Initiative

     Wow.

     Allow me to rephrase that: Wow! Braden, now sixteen, for the first time ever did something that needed to be done without being told.

     Granted, he did do things for himself on his own initiative before this but a few days ago while hanging out in the kitchen bored (a favorite visiting place for such times), he grabbed a box of Cheerios and refilled our plastic cereal dispenser! And it wasn't even empty with nothing but a half-inch layer of cereal dust left—it was still a quarter-full!

     I didn't say a word—not because I didn't want to jinx him but because often when I compliment him he acts up. (One child care “expert”—Dr. Spock or John Rosemund—said to compliment sparingly because it takes the bluster out of their sails or makes them uncomfortable so that they have to act up to feel comfortable again. When I was a kid I didn't like my parents taking credit for my positive deed—as if I did it for them—by complimenting me. I did it for myself because I wanted to, same as Braden, I suppose.)

     I wondered if his thoughtful act was a fluke or an unintentional oversight or perhaps something Deanne told him to do a day or two ago?, but then two days later it happened again.

     We have a hamper and laundry basket that we keep in a common area inside. These fill up fast and only empty fully on laundry weekends. The emptied hamper sits inside the emptied basket and only after the hamper fills does the basket sit atop the stuffed hamper. The thing is, the hamper keeps overflowing onto the floor until Deanne or I tells someone to “Fix the hamper.” This assignment goes to whomever is nearest when it happens to be noticed, or Jaren, who has the least chores.

     Well, Braden after bathing this red-letter night, dumped his clothes on the already overflowing hamper; picked up all the clothes, towels, and dish cloths on the floor nearby; stuffed them on top; shoved the contents down tight; then lifted the hamper out of the basket and placed the basket on top. It ended up all just the way we like it, nice and neat, with the hamper and basket backed against the wall. It was remarkable that he did the chore on his own initiative but even more so that he did a fine job of it—no laggard clothes left on the floor, no slanting basket on top, and no sleeves, plant legs, or towels dangling out from between the basket and hamper.

     And I didn't dare breathe a word or even smile or show that I noticed. (If it ain't broke, then don't fix it!—so said one bright dude who wasn't even a child care expert.)

     This was very assuring for me that Braden may be finally “getting it”—that life's not all about him. That living for others is important. That helping out voluntarily feels good. That looking for ways to help and doing them without first seeking approval or recognition is a very big deal. I believe it's why God says to tithe blindly and give without show—because he sees it all and that's enough.

     Praise God!

Would You Rather...

     Dinner time conversation comes around to Pene the other night and she says she and her friends sometimes play “Would You Rather...”

     I ask, “For example: Would you rather be buried alive in an anthill or caged with a hundred mice?”

     She smiles and says, “Yeah, but it's not usually so unpleasant. Vera asked, 'Would you rather have the power of invisibility, but you have to be naked, or the power to run super fast, but you're blind while running?' Mine was: 'Would you rather have devil horns or a forked tongue like a snake?'”

     “Would I have to stick out my tongue to smell the air like a snake, too, or could I keep it in all the time” I ask.

     “You'd have to stick it out once in awhile.”

     I think about it and say, “I feel very uncomfortable. This is stressful for me.” (She's laughing—she like to see me squirm.) “I guess the forked tongue—I could at least hide it sometimes, though either would be cool for Halloween. And I'd get rich doing the talk-show circuit.”

     I later come up with my own. It's just before bedtime and we're talking: “Would you rather be President of the United States, but you can't wear a pants or dress in public—you can wear panties, though. Or, be the Pope, but you always have to wear that tall pointy hat—even to bed?”

     She chooses the latter and says, “I also asked my friends: If everyone in the world were sick of a horrible disease and were going to die, but you could cure them but it would cost you your life, would you?

     “Sure,” I said.

     “Candace said, 'No. They're doomed anyway.' So then asked, 'Well what about this: Your wishes always come true, but each time you wish something, someone you know dies. Would you still want that power?' Trudy said, 'Yeah.' Vera asked, 'But what if that person were me?' And Trudy said, 'Too bad. I want my wishes.'”
     “Man, these are kind-of sick and disturbing,” I say. “Getting back to that running real fast thing, maybe memorizing what's ahead and going for it isn't such a great idea after all. When I was about Jaren's age, I tried riding bike with my eyes closed from the top of our driveway all the way down to the Harano's house. The first time I tried, I panicked, opened my eyes, and saw that I was half-way down the driveway, fine, and could have gone more. Next time I panicked again, opened my eyes, and realized I was half-way there and perfect—no need to have stopped. Next time I kept telling myself, 'keep going, don't panic, keep going, don't look...' Then whoa! I'm falling and see the shrubs and brush below in the gulch by the Lo's! Phoom! I get up and drag the bike back out.”

     Pene's in hysterics throughout all this. “Did you get hurt?” she asks.

     “No. But I was super-ashamed. Mom later asked, 'What happened?' 'I lost control of my bike,' I said. 'Mrs. Harano called and said she saw you riding straight and slow and it looked like you went over the edge on purpose. Did you?' 'No. It was the bike. Something happened. I'm fine.' 'Do you want Dad to check it?' 'I'll do it,' I said.”

     Pene's laughing hard, just as hard as when we wathced some dumb DVD together weeks ago (which is unusual for her as she's usually so serious.) I guess it's because it's odd for her to imagine me doing something so stupid as I'm usually so sensible. Or maybe she just likes to see me suffer.

     (The most sure-fire laugh for her (and Deanne) is my getting hit, knocked, or somehow pounded in the groin. Something about me doubling over and groaning sets her off. “Oh it's so funny to see Dad in pain, huh?” I ask. Though she apologizes, she laughs even harder. I guess it's like the time Deanne got livid over getting pooped on by a pigeon and the kids and I couldn't stop laughing as she tried to dab the whitish-green cream from the shoulder of her navy blue jacket. Now that was funny seeing her so upset and hearing her say, “Stop laughing! It's not funny!” I tried to sort-of help by saying, “Yeah you guys, stop laughing! It's not funny!” but that just set them off further.

     Ah, humor in the twenty-first century: high-brow indeed.

