My kids are debateable

I love my kids.  This isn't so much news as a mantra that I hope takes hold someday.

My children are teenagers now.  When people hear that I have two teenage girls I receive a variety of responses in the spectrum of ignorant to horrific:

"Oh dear, that must be tough."
"You're in for trouble."
"No wonder you look so old."
"That explains the twitch."
"Are they available?"

*insert misogynistic paternal objectification line here*

Honestly it's pretty easy.  They are good, well behaved, and don't get into too much trouble because of the sucking power of entropy.  Seriously they frighten me with their lethargy.  More than once I've checked to make sure the Carbon Monoxide detector is working.

I understand.  They are growing.  Lady bits.  And it must be exhausting doing that AND walking the 3 blocks to school.

I try to keep them mentally engaged.  This is so they:
A)  End up smart.
B)  Have less time to plan a violent coup.

How I imagine them starting

How I expect to find my home each day.

I tried getting them to research books.  To find new facts.  To learn something new every day.  And we learned something very important:  Nagging wears Dad out.


My older daughter has a penchant for persuasive argument.  She will likely be a lawyer or politician someday.  And I thought the redhead was the souless one...

Also, it is rumored a new freckle appears each time a soul is consumed.

In a brainwave of what I call "Genius" but what others call "Odd" I formed a debate club.  I put 5 questions down for them to research, they each pick a unique stance, then debate it.  I choose the winner by who has the best argument.  I put 5 questions down to remind them life isn't fair.

They have become excited by this game.  The first debate featured two answers that my older nearly won on, despite being 100% bullshit.  Ya, politics is in her future.

Each debate causes the girls to become quite animated.  I mean loud, not that they suddenly transform into extras from "Ouran High School Host Club".

The anime addiction starter pack

The younger hasn't quite caught up in some ways.  During the debate on "How should we generate electricity" she forgot the word "Windmill" (Her answer) and it went something like this:

"You'll have pinwheels in the sky.  If it's in a valley you have bigger pinwheels in the sky.  You can have pinwheels in the sky over desert, pinwheels in the sky over the ocean, everywhere pinwheels in the sky!"

So in a way it's a success they are researching.  On the downside I get to relive the 2016 presidential debates.  You win some, you lose some.

Emily's goodnight; an unpublished poem from 2011

Emily's goodnight

Statuses consuming my attention

I skim across the lives of dozens

like the dull duty of an ancient god,

bored, not to mention

judgemental of their petty existence

I move past dreams and pain and

farmville sod.

Into the frame of the voyeur

steps my older child, her hair

drenched and tattered like an

M. Night Shyamalan monster.

Gazing through locks that could pass

for blonde kelp on a sea hag

Staring stand.

Her pyjamas almost too childish;

like old men wearing shorts

cute yet unbecoming of position.

Taking her in I soon wish

that I could keep this moment

alive in memory forever.

Call it intuition.

Treading onto a freshly frozen lake

testing to ensure she doesn't fall

through, vanishing from sight

into icy emotional depths.

Trepidous steps, test and take

the space to my cushiony perch.

To say goodnight.

A shout, excessive by rock-concert

decibel levels, emits from gleaming

azure lenses; hedged by eyelashes

like rows of beech trees alert

and standing guard over a lane.

All is quiet as she repeats

bedtime wishes.

That look with the force to render

me an instant paraplegic, she

seizes the moment and leans forward.

I can only watch and wait for her

to express herself.  Fatherhood

has taught me to react with love

however implored.

  

Her nose, like a cherub; chubby

and tiny; nudges mine.  A dusting

of freckles on the bridge add

proof that she is forever still my baby.

Eskimo kisses shift paradigms like

a drag racer.  Suddenly I only know

I'm her Dad.

Our foreheads lean in, resting

I'm telepathically affirming her.

Locked eyes and punctuation less dialog.

IloveyouDaddyI'maprincessyou'reaking.

Iloveyouhoneyyou'llalwaysbeamazing.

I'mgoingtobedbuttellmeagainI'mpretty.

Hearitinthishug.

 

She dances away, a jewellery box ballerina.

I am stricken by my unassessable  wealth and

unavoidable mortality.

Affection transcending measure.

Kids nowadays...

I have strong opinions on the younger generation.  I also have an opinion on opinions, that they are the substitution of feelings for facts.  Since my opinions are fact based they are in my opinion a matter of fact.

As for the youth of today:  They are the best.  They live in a time of less bullying, stereotypes and discrimination than ever in human history.  They are more intelligent, world aware and have better fashion sense.  Those who protest that please rewatch Grease or Bill & Ted's excellent adventure.

When "gale force hairspray", pastels and Jackson Pollack were the unholy trinity of fashion

I do have confirmation bias.  If the next generation is better than the last then it is due to the parenting.  I understand why people may lament the youth of today, they do have it easier.  That is a good thing, unless you are into the Ann Rand school of parenting where child labour is finally making use of that 20% of the healthy lazy population.

Colourized historical photo of Baby Boomer childhood.

Also kids nowadays do share their ignorance so they look stupid.  All the dumb things we used to ask in hallways ("He said what about my Ocean Pacific T-shirt!?"), the locker room ("Does deodorant really prevent underarm hair!?  Best not wear any in the off chance..."), to sleepovers ("How is babby formed / how girl get pragnent?") is now on social media.

In an effort to both educate my children on the bad old days and to solve the "their life is too easy" problem I once in a while subject them to old music videos.  Most don't hold up over time (I'm looking at you 'Jesus Jones') but a few are neat to re-watch and sing to.  By a few I mean one.  "Take on Me" by Aha.

I was stepping through significant moments of rap when I thought they should see what "Ice Ice Baby" was all about.  About 2 minutes into the tragedy of rat-tails, loose pants and stride dancing we stopped, collaborated and listened to each other:

Me:  "Would you believe I tried to dance like that in grade 9?"
14 yr old:  "You had that haircut in your yearbook..."
Me:  "Yeah..."
14 yr old:  "But you didn't look as cool as him."

