to create drama. A cliffhanger. So this wonderful, and imaginitive, and well-researched and discussed topic will be discussed in great length on tuesday. After the MIS exam. I start drinking heavily immediately after the exam, and thereafter I will be hastily writing extensively.
From all the writing today, i'm adjective'd and adverb'd out.
So I will describe this photograph in only nouns.
Gangster. Chronicles of Riddick. Geordi LaForge. Grandpa. Cyclops.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Things said this weekend
"Hey mom and dad, great to see you! Long trip?"
"Of course, it's totally cool that you take a nap - it's been a tiresome journey for you guys."
"Good afternoon! ...Late afternoon really. Feeling rested?"
"No, really. He's not hungry. He just ate maybe 15 minutes before you guys woke up.
"Uh...hold on...please don't take off his clothes - we're perfectly capable of deciding whether or not he enjoys his over-alls".
"Wait, no - he doesn't need to suck on steak. We just started feeding him solids as a supplement. No need for steak."
"Hey, thanks for pushing baptism, but that's the thing about being grandparents, you're not parents. You don't get to make decisions about your grandchild. You only get to enjoy him."
"Much obliged for the advice on bedtime, but his bedtime is exactly the bedtime that we feel is proper for him. Remember the whole thing about grandparents/parents? Also, you've seen him for a grand total of ten hours since his birth. I'm betting we know a little more about when an appropriate bedtime for him is."
"Wait, YOU'RE going to bed? Already? Ok, see you tomorrow morning then, right?"
"Huh? What time did you leave? 6:30am? Without even saying goodbye? Ok, well...Happy Father's Day, I guess."
"Of course, it's totally cool that you take a nap - it's been a tiresome journey for you guys."
"Good afternoon! ...Late afternoon really. Feeling rested?"
"No, really. He's not hungry. He just ate maybe 15 minutes before you guys woke up.
"Uh...hold on...please don't take off his clothes - we're perfectly capable of deciding whether or not he enjoys his over-alls".
"Wait, no - he doesn't need to suck on steak. We just started feeding him solids as a supplement. No need for steak."
"Hey, thanks for pushing baptism, but that's the thing about being grandparents, you're not parents. You don't get to make decisions about your grandchild. You only get to enjoy him."
"Much obliged for the advice on bedtime, but his bedtime is exactly the bedtime that we feel is proper for him. Remember the whole thing about grandparents/parents? Also, you've seen him for a grand total of ten hours since his birth. I'm betting we know a little more about when an appropriate bedtime for him is."
"Wait, YOU'RE going to bed? Already? Ok, see you tomorrow morning then, right?"
"Huh? What time did you leave? 6:30am? Without even saying goodbye? Ok, well...Happy Father's Day, I guess."
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The ICC - brought to you with great risk to my life
Sammy, what's going on with you? You've been sleeping like a coke fiend recently.
Well, dad - you've gotta understand something.
Yeah? what's that?
I might get in trouble for telling you this, but you seem cool. Still too early to tell, really, but I'm gonna go with my gut here. Have you ever heard of the ICC?
Uh, duh. The International Cricket Council. They're the ones that dictate how many tea breaks there are in a cricket match. What does that have to do with your sleep patterns?
Oh, boy, dad. I can see our family's future is completely up to me. No, not the cricket douches. I'm talking about the International Child's Conspiracy.
What? Conspiracy? Are we in Nevada? Even though you're what, 4 months old now, I haven't raised you to believe in that crap.
No, dad - listen. Here's the phenomena - You know those two books you just read? One of them said not to let children cry at nighttime lest they develop anxieties about falling asleep. The other said that if you go and run to your child they will end up becoming severely dependent upon your help and thus not be able to function in society as independent adults.
Yeah, I know. It's insane.
Exactly. That's the point. Studies by babies everywhere have come to the realization that they can better control their parents if they are confused, frustrated and sleep deprived. So the ICC came up with a solution: publish books with vastly differing viewpoints to facilitate the confusion and frustration. Get on forums and twitter and other online media and create rivalry between parents, saying that everyone ELSE is doing it the wrong way. Then, as a final measure, infiltrate the AAP, and control nation-wide baby-policy from there.
Infiltrate the AAP? How does a baby infiltrate the American Academy of Pediatrics?
Simple - they're incredibly likely to have children, aren't they? And they're under a lot of stress already from being doctors and all that. So we just get their babies on board. It's as easy as getting an adult to give candy to a baby.
Clever line.
Thank you.
But how do you communicate with them? They're presumably all over the country, there's no way you get out of the house to travel.
It's sad how stupid you adults really are. Do you really think those baby monitors are one way? They've been engineered as long range walkie-talkies.
I'm afraid of you.
Eh, don't worry about it. You're so sleep deprived, you'll get to work tomorrow and think that this was just some hallucination.
No really, I'm afraid of you. I'm gonna start tattooing clues on my body for me to remember this stuff later like that dude in Memento.
Don't forget - that guy was actually a bad dude.
Was he? I didn't really get that movie.
Oh, dad. Just be quiet and plug my pacifier back in. WAAH!