One Smart (or Lucky?) Mouse

     A month ago, I'm doing dishes in the laundry room outside when it's still dark (I'm sick and don't want to spread germs in our main kitchen sink area, much less use the common sponge for washing) and I feel something brush against my sweatpants near the ankle, which makes my skin crawl as if with centipedes up and down all over. I turn, hear scuttling, scampering noises, and look and think I see a small light-brown blur scamper beneath the sink. But when I check there and behind the washer and dryer, I see nothing remiss. A part of me doesn't want to see, because if I do, it's sure to mean trouble. Maybe I imagined it? I somewhat try to convince myself.
     Two weeks later, I'm putting on my shoes for work outside in the carport when it's still dark and I heard scuttling noises that give me the heebie-jeebies. They seem to come from inside an unused nightstand with door and drawers propped open to air out (I bought it awhile ago at a garage sale with the intention to air out, test for lead since it's “antique”, plane down the door that won't close, and refinish), so I walk over to look inside, and see a light-brown ugly-as-heck mouse crawl out and under our lean-to tower of shelves under which I store scrap wood and tools. It's about four to five inches long excluding tail and walks with the slow, arrogant confidence of ownership. (What type of mouse is this that seeks a lighted room and a human to brush up against? The washroom opens from the carport so why did it come in when I was there? Aren't they supposed to be afraid of people?)
     That lunch break I buy a pack of two traditional mouse traps. (I had contemplated buying a glue trap, but they didn't have any and I didn't look forward to having to mercy-kill the thing with a shovel. They sold a catch-and-release trap, but I doubted it would work and didn't want to have to release it where it became someone else's problem as I wasn't about to put the flea-ridden thing in our car to drive to an uninhabited area, and within walking distance, there aren't any such places.)
     Back home I set up one of the traps baited with peanut butter and cheese on a paper bag (to guard against blood splatters) in the cabinet with the bait side against a wall as per the instructions. Cringing the following morning to look inside using a flashlight, I see the bag, but no trap or mouse. I look for signs that the trap's been dragged out (perhaps it snagged only a tail or leg?) but see none. I look in a second time for blood, but see none. On the third look, there's the trap clear on the opposite side of the cabinet, snapped shut upside down with plenty of peanut butter still in. I place it on the garage floor and leave, wondering if the mouse will take the bait in the now unset trap. 
     At work I puzzle, How did it do it? and conclude the mouse must have crawled over the trigger, which when set off, must have thrown the thing clear of the trap before the snapping mechanism came down—just a fluke. When I get home, I see the bait licked clean, meaning the mouse has been active during the day. (Aren't they nocturnal?)
     I reset the trap with identical bait outside the cabinet in a narrow gap against a wall where the trap fits nicely and invitingly, with an inch clearance on either side. 
     A day passes. Nothing happens.
     The next day, no mouse but the trap is now upside down, snapped shut, with bait still in. I set it out like before unset, hoping the mouse will take the bait and begin to feel over-confident about the trap. (Free food!) The bait disappears by evening.
    I bait and reset the trap and place it at a strategic angle to the wall, thinking this will make the trigger unlikely to throw the mouse clear. Nothing happens for a day. Next morning, no mouse—nothing happened. But then I notice that the bait is gone, licked clean and that the trap has not fired! The trigger failed!
    That afternoon as I think the mouse is laughing at me, I get smart and set up both traps (they came in a set) and construct a paper tunnel to prevent odd approaches to the traps and place one trap above the other on a small cardboard box, thinking if the first trap doesn't fire, when the mouse goes for the second one, it might step on the first trap's trigger, or when it reaches up for the second (with bait side nearby and away from the wall), it will set it off when it tries to climb up. I also mash down the peanut butter and cheese combo into the bait receptacles so that they can't be gently licked clean, they have to be dug at to be consumed. I'll get him this time! I think.
    Two days pass. Nothing happens.
    The following morning, the first trap is snapped shut with remnants of bait unconsumed, the second is unchanged. I long for a video to see how it's setting off the trigger and avoiding the snap shut? Another unsolvable life mystery? I conclude it must be getting just the tail, and that's why the traps are always in different positions after firing. I doubt the mouse is prying its entire body loose after being clamped down upon by the wire jaw, as while I was setting it once, it snapped the tip of my finger (numb for a bit) and the spring has plenty strength to cause lots of damage and won't pry loose by the strength of a puny rodent. (This isn't cartoons.)
    I reset again and place the front trap at a right angle to the back one—impossible for the trigger to interfere.
    Two days pass and the same thing happens!—first trap fired, second untriggered, both licked clean!
    I do research wondering about my initial conclusion that it's a mouse and sure enough, mice only grow to 3.5 inches. It's a rat!
    Next up, glue trap... (I'm even more creeped out knowing it's a rat.)

Hilo Serenaders

An award for most persistent and faithful wooer must go to the coqui.  The male frog spends all night calling out in loud, body-racking heaves to woo a female to come and mate.  And he does this every night of his adult life.
  Everyone who's spent a night in Hilo recently knows the ear-piercing racket these introduced pests from Puerto Rico make when one desperate serenader is multiplied by a dozen, a hundred, or a thousand--they get loud!  Many blame Walmart for importing them along with plants from the frog's native home land or the mayor/government officials who were slow to respond to the ever-growing environmental disaster, even worse than the introduced mongoose from plantation days.  But my purpose here is to look at things for once from the pathetic frog's perspective via anthropomorphization--thinking of them as if they were human...
  If I'd had to woo virginal Deanne with cries of affection (combined with threatening cries toward nearby rival males) every few seconds for hours on end, night after night, for years on end, would I have done it or succeeded?  No, I may have lasted a night or two, then become too lazy, tired, or disgusted at the lack of success and continued being a lonely (or content?) bachelor to this day.
  One observation from a recent trip back to Hilo, on New Year's day, I awoke at around two o'clock a.m. to virtual silence from the constant coqui racket, a silence that had no particular reason attached.  On prior nights, I awoke to greatly diminished rackets, but never one so complete.  What caused it?  The fireworks?  The weather?  There appeared no set pattern for either.  My current assumption?  The males had all found mates. But that raised the question, did these serenaders from evenings past all go without?  Were the females so super-finicky and hard-to-get and hard to please that they suffered these persistent cries unmoved or indifferent or with out-right turned-off disdain?  Or were the serenaders greedy can't-get-enough lotharios that upon conquering one female went right on back to their persistent calling, ever anxious to woo their next conquest?  Or were females possibly nympho sluts that in response to their lothario counterparts ever hopped from male to male as each cried for more, sexual appetites insatiable?
  This is where anthropomorphism can get disturbing and outright fallacious as animals are driven by an entirely different set of instinctive forces than humans who are guided by thought, reason, and emotion as well as instincts.  Nonetheless it's amusing to consider when bombarded by these calls unceasing hour after hour, night after night--it makes them a little more tolerable to have a sense of humor about them.
  Two nights later, the same eerie quietness occurred except for a lone distant caller from afar.  Perhaps most nearby males were getting older and more lethargic, voluntarily celibate through some nights?  Or settled down with pregnant mates, sated during later hours?  (I did do some research that suggested that males are good fathers, staying with the nest to guard against predators.)  Maybe as far as anthropomorphized animals go, coquis aren't so bad.  Certainly not as disturbing as praying mantises, say, whose males pay the price of coupling first with their heads, then their lives, and females die shortly after the act and laying a clutch of eggs.  (But I have an affinity toward praying mantises, they do so much good and look so cute, as far as insects go.  I had a pair that I kept as pets in a box that went through the entire later life cycle.  Yes, it was disturbing when I found them one on top of the other and when I tried to pull them apart, found they were attached at their bases!  And later after watching TV to try to erase the image, found a dead one on the floor, the legs and wings of another, and a clutch of eggs in the crook of a branch.  I unfortunately did not get to see the eggs hatch out as a jealous older neighborhood friend took the box and promised to call when they hatched out but never did.  His praying mantises had died, refusing to eat.  I guess some mantises, like humans, don't like being held captive either.  Now, hunger-striking insects, that's profound!)