Both white, awkward, and going through a phase.  Honestly I'd have looked better with the bling.

I have almost forgiven her for that statement.  I have almost grown back the skin from that GODAWFUL BURN.  That is one thing kids today don't know:  that fear that should come from provoking the wrath of the parent.  Maybe I should get some parachute pants and that haircut back and then hammer-slide to her high school to pick her up...

Kids nowadays...

Part 5 - Emotional-self help

Part 5 - Emotional-self help

Recap:  Pics & video of me posted.  I was humiliated.  It was awful.  I wanted to die.  Didn't want to get revenge.  True friends & community saved me.

Emotions are hard.  They are not logical, do not follow natural laws, they get in the way of clear thinking.

Yet emotions are the things that are truly yours.  Your body is made up of the combined DNA of your parents.  Your ideas, all of them, are portmanteaus of things you hear from others.  Your emotions come from you.  You are the only one who has those particular ones.  They are your singularity.  

No child is ever taught emotions.  They don't learn them from the environment.  Happiness, anger, sadness, joy, fury, all of these are spontaneous and individual.  And though emotions are hard, they are beautiful, amazing, and perfect.  They are the essential you.  More than your accomplishments or thoughts or relationships, your emotions are pure you, and for that, every one of them, is awesome.

Gnosticism is a tempting idea.  The concept that the mind and body are separate identities.  That your spirit is not bound to your flesh.  It is also bulls**t.  Ask anyone who loses an arm if that did not affect their emotional state.  Ask anyone who loses a child if it doesn't physically hurt.

That said I will edge close to this idea.  I want to explain emotions and with such a abstract concept the best way is to project it onto something.  Anthropomorphizing it onto myself is a metaphor that makes the most sense to me.

Imagine your emotional state as your physical.  Arms, legs, skin, organs, the whole bit.  Your physical body can take damage.  Some damages are minor: bruises, cuts, small breaks.  Some are major:  Organ damage, severe bleeding, major bone trauma.  Some are fatal.  All injuries have a range of damage and healing.  An amount of time that it takes to succumb to or recover from.  A level of facility that is regained.  An amount of help to heal properly.

If your emotional self takes damage IT HURTS.  A missed bus might be a stubbed toe.  An insult might be a Charlie-horse.  Depression may be a blood anaemia.  Anxiety like migraines.  A loss of a loved one might be a broken limb, something that will hurt for a long time, require special attention to heal, and if not done right will limit you permanently.  

Using this metaphor, last week I was mugged.  I didn't hand over my wallet so I was stabbed, somewhere in the stomach region.  I started bleeding out.  If I didn't seek help I might go into shock, then die.

This is where I did something brave.  I cried for help.  It was vague, but specific enough to alert those who wanted to hear.  A simple facebook post for help.

Within minutes the first responders arrived.  Some chased away the mugger.  Some put their hands on my wound, stemming the flow of blood.  Others arrived with bandages that kept the infection at bay.  Still others rushed in to suture me.  People I never expected showed up with blankets to keep me warm and safe.

Of course that's metaphorical.  So my point is clear let me unpack it:
Everyone who reported/blocked that ugly posting chased away the mugger.  They kept me safe.
Everyone who posted on my wall, those were blankets.
Every phone call was someone putting their hand on that wound, holding me together.
The concerned texts and emails were bandages.
The wonderful facebook messages were sutures that stitched me together again.

I don't know if I would have survived the damage.  I now have a scar from it, but nothing long term.  My help came because I let people know that my emotional body was weak.  

I have been blogging about this incident not for my own good, but for anyone who goes through emotional pain.  To help you with a playbook of how Ken managed to survive a humiliating, awful incident so  you can have an edge up on your next crap awful day.  

The takeaway I want to leave is that don't hide your emotional body.  Let people know it's there.  It is as real as your physical, with real abilities and limits.  Some may have had emotional abuse as children, the effect of daily cutting by a parent.  This would make you hide for fear of more pain.  The problem with hiding your pain is that no one can come help, and in that you do your loved ones a disservice because the thing they want most is to help you.

It's ok.  We hurt.  We all do.  Everyone breaks a bone.  Some have blood diseases.  Others are without legs.  Some even have what amounts to emotional cancer.  We all survive something.  And I for one am more than ready with a blanket, just say when and where and you'll be safe and warm.

Part 4: Survival of the friendest

Part 4:  Survival of the friendest

Recap:  Pics & video of me posted.  I was humiliated.  It was awful.  I wanted to die.  Didn't want to get revenge.

I have thought about what happened and how it happened.  What I am dwelling on though is how I survived. 

The last post was an existential view of suffering.  I know that more bad days are coming.  Pets will die.  Family will get sick.  Losses at home or at work.  In any given week one day will be worse than the other 6.  How to face that uncertain oscillation of the everyday? 

I hate the answer due to the vague goodness of the word itself:  Community.  Or the synonym in this case that makes just as little accurate meaning:  Friendship.

Humans are social creatures.  We thrive in groups.  Once a group becomes too large small-sub groups band together for mutual protection and benefit.  Yes, this does explain the jock, punk and prep cliques in school.  I have no offering to explain the chess club though.  Weird folks they are.

Those sub-groups are what we call our community, or friends.  They are people who we live around, work with and help out. 

Some communities are forced together.  Classes at school.  Work.  Prison.  (all three can seem the same at times).  Even in prison there is a place of worse punishment.  Solitary confinement.  Why would NOT being gang beaten be worse?  Because even if you don't like the people you're forced with, they are better than loneliness.  There is so so so much comfort in knowing you're in something with others. 

