Perfect Moments in Time

I play with my sons as much as I can because those are the most perfect moments in my life. The other night, we played football. Well, it wasn’t really football; it was more like chasing whoever had the ball around the house until you caught him. And once you caught him, you tickled him into submission. Jackson and Ethan began teaming up and blocking for each other. A prouder daddy I couldn’t have been. By the way, Charlie throws a mean spiral.

After football, we played Hide and Go Seek. Jackson and I hid on the far side of the couch under a blanket while Charlie looked for us. Jackson thought it would be funny to fart while we were under the blanket, knowing that I would be trapped in the smell. He couldn’t help but laugh, and Charlie found us.

That night, like every night, after my sons went to sleep, I checked on them and spent a few minutes watching them sleep. Those few moments are always perfect moments in time where I reflect on how fast my boys have grown, how much I love them, and wonder what their futures hold. Those moments, as are the moments when I’m playing with my sons, have a palpable yet surreal and fleeting feeling to them that I wish I could capture and save forever. But as much as I cannot capture light in a jar, I cannot capture those moments. The best I can do is burn those moments into my memory, because like all other perfect moments in time, they slip away.

When I took my boys camping for their first time this past summer, I spent a few moments watching them while they slept in the tent. Watching them sleeping in their new sleeping bags was a perfect moment in time. Then I spent time watching the dying campfire, not wanting it to die, because watching it in the quietness of the nighttime forest was a perfect moment in time. When the fire was reduced to coals, I watched the moon and the stars as they kept their eternal stead, and that was a perfect moment in time. Those moments I burned into my memory as they slipped away.

Our days in this life are numbered. Every moment we live is one less moment that we have left to live. While we may have a lot of imperfect moments in our lives, we have perfect moments ahead of us, and when they come, I hope that we can cherish those moments and not let them be tainted by the imperfect moments that came before.

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For The Longest Time

         The Billy Joel song "For the Longest Time" came on today. As I listened to it, I realized that I hadn't heard that song for the longest time. I then wondered if I should be embarrassed to admit that I like Billy Joel's music. That's not something to be ashamed of, is it? Or, since I grew up in a quiet neighborhood in a nice town, am I only supposed to like Eminem? A poseur I am not. I hate Eminem. Except, of course, if I want you to think I'm cool. Then I'll tell you that he's a genius and that I saw 8 Mile six times.

         But the question remains, should I be embarrassed about liking Billy Joel's music? Certainly it can't be as bad as admitting that I loved the Bangles, especially their song "Walk Like an Egyptian," which is hands down the best song ever written. Did I just admit I loved the Bangles? Maybe. But I'll just say this: I am not embarrassed to admit my love for the Bangles singer, Susanna Hoffs. She is flat out hot. 
         Susanna, I loved you then and I love you now. Is this burning an eternal flame? Maybe. I should probably see a doctor about it. But enough about me, Susanna. This is about you and, well, about your restraining order. It's not necessary. Did I mention that I wrote you a song? If you let me sing it to you, you'll know how much I love you. It's called "I Love You A Really Really Lot Because You're Really Really Hot." That's all there is. It's a short song. 

         Anyhoo, so there I was, listening to Billy Joel's "For the Longest Time," and I was struck by the part that goes "Who knows how much further we'll go on / Maybe I'll be sorry when you're gone / I'll take my chances, I forgot how nice romance is / I haven't been there for the longest time."

         Listening to these lyrics, my first thought was, "Wow, he rhymed 'chances' with 'romance is.'" My second thought was, "I sure hope a bird doesn't land on my head today." I worry about that a lot. How am I supposed to react to a bird landing on my head? Especially in public? Am I supposed to swat it away and make a fool of myself in the process? Or do I pretend that I don't really care that there's a bird on my head and go about my business? And if a bird did land on my head, I wonder how long it would stay there? All day? I certainly hope not. I think I could handle five minutes all right. That seems like a reasonable amount of time.