Well, dad - you've gotta understand something.
Yeah? what's that?
I might get in trouble for telling you this, but you seem cool. Still too early to tell, really, but I'm gonna go with my gut here. Have you ever heard of the ICC?
Uh, duh. The International Cricket Council. They're the ones that dictate how many tea breaks there are in a cricket match. What does that have to do with your sleep patterns?
Oh, boy, dad. I can see our family's future is completely up to me. No, not the cricket douches. I'm talking about the International Child's Conspiracy.
What? Conspiracy? Are we in Nevada? Even though you're what, 4 months old now, I haven't raised you to believe in that crap.
No, dad - listen. Here's the phenomena - You know those two books you just read? One of them said not to let children cry at nighttime lest they develop anxieties about falling asleep. The other said that if you go and run to your child they will end up becoming severely dependent upon your help and thus not be able to function in society as independent adults.
Yeah, I know. It's insane.
Exactly. That's the point. Studies by babies everywhere have come to the realization that they can better control their parents if they are confused, frustrated and sleep deprived. So the ICC came up with a solution: publish books with vastly differing viewpoints to facilitate the confusion and frustration. Get on forums and twitter and other online media and create rivalry between parents, saying that everyone ELSE is doing it the wrong way. Then, as a final measure, infiltrate the AAP, and control nation-wide baby-policy from there.
Infiltrate the AAP? How does a baby infiltrate the American Academy of Pediatrics?
Simple - they're incredibly likely to have children, aren't they? And they're under a lot of stress already from being doctors and all that. So we just get their babies on board. It's as easy as getting an adult to give candy to a baby.
Clever line.
Thank you.
But how do you communicate with them? They're presumably all over the country, there's no way you get out of the house to travel.
It's sad how stupid you adults really are. Do you really think those baby monitors are one way? They've been engineered as long range walkie-talkies.
I'm afraid of you.
Eh, don't worry about it. You're so sleep deprived, you'll get to work tomorrow and think that this was just some hallucination.
No really, I'm afraid of you. I'm gonna start tattooing clues on my body for me to remember this stuff later like that dude in Memento.
Don't forget - that guy was actually a bad dude.
Was he? I didn't really get that movie.
Oh, dad. Just be quiet and plug my pacifier back in. WAAH!
Friday, June 3, 2011
The Best Forever
My wife is putting Sammy to bed - it's her night tonight. I stand in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and half-listening to the story she's reading. I turn around, and move to watch from the entryway of the bathroom.
She sits sideways on a tiny black stool with one elbow resting on top of the crib. She is reading one of her favorite childhood stories to him animatedly. Her book is turned towards him so he can peer into the book and wonder what the pictures are. He concentrates. For the first time all day, he is awake and motionless, trying to figure out the connection between Mama's voice and this flimsy square colorful thing she is holding in front of his face.
Her voice vividly impersonates the characters. She makes sound effects the amplify the story, and whenever she does, Sammy will flash the faintest smile of comprehension. He loves her so dearly.
And in this moment before bedtime, there is so much ecstasy oozing out of everyone in the room - Sammy ecstatic to be spending time with Mama, my wife ecstatic to be interacting with her son for one of the first times ever, and me...
I'm ecstatic watching the two of them feed off each others' happiness. I'm ecstatic that we've been blessed with such a beautiful son. That we've been able to stick together since the beginning of our relationship - six and a half years of some of the most difficult but amazing times in both of our lives. I'm ecstatic that my wife agreed to marry me, and that we'll celebrate it tomorrow.
Though we've only been married two years, it feels like we've known each other forever. The best forever one could hope for.
She sits sideways on a tiny black stool with one elbow resting on top of the crib. She is reading one of her favorite childhood stories to him animatedly. Her book is turned towards him so he can peer into the book and wonder what the pictures are. He concentrates. For the first time all day, he is awake and motionless, trying to figure out the connection between Mama's voice and this flimsy square colorful thing she is holding in front of his face.
Her voice vividly impersonates the characters. She makes sound effects the amplify the story, and whenever she does, Sammy will flash the faintest smile of comprehension. He loves her so dearly.
And in this moment before bedtime, there is so much ecstasy oozing out of everyone in the room - Sammy ecstatic to be spending time with Mama, my wife ecstatic to be interacting with her son for one of the first times ever, and me...
I'm ecstatic watching the two of them feed off each others' happiness. I'm ecstatic that we've been blessed with such a beautiful son. That we've been able to stick together since the beginning of our relationship - six and a half years of some of the most difficult but amazing times in both of our lives. I'm ecstatic that my wife agreed to marry me, and that we'll celebrate it tomorrow.
Though we've only been married two years, it feels like we've known each other forever. The best forever one could hope for.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Scurvy Dogs!
I was amazed. Dumbfounded! Awe-struck, even! The pirate ship that I was so excited about riding was actually mostly for kids. Yargh!