In Their Words--PartII

     I felt like I needed a break from posting to this blog (or more accurately, felt too lazy to follow-through by writing something worthwhile, which takes tons of effort—like father like son, I guess given my last post about Braden...  Anyway this week they're at home on vacation for Fall break, whereas I'm at work with No break, so “Put them to work” seemed appropriate as misery loves company—Joke! I love my job and they love writing—at least as much as they love cleaning clogged toilets), so here for the second time in almost a year are all my kids' writings. (No joke—they really did write the following of which I didn't change a thing.) The only ground rules were word counts of a 100-130 for Jaren, 400-450 for Penelope, and 500-550 for Braden. And they had to be works they'd feel proud of and wouldn't later regret for bad spelling, grammar, or punctuation. 

(Jaren's essay)

Star Wars

     Have you seen the Star wars movies 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6? Apparently the movies 4, 5 and 6 were made first an 1, 2 and 3 were made after 4, 5 and 6. The episode 7 “The force awakens” is coming out December 2015! Also, episode 3 explains amolst every thing for episodes 4, 5, and 6. Did you see the trailer for episode 7? (If you didn't, this is going to spoil the trailer.) Did you see the guy with the three bladed lightsaber? (In case you didn't know, a lightsaber is the weapon used by Jedi and Sith made of pure energy.) Truthfully, I like the regular single bladed lightsabers. Last, I would like to trash talk the produscers that I don't know if Obi-wan, Yoda and Anakin can die since they are king of invisible.

(Penelope's essay)

 

Broken Computer

     I have a computer in my room. In my former room, really. Anyway, before you attempt to track me down in an attempt to steal it, let me save your time with a few simple words. Any guesses? Don't waste your time.
     There's nothing special about that particular computer. Well, nothing special that will make you want to take it. Unless you're an antiques collector, considering how old the computer is. But I don't think that it's that priceless. The entire computer (let's call it Fred) is heavy, clunky and must be plugged in for it to turn on. Then with an added bonus of it working less than 50% of the time, I could possibly attempt to sell it on eBay and see how many buyers I get. Maybe I'll get more for it since I named it.
     Fred has been with my family for quite some time. A really long time. Maybe since I was five. Fred is an old computer and sometimes I feel as if it's trying to tell us to just retire him. Let it live out it's final days in quiet retirement. 
     A description of Fred. Fred is composed of two major parts: a monitor and a big other part containing all of the hardware or whatever you call it. The screen looks almost exactly like our TV, a large boxy shape that narrows down on the back and is set upon a platform that's about the size of the screen. That part is very heavy in itself. The other part of Fred resembles a cereal box enlarged a little, with buttons and wires and all sorts of things that you need for your computer to be useful. Fred also has a black and white printer, nothing fancy. At least the printer can be used and works 100% of the time that you attempt to use it.
     Now let's say that today's your day and you manage to make Fred cooperate with you. Remember how I said that Fred resembles out TV? It does, except that my family doesn't have Internet, so we can't watch TV on it. (Not that we could watch TV on our TV set anyway). In our house, Fred has two major uses: schoolwork that needs to be typed out and work that my parents need to do. An extremely useful computer. *cough, cough*
     The programming of Fred thankfully works perfectly fine (except for Word processing), so my main problem with Fred is that it doesn't always work for me.
     I have a suspicion that Fred favors my dad or has a grudge against everyone except for him, since Fred usually works fine for dad but not us. Or maybe it's just me.

(Braden's essay)

Broken Computer

     We need to get a new computer. The one that is in my room is a Windows XP computer that was used by the cavemen. You know that this is true because like all old computers it has two parts. The first part is a monitor. You can compare it to a those box shaped old televisions with out those pointy things sticking out from the top. Also, unlike a regular television you can not watch Comedy Central on it. All in all the monitor is pretty much like a TV but all you can do with it is use it as a computer screen. The other part of the computer is shaped like a giant cereal box (unfortunately it does not have any cereal in it). This part has all the hardware and stuff that makes the computer work. As you can imagine the combined weight of the monitor and the computer weighs a lot. P.S. To keep things simple I will call the computer and the monitor combined Mr. Computer to keep things simple to prevent confusion.
      Recently the power strip that Mr. Computer is plugged into broke so whenever you want to use him you have to move him to the nearest outlet. Now Mr. Computer weighs a TON. Trying to move him is like trying to push an overweight elephant around. It takes a lot of work if it is even possible. Unfortunately unlike an overweight elephant Mr. Computer can not go on a diet or get exercise, so he can not loose weight. Moving him is not going to get any easier.

     Oh, did I mention that Mr. Computer is broken as well? I guess doing all that work for people since the cavemen days shorted put his brains (or whatever computers use to think). Whenever someone would power him up he would scream at you. Pressing his power button results in a annoying high pitched scream as his internal parts try to get moving. To get a good idea of how he sounds when you turn him on think of the sounds that a broken disk would make when playing a recording of R2-D2. 
     After hearing about our wonderful Mr. Computer you would think that we would be shopping for a new computer by now. After all most people would probably drive down to whatever computer store the usually buy from, and buy a new computer. For the better of for the worse my dad is not like most people. He says that once you can power it on it would work fine, you just have to keep trying to power it on. Well I would say that there is about a trillion to one chance of successfully powering on Mr. Computer. I probably will win the lottery before I can successfully turn on Mr. Computer. If there are any lottery winners out there then will you mind coming by and trying to turn on my computer because the odds are in your favor.
     We really need a new computer. One that works and does not scream at you. A computer that is not from the cavemen days. Oh and a computer that does not weigh as much as an elephant does.

     It's I again. 
     Here are my impressions of my kids' foregoing writing. First of all, note to self: Next year consider forgoing this exercise—mainly for the readers' or reader's (if any exists) benefit. My kids' above writings, though not good—in fact, they still repulse me same as last time, though perhaps a little less—are fair and indicative samples of their psyches at their ages. 
     My inside observations: All three went about the assignment with so-so enthusiasm at best this time, perhaps Jaren showing more than the others.
     Jaren and Pene wrote age-appropriately. What can I expect from a twelve and seven year old?
     I enjoyed Braden's a lot. Showed tons of improvement, humor, and unintentional humor with still too numerous spelling and grammatical errors that I think add to the humor (it's funny when the person criticizing you says unintentionally humorous things like ungrammatical sentences, misused words, etc. There's a higher-up where I work that loves to say “irregardless” in all seriousness. It's hard to take him serious when he says stuff like that. No one tells him of his error, because, well, I do not care to speculate.)
     By the way, Braden and Pene claim they did not discuss their essays at all, they just coincidentally turned out with identical titles, themes, and techniques—naming the computer and referring to it as “he” and a “cereal box.” I believe them. It's scary to think that they think so much alike though, they're as different to me as two people could be, but perhaps that's just my impression. Makes me wonder, though... seems so strange.