         But after thinking about birds landing on my head, my next thought was "Am I willing to take chances for nice romances?" (Pretty sweet how I rhymed that, huh?) If the risk involves a high probability of being bludgeoned, I'd say no. Been there, done that, and I'm not a sucker for pain. But how can I gauge the probabilities of bludgeoning? Maybe it's not possible. Maybe no two people can gauge the probabilities at first. Maybe, as the relationship goes forward, it's a matter of somehow proving to each other that you can trust each other, that you can satisfy each other's basic relationship needs, maybe not all at once, but at least that you can move in that direction.

         There are songs about loving someone so much that you'd die for them. I'll let you in on a little secret. Dying for someone is easy. It takes no talent. Living for someone, on the other hand, requires a lifetime of work, and that, to me, is love. 

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Hawaii: Just Another Alcatraz?

          I've never been to Hawai'i. I hear it's beautiful, a veritable paradise. I've thought of going there someday, but I have grave concerns. What are my concerns? 
          Geckos. 
          I'm not sure I want to go somewhere where little Geico spokesmen are crawling around on the ceiling while I'm trying to sleep. Gross. I'd need a club to smash all the geckos I could find. I'd teach those cute, witty, insurance-slinging creatures to crawl around on MY ceiling. 
          My next concern about Hawai'i are the tarantulas and tiki idol curses. Remember when the Brady Bunch went to Hawai'i? Enough said. Now, you'd think that geckos, tarantulas, and tiki idol curses would be enough justification for anyone to stay away from Hawai'i, and you'd be right. But oh, my friends, I've got one more reason, you might even say it's the ULTIMATE reason, to stay away from that state: Hawai'i is an island. 
          Actually, it's more than one island, at least according to the propaganda. I really don't know because I've never been there. Either way, my concern is the same. Once you're on that island, you're trapped. The only way off the island is by plane. Maybe by boat. I don't know if they have boats over there, I've never been. In other words, once you get there, you might as well be at Alcatraz. Maybe it's nicer than Alcatraz, I don't know. I've never been there, either.
          Leaving by plane or by boat (if they have boats) ordinarily wouldn't be a problem. But what if, while I'm in Hawai'i, I decided to lead a life of crime? There's only so far I'd be able to run. The police would simply make sure that I didn't board a plane or a boat (if they have boats) and I'd basically be trapped. Sooner or later they'd get me. So that makes me wonder if there is any crime at all in Hawai'i. You'd think that Hawai'i would be the WORST state in which to begin a career as a bank robber.
          If you're like me, you like to eat a lot of Tabasco sauce. And if you're like me, sometimes you want to show how tough you are by drinking a whole bottle of Tabasco sauce on a dare. And although you win the dare and pay for it with severe heartburn and fiery bowel movements, you are comforted by the fact that you've won the respect of your drunken, unemployed friends who've been crashing on your couch and living room floor for the past two weeks. But if you're really like me, you like to keep your options open. That's my motto: keep your options open. That's why I can never decide where to go to dinner. Or which route to take to get to dinner. Once I make a decision, all the other options are no longer open, and that saddens me. 
          The point is, while I never plan on leading a life of crime, you never know if a First Blood (starring Sylvester Stallone) situation will arise where a small town sheriff with an ax to grind unjustly and wrongfully picks on the wrong, but totally innocent, person. So if that particular scenario happens to me, and I think it might because at some point I think my life will turn into a kick ass movie, I'd really prefer that it not happen in Hawai'i, because once I escape from the police, I don't want to be trapped on some island in the Pacific. I mean, if it happened in the continental United States, I could use the survival skills I picked up from all the Rambo movies and Chuck Norris movies from my youth to basically go anywhere from here to the Arctic north or maybe anywhere from here to the southern tip of South America. But if it happens in Hawai'i, my life-turned-movie will be about me trying to swim from Hawai'i to California. Can you think of a suckier movie than that?
          And that's why I stay away from Hawai'i.