That definition done, I want to approach the next:  Be true to yourself/be yourself/do you.  It is a overused cliche (which overused is a superfluous adjective) to "just be yourself and people will like you more." 

What does that even mean?  Stop cos-playing as a crime-fighting former gymnast who has John Merrick's disease?  Talk the same way in front of your mother as you would in the shop at work?

Friends/community surround those who are like them.  It's natural.  We feel safer that way.  When you try to join a community/group of friends you are confronted with a frightening choice:  adjust to their norm, or stay in your style of behavior/dress and risk rejection. 


I grew up with a lot of rejection.  I didn't really get a chance to be anyone else.  No community seemed to want to take me.  As an adult I'm comfortable with the idea of telling jokes, being silly, being smart and being kind because that is what I am.  If someone doesn't like that then I have lost nothing.

When this episode blew up it happened on Facebook.  Where you "friend" people.  It was the locale of this personal humiliation, and it was where help came from.

The people who rushed to my defense, my aid, my comfort were family and friends.  They knew me for who I am, and they did not judge that.  The cared about ME.  Not for any benefit that I bring, but because I am a part of their lives.  And on the other side of that incident I am pouring with gratitude for them.

If you want to become indestructible, then be in a community and be you.  Don't fake your personality to be accepted.  Accept a smaller community and know they are not just there for the numbers.  Don't worry about social status.  Don't concern yourself with anyone single person's opinion.  If you can't be cool and awesome as you with a community, then whatever group that rejects you does not understand or comprehend your epicness. 

If you feel you have no friends look around.  It might be you mean you don't have the friends you want to have.  Some of the people who had my back the strongest that night were a surprise.  You never know who around you is going to catch you when your feet are kicked out.  Not faking is the best way to ensure it's not out of pity.

It becomes the answer to "you and what army?".  Apparently I'm part of the "miracle healers and epic awesome people with more love than believable division".  And they have no idea how much they did for me.

Part 3 - Revenge is a dish best thrown out

Part 3 - Revenge is a dish best thrown out

Recap:  Pics & video of me posted.  I was humiliated.  It was awful.  I wanted to die

Why?  There is no why.  Pourquoi?  For what?  There is no answer that can satisfy.

This world is chaotic.  It is inclined to tragic circumstances, unfortunate occurrences and horrific events.  Buddhist philosophy encourages us to accept that fact, the fact that suffering is inevitable.  And it is.  Even in Canada.  For we have Nickleback and Rob Ford.

I have seen and experienced what can be best described as a "random typhoon-level s**tstorm".  When these cataclysms occur some people scramble for the meaning.  Why?  For what purpose was this done?

The short answer is this:  [insert profound yet succinct explanation of suffering here before you post Ken]

There is no reason, no motive to those events that can satisfy the pain and suffering for those in those moments.  "Everything happens for a reason" is a damn trite and hollow thing to say to a grieving mother. 

I am not at all tempted to get retribution for what was done to me last night.  There is no point.  It won't undo what was done.  Hurting someone because I am hurt is the kind of behavior I (tried to) train my children out of when they were toddlers. 

I don't care who did this to me.  I don't care why.  Neither of those answers (even IF they were possible to obtain) will heal me.  Neither will help anyone else.  More pain != healing.

For those who think this is completely devoid of faith, I remind all of us about Jesus' answer to this issue in the gospel according to Luke, Chapter 13:

About this time Jesus was informed that Pilate had murdered some people from Galilee as they were offering sacrifices at the Temple. “Do you think those Galileans were worse sinners than all the other people from Galilee?” Jesus asked. “Is that why they suffered? Not at all! And you will perish, too, unless you repent of your sins and turn to God. And what about the eighteen people who died when the tower in Siloam fell on them? Were they the worst sinners in Jerusalem? No, and I tell you again that unless you repent, you will perish, too.”

Part 2 - Disappearing after too much appearance

Part 2 - Disappearing after too much appearance

Recap:  Pics & video of me posted.  I was humiliated.  It was awful.

Warning:  This post will contain details of my state of depression that could be triggers.  It will be upsetting.

I have a pre-existing condition of depression.  It has led to self-harm.  It has given the curse of suicidal ideation, which is the desire to die by your own means.  My Dad has a brilliant saying for it:  "If you could die right then you'd live happily ever after."

My biggest issue to my sanity is humiliation.  I suppose that is why this blog is all about being funny.  It's safer knowing people are laughing at your jokes rather than laughing at you the joke.

When the pictures and video of me went online last night I was upset, horrified, and ashamed.  As the damage progressed and more people became aware of what was online I plummeted into depression.  I wasn't sad.  I was nothing.  I wanted to be nothing.

I have a better understanding of how young people can take their lives after an incident like this.  I soon wanted to stop being anything, I wanted to disappear.

For me suicidal ideation and self-harm are not goals, they are means.  I don't romanticize my death.  I don't think a cut or smashed face will make me cool.  The thought process is simple.  I don't want to exist.  How not to exist?  Die.  That is it.

Self-harm follows.  If I'm not going to die, the next best thing is to hurt. 

I am in a far northern community right now.  Last night when it happened I thought about how to die.  Walk into the bush and freeze?  Find someone moving on a snowmachine and step in front of it?  Electrocution? 

I decided against death.  Not for any great noble reason.  Just didn't seem right.  I thought about my kids, my parents, my friends.  Not worth it.  I chose to live.

Then the urge to self-harm.  A red-hot element would work on the hand.  Doors can crush fingers.  Scissors can cut skin.

I decided against self-harm.  Not because I am strong.  I just decided that it wouldn't help matters. 

For anyone who has gone through those thoughts, or this situation, hugs, deep strong mother-f**cking polar bear hugs.  I can't make it better.  I can't pull you out.  So I'm going to join you there in that spot so you're not alone.  I've been there.  I made it out.  I'm not afraid.  We'll be safe and warm together. 