Making the Grade—Part II

     Here we go again. We've been asking Braden throughout this school quarter how he's doing and whether he's keeping up with his grades and his answers have always been “Fine” and “Yes.” Three weeks ago we get a prerecorded message from his school announcing a mid-quarter report card was sent home that day. Deanne asks him for it and he says, “Oh, yeah...” and retrieves it. Turns out his grades are far from fine. Not even close to fine with C's or worse in Math, English, and Science and a border-line B in History—all honors classes, but nonetheless, all grades unacceptable. This is especially unexpected and unpleasant 'cause he's had so much time throughout his days at home to get in trouble with Jaren, do lousy jobs with dish washing, lie around, do nothing, misuse the computer, give us bad attitude, and in general, look as if he hadn't a care in the world. (Perhaps he's fit to serve in Congress?) We ask him to bring home a print-out of all his grades for every assignment this quarter and through such discover he's been getting tomes of C's, D's, and F's for all these classes.

     Regular readers of this blog (real or imagined) may know the routine for such sub-B grades: Redo all such assignments, show the redone work to the teacher, and ask, “Will this have gotten me a B or better? My father wants to know even if it does not change my grade.”

     I ask which of the sub-B assignments he redid and he says, “None.”

     Why not? I ask, veins in my eyes throbbing like sea slugs.

     He attempts to feed me bovine feces, which I decline because I've already eaten and put him in time-out and make him do all the chores for all eternity.

     I then look at all his redone sub-B work to see that they're up to snuff, but what he shows me looks and smells an awful lot like equine feces (with heavy emphasis on the word awful).

      It takes him billions of attempts at each assignment to finally get them to where I believe they might warrant B's or better. All the while, I'm fuming, he's fuming, Deanne's fuming, and the family (and ozone layer) is suffering! I don't know how else to get it done. Just let him get lazier and lazier and lazier, with a worsening “Who cares?” attitude? I don't even know what he's thinking, sometimes wondering (assuming) he's doing it all just to irritate me and show me up.

     I start reading a book that I find on a library display called The Teen Whisperer 'cause it sounds so nice to be able to whisper to Braden to get him to put in his best effort the first time every time and follow-up on sub B grades with an attitude of excellence and responsibility without having to be told (shouted at, disciplined, threatened, etc. etc. etc.) as if he were completely ignorant on the matter even though this has been our ongoing routine during the beginning of every school year since he was in diapers. What must I whisper to him? I love you? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top? I know this must be difficult for you? How can I help you? Is there anything bothering you? I hope (though I know I shouldn't) that there is some magic incantation that I can whisper to him in his sleep that will solve all his life's ills...

     Turns out the book's pretty reasonable (but not earth-shattering—Where's the magic bullet?) and even softens my heart some, so after he breaks down and cries in anguish (over the difficulty of learning—Yes, learning and thinking are difficult, they're some of the most difficult things there are to do, that's why jobs that require such are some of the higher paid (excepting rock star, pro athlete, CEO, and hedge fund manager), I've told him. But the upside is that they're also some of the most rewarding and doing without thinking and learning makes life far more difficult. I realize, eventually, that he's just going through typical teen angst, of which I had more than my fill when I was a teen, and yes, I do remember and empathize.) I give him a choice: Do what needs to get done by quarter end and he gets to keep all his classes. Don't do adequate, and I'll have him drop Honors Science in favor of regular Science. (The most recent grades listing shows marked improvements in Math (low A territory), English (low B territory), and History (a solid B). Science has dropped to D territory, however, with Fs and an ungraded “redo” for recent assignments, one of which he spent hours on, including a Saturday afternoon taking a bus to and from the library to do internet research. He's trying fairly hard, I see, but is still struggling in the class. A change must be made—I don't want this to be the beginning of a long downhill slide...) If the school demurs, I'll insist he drop his favorite elective: JROTC, which is demanding and at times distracting, taking time and attention from academics (though he may resume it next year, assuming he earns decent marks in all his core academic subjects).

     He isn't pleased, but then again, what does he expect? He can no longer score A's and B's with minimal effort like in the past, he's going to have to work much, much harder to thrive and enjoy school, which are critical at his age should he desire higher education later, 'cause it's not going to get any easier, it's going to just keep getting tougher and tougher. I don't like laying down the law this way, but under the circumstances, I feel I must. It's what helpful dads do (or so I deceive myself). Leastwise, we can scarce afford to send him to adult play school (college) with no expectation of return (a useful diploma). However, if he finds a way to perform well, we will do our best to provide. But time is running out... (which is why those sea slugs in my eyes are thriving!)

Hugs

     I'm a five-hugs-a-day guy. I feel better, do better, and am better when I get this daily minimum allowance.

     When the kids were young, this was no problem, either because they wanted more (especially Braden) or they had no choice—we could hold them at will.

     But things changed fast, especially for Pene, and by the time she was a toddler, she made very clear when she wasn't in the hugging or cuddling mood by stiff-arming my chest with both her hands, leaning back, and turning her head away.

     I tease her now about her evading my hugs and say, “You hurt my feelings when you did that! It's as if you were saying, 'Stay away from me, I don't want any of that!'”

     She smiles to such remarks, of course not remembering a thing. Which brings me to today's standings:

• Deanne will share a hug with me in mornings before I leave for work and usually in bed at night before I fall asleep at around eight-fifteen.

• Jaren shares a close hug with me at bedtime and will happily share more when asked. At seven years old he's getting big for climbing aboard my lap at bedtime, but neither of us mind, so I'm not telling.

• Pene, a grown reproductive-capable woman at age twelve now gives me air hugs (sans chest-to-chest contact) at bed time. I'm currently reading the Lord of the Rings to her, which we both enjoy so much, and we feel so close, that though I miss closer hugs, I'm not pressing it. When I was about her age, my parents (especially Mom 'cause Dad was never much of a hugger) stopped hugging me on a daily basis because I preferred it that way (with some later regreta). And it worked okay with us and I believe that that's where Pene's at with me now, needing her space. (On more than a couple occasions, I've asked Deanne to remind Pene to keep behind closed doors when changing and not bend over when wearing revealing tops. It's all lady-stuff she needs to be aware of, so now's as good a time as any to learn. I suspect this lady awareness also includes not pressing so close to Dad...)

• Braden receives almost no hugs from us. This has been going on for years. I don't feel the desire to hug him, perhaps because we've had so many ugly fights, or perhaps because he's adopted sloppy dress and appearance as his default style, or perhaps because he often smells odoriferous, or perhaps because he doesn't want to be hugged because he values independence and autonomy above hugs, which he may consider mainly “for little kids.”

     Funny how at age fifty-three I'm far from being a little kid yet feel the need for hugs at least as often as Jaren. My closest and longest and most intimate hugs are now shared with Deanne. In the mornings, when we hug and Deanne prays for me while I stroke her hair, back, and arms—my way of saying bye to her—I allow myself to draw strength from her.

     Some may say it's not right to draw strength from her and that I should instead draw all my strength from God. But then the Bible makes clear it's good to be with another. For in the event one falls, the other may assist. And I so often these days feel as if I were falling-mostly due to assorted health maladies.

     It's too bad hugging isn't more widely accepted. Even elementary school teachers here in the Aloha State (or “Love” State), where hugging and adorning visitors with lei has so long been a cultural norm, and where hugs from “Aunties” and “Uncles” (adult friends, or acquaintances) are generally accepted, seem to restrict hugs to only the youngest keiki (kids), seemingly in fear of accusations of fondling or inappropriate touch.