These little shmeckies that were between the ages of four and ten got to have all the pirate-y fun, singing pirate songs, getting pirate treasure, and shooting Mad Dog Mike with the water cannons mounted on the sides of the ship. It was EXACTLY as I had hoped it would be...only totally inappropriate for me to participate. None of the other "adults" were joining in swabbing the deck, or playing "pass the pirate skull". Stupid parents.
I'm not being paid, or even spoken to, by the pirates that were on the ship, but if you ever get a chance, it was actually a really good time. Here's the link: Urban Pirates
Also, apparently rule #1 of the pirate code is not to swing on the riggings. Not cool, pirate code.
WTF, society? What makes it all taboo and crap for a 26 year old to sing and dance along with (and spray water in the face of) elementary school kids?
The nice part about it was that my nephew got to have a really nice time. Oh, who am I kidding. I was totally jealous.
I guess I just can't wait until Sammy is old enough that I can force him to go on these sorts of things so I can use him as an excuse to enjoy all these cool things they have for kids these days. Just off hand, here is a short list of things I've already got in the back of my mind to use Sammy to get into:
These little shmeckies that were between the ages of four and ten got to have all the pirate-y fun, singing pirate songs, getting pirate treasure, and shooting Mad Dog Mike with the water cannons mounted on the sides of the ship. It was EXACTLY as I had hoped it would be...only totally inappropriate for me to participate. None of the other "adults" were joining in swabbing the deck, or playing "pass the pirate skull". Stupid parents.
I'm not being paid, or even spoken to, by the pirates that were on the ship, but if you ever get a chance, it was actually a really good time. Here's the link: Urban Pirates
Also, apparently rule #1 of the pirate code is not to swing on the riggings. Not cool, pirate code.
WTF, society? What makes it all taboo and crap for a 26 year old to sing and dance along with (and spray water in the face of) elementary school kids?
 |
| Society, you're on notice! |
The nice part about it was that my nephew got to have a really nice time. Oh, who am I kidding. I was totally jealous.
I guess I just can't wait until Sammy is old enough that I can force him to go on these sorts of things so I can use him as an excuse to enjoy all these cool things they have for kids these days. Just off hand, here is a short list of things I've already got in the back of my mind to use Sammy to get into:
- Local Kickball games. I'll be the designated pitcher! Just let me play, guys!
- Those gigantic blow up bouncy gyms that everyone seems to have at their birthday parties. The only rule I've ever seen was to not wear shoes...so I guess I'm golden!
- Face Painting at carnivals. You never see adults with their faces painted. I'm thinking of starting an adult-world fashion trend.
- Sesame place has these really awesome water playgrounds that Sammy and I can run around and play in. It's like a jungle gym at the park, but only submerged like a foot and a half in the water. Best idea EVER.
- I'm sure I can leverage Sammy for candy and chocolate SOMEhow.
Just...don't tell him my plans. I'd hate for him to one day figure out why we're REALLY at Six Flags three times a week.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
At least 240 times
It's 10 o'clock at night in the Borscht household. We just got out little one to sleep, he's snoring away like a tiny puppy dog, and my wife and I lie down to go to sleep. Overjoyed with how successfully we got him to bed, we say to each other, "Good night, my love. I could never live without you - you are everything to me, and I couldn't be happier. We have such a wonderful family".
We then drift off to sleep - the two of us grinning happily as we begin to dream of producing a book that tells the secrets to a happy marriage.
It is now 2 o'clock in the morning and Sammy has been awakened by his demon tapeworm. His eyes are alight with anger, and his arms wail about as if possessed.
My wife leans over to nudge me awake and says in her sweetest voice, "Dear - would you kindly tend to our lovely child, as it seems he needs to be changed and fed."
I reply, "Ugh."
To which she says, "What do you mean, 'Ugh', he's YOUR child too, you know". The sweet voice has disappeared.
"Yeah, no duh - I'm just not all that excited about getting up, what's your problem?"
"Well, why not, you ARE apparently the model father. God, I'm so sick of this."
"Sick of what? Talking? Complaining? I don't have a problem if you're so sick that you don't do those things anymore."
Ten minutes go by in silence. She finishes pumping, I finish feeding/changing, and we lie back down.
I say meekly, "Snuggling...kissing?"
She sarcastically, but cutely replies, "So now you're listing things we're never going to do again?" as she submits to being the little spoon and we drift back to sleep in each others arms as if we never said a word to each other.
Repeat this on average twice a night for almost four months (4 months * ~30 nights/month) or about 240 times since the kid came.
We used to get mad at each other, and not talk for a couple hours in the morning after we'd fight at two in the morning, but then we realized...it's two in the morning. It's basically like you're just dreaming anyway.
Also, when you see this face looking up at you from the crib:
It's hard to be mad at anyone.
We then drift off to sleep - the two of us grinning happily as we begin to dream of producing a book that tells the secrets to a happy marriage.
It is now 2 o'clock in the morning and Sammy has been awakened by his demon tapeworm. His eyes are alight with anger, and his arms wail about as if possessed.
My wife leans over to nudge me awake and says in her sweetest voice, "Dear - would you kindly tend to our lovely child, as it seems he needs to be changed and fed."