The Robot Talk

           Sometimes my boys ask me questions that I just don’t know the answers to. And if I do know the answers, how am I supposed to explain those answers to such innocent, young kids? The other day, my five-year-old son, Jackson, asked me this: “Um, Dad, where are robots?” That’s one of those questions that, as parents, we all expect to someday be asked, yet dread the day that it is asked. I didn’t expect to be asked so soon. I thought it would be another five or ten years before I had to have the Robot Talk with my sons. I say “sons” because Ethan had wandered in from the other room. He’d heard Jackson’s question and wanted to hear what I had to say.

“Well, boys,” I said, looking at my feet, feeling awkward and definitely at a loss for words. “You know…well…robots are everywhere….”

“Where?” Jackson asked.

“They’re in factories….”

“What are factories?” he asked.

“Factories are where things are made.”

“Oh, you mean like bananas and video games?”

“No, not bananas.”

“I want a boonana!” Ethan said.

“We don’t have any bananas,” I said

“Oh!” Ethan said, stomping his foot in displeasure. “I wanted a boonana!”

“Ethan!” Jackson said. “We don’t have any!”

“Dad!” Ethan yelled. “Jackson’s mean at me!”

“Jackson’s not mean at you,” I assured.

“Yeah, Ethan,” Jackson said, “We’re just talking about robots and factories and, you know, more robots.”

“But I really love boonanas,” Ethan said, dejectedly.

“I know you do,” I said. “I’ll get some at the store tomorrow.”

“How did the robots get in the factories?” Jackson asked.

“Maybe they were built there,” I said.

“Oh, they didn’t walk there?”

“No. They were built there or maybe they were brought there.”

“Are they nice?”

“They’re not mean or nice,” I said. “They’re just machines.”

“Oh, you mean, if we’re nice to them, they’ll be nice to us, but if we’re mean to them, they’ll be mean to us?”

“No. They just build things.”

“Why?”

“It makes life easier, I guess.”

Naturally, Jackson and Ethan wanted to know more about car-building robots, so I decided to look for online videos of robots assembling cars. I showed them the first video I found. Jackson seemed interested in the video and Ethan looked troubled. Jackson asked how the robots could see, since they didn’t have eyes. Before I could answer, he asked, “Dad, are those robots gonna try to astroy us?” [Astroy = Destroy in Jackson-speak.]

            I assured him that they would not try to destroy us. Then a lightbulb went off in his head. “Oh, cuz we’d shoot them with guns or something?”

I thought about telling him that these robots will never come after us. But then I thought about the Terminator movies, as well as I, Robot, Transformers, and any number of other evil-robot movies. What if robots did come after us someday? As a parent, I strongly believe that you have to prepare your children for the future, so I answered, “Yes, son, we’ll shoot them with guns. Or something.”

            “And then,” Ethan chimed in, “we’ll throw them in hot lava.”

We all agreed that was a good idea, because throwing robots in hot lava would be so cool.

Hello and Goodbye

          After working late the other night, my colleague and I decided to grab a late dinner at a bar and grill. As we were looking over the menus, a group of women came in and sat at a table not far from us. As you might expect, they were checking me out BIG TIME. 

          Seriously. 

          Stop laughing.

          They really were. 

          Okay, you win, they weren't checking me out BIG TIME, but they were definitely scoping me out. And by "they" I mean that one of the girls glanced at me. 

          For real. 

          We actually made eye contact. And it wasn't because I was staring at her for a really, really long time, so long, in fact, that it finally drew her attention to me long enough to creep her out and tell her girlfriends that the weirdo at the next table was staring at her. It wasn't like that at all. 

          She smiled at me.