I will end this post with a repost of something powerful that helps me.  It makes me cry because it's so true, so real.

Boggle the Owl

Too much facetime

Heisenberg's uncertainty principle is not Walt worried about what shenanigans Jessie is into now.  It is the supposition that the act of observation alters the outcome.  A concern for physicists on entangled particles and the best way to explain my family to others.

When people reminisce about visiting my family of origin the describe it as a "riot".  To clarify, they mean funny, not violent protest and looting.  THAT riot only happened when Dad got into our Halloween candy.

This was closer to what really happened.

I only now understand why my experience was less "Hee-Haw" and more "Bridge over the River Kwai".  My family changes when guests are around.  Not x-rated undressing to my humiliation mind you, instead behaving like it's the X-Factor and humiliating me in different ways.

I Facetime with my parents every few days.  It's nice to see them and I love that futuristic "video-telephone".

Sometimes.

This last week my mother decided to move chairs and for a lingering moment had the camera pointed at... well... did NOT have it pointed at her face.

Me:  Thanks for the boob cam mom.
Her:  What!?
Me:  THANKS FOR THE BOOB CAM MOM!

From this cue my Father decided to be 'funny'.  Holding her shirt by the collar and lifting he demonstrated what zero gravity would be like.

Do-do-doddle-do, do-do-doodle-do, THERAPY!

Now my younger daughter decided to join in the refined conversation.  She leaned over my recliner so her grandparents could see her childlike face of wonder and mischef and began:

Her:  I'm making NACHOS!

Them:  That's nice dear.

Her:  Well, I have the oven at 180 degrees for the nachos.  When the light goes off it's NACHO time!

Them:  That should be warm enough.

Her:  For NACHOS!?  Sure!  When it gets warm enough.  Come-on NACHOS!!

As I mused on synonyms for nachos and tried to return to conversing with my parents she continued to ramble about nachos and began to pet my head.  As if I was a cat.

In the 20 minutes before the call the child had not prattled THAT much, nor had taken to treating me like her pet.  She knew that without observation Daddy-dearest would become (more of) a shrieking lunatic if she did.  As soon as there was an audience she became "Nacho girl, tamer of Cat-Dad"

I was a happy cat.  Until the little voice started chanting "Nachos"

I see now how we all loved to outperform each other so many years ago, and why it might seem like we were the understudies for "Laugh-In".  I think it may be time to go back to last centuries "Telephone" call.

Testing the waters with a live cable.

Do you remember the day you figured your parents out? Mine was the day I hid behind a corner and frightened my Mother after she came home from work. I figured out she has a different sense of humour from my Dad and it was in my best interest to remember that.

My younger daughter is a decade ahead of me. She has her mother figured out.

About a week ago we were sitting at the dinner table. That's a loose term, where 3 of us sat and one of us reacted like opposing poles to the chair. No that wasn't a slur against Polish furniture.

My younger daughter was making faces, imitating bodily functions and doing her best exorcist impression. My wife attempted to discipline her and the child-demon replied:

"It's ok because Daddy thinks it's funny." Then she shot me a look that dared me to giggle.

I did my best impression of a mild panic attack but she saw through it. My dear wife had a hard time disciplining her through her own laughter.

Then last weekend she pushed even more. She broke two cardinal household rules:
1. No markers outside of the craft area
2. No colouring on the coffee table.

Yes, now we have purple permanent marker on THE coffee table. THE coffee table we bought in Vancouver from IKEA and trekked thousands of kilometers home.

In her defense she made a nice craft for her Mommy. While my wife was crying I took the opportunity to sit the child down and read the parenting book I've supposed to have read by now.

Unsatisfied that her mother didn't kill her yet she pushed harder. I came home last week to a house of screaming. If I were a bachelor I would think it were the house trying to evict me supernaturally by replaying children murdering their parents. It was my younger daughter yelling at my wife. I stopped and listened to them battle wills until I heard this:

"Mommy, you're a poopyhead!"

Being a brave, smart man I hid until the discipline was finished and I had stopped crying from laughter.

I think she found her limit. I know she's more fearless than me because I would NEVER call my wife 'poophead'.

I would worry that she will test me too, but I doubt she has that much respect for my authority.

I love you just enough to do this...

I loathe the "Compare Yourself" application in Facebook. I am insecure enough without knowing that I am being ranked against friends by other (possibly former) friends.

Assessing ourselves by others opinions is human habit. That is probably the top reason why polygamous relationships and regular use of concubines faded. What man can endure knowing women are comparing his 'attributes' as their pastime. And nothing kills the mood like "you can get Jenny to do that for you, since you think her muffins taste better." Oi. And don't even consider trying to keep MULTIPLE in-laws happy.

With children it is different. It is almost unavoidable. I can see the benefit of having one child just to avoid the comparisons. Since that isn't an option for me, and knowing sibling rivalry will be an issue I take the initiative. Allow me to illustrate:

"Thanks for getting my slippers when I asked. I like you the best now."

"You dropped your ice cream cone on the new deck! I now can not love you anymore. Where is the other child that I actually care for."

Either I'm making them crave for my whimsical preference so that they will obey right away and never upset me, or I'm deadening them to manipulation. I take comfort now that friends in the schoolyard can say "I'm not your friend anymore" and my kids will just laugh at them.

I know they are scarred against the emotionally turbulent because their favourite toys outrank me. Last week my younger daughter 'mended' her Sunny.

Let me introduce you to Sunny. Sunny is a Lamaze toy who is beloved. My littler girl will suck her thumb (another subject), rub her nose, and hold this toy to her face. It is a dirty, worn out, discoloured toy from years of happy cuddling. All appendages have been reattached lovingly by me with my superior sewing skill.