I reply, "Ugh."
To which she says, "What do you mean, 'Ugh', he's YOUR child too, you know". The sweet voice has disappeared.
"Yeah, no duh - I'm just not all that excited about getting up, what's your problem?"
"Well, why not, you ARE apparently the model father. God, I'm so sick of this."
"Sick of what? Talking? Complaining? I don't have a problem if you're so sick that you don't do those things anymore."
Ten minutes go by in silence. She finishes pumping, I finish feeding/changing, and we lie back down.
I say meekly, "Snuggling...kissing?"
She sarcastically, but cutely replies, "So now you're listing things we're never going to do again?" as she submits to being the little spoon and we drift back to sleep in each others arms as if we never said a word to each other.
Repeat this on average twice a night for almost four months (4 months * ~30 nights/month) or about 240 times since the kid came.
We used to get mad at each other, and not talk for a couple hours in the morning after we'd fight at two in the morning, but then we realized...it's two in the morning. It's basically like you're just dreaming anyway.
Also, when you see this face looking up at you from the crib:
It's hard to be mad at anyone.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Decline of the state of "Man" - Part One
One of the huge things that pissed me off about being at my brother's wedding was the almost blatant disregard for the fact that I've got a wife and a three month old child.
When we were going to the rehearsal dinner, he had a fecal emergency which put us back 15 minutes. When we got to the restaurant, it was as if the world had ended that I wasn't there on time. Seriously, people were melting like Raiders of the Lost Ark. (side note - remember this movie for this Saturday). I was also five minutes late for pictures with the groom because I was taking care of the kid while my wife was pumping, and it's damn near impossible to manage to pump and look after a screaming kid at the same time. I came downstairs and my dad scolds me like I'm three years old for being five minutes late. It was like this basically all weekend.
This got me thinking about a few conversations I've had at work with guys who say things like, "the first three months or so aren't that bad, because your wife is breast feeding and you don't have to get up to help."
When my son descends into hunger-insanity in the middle of the night, I will always get up with my wife. The routine goes like this: she will generally warm up milk while I try to calm the kid down until the milk's ready. Then I will feed him while my wife pumps. Then I'll change him and re-swaddle him and put him down and make sure he falls asleep. By the time he's asleep, my wife is usually done pumping, and we both go back to sleep at the same time. If I didn't help, she would be up twice as long, feeding the kid and then pumping.
I realize we have a bit of a crazy situation, because my son never figured out breastfeeding, and thus we feed him breast milk from the bottle. Yes, this is just as terrible as it sounds - but less terrible than an infant with his scream set on "permanent".
But in the first six weeks, when we were giving breastfeeding our most valiant effort, even though my wife was trying to feed, I would still get up, help change, swaddle and get the kid back to sleep-land. It wasn't even really a question. Sure I complained, and still do, but if you've made it through three months of having a kid without complaining, you deserve a medal, or at least a high five and some Cheetos.
But the thing about is, that even though I complained, it wasn't because I had to do it. I complained because, well, after a couple really, really long nights, it just straight up sucks. But I still did it because I have a wife who carried and then birthed my child, and a helpless child who needed me to be there for him. It wouldn't really be fair to say to them, "hey, look - I'm kinda tired. You mind if I go back to bed and you two figure it out?" Not only would it be unfair, but I'd also be shirking the responsibilities I signed up for when my wife and I decided to have a child together.
So that's why I was pissed. Look, I'm not trying to paint myself as some saint, but I'm just trying to honestly figure out why it is that a dedication to your family first and foremost is not only looked down on by other men, but it is also seen as a kind of weakness - that this is something the wife can take care of, while the man should be asleep. What is this, 1950 and/or the Middle East?
This rant could go on for two or three more hours, but I think it's probably best to split it up into three different posts. I wanted to get into the Man Cave phenomenon, as well as the gender role polarization, but I figure it's gonna take forever to get all of it into one post. Thus, the title of this post contains an insinuation of further parts.
So a serious, honest question: Am I wrong to feel this way? I'd truly love to hear other points of view, because I'm not exposed to them. And I'm legitimately interested in how other families manage their gender roles.
When we were going to the rehearsal dinner, he had a fecal emergency which put us back 15 minutes. When we got to the restaurant, it was as if the world had ended that I wasn't there on time. Seriously, people were melting like Raiders of the Lost Ark. (side note - remember this movie for this Saturday). I was also five minutes late for pictures with the groom because I was taking care of the kid while my wife was pumping, and it's damn near impossible to manage to pump and look after a screaming kid at the same time. I came downstairs and my dad scolds me like I'm three years old for being five minutes late. It was like this basically all weekend.
This got me thinking about a few conversations I've had at work with guys who say things like, "the first three months or so aren't that bad, because your wife is breast feeding and you don't have to get up to help."
When my son descends into hunger-insanity in the middle of the night, I will always get up with my wife. The routine goes like this: she will generally warm up milk while I try to calm the kid down until the milk's ready. Then I will feed him while my wife pumps. Then I'll change him and re-swaddle him and put him down and make sure he falls asleep. By the time he's asleep, my wife is usually done pumping, and we both go back to sleep at the same time. If I didn't help, she would be up twice as long, feeding the kid and then pumping.