     In church, too, it's all air hugs if any at all.

     And even in our extended ohana (family), only Mom still gives me close hugs. (My brother-in-law's sister touches her ear and/or cheek to mine while we air hug, which is nice, but interesting—first time I've experienced it, maybe a new way of doing it that I just didn't know about.)

     And at my workplace, hugging is virtually taboo due to sexual harassment fears and concerns. (In Japan, coworkers on company outings may relax at onsen (hot springs resorts), soaking together nude—same sex only, of course. Wonder how that would play in America? Although once, while working at a CPA firm we males all showered together after playing in a tennis tournament in preparation for our company banquet, but that was in Seattle where locker room etiquette is different from here...)

     On the flip side, while it's true that we don't want to open things up (especially for our kids) to potential abuse, I nonetheless believe that something is lost when people of any age don't receive ample hugs and that the world would be a far better place would everyone receive more than enough. It's simple. Easy. Free. And so healthy and beneficial. Why not indulge more?

Showers of Blessings

     When Braden was in first grade, Deanne told me one day with a smile and gurgle of restrained laughter that there'd been an incident at school. His teacher had told her that during class the students began laughing and pointing out the window at Braden, who was walking around in his blue dinosaur underwear with his shorts wrapped around his ankles. (The boys' restroom was located just outside class. At home after using the bathroom he walked around half nude and took his time getting dressed, so he must have forgotten his place, which the teacher attributed to absent-mindedness. I thought, “He lives in his own world.” At least it never happened again: embarrassment can be a great teacher.)
     Jaren, who just turned seven, has been in the habit of pulling down his shorts and underwear to just above his knees to pee. At home, its fine. But in public restrooms he's getting a bit too old to do that when tip-toeing to reach the urinal.
     I tell him it's gross to allow his penis to touch the urinal (although I remembered having done so accidentally countless times as a kid his age), to use the toilet stall instead, and to pull down only the front of his pants if he's going to keep the stall door open. He mostly follows my instructions but sometimes has trouble with aim as I sometimes hear Deanne scream at him to stop peeing all over the floor and outside the toilet! I even forbade him not to use our restroom toilet ever again unless he sits down every time, so upset was I to have to clean up after him. (I forced him to clean it himself but of course he did a sloppy job so I had to go at it for fifteen more minutes to eradicate the urine smell.)
     Part of the problem stems from his holding it in until the very last second. Outside in the garage, him playing and me in the midst of a messy refinishing project, he'll stop and ask me to let him in the house (we lock the door) to use the bathroom. “How bad do you have to go?” I'll ask. “Bad,” he'll reply, shifting his feet and squirming like roaches were building a nest in his anus. 
     In the past, I've let him pee in bushes, a laundry room sink, and down a storm drain. But when I've felt generous (and responsible) I've opened the door in haste and watched him dash in and in a flurry lift the toilet seat, pull down his shorts and underwear, and unleash a torrent somewhere in the vicinity of his intended target. By “vicinity” I mean depending on how long he waits; whether his slippers come off cleanly; whether the toilet seat is already up or down; whether the seat gets fumbled on its way up; how cold the floor is; whether there's a cool breeze wafting in from Penelope's room; whether his thumbs catch the insides of his waist bands cleanly the first try; how well his thoughts and body coordinate; and his aim, hand control, attentiveness, and playfulness, his pee may end up either in full or in part: 1) In the toilet (good!), 2) On his clothes (bad!), or 3) Elsewhere outside the toilet (worst!). In short, lots of factors (including mid-pee adjustments) affect where his pee ends up. (Once it ended up in the bathtub because I told him to use it as both toilets were already occupied.)
     (As an aside, boys underwear don't have peekaboo holes in front. Mens underwear do but no one but the most persnickety use them as they're ill designed for that purpose. I won't elaborate except to say there are far more convenient and reliable methods to pee than by first having to navigate through a ridiculous contortionist's wet dream labyrinth. So what're they there for? My guess: expansion, ventilation, aesthetics, and sex appeal, the last being the same reason why lots of guys love their female companions in peek-a-boo underwear.) 
     After church one day, Jaren and I stopped off before leaving to “relieve ourselves of that uneasy burden” (quote from Gulliver's Travels). Jaren was in the toilet stall beside the urinal before which I stood, and as I finished I heard the sound of splashing in inappropriate places and saw upon the floor beside me a puddle form and grow from four to eight to twelve inches in rapid succession. “What are you doing?” I asked in alarm and went over to see Jaren holding a cupcake (for his birthday) and church bulletin in one hand, while his other hand in front of him was hidden from my view. All appeared in order, yet the stream outside the toilet on the walls, floor, and porcelain continued unabated for sickening seconds longer as he appeared to fumble to adjust its errant course.
     One hand peeing can be tricky for the best of them, especially with an uncooperative pants front that flicks out in the line of fire. “Next time ask for help if you want me to hold something,” I said, mentally noting that at least he was peeing big boy style by pulling down his pants and underwear fronts only and not exposing his butt. 
     Upon his finishing (clothes front, floor, and walls saturated), I gave him paper towels to sop up the mess. After several tries, the puddle on the floor was not much smaller, so I dismissed him and went after it myself, with not much better results. I then remembered seeing as we'd entered, the door to a storage room nearby open, so I checked inside and found a mop, wringer, and utility sink, which made my job far easier. As I cleaned, still irritated, I realized that he'll learn in time to pee properly, that some things are just messier to clean than others, and that cleaning up after him wasn't so bad as just a once-over would suffice. And I knew in my heart then as I do now that despite such irritants and inconveniences, I always have and always will love being a dad.