We have 2 clones of Sunny. There is "Sunny More", because that one is loved more. "Sunny Other" which is the younger daughters backup. And there is "Sister's Sunny", which is a last resort.

My sleep is more important than buying duplicates of favourite toys.

So Sunny was sick. 'She' had the "sicky flu, chicken pox, fever and a runny nose". To help this poor toy cope the little darling had attached a glow-in-the-dark bracelet to it as an 'Oxygen tube'.

It was sweet and cute. Until I realized that this is the same child whose main way of relating to her father is punching me. She'll say "I have something for you, lean in close" and then hit me as hard as she can. Waking up in the morning to a little fist of fury right to the face, or worse, is a day starter. I have found I CAN elevate my body if immediate and violent pressure is applied to the right place. And leaning in for a goodnight shot on the kisser is fun too (she does this while cuddling Sunny in the other arm).

If I didn't love my sleep (and daughter) so much I would show Sunny who is boss. But I guess I'll have to settle for 3rd to 6th best, depending on how the cat and fish are ranking on any given day. THEY don't get hit.

Things best not found out.

The autumn blahs are upon us.

I have been moderately out of commission in the evenings (when I write) for the past week. I have injured my back and am giggling with the tremulous discomfort of sciatica.

No sciatica isn't that weird stuff you heard done in a movie you would never watch. It's when the longest nerve in your body gets stepped on. This gives you lovely strings of pain down one leg from butt to ankle. The pain is a cross between synchronized leg cramps and riding a seatless bicycle on a Texas gate.

For some reason that makes me grouchy. And tired. Pity my family.

And yet pity my poor sister more. She is in the throws of dealing with kidney stones. I had a friend describe that experience as the closest thing to having a baby. My sister will now be able to pass judgment on this issue when she passes the issue at hand.

Some families take one-downmanship too far.

But for my dear sister's benefit, and levity, I will make the attempt at writing tonight. And I feel guilty for not sending her a rock garden starter kit so she has somewhere to keep her stones later.

One thing that I figured would bring some humour and smiles to my young family was to fake my own death last weekend. I was changing 48" fluorescent light bulbs in the kitchen because I'd put it off for one week already.

Being 'new' light bulbs, my wife was doubly afraid. One for my crippled state in which after sitting has me wandering around like Quasimodo with a wedgie. The other was because of my handyman-like skill with things I haven't done before.

There is the credit I get from my family. Concern over a putting in a light bulb. I'm a living joke.

My two little girls, ages 7 and 5, were in the room. As was my wife who was grousing about me putting in a light bulb and falling off a chair. And so I said:

"It's ok, they just push in and twist like this..... AAAAAAHHHHHAHHHAHGH!"

I was a bit too accurate with the death scream. My wife and older daughter were bordering on tears. The love of my life began to give me a well earned piece of her mind about that stunt when we all noticed the 5 year old.

She was holding her hands in front of her mouth. And she was giggling. At my supposed death.

Yes, this is the same child who found humour in suggesting killing "special people". It makes me wonder if my will is properly made out.

I am glad she did because it did get me off the hook. So I, like Homer, have now vowed not to fake my own death. I don't want to anymore because I'm afraid of who else will find it funny.

Out of the mouth of babes

'They asked Jesus, “Do you hear what these children are saying?”
“Yes,” Jesus replied. “Haven’t you ever read the Scriptures? For they say, "You have taught children and infants to give you praise.”' - The Gospel according to Matthew.
"Children say the darndest things." - Bill Cosby

Yesterday my older daughter started singing a song at the supper table. It was to the effect of

"We're all special"

She smiled while singing it, imagining love to all children, no matter how much the same or different they all were.

In a moment of parenting I thought it wise to probe her empathy level so I asked:

"What do we do with special people?"

The correct answer would be love, but I would have gladly accepted "play with" or some variation thereof.

This is where my younger daughter chirped up:

"Kill them."

My younger daughter is in JK. She is cute as a button, with a Susie Derkin's haircut, slightly freckled nose, bright blue eyes, and an infectious laugh. She is starting to read and write, despite not even being taught those skills yet. She cares tenderly for any smaller children who are around, and worries for the well being of the cat. Actually, I'm worried for the cat too. Her stomach is so large it has independent inertia. I expect soon she'll have to corner carefully or keep going stomach first.

So this wonderful, sweet, innocent child just uttered a line worthy of Stalin. This was so unexpected, and wildly out of moment I felt the reaction to laugh. I wanted to howl. This would have been terrible, because she was trying to be funny. She's testing the boundaries of humour, and apparently she's channeling the "Kids in the Hall".

There are moments as a parent that your child will get the best of you. They will outwit you long before you expect. They will say something so funny that the case will be dismissed on count of hilarity.

So I did what any good parent would do. I bit my lip. HARD. Then I drew on my acting training to keep my composure and chastise her for such a horrible thought. Then I went to the sink and nearly collapsed from the effort.

I hope that dealt with it, but I'm putting the knives a bit farther up on the counter to be sure. Because in her words I'm a "special Daddy".

Help.

Dressed up and Eating out.

We took the kids out for the monthly dinner at a restaurant. It was for November. We couldn't wait, especially since paydays are bi-weekly not monthly and October had a third payday.

The theory is if you take the kids out to places where they need to behave they can learn to behave for those places.

Like most theories they sound reasonable until they hit the lab. And the lab in this case is a public place where you pay to have food given to your children so they can not eat it.

It was special though, for last night we went to a restaurant run by an old school friend of mine. Actually she's not old, nor is she 'old school'. Let me try again.

The restaurant is owned by a friend. The girls like my friend and this time brought pictures they drew just for her. They sure know how to work the scene.

This time I started trying to train my older daughter. I tried to teach her the art of conversation. I pointed out the basic ground rules. As far as I understand they are ask the other person 2 more questions beyond what you care to know about them.

Eagerly the child looked at me and asked "What is your name?".