I realize we have a bit of a crazy situation, because my son never figured out breastfeeding, and thus we feed him breast milk from the bottle. Yes, this is just as terrible as it sounds - but less terrible than an infant with his scream set on "permanent".
But in the first six weeks, when we were giving breastfeeding our most valiant effort, even though my wife was trying to feed, I would still get up, help change, swaddle and get the kid back to sleep-land. It wasn't even really a question. Sure I complained, and still do, but if you've made it through three months of having a kid without complaining, you deserve a medal, or at least a high five and some Cheetos.
But the thing about is, that even though I complained, it wasn't because I had to do it. I complained because, well, after a couple really, really long nights, it just straight up sucks. But I still did it because I have a wife who carried and then birthed my child, and a helpless child who needed me to be there for him. It wouldn't really be fair to say to them, "hey, look - I'm kinda tired. You mind if I go back to bed and you two figure it out?" Not only would it be unfair, but I'd also be shirking the responsibilities I signed up for when my wife and I decided to have a child together.
So that's why I was pissed. Look, I'm not trying to paint myself as some saint, but I'm just trying to honestly figure out why it is that a dedication to your family first and foremost is not only looked down on by other men, but it is also seen as a kind of weakness - that this is something the wife can take care of, while the man should be asleep. What is this, 1950 and/or the Middle East?
This rant could go on for two or three more hours, but I think it's probably best to split it up into three different posts. I wanted to get into the Man Cave phenomenon, as well as the gender role polarization, but I figure it's gonna take forever to get all of it into one post. Thus, the title of this post contains an insinuation of further parts.
So a serious, honest question: Am I wrong to feel this way? I'd truly love to hear other points of view, because I'm not exposed to them. And I'm legitimately interested in how other families manage their gender roles.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Our Easter/Passover plans
My wife and I had just put Sammy down to bed last night, and we began discussing how we were going to celebrate both Passover and Easter in our house, cause, well, just in case. We like to be ready for anything. Like May 21st, and of course, May 22nd.
Coming from two different religious backgrounds, we're trying to figure out what is going to be the most culturally rewarding, yet spiritually enriching way to introduce religion to Sammy's life. But of course, as with any discussion about religion, we began talking about the rituals:
Me: So, what - no Easter Egg Hunts?
Her: No, we already hide the matzo, that'll be our tradition. And we'll make sure that Sammy knows why we're hiding it, unlike Christians, who don't know why they're hiding the Easter eggs.
Me: WHAT? We know. It's like the Christian version of the Africa-man (you can see I try to be as cultured as possible). Deeply steeped in tradition and spiritual value. You know, eggs = rebirth, right? And bunnies....?...lots of sex.
(pause)
Me: which fits into the story SOMEhow.
Her: Exactly. So this is why we'll be eating horseradish, dipping bitter herbs in salt water, and having hard boiled eggs.
Me: This sounds like a delicious feast. Way better than chocolate. Look - I don't care much for the Christian traditions, but I do care about the Easter egg hunt.
This is where she made the compromise that we would be doing an Egg hunt, but it would be called a "Passover Egg Hunt", and it would happen on a day OTHER than Easter, so as not to confuse Sammy.
Psh, whatever. I'm just excited about hiding the eggs.
Coming from two different religious backgrounds, we're trying to figure out what is going to be the most culturally rewarding, yet spiritually enriching way to introduce religion to Sammy's life. But of course, as with any discussion about religion, we began talking about the rituals:
Me: So, what - no Easter Egg Hunts?
Her: No, we already hide the matzo, that'll be our tradition. And we'll make sure that Sammy knows why we're hiding it, unlike Christians, who don't know why they're hiding the Easter eggs.
Me: WHAT? We know. It's like the Christian version of the Africa-man (you can see I try to be as cultured as possible). Deeply steeped in tradition and spiritual value. You know, eggs = rebirth, right? And bunnies....?...lots of sex.
(pause)
Me: which fits into the story SOMEhow.
Her: Exactly. So this is why we'll be eating horseradish, dipping bitter herbs in salt water, and having hard boiled eggs.
Me: This sounds like a delicious feast. Way better than chocolate. Look - I don't care much for the Christian traditions, but I do care about the Easter egg hunt.
This is where she made the compromise that we would be doing an Egg hunt, but it would be called a "Passover Egg Hunt", and it would happen on a day OTHER than Easter, so as not to confuse Sammy.
Psh, whatever. I'm just excited about hiding the eggs.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Lunch Lady, and the Power of Newborns
I'm cool with the lunch lady here at work. Back in the day, we used to go for smoke breaks together, and every once in a while, we'll chat over coffee for five minutes before getting back to work.