          Most guys out there would feel pretty good about that. But the problem was that I could tell by looking at her that she wasn't my type. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that you should always, always, judge a book by it's cover. And I could tell by looking at this girl that she (1) had read Eclipse three times; (2) had played the clarinet up until the eighth grade; and (3) had once been involved in an exorcism.  
          I can overlook a lot of flaws in a girl, believe you me. For example, I once dated a girl who wore braces, which proves that it's not all about looks with me. I really hated those braces, after all. They made her look ridiculous, which is why I broke up with her. Thanks for prying.
          Anyway, back to the girl at the bar and grill. I could have overlooked the fact that she had played the clarinet and had been involved in an exorcism. But I couldn't get past the fact that she had read Eclipse more than once. That's shameful behavior, pure and simple. Obviously, then, once she decided to come over and hit on me, I'd have to turn her down.
          My buddy looked at me and asked me what's wrong. "What's wrong?" he asked.
          "What's wrong?" I echoed.
          "What's wrong?" he repeated.
          "What's wrong?" I parroted.
          "What's wrong?" he re-asked.
          "What's wrong?" I copied.
          "What's wrong?" he italicized.
          "What's wrong," I emphasized, "is that a girl over there is going to hit on me, and I'm not interested."
          I glanced over at the girl. She was looking at me. Then she stood up. "Oh crap, here she comes," I whispered.
          The girl walked towards me...and kept on going, out the front door, and she didn't come back. I was stunned. I wondered what she thought she saw in me that she didn't like. Needless to say, I learned an important lesson that night, which is, the nachos at Old Chicago are superb. Give em a try. Tell em Cody sent you.

New Roads

The road I'd been driving on seemed like the shortest route to my destination and I was confident it would get me there. But it had a lot of potholes. I found that if I drove the speed limit, I couldn't avoid the potholes. I ignored the danger and ended up blowing out a tire and nearly crashed. I was a little shaken and because I was shaken, it took me longer than it should have to put on the spare. 

Once the spare was on, I decided that I couldn't risk driving the speed limit anymore, because the next time I hit a pothole, the damage might be much worse. As I drove on, the road deteriorated to the point that I was barely creeping along. I had serious doubts whether I'd reach my destination as soon as I'd hoped.

I checked the map and found that there were other roads to my destination. One road was just ahead and it looked promising. So I turned onto this new road and there wasn't a pothole in sight. After driving down this new road for a while, it started getting dark, so I turned on my headlights.

But my headlights didn't work.

The darker it got, the slower I drove, because I couldn't see what was up ahead. So I kept it in second gear and didn't dare drive faster. At the speed I was driving, I might as well have stayed on the old road. And that's when it hit me--what if I'd read the map wrong? What if I'd turned onto a road that would take me nowhere near my destination?  

I thought about turning around, but which was better? Driving down a dark road that was barely passable (and which might not be passable for much longer), or continuing on this new road, not knowing if it would take me to my destination? 

The moon came out and I could see the road ahead of me a little bit better. I took a deep breath and let it out. The old road or the new road? Either one might get me to my destination. Or not. The old road was treacherous, but this new road, so far, was really good. I didn't know anything more than that, except that I had to make a decision: the old road or the new road?

I put my hand on the gear shift, pushed in the clutch, and shifted into third.

Broken

Today, I'm a little bit broken.  

I won't always be broken, I hope. My children are away and my world is out of balance. They should be at my house, because it's their house, too. But tonight the house is empty. And quiet. 

And I'm a little bit broken. 

If you ask me, I'll tell you I'm all right. Forgive my lie. I know you want to help, but I don't want to talk, even if you do. Some other time, maybe, but not now.

You see, I'm a little bit broken.

So if I’m a little too quiet, that's just me trying to survive. If I'm guarded and won't let you in, that's just me protecting myself from further damage.

Because I'm a little bit broken. 

There's someone else living my life, the life that I care about, the life with my children. Someone else is teaching them and playing with them while I'm missing them and counting the seconds until it's my turn to have them again.

Until then, I'm a little bit broken.

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Ghosts of Christmases Past

Growing up, I’m not sure that my family had rigid holiday traditions. One thing that was seemingly set in stone, though, was that we couldn't put up the Christmas decorations until after my sister Angie’s birthday on December 13th. I don’t know if that was because my parents dreaded getting out the decorations or that they just wanted to make sure that Angie’s birthday wasn’t overlooked in favor of Christmas. If I had to guess, I’d say it was because they dreaded getting out the decorations.