Discipline—Part III

     There were a couple of fun kids camps approaching during a recent holiday weekend that Braden was excited about: An overnighter at our church and a two-nighter immediately following at Mokuleia. He's a calm sort that checks his emotions for the most part, but sometimes when he knows that he's got a fun, worthwhile (to us) event coming up that we're likewise looking forward to and that we'd be loathe to cancel, the sin that resides within him (and that resides in us all) tempts him beyond what he can bear and causes him to act rude, disrespectful, and aggressive toward his innocent, perfect family members excepting (for the most part) me. 
     To our pleasant surprise, then, Braden was a picture of kindness leading up to The Weekend, but just two days prior he sassed Deanne repeatedly as Deanne snapped back displeasure. 
     As mentioned in my prior Discipline essay, Deanne's not the most disciplined of disciplinarians so I told Braden, “Time out and you better quit now!” finger poised as if to pick my nose. He stomped away, foot falls slamming with such violence that had our football-sized cockroach co-tenants not stampeded clear, there'd be blood (or more accurately cockroach goo) splattered everywhere like Pulp Fiction. I might have let that pass, but then he muttered audible (but indecipherable—lucky for him) invective under his breath, kind of like Fred Flintstone after a dressing down from Mr. Slate, as if daring us (me) to do something about it. I said, “Okay you can't go Friday night.” I felt so relieved that that was settled that I might have smiled (not that I enjoy disciplining, I just hate anticipating further misbehavior.)  
     Braden walked away post-haste before he did something costlier, his breath labored as if he were doing a burst-the-water-bottle muscle man stunt. He hadn't a water bottle handy (or the muscles necessary to over-inflate it), however, so the only thing that appeared on the verve of bursting was his head, purple as a blood blister on a big toe caused by kicking a nearby ottoman after yet another stupid U.H. football play. Not that I watch or care about such games or take out my latent hostility or disappointment on inanimate objects. No, I take out my latent hurts and hostilities on animate objects such as football-sized cockroaches. Love killing them!
     On Friday afternoon, the three kids and I were outside exercising. Penelope, who would be going to the overnighter (but not the two-nighter 'cause she's too young) was riding a scooter around the driveway minding her business when Braden seeing her indifference to his plight took it as a personal affront, a teasing that she, but not he, could go. So he started taking up a lot of space as he bounced a tennis ball on my old Prince Graphite tennis racket and kicked Jaren's soccer ball through the stratosphere when it dared come too near him. 
     “Stop it!” I said, amazed that he'd act up with me sitting right there. “Okay Pene and Jaren you guys can go in.” 
     Pene put away the scooter and disappeared. “Can we play golf?” Jaren asked me.
     “Okay, I'll meet you out front,” I said.
     Jaren and I play putt-putt on our tiny, lumpy front lawn on occasion. While doing so on this occasion (to get away from Braden), I heard the sound of a skittering stone on concrete coming our way from the back of the house. I looked and there was a stone by the living room tottering on edge and up the drive by the garbage bin stood Braden displaying alpha male dominance gestures so I chuckled at his antics and let pass that the stone incident was caused by an “accidental slip” while playing Gorilla. 
     Back to the Masters Championship battle for the green jacket over which all rode on my final putt, I heard a larger, noisier stone come skipping down the drive toward us and this time it passed our level and stopped almost even with our mailbox a few feet away. I backed away from the ball to gather my thoughts to the astonished gasps of the crowd. Up the drive, Braden now stood flexing and heaving defiant like the Incredible Hulk. So I said, “Okay, you can't go to camp this weekend.” 
     Two nixes over three days is much for any teen to take and in his fury Braden whimpered super-nova hot tears, making “It's not fair!” type squeaks. 
     “Get your hat and walk up and down the street until dinner,” I told him, not wanting any broken windows (least not ours). 
     Deanne once asked are we (you) being fair sending him walking up and down the street? I said we (I) let him drink water and use the restroom. When he hikes with Boy Scouts, it's way tougher and longer and he considers that fun. I even told him he can invite Abe (a Boy Scout neighbor) along and they can both blow off steam together, might do them good. (But he has yet to avail himself of that opportunity). 
     He returned from his walk displaying much better submissiveness to the true alpha male in our household (my wife) and has been a fine young companion to me on Costco trips and other stressful outings ever since.
     Being human, though, he weeks later defied my direct order to Leave Penelope alone! (They were fighting over a book.) As he left her room he issued a final threat to her so he got grounded and had to miss working on a plutonium atom (model, not the radioactive isotope) with classmates. 
     Deanne said what's he to say (as a reason for not going)?
     I said the truth. I'm sure they'll understand—if they're lucky. They can brag who has the strictest Dad. 'You think that's bad?' I mocked, 'My dad once sent me to bed without dinner.' 'That's nothing, my dad whips me with his belt every night.' 'Boo hoo, all I got was stale bread and water for a month, just for not fixing my bed.' It's all blather. The silent one's the one that's got it bad. He's the one whose parents don't care, aren't around, allow him to do whatever he wants, and never disciplines him. I'd be very concerned about a boy like that. No, they'll understand Braden's time-out just fine.”
     More recently, during a time-out of Braden's when Deanne inadvertently (foolishly) “rewarded” him with a candy-bar, which I found out about only after he had devoured a few nibbles, I said, “He can't have that. Braden, throw it away in the trash outside,” (because we had already emptied the house rubbish for the day and didn't want basketball-sized cockroach co-tenants emerging after a night of over-indulgence—at least not in our unit), “and don't eat any more!” He left as instructed and on an impulse I stood in our darkened bedroom and supervised (spied on) him. There he was in the dimly lit carport by the garbage can. He looked at me! (I ducked away foolishly behind the curtain). He lifted a hand to his mouth, chewed in haste, not seeming to enjoy himself, then opened and closed the dumpster lid, and left the suspected crime scene.
     When he entered the house I asked, “Where's the candy?”
     “In the dumpster,” he said.
     “Go get it,” (I'd make a great attorney.) He made a motion to leave, so I figured he must have eaten only some of it—smart move. “What were you doing out there? I saw you bring something to your mouth.”
     “I ate some of the candy.”
     “Okay, you're in time-out another week.”
     Tough love? Perhaps. But having a child grow up bad is much tougher. At least in my opinion.

Weekday Dinner Conversations—Part II

     It's been working well asking each of our kids in turn, “What did you learn in school today?”—gets them thinking, remembering, sifting memories, and organizing thoughts (see my prior Weekday Dinner Conversations essay regarding.) I don't settle for general, vague answers such as, “I learned about history...”, either. Such answers net follow-up queries such as, “Can you be more specific? What's one new thing you learned?” And for each academic subject the routine's the same. It sometimes takes awhile, but it's informative, reinforcing, and engaging, requiring everyone to speechify.
     One recent night, Deanne decided to help Jaren, who, as youngest, struggles the most. “Didn't you learn about a princess, today?” He said no. (Deanne serves as a teacher's assistant at his school helping a higher grade special needs student. Sometimes the boy's studies corresponds in subject matter with Jaren's, just more advanced.) “Well I learned something. Would you like to hear it?”
     “Sure,” we said.
     “I learned that the song 'Aloha Oe' was written by Queen Liliuokalani. The idea for the song came from seeing lovers part ways.”
     Penelope said, “That's the song in Lilo and Stitch.”
     “Elvis Presley sang it, too.” said Deanne. 
     “Tia Carrera sang it in the movie, not Queen Liliuokalani,” I said. The kids laughed. “She did a good job. I thought the movie was well done.”
     “I also learned that Princess Pauahi—I can't remembered her maiden name—married Mr. Bishop when she was only nineteen.”
     With those few sentences, Deanne demonstrated more extensive knowledge of Hawaiian history than me. “Was the Summer Palace hers?” I asked.
     “No, that was Queen Emma's.” said Braden.
     “Oh, yeah, it was the Queen's, not the princess's.” As I went for seconds I announced, “Queen Emma married Mr. Summer and that's why they call it the Queen Emma Summer Palace.”
     The older kids laughed and Jaren joined in 'cause he knew I was joking. Deanne mock-scolded me, “Don't tell them wrong things,” then showed off, “I also learned King Kalakaua was elected King.”
     “I didn't know that,” I said, having returned to the table post-haste because I was hungry as a roach and those buggers are fast. “Did you know that Princess Pauahi's husband was a Bishop?” The kids shook their heads. “So they called him “Bishop Bishop.” They laughed again, having inherited my silliness gene that sets a quiver silliness cells of which their mouths, throats, eyes, noses, and stomachs have plenty. Made me feel good witnessing them laugh over non gross-out humor for once, toward which they're most partial, such as anything to do with

(DON'T READ THIS SECTION UNLESS YOU HAVE A STRONG CONSTITUTION)

squished slugs, exploding cockroaches (in a microwave), and tasty hanagalas (thick, oozy, slimy, boogers—the kind you get at the tail end of a long, drippy cold: snort 'em and swallow 'em, and their taste and texture remind me of raw oysters, sans the metallic aftertaste. Michelin four star restaurants could save bundles serving hanagalas on half shell—one would do—without the high risk of food poisoning. Add a bit of hot sauce and yum! Btw, hanabata, a solider form of hanagalas, has an interesting etymology. Hana = nose (in Japanese); bata = butter (in pidgin), thus, hanabata, or nose butter = boogers. No joke!)