About two weeks ago, she was telling me about how her son and his girlfriend were going to have a baby. She was distressed because the son had barely spoken to her in months, and they were on the outs. Every family has their reasons, and every side has its story, but the reason she gave was because the son and his girl were worthless sacks of flesh that were more interested in getting high than trying to find legitimate jobs and starting a legitimate life. They had gotten pregnant a couple times before (on purpose), but they had gotten abortions due to the influence of each their respective parents (judge not - as this is definitely not the purpose of the post).
And because of the drama surrounding her son and the impending baby situation, you could tell that she was both deeply depressed, and emotionally exhausted from fighting with her son for what she thought was right - a good stable career and a steady income. Whether she was right isn't the issue. And as time went on, you could see the depression deepen, and the exhaustion worsen.
Until, through all the drama and exhaustion, she came to work today screaming and jumping like an idiot, waving a picture of her grandson as if there was some hysterical drunken parade, and she was the flag-bearer. She came up to every single person in the lunch room, whether she knew them or not, and told them about her grandson, and how she was so proud - the ridiculous grin on her face seemed to belie anything personal that was going on in her life.
This is the magic of newborns - so weak and helpless, but still - so powerful.
About two weeks ago, she was telling me about how her son and his girlfriend were going to have a baby. She was distressed because the son had barely spoken to her in months, and they were on the outs. Every family has their reasons, and every side has its story, but the reason she gave was because the son and his girl were worthless sacks of flesh that were more interested in getting high than trying to find legitimate jobs and starting a legitimate life. They had gotten pregnant a couple times before (on purpose), but they had gotten abortions due to the influence of each their respective parents (judge not - as this is definitely not the purpose of the post).
And because of the drama surrounding her son and the impending baby situation, you could tell that she was both deeply depressed, and emotionally exhausted from fighting with her son for what she thought was right - a good stable career and a steady income. Whether she was right isn't the issue. And as time went on, you could see the depression deepen, and the exhaustion worsen.
Until, through all the drama and exhaustion, she came to work today screaming and jumping like an idiot, waving a picture of her grandson as if there was some hysterical drunken parade, and she was the flag-bearer. She came up to every single person in the lunch room, whether she knew them or not, and told them about her grandson, and how she was so proud - the ridiculous grin on her face seemed to belie anything personal that was going on in her life.
This is the magic of newborns - so weak and helpless, but still - so powerful.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Children's Interests
My wife is going out with one of her girlfriends for a walk with the kids today. Her friend has a 3 year old that is obsessed with dinosaurs. And apparently, everyone's amazed by this. This is big time news that a 3 year old would be into dinosaurs.
When I was growing up, from the age of three to about 13 or so, I was absolutely obsessed with dinosaurs, So when this little boy discusses the eating habits of an Ankylosaurous vs. that of a Deinonychus, people are oo-ing and awe-ing over how he could possibly know these things. And I'm sitting there like, "psh, I bet he doesn't even know about the evidence against pack hunting found in a recent Yale University study." Stupid three year old.
Right around the age of 6, my family moved to San Diego, right in the path of the airport landing area. There was also a crazy amount of military aircraft constantly circling the air, and doing super sweet touch and go's. So naturally, my crazy love for dinosaurs then EVOLVED into an obsession for airplanes. (pats self on back).
For example, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Holland, was such a great teacher that I wanted to thank her after such a good year. We got caterpillars and grew them into butterflies, people - it was an amazing year. So what did I do? I drew a sweet picture of a squadron of ME 109's attacking a village. She was deeply moved, I could tell.
Not that there's anything wrong with Pokemon and Elmo, but...just sayin'
When I was growing up, from the age of three to about 13 or so, I was absolutely obsessed with dinosaurs, So when this little boy discusses the eating habits of an Ankylosaurous vs. that of a Deinonychus, people are oo-ing and awe-ing over how he could possibly know these things. And I'm sitting there like, "psh, I bet he doesn't even know about the evidence against pack hunting found in a recent Yale University study." Stupid three year old.
Right around the age of 6, my family moved to San Diego, right in the path of the airport landing area. There was also a crazy amount of military aircraft constantly circling the air, and doing super sweet touch and go's. So naturally, my crazy love for dinosaurs then EVOLVED into an obsession for airplanes. (pats self on back).
For example, my second grade teacher, Mrs. Holland, was such a great teacher that I wanted to thank her after such a good year. We got caterpillars and grew them into butterflies, people - it was an amazing year. So what did I do? I drew a sweet picture of a squadron of ME 109's attacking a village. She was deeply moved, I could tell.
On a tangent, did you know that the A-10 Thunderbolt II is so sturdy that it can actually lose a piece of its wing and still operate effectively? The 30mm Avenger cannon on the front of it has earned it the creative name, "Tank Buster".
One word: Bu-GOW!
So I guess the point of the story is that when MY little one gets a little older, I can only HOPE that he's interested in awesome boy things. The following is a list of pre-approved things that are awesome:
- Rocket Ships
- Space
- Insects
- Forts and their corresponding structural integrity
- History is OK as long as it's military history
- Ninjas
- Race Cars
- Tanks
Not that there's anything wrong with Pokemon and Elmo, but...just sayin'
Friday, April 1, 2011
Singing to Sammy
Sammy is beginning to learn that he LOVES listening to music. He loves it when either my wife or I sing to him. It's almost like an instantaneous calming effect that somehow brings him out of whatever funky mood he's in and gets him back to being a smiling little Schmoogle.