I explained we weren't playing dungeons and dragons and there would be no mountain dew involved and I wasn't on a quest for the most Holy of Grails either.

She then went on to ask what I did. I stopped her again and pointed out she should ask things she really didn't know. Then I gave the example of "What did you do today?"

She parroted the question. I answered. She then followed the rules and asked another question: "What is your name?"

SIGH

Meanwhile my younger daughter was showing off a fibre-optic garnished skull flashlight. She was so exuberant that she nearly stabbed the waitress in the eye with it. After that was confiscated she entered a 'blue period' and drew on anything to give to the owner. Then she tried to have a chug-alug contest with her apple juice. Then she decided she wanted to visit the bathroom every two minutes but not use it.

My older daughter had since taken such a liking to the bread and dip that she ate most it. We ordered more and she ate half of that portion. Then she proceeded to eat all her food and finish off her desert as well. I've only seen small mammals eat that proportion of their body weight before hibernation.

In the end they did fairly well. They both sent their compliments to the chef which was impressive. The younger one actually spoke out loud to the waitress, even calling her back to ask for some water.

We still haven't figured out why the younger one has an allergic reaction to chairs, but she gets the squirms really bad when she's at the table.

I should explain that I mean she can't sit still and that she does not have gastral difficulty.

So we will keep taking them to nice places in hope that it will rub off on them. It's a bit like leading a horse to water except the horse wouldn't make that much noise drinking from a straw.

Unprepared

How do you prepare for the roles and responsibilities of life? No one warned me I'd need a degree in psychology to provide computer support. I wasn't warned to take English as a second language before getting married. And Hostage Negotiations are not part of the preparation to having a baby.

When the little ones first pop out they are so unique, each being a little white/pink slime covered raisin with freaky little arms and legs flopping everywhere. You take lots of pictures of each stage, especially with the first one. Picture frequency is inversely proportional to the birth order.

New parents seem to think that when the kid partially rejects their breakfast, they have "personality". They erroneously believe that only their little genius can respond to their singing by falling asleep. "How did they know how to do that?!?!" As a more experienced parent I just nod and smile.

What is more interesting is that the Grandparents get caught in the hype. They believe their grandchild walked exactly when they needed to, and therefore have proved their perfection and earned the overdose of candy for the day. You'd think they would remember scoffing at younger parents in their day. (Grandparents to my kids, I LOVE the way you grandparent. I am NOT suggesting a change.)

After 5 years I have found my younger daughter is showing some unique personality. Then she went to school and all the bad kids warped her and taught her naughty phrases like "Shut Up" and "Gimme" and "Bratz Dolls".

Come to think of it, I had a Slutz, I mean Bratz doll, WHISTLE at me in a store the other day. It was quite awkward as a young woman was standing between myself and the offending cat calling toy. She went beet red (the woman) and I said "Don't worry, I didn't think it was you." Yeah, that was witty. Oh, and my wife was with me at the time too.

SOOOOO here is the wonder girl that I am trying to condition out of "humour noir". She was upset with her mother about having to clean up and came out with this bombshell:

"I'm going to break all the toys in this house and wreck all the books in the house unless you do what I want."

My wife said "Pardon?"

My daughter restated her threat. Now I didn't know whether to laugh or grab the garlic and try to subdue this little horror film wannabe. Maybe I should ask "What Would Jack Bauer Do?" I tried to calm down both females involved so my daughter didn't start her spree of destruction on my laptop, and so my wife didn't get "Gitmo" on the poor little thing.

So I'm seeing a violent, and unnerving, pattern with this kid. She doesn't get her way, bad stuff will happen to us. I'm thinking maybe keep a Bratz doll handy to distract her with if she ever does turn on us. Any suggestions would be helpful, and if I go missing for a few days suspect the little one.

I am really regretting reading Stephen King now...

I'm sure I wasn't bipolar BEFORE I had kids.

Father's day todo list.

1. Wake up 10 minutes too late and find that the 4 year old attempted to soak up the fish's water with fish food - Check

2. Perform emergency bowl transfer, cleaning, refilling, and returning of fish to original bowl - Check

3. Wear a paper tie that my daughter made, then forget to take it off when shopping at Wal-Mart - Check

4. Get drive through McDonalds for the family, only to arrive home and find out that one little darling changes her mind while I was out - Check

5. Get tired of children watching me play "Civilization" and hand the game over to the 7 year old, who actually does well at the game - Check

6. Purchase foam swords to fight the children with instead of pvc pipe, broom and wooden decorative katana - Check

7. Draw stares from strangers as I stab and parry with my 4 year old in Zellers before arriving at the checkout - Check

8. Have outdoor battle - Check

9. Overreact to 4 year old drawing on the IKEA coffee table we inexplicably drove halfway across the country last summer - Check

10. Stoke 4 year old on sugar high with "Fuzzy Peaches" and "Passion Flakes" - Check

11. Get frustrated with children hogging popcorn during movie and get them their own bowl to fight over - Check

12. Underreact to 4 year old drawing on her bedroom wall - Check

13. Defer going to sushi restaurant because older daughter still has the pox making her look like a looser in paintball - Check

14. Double over in laughter when older daughter responds to "We can only read a portion of this book." with "That's ok, I read portions all the time. I read a portion of this book over here, my teacher only reads portions, I like to read portions." - Check

15. Say prayers with children - Check

16. Tuck children in once - Check

17. Tuck children in second time - Check

18. Let wife tuck children in third time - Check

So there you have it. I have covered all of the areas of the checklist I'm going to let YOU see. Happy Father's day Dad. Don't worry, you won't have to tuck me in, but I'll be getting into the Scotch you left here.

A fishy weekend.

Yesterday was a red letter day. I didn't say SCARLET letter, in that case, no it wasn't. By red letter I mean it was a notable day in a good way.