(SAFE TO RESUME READING HERE, FOR THOSE WITH DELICATER CONSTITUTIONS)

     (My high school friend—brilliant guy—once said, “Puns are the lowest form of humor.” Ever since, I've resorted to using them only when desperate for a cheap laugh, which means all-too-often 'cause I'm a thrifty guy.)
     Deanne continued her erudite discourse and dinner soon ended (no connection). As I prepared to bathe, I realized she'd missed a key fact so I called the kids together and said, “When King Kalakaua was young and single he was very attractive and talented. A lot of ladies had their eyes on him. So when he married, a lot of them were disappointed, jealous, and just little bit peeved—especially after he became king. They talked among themselves, calling him That Married Man. The nickname stuck and people henceforth called him, “The Married Monarch.” 
     “It's Merry Monarch!” said Penelope. 
     I nodded and felt a bit sheepish for my unsophisticated humor. (My high school teacher said satire is the highest form of humor as it gets audiences laughing at their flaws. Well, sometimes I mock the kids in an outlandish, comical way that gets them laughing (except the person being made fun of—some people have no senses of humor!) My excuse is our dinners last a loooongish hour so anything that lightens the mood in orderly fashion and that facilitates pleasantness, fellowship, and digestion is worth it. One of the perks of membership in our exclusive immediate family club is I don't have to be funny (though it helps). On the flip side, I need to be present (in body and mind), setting a proper tone with good humor, which I consider privilege more than responsibility anyway (there's nowhere I'd rather be). And as long as everyone enjoys themselves while learning and growing, I count a night's conversation a success. And we all look forward to our next dinner—especially since Deanne's such a super cook!

 

Haircuts—Part II

     Jaren must take after me. Not long ago, he gave himself a haircut (see my prior related Haircuts essay). When I say “haircut” I mean it in the loosest sense, for he didn't cut it for style (at least none that I can decipher) or because it was in need of a cut (it was perhaps three-eighths of an inch long throughout at the time), but because he was apparently bored or curious or just wanted to see what would happen.
     Here's what happened: He took a child's safety scissors into his bedroom. He sat on his bed. With his dominant left hand, he placed the scissors blades as flat and close to his scalp as possible. Without benefit of a mirror, he snipped away at random tufts where his left hand could reach and feel comfortable. And he continued to snip until he felt he had snipped enough. (Why does the sun rise? Who knows?)
     When Deanne came in, he had already hidden the evidence (the scissors, not the mangy bald spots). She asked him what happened?  He said nothing. Through stifled smirks and snorts she asked what happened to your hair? He said nothing? She said why are there bald spots all over? That was when—the only time it ever really happens—he got real quiet. “I pulled them out,” he said.
     Deanne gave him time out for the rest of the week not so much for cutting his hair, but for lying. I came home to Deanne's smirks; she didn't tell me what had happened, not wanting to spoil my surprise, I guess, but instead said, “Jaren's in time out; go see him yourself.” So I went in, cheeks tightening and lips pulling back involuntarily, but I forced them forward to convey seriousness. Why'd you do it? I asked. No reason he said.
     This has become such a common refrain in our household, which he learned from Braden, I'm sick of it. It's their equivalent of pleading guilty as charged and throwing themselves on our mercy—usually a good move with Deanne, but seldom with me. But to them it beats telling a dumb truth such as, “Because I was bored,” or “I had nothing better to do,” or “I thought it would be fun”—to which they know they'll receive mocks and ridicules, which can be sort of fun for us. But by pleading “no reason,” I'm forced to discipline which I hate (See my prior Discipline (Vengeance) essay regarding.)
     Most noticeable was a bald white strip from an inch above his forehead to the north pole peak of his noggin, two and a quarter inches long by a half—inch wide. It looked sort-of like someone had taken a strip of tape, pressed it flat to his hair, then ripped away—all the attached hair plucked out by the roots. Or perhaps more accurately, as if someone had shaved the area neat for some medical (or demented) purpose.
     Another denuded area ran from his left side burn to over two inches above his ear, four and quarter inches long by a quarter inch wide. In truth, this second strip alone would have looked a bit punk (as in rock—the musical genre, not the mineral), but combined with the dopey center stripe the overall effect was merely comical IMHO (as in “In My Honest Opinion” not “Individual Motives Harmonize Occasionally”—a revision capitalist theory that suggests Adam Smith's 'invisible hand' sometimes works for the overall good, but mostly only for the super wealthy.)
     Besides the two aforementioned blotches of exposed lard-white scalp there were a couple of garden-variety “rat-bite” patches, the size of a dime and a penny, that weren't as short or noticeable.
     What to do?  Buzz the entire scalp and make him look like a Michael Jordan wannabe? “Punk” the rest of his hair to match?  Let it be? Jaren loves haircuts (duh!) so rewarding his misbehavior with another haircut would just encourage more misbehavior (duh!) The imbecile center strip was so dumb-looking, I feared any additional punking would just worsen things.  Since Jaren should suffer for his wrongdoing (playing with scissors and lying), not us, I decided we'd let it be (and wait to buzz the rest of his hair to match after his bald patches had grown out some).
     The odd thing was, in the coming weeks not a single person in Summer Fun or church commented to him or us about his new look—such a disappointment because I had been (secretly) anticipating such feedback. In desperation, I finally shared my bemusement with church friends who were so polite—I guess because they didn't want Jaren to feel self-conscious—that they didn't share much in my revelry.
     When Deanne was about Jaren's age, she'd gotten so sick of everyone commenting about her long, beautiful eyelashes (that curl up naturally) that she got a pair of scissors and snipped them off (so Jaren must take after her, too). Dirty lickin's and scoldings—she could have poked her eyeballs out—followed, stiff consequences for her ill-advised actions. 
     At some point in my hilarities I wondered should I be concerned? Did Jaren's haircutting rise to the level of self mutilation? But then, it couldn't have hurt, I reasoned. In fact, it must've been pleasurable for him to have cut so much. I supposed then that it was akin to marking one's skin with a pen, paint, or markers—something everyone's done at one time or another, all temporary, no harm done.
     The sad thing is I know that I'll miss such nonsense later when they've all grown older and wiser.