But there's a problem - I tend to blank out on song choices. It's like three or four song Karaoke. Luckily, Sammy doesn't mind. He's totally into them, and why not? They're awesome songs. Just...it's a strange choice.
I know there should be some education somewhere in the songs for little kids, mixed with classical music. So, these are the only four songs I can readily sing at a moment's notice.
1. Bunny of Seville
Great song and great music. Plus, I have a little Wayne's World crush on Bugs Bunny when he's singing the "I'm your little senorita" part of the song.
2. The nations of the World by Yakko Warner
Ok, I know it's a little out of date map-wise (there's still Czechoslovakia), but how can you not love a song that rhymes San Juan with Guam? Canada with Panama?
3. Three is the Magic Number (blind melon version)
This video takes a couple seconds to get going, but who doesn't love schoolhouse rock? and Blind Melon singing a Schoolhouse Rock song? priceless.
4. Inchworm Song
I only ever knew about this song because Robert from "Everybody Loves Raymond" (or as my wife calls it, "I Love Raymond, screw everyone else!") sang it to the kids in the show in one very obscure episode. But i'm a huge fan. Something about the minor key in a children's song, which is uncommon enough, mixed with the lackadaisical counting and alliteration of "measuring the marigolds". Possibly one of my favorite children's songs ever.
And that's it. That's my whole repertoire for age-appropriate songs. I think while I may have been emotionally ready to have a child, i was nowhere near prepared in a mental sense, what with my lack of books, and now this lack of good music.
My wife, as she has always been, is great with remembering all those great songs from her childhood. There's goluboi vagon, Antoshka, the russian "happy birthday", Tra-ta-ta and about 300 others she can readily start singing.
Similar to asking about appropriate books, is there a kid's CD that is preferred over other ones? I'm not exactly looking for "twinkle twinkle" or "the itsy bitsy spider", I think they're too...demeaning. But I'm also not looking for Vivaldi's Four Seasons either. Suggestions?
But there's a problem - I tend to blank out on song choices. It's like three or four song Karaoke. Luckily, Sammy doesn't mind. He's totally into them, and why not? They're awesome songs. Just...it's a strange choice.
I know there should be some education somewhere in the songs for little kids, mixed with classical music. So, these are the only four songs I can readily sing at a moment's notice.
1. Bunny of Seville
Great song and great music. Plus, I have a little Wayne's World crush on Bugs Bunny when he's singing the "I'm your little senorita" part of the song.
2. The nations of the World by Yakko Warner
Ok, I know it's a little out of date map-wise (there's still Czechoslovakia), but how can you not love a song that rhymes San Juan with Guam? Canada with Panama?
This video takes a couple seconds to get going, but who doesn't love schoolhouse rock? and Blind Melon singing a Schoolhouse Rock song? priceless.
4. Inchworm Song
I only ever knew about this song because Robert from "Everybody Loves Raymond" (or as my wife calls it, "I Love Raymond, screw everyone else!") sang it to the kids in the show in one very obscure episode. But i'm a huge fan. Something about the minor key in a children's song, which is uncommon enough, mixed with the lackadaisical counting and alliteration of "measuring the marigolds". Possibly one of my favorite children's songs ever.
And that's it. That's my whole repertoire for age-appropriate songs. I think while I may have been emotionally ready to have a child, i was nowhere near prepared in a mental sense, what with my lack of books, and now this lack of good music.
My wife, as she has always been, is great with remembering all those great songs from her childhood. There's goluboi vagon, Antoshka, the russian "happy birthday", Tra-ta-ta and about 300 others she can readily start singing.
Similar to asking about appropriate books, is there a kid's CD that is preferred over other ones? I'm not exactly looking for "twinkle twinkle" or "the itsy bitsy spider", I think they're too...demeaning. But I'm also not looking for Vivaldi's Four Seasons either. Suggestions?
Monday, March 28, 2011
March Madness
I totally had this wacky Final Four on my bracket. I know, it's the weirdest thing.
Let me tell you my secret to filling in a bracket correctly every single year: wait until the end of March.
This way, by the time you have filled out your bracket, you will have found out all of the upsets, all of the dominations by the favored teams, and you will end up with a final four that includes VCU, Butler, Kentucky, and Connecticut. The only downside to this is that I don't have anyone picked out yet for winning the whole thing, but if I were to make a guess, I'd have a 25% chance of randomly guessing the correct answer, much higher than that of the poor guys and gals who were too impatient to wait and see who the final four was.
I was just about to make my prediction for who will take the whole thing, but I realized I've gotta...go do...something. Until April 5th. So sorry.
In all reality, this is the first year that I haven't filled out a Bracket in a very long time. So this is my excuse when people ask me about my bracket. But being someone who doesn't really follow sports, I don't feel like I'm missing out too much.