For as long as I can remember our family has not been good at fishing. We catch fish, but if we were reduced to hunter/gatherers we would be gathering hunters and begging from them. I have more trouble than I like admitting when trying to move the pet fish out of her bowl with a net.

This may have helped my Ichthyophobia, it may have been the cause. Either way, there are no trophy fish in our house, which is fine with me. Taxidermy has always been a little odd to me.

Who was the first to decide that they didn't want to try to use the whole animal, but instead scoop out it's insides, dry it out, and then rig it up as a morbid mummy/animal icon? I worry enough about the ghosts of the things I kill (flocks of partridges chase me in my dreams) than to have them prepared to kill me with a coronary on a dark night when I've been reading Stephen King novels. I could see it as a passive home security system. Have enough trophies to cover the major phobias and you're good. Just have the police carry away the prospective thief away while he's still in the fetal position.

So my older daughter has been fishing about 10 times now, no fish yet. This is especially pathetic considering people travel great distances to fish around where we live because of the abundance of fish.

My fishing trips with my daughters are near religious experiences. We tend to go Sunday mornings, we go through hell and back, and there are a lot of calls for God, especially when I get hit with rods, hooks, the kids step on rods, the boat hits submerged logs, and the kids whine after 5 minutes of being in the water after 20 minutes of putting the boat together.

So in desperation I made a phone call to a friend yesterday asking for advice, and I received a good tip. I then dragged my father, older daughter, my Dad's uninflated zodiac and fishing tackle 40 km away. We were brutally attacked by black flies to the degree that my daughter looked like she had a re-currence of the pox. We trolled out for about an hour in the fading light, only to loose 2 lures and almost run aground a few times.

Finally, on the turning point, the last cast before returning home defeated, my daughter got her fish. It was a nice speckled trout. It was about 3 lbs, 18 inches. (I think I know more details of that fish than the second kid at birth). It was too short to keep, and for some silly reason we forgot to bring a camera.

Still, she got to have the chance to reel in a fish, see her grandfather and father fumble around the boat trying to hold the fish, and then see her hard work tossed back into the water. It's kind of the feeling I get in a usual day of work. She was stoic though, and quickly remembered that I had bribed the fishing troupe with "passion flakies" if we caught a fish.

So the dearth of fishing has been broken. I hope she can keep her expectations at a suitably low level. By my estimations she won't get another fish until she's about 10.

A pox on my family

There are times as a parent that I am proud of myself. I had a chance last week to be the great dad when my kids asked me to inflate their pool and fill it up for them.

I eventually convinced them it wasn't worth the work and filled a rubbermaid tub full of water instead.

Part of being a fun dad was giving my children useless jobs where their failure is inconsequential. It's part of empowering them. So I gave my 4 year old daughter the hose to fill the tub full of water.

Now those who know this little girl of mine know that this would not be a recommended action as to give her unfettered access to controlling a 20 foot stream of water. The practical joke force runs strong in my family. My father has it, I have it, and my younger daughter has it. I came around the corner just in time for her to turn around, take aim, and attempt to soak me.

I was the only one outside NOT in a swimsuit. I had the choice to
A) Get mad and yell at them for inconsiterately soaking me.
B) Join them in the water play like it's a corny "Latter Day Saints" commercial.

I chose B. It was fun. I used deflection shields, buckets, and the two girls and I emptied that tub on each other, used the exercise trampoline to jump in, and we all had a blast. My wife strangely chose not to indulge. Oh well, it was a great time.

Today was not an example of my greatness as a father.

I went to pick up my older daughter from school. I walked so to enjoy the unseasonably cold weather and annoy her that I didn't bring the car to drive the >2km. We held hands and walked down the sidewalk as I squeezed her for information on her day.

Me: How was your day?
Her: Good.
Me: You were there 7 hours and I get a one word answer?
Her: It was a good day, thank you daddy.
Me: No, you just completed the sentence. Give me a sentence for each hour you were there.
Her: I don't wanna. I want to wait until we get home.
Me: It will be to crazy there, tell me now. Did you do nothing at school? If so, we could keep you at home and you could do nothing there. Then we could move your room to the basement and you'be practically be a 20 year old college student.
Her: I TOLD you I don't want to.
Me: Mmm, whiny. Somwone's a gwumpy gus.

And so it continued on home. I told her she needed a nap because her bad attitude would be a damper on her Mother's birthday.

Then we get home and discover that as prophesized by a friend, whose child had just developed chicken pox, that we would suffer the same fate. Indeed my lovely older daughter now has pustules over her poor little body, and is running a low temperature.

Now when I look at that conversation on the way home I realize I am an awful Dad. I just can't tell with the kids, they give me the same attitude so often, the one time in a hundred they actually have a good reason I seem like a monster.

So todays lesson is that as a parent I'm as inconsitent as a child learning to use the bathroom. Good most of the time, but when I'm off I have to sit in a load of it.

The show

Today we took our two daughters to see Madagascar 2, Return to Africa. This idea is continuing along the idea of "if you practice taking them out they'll learn to behave." Sometimes it feels like we're trying to float rocks through trial and error.

We have high standards for our kids. Although this could be construed to mean that I won't let children of lesser stock mate with mine, I also mean that we expect them to behave well.

I'll catch a lot of flak for that comment, so let me make it worse. I used to believe that true love is more important that income, and appearance has no reflection on the depth of one's soul. Then I had daughters. I'm sure some day I'll be the one saying "I know you love him, but can you learn to love someone who doesn't need your money to pay his debts and could perhaps out dress a hobo?" In short I don't want them to make the same mistake their mother made.

Behavior standards are important. If the little urchins realize that we expect them to be good we have at least a 1 in 10 chance they will luck out on it.

In the theater they are to sit still, quiet, and allow everyone around them to enjoy the movie providing there is a plot to enjoy. Having a little Ebert sitting behind you is not as much fun as it sounds.