My poor sister Angie. She’d often get a birthday present and be told that “this is for your birthday AND for Christmas.” That must have sucked. But it probably didn't suck as much as the teasing she got at school. You know, the teasing she probably got for being the head cheerleader. And the Homecoming Queen. And the fantasy of every guy between the ages of fourteen and forty-five. The teasing must have been brutal.

I remember being in junior high and constantly being asked whether or not I thought my sister was hot. I’d always say “no” and then I’d hear all the reasons why my sister was hot. And then I’d get punched in the arm. On more than one occasion, I was asked for pictures of my sister. You know…pictures. I didn’t have any pictures. Looking back, I probably could have made some money, but I wasn’t that kind of kid. You know, the kind of kid who owns a camera.

Anyway, back to the subject. Our family’s Christmas activities varied. Sometimes, they'd include a holiday party at a relative’s house. It was always best when it was a relative who had alcohol or spiked punch available. But we were raised strictly and none of us drank. Not officially, anyway.

My parents would make Christmas goodies and give them to friends and neighbors. Our across the street neighbors, the Whites, would always send over cinnamon rolls. They were the best cinnamon rolls EVER. Thank you, Barbara. I miss your cinnamon rolls. (Yes, this is a ploy for cinnamon rolls. You know how to get a hold of me.) I miss the Whites. Sometimes I miss being a kid.

There were years that we didn’t go to any Christmas parties and we’d just stay home. One year my mom tried to get us to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.” None of us watched it. I think that upset my mom a little bit. I only say that because in a calm, but frightening tone of voice, she said, “It’s okay if you don’t watch this movie with me, children. I don’t really care. But Santa cares. Santa cares a LOT. You’ve made him very, very angry. And now, he hates you. Santa. Hates. You.”

You’d think that would scare little children, and it would have scared us, but we were in our twenties by then. But now that I think about it, that whole scenario might have just been a dream. It’s not like my mom to tell us that Santa hates us. Totally out of character.

Sometimes on Christmas Eve, we’d sing carols. Or we might just hang out as a family, doing nothing in particular. But no matter what we did, it was as a family; we were always together. My mom, my dad, my sisters and me. We were a family and we were, for the most part, happy to be together. I’m sure my sisters and I may have argued or fought, but not too much. Santa was watching us. When Santa’s watching and Christmas is only days (or hours) away, you don’t want to screw up at the last minute and not get those awesome toys you asked for. He might give you underwear instead.

As Christmas approached, each of us children could be found at one time or another, alone, in a darkened living room, mesmerized by the lights on the Christmas tree, lost in our thoughts (or passed out drunk...who’s to say?). I remember sitting in front of the Christmas tree, alone, thinking about how I couldn't believe it was finally Christmas again, wishing it could be Christmas forever, and dreading the end of the season, knowing it would end too quickly. It always ended too quickly.

For a few years, my sisters and I would sleep in the same room on Christmas Eve, excited about what Santa might bring us. We’d try to stay awake and listen for him, but we never heard him. Santa was as stealthy as any cat burglar could ever hope to be. He would sneak in, deliver our presents, and maybe eat the cookies and milk we’d left out from him. And then he would leave, without a trace. I don’t know how he always managed to avoid the spring-loaded traps that we set out for him. He’s a wily one, that Santa.

In the mornings, we’d wait for Grandpa and Grandma to come over before we’d open our presents. I was five years old the year Grandpa died. Then it was only Grandma who’d come over. She was getting on in years, so my dad would pick her up. Time stops for no man, and it didn’t stop for Grandma, either. Eventually, Christmas mornings no longer included Grandma. The long arm of the law finally caught up to her.

            The other day, my boys and I put up our Christmas tree. They like turning the lights on and off. Charlie, who is two, likes taking off the low-hanging decorations and throwing them. While we were putting up the tree, I thought about the Christmases of my childhood and how my family was always together. I thought about my own children and the Christmases to come. Sometimes they’ll be with their mom. Sometimes they’ll be with me. No doubt, their Christmases will always be great.

But not the same.


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