And why don't I follow sports? Because my father follows Cricket. The only exposure I think most Americans had to cricket was when Casey Jones from TMNT hits Raphael with a cricket bat ("Cricket? nobody understand cricket! You gotta know what a crumpet is to understand cricket!"). Right after this Raph says, "A Jose Canseco Bat? Tell me you didn't pay money for this".
Self respecting American men should not follow Cricket - the only game where they take breaks for tea time. Seriously, they have a tea party in the middle of the game. Complete with porcelain china.
I think it would have been different if he had followed something badass like Rugby. Or even that ridiculous Afghani sport where they beat around a stuffed goat's bladder on horseback. Provided, of course, he needed to follow a foreign sport in the first place.
I would have been fine with Baseball.
Let me tell you my secret to filling in a bracket correctly every single year: wait until the end of March.
This way, by the time you have filled out your bracket, you will have found out all of the upsets, all of the dominations by the favored teams, and you will end up with a final four that includes VCU, Butler, Kentucky, and Connecticut. The only downside to this is that I don't have anyone picked out yet for winning the whole thing, but if I were to make a guess, I'd have a 25% chance of randomly guessing the correct answer, much higher than that of the poor guys and gals who were too impatient to wait and see who the final four was.
I was just about to make my prediction for who will take the whole thing, but I realized I've gotta...go do...something. Until April 5th. So sorry.
In all reality, this is the first year that I haven't filled out a Bracket in a very long time. So this is my excuse when people ask me about my bracket. But being someone who doesn't really follow sports, I don't feel like I'm missing out too much.
And why don't I follow sports? Because my father follows Cricket. The only exposure I think most Americans had to cricket was when Casey Jones from TMNT hits Raphael with a cricket bat ("Cricket? nobody understand cricket! You gotta know what a crumpet is to understand cricket!"). Right after this Raph says, "A Jose Canseco Bat? Tell me you didn't pay money for this".
Self respecting American men should not follow Cricket - the only game where they take breaks for tea time. Seriously, they have a tea party in the middle of the game. Complete with porcelain china.
I think it would have been different if he had followed something badass like Rugby. Or even that ridiculous Afghani sport where they beat around a stuffed goat's bladder on horseback. Provided, of course, he needed to follow a foreign sport in the first place.
I would have been fine with Baseball.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Night-time Routine
Fed up with the month long randomness that went along with having a month old child, my wife and I decided to put Sammy on a routine.
After a bath, a rubdown with baby-oil, and a clean diaper, and while being fed, we read to him, alternating between Russian language stories and English language stories.
That's all fine and good, but there's one problem. I don't have any English Language books for a 2 month old.
I've got Calvin and Hobbes. I've got Horatio Hornblower. I've got Hardy Boys, and Treasure Island, and Three Musketeers, and old Spider Man comics. Dragonlance, C.S. Lewis, The entire Oz series of books, miscellaneous Star wars (canon, duh) books, and Goosebumps.
But I have nothing for someone who cannot hold his own head.
My wife, on the other hand, has hundreds of silly jovial stories about various forest animals interacting in a friendly and helpful way. In one, a friendly bird is helping some cute squirrels gather food for the winter. In another, a fox defends a deer against a dangerous boar through wit and cleverness.
I started with two - Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny. And now I'm out.
But I've looked! and everything I've seen has been disappointingly stupid. Take Mrs. Mustard's Baby Face book. Just a bunch of faces. Dumb. Then there's Black & White. I'm not crazy about beginning to teach my 8 week old about racial inequalities just yet. And I also came across Pat the Bunny, which seems like a thinly veiled sexy book. inappropriate, much?
So, I guess I'm going to have to resort to reading in Russian, subjecting my son to bad pronunciation and frequently made-up words. Anyone have any suggestions as to good infant books?
After a bath, a rubdown with baby-oil, and a clean diaper, and while being fed, we read to him, alternating between Russian language stories and English language stories.
That's all fine and good, but there's one problem. I don't have any English Language books for a 2 month old.
I've got Calvin and Hobbes. I've got Horatio Hornblower. I've got Hardy Boys, and Treasure Island, and Three Musketeers, and old Spider Man comics. Dragonlance, C.S. Lewis, The entire Oz series of books, miscellaneous Star wars (canon, duh) books, and Goosebumps.
But I have nothing for someone who cannot hold his own head.
My wife, on the other hand, has hundreds of silly jovial stories about various forest animals interacting in a friendly and helpful way. In one, a friendly bird is helping some cute squirrels gather food for the winter. In another, a fox defends a deer against a dangerous boar through wit and cleverness.
I started with two - Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny. And now I'm out.
But I've looked! and everything I've seen has been disappointingly stupid. Take Mrs. Mustard's Baby Face book. Just a bunch of faces. Dumb. Then there's Black & White. I'm not crazy about beginning to teach my 8 week old about racial inequalities just yet. And I also came across Pat the Bunny, which seems like a thinly veiled sexy book. inappropriate, much?
So, I guess I'm going to have to resort to reading in Russian, subjecting my son to bad pronunciation and frequently made-up words. Anyone have any suggestions as to good infant books?
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