Still and quiet. I'm certain that if we can find a way to harness the motion and sound waves of a child we'll have an infinite supply of energy. We already have the infrastructure in place: Schools, Churches, Restaurants, Theaters.

The kids were fairly good. It was rewarding to see other people letting their kids wander to other aisles and then have trouble reining them in. I know it makes me a small man to enjoy others problems so much, but a small gleeful man am I (without all that nastiness of name guessing). The alternative is to help them parent better, but there is NO way to do that.

People without children, pay attention: If you want to make rational people act like primitive idiots, just casually say "Oh my mother would never let us get away with that" or "I don't think you're doing that right" to a parent. For your safety I would suggest only doing this with lots of witnesses around so the parent can be later identified in a police lineup.

So part way through the movie a character is in peril. This is my younger daughter's nicknamesake and her favourite in the movie. Being small and in a big, dark place with lots of noise and people added to the issue. She first was moved to sit beside her mother. Then my wife leaned over and said "She has to go pee, you take her."

Yes I could have argued that I can't go in with her and she couldn't come into my washroom, but since she had made two trips already I was wise enough not to. I started down the stairs with the younger one. When we reached the bottom she continued towards the screen instead of making the turn to the exit.

It was then I realized that she was using a potty run to hide her panic attack. I tried to call her back but she was in her own little bubble, wandering closer to the front. I thankfully managed to get her attention before she made a silhouette of a peeing child in front of the screen.

At the end the kids did well, and we feel pretty good about the experience. The only things I'll change are to put a diaper on the younger child and my wife, and to affix a feedbag apparatus to the popcorn so the little one doesn't have to keep telling me how to hold the bag in the best position for her to get another two handfuls.

The balanced family.

I love my family. It has a nice arrangement that seems to really work.

My wife is the organized, consistent, loving one. She can really understand where a child is coming from, unless they interrupt her while she is on her Disney boards. Then she seems to connect with Fagin rather well.

This really meshes with the gaps I have. Not the ones in my head or my jeans which so recently could be worn in public, but in my approach to parenting.

I have the crazy notion that someday these imps will grow up to be, well, grownups. And I imagine what they would be like if they at 30 behave as they do today. And since I don't want them to be film actresses, singers, or politicians I try to fix that discrepancy.

Today was clean up day at our house. I like the idea of a sabbath, one day a week where you respite and recreate from a busy week. In order to feel like that is earned I push the lazy lot of us to clean the house on Saturday.

Last week the kids learned how to sort the laundry. This is harder than it sounds, especially with clothes that border white and not, like patterned shirts or old underwear. It also helps that my wife and I contradict each other on how to do the job.

This week it was vacuuming. I know it sounds like an old fashioned approach, circa 1600, except that they have a vacuum and aren't sweeping a dirt floor. It is useful though because someday they will need to clean for themselves. I'm just helping the 5 year old ahead in life.

It seems contrary to some people to encourage a child to be independent. After all, you only have a few precious years to enjoy their youth. The trick for them must be enjoying short people who are rude, sloppy, ignorant and selfish.

Since I don't want to change to enjoy my kids more, I encourage them to. It enables them to live a full, complete life without the need for basement rooms. It also allows them to take care of themselves when they want/need to.

The other morning our precocious 7 year old woke up early and proceeded to the kitchen. In my sleep induced stupor a vaguely remember hearing the words "appetizer", "sweet potatoes" and "olives".

Sure enough, the little wonder had made a breakfast fit for the second trimester. I'm glad to know that she can make healthy, if not freakishly odd, food choices for herself.

I think I'll wait before I have them help plan a meal.

Letting go is unnatural.

I have a control complex.

I don't mean the really cool kind like the one on "Skullcrusher Mountain" where I will execute my doomsday plans against the foolish fools living their foolish lives. But I'd be lying to say that wasn't in my 5 year plan. Again.

I mean that I have trouble handing the reins over to someone else. In anything.

It took years to identify that I was the one with the issue. I kept wondering why people kept trying to wrench control away from me in projects, conversations or when they were driving and I would grab the wheel.

It took weeks more to figure out why:

I'm better than the alternative person in too many things.

You see handing control over to a professional is a matter of cognitive presence. Arguing with the cook, or the mom, or the firefighter is evidence that SOMEONE'S forwarding address isn't in this reality. Though I like to have a few of those people as friends so I always have stories to tell at parties.

Handing control over to an amateur is a matter of faith in humanity. I have none of that. I fully expect everyone I meet to be a narcissistic ignoramus and am pleasantly surprised when they aren't. To me the glass isn't half empty, it's half full of ammonia.

I can clearly see what will go wrong when I hand the prospective successor the project plan, keys to my car, or the salt. And so I would rather just hold on to things rather than endure the screaming of the passengers as the new driver thinks that "R" means 'Really fast' and shifts from 4th to Reverse at full speed. I sleep better that way, and by sleep I mean stay up until 3am with the stress of all I try to do.

And of course this isn't true. It turns out projection isn't just a trick to sound louder on stage. Most people can do things better than me. Except for perhaps running. And I've even lost that ability for a few weeks.

Perhaps I'm afraid that once people discover that I'm replaceable they will do so part by part until I'm a crazy cyborg scientist. Or perhaps I should listen to less Jonathan Coulton.

So I have begun to let go of things. And doing so is like intentionally peeing your pants. You know you *can* do it, but trying to do it is a whole new pool party. And I am proud to say that I am getting good at it and don't need to be reminded to do it successfully or often.

I mean letting go. Of things, not my bladder. I hardly even sigh heavily anymore. I just quietly suppress my fears of things going terribly wrong and remind myself that screwing my eyes shut does not convey a vote of confidence unless I'm willing to pass it off as a bowel obstruction.