Temper, Avoidance, Lying, and Laziness

                  A hot temper is perhaps my most visible if not greatest weakness among many that include (to varying degrees) pride, vanity, lustfulness, fretfulness, lack of faith, lack of generosity, unforgiveness, and inflexibility. (Sorry to burst anyone's bubble: I'm not perfect.) It is usually born of impatience or irritability over small preventable things that don't resolve timely. (Yes, I can be petty: tsk, tsk, tsk.)
     An example of a recent flare up follows. At the time, Braden is already in the doghouse for having gotten a fourth quarter grade of C+ in social studies, not staying on top of his grades as promised, lying about it repeatedly, dumping his social studies binder, lying about why he dumped it, and giving me loud, disrespectful b.s. to confuse and steer me away from the evidence. After ascertaining the truth through diligent (angry) questioning, I make him retrieve the binder from the nearby dumpster, ground him for three weeks, and assign him nightly dish washing duty. This background does not exonerate me from my impatient rantings described below that were far from honorable or dignified. I have since (and once again) prayed for God's help to relieve me of this habitual sin because I can't do it alone.

My Impatient Rantings

 (Setting: one recent evening)

     “I read the other night something about someone saving the Natatorium,” says Braden.
     “Where did you read this?” I ask.
     “In the Midweek.”
     “Who's saving it?”
     “The government.”
     “Which government?”
     “Congress or...?”
     “Congress?” At this point, I know he's wrong. I question in disbelieving tone to get him to correct his error, for a man's word is important and he should always speak truth to the best of his knowledge and ability and not knowingly substitute convenient erroneous misstatement.
     “Oh, I forgot... The state house.”  
     He's close, but no cigar. “The state house?” I ask incredulous.
     “The state house and state senate.”
     “What's that body called?”
     “The state...lezijlature.”
     “It's not state lezijlature,” I mock because I'm the parent and that's what impatient parents with short tempers sometimes (always) do.
     “...The state...lezijhlature.”
     “Go look it up!
     He disappears for awhile and I later see him perusing a children's dictionary. I say use the regular one. “I can't find it,” he says. Since it's dinner time I say do it later.  
     But later, as is his wont, he still hasn't done a thing, instead settling into a state of near suspended animation. So from my room I shout to him to pronounce it.  
     He shows up hours later and says, “Legislature.”
     “Which legislature?” I ask because sometimes when he adds a word or two in front he gets tongue-tied and mispronounces.  
     “The state house and state senate.” 
     “Not the state house and state senate, the state what?” Legislature, I intone to myself soundlessly and without moving my lips, my face altering hues like an octopus in heat as I increase toward maximum amplitude my mental telepathy thought wave transmissions.  
     The oscillating fan on the floor, beside my bed rubs up against the drapes causing an irritating, vibrating, flattering–lips sound that goes: “ppppppstatepppplegislatureppppp...”
     “The Hawaii state legislative branch,” Braden says with conviction.
     “That's not right! What body makes the laws?” A long pause follows. “Well?”
     “I don't know.”
     “You don't? What did the article say?” Here I regain some composure, having given up for now my extrasensory communications powers because my internal omni-directional antenna transmitter is obviously malfunctioning, causing painful reverberations within my cranial cavity. The fan now sputters: “Ststststatelegleglegislaturenahnahnahnah...”
     “I don't...remember,” he says.
     “Then read it!”
     He leaves the room and returns thirty hours later. “I couldn't find it,” he says. 
     “What do you mean you couldn't find it?” We store billions of copies of each Midweek issue on our kitchen storage cart, which means they outnumber our unit's cockroach population by three.
     “I mean I found it, but just scanned it.”
     “Then read the whole thing”—this said at peak volume. I can't believe he's wasting my time, not having read the entire article yet.  
     “No! I mean the first time I scanned it. This time I read the whole thing but it doesn't say the body.”
     “It doesn't?” Here I'm bit cooler, but skeptical. His nonsensical non sequiturs reassure me that he's the linguistically challenged one, not me (or is it I?) 
            “No.”
     “Are you sure?”
     “Yes.”
     “If I read it now, I won't find it?”
     “I don't think so.”
     “You don't think so?”
     “No, you won't.”
     This takes me aback. “Okay. Then would like to take a guess?”
     “No.”
     “Then go to bed.”
     I later call him back. “What answer did you give me the first time.”
     “The Hawaii state legislature.”
     “Well why didn't you just say it?” I shake me head to test for loose parts. Clackataclackataclackata go the Chiclets inside. This explains what happened to those Chicklets I accidentally inhaled and swallowed whole. No wonder Mom told us never to swallow gum. “Go to bed,” I say.
     Later, as I'm brushing my teeth and feeling the need to extinguish the angry burn still in my chest, I remember my friend Norm telling me that shouting at Braden over his academic struggles won't help. I ask Braden are you awake?, then call him over when he says no.
     “What's the law making body?” I ask.
     “The Hawaii state legislature.”
     “Write it down on a sheet of paper. Include the pronunciation. Is that the same as the legislative branch?”
     “No.”
     “Get a portfolio. Keep it in there. Whenever you have a word you need to learn, put it in there. This isn't the first time you struggled with this.”  
     “Yes, Dad.”

End of impatient rantings

(resumption of normal (abnormal) narrative)

 

            Later that evening, I explain to Deanne that what bothers me most is Braden's avoidance strategy—hiding his grades, throwing away his binder, avoiding the phrase “state legislature”, avoiding taking the most challenging courses, dropping out of honorary chamber orchestra in order to avoid having to practice harder to master difficult pieces (I only learn about this “honor” after his intermediate orchestra's final performance because his name is erroneously included in the program's list of honor chamber orchestra musicians), and failing to earn a single merit badge after nearly three years in scouting because avoiding difficult requirements is easier than working hard to fulfill them.
     “I have no tolerance for avoidance because something's difficult,” I say. “He has to do it over and over until he gets it right. Whether its guitar, violin, math, social studies, or whatever, if he does it enough times, he'll master it. When I know he's avoiding something, I purposely drill him on it to force him to learn it. He has to do his part, too, by thinking and trying, not avoiding.”  
     “When he's nervous, he gets flustered sometimes. Maybe we should sit down when we're all calm—.”
     “You do it. I'm doing my best. Please do it yourself sometime—whenever you want,” I suggest supportively.
     All his life we've been trying to instill in him an attitude of excellence in everything he does because taking care of small things leads to big things taking care of themselves and by doing well in school, he keeps his options open. It's his slackadaisical attitude and dishonest attempts to cover up that I find so disconcerting: grave character flaws that have and will continue to come back and bite him. I've seen it countless times in friends, acquaintances, and coworkers. Though some have managed to get by, few if any have had thriving careers or have come across as peaceful or content. 
     Yet for some reason, Braden's failings don't seem to bother him, which only disconcerts me more. “If you try your best studying five hours every night, I'll go to bat for you and talk with your teacher and figure out what's the matter,” I tell him. “But you don't. You got what you deserved. So don't tell Mom anymore it wasn't my fault. Excuses mean zero.”
     Long-shot goals that I share with him the following evening in hopes of motivating him to try harder and making him realize that what he does now is important: Air Force pilot and chef graduate (from Kapiolani Community College). Either could lead to an honorable, fulfilling career, if and when he gets his act together. “It's your choice,” I tell him. “Cruise now and work hard with tough low paying jobs the rest of your life. Or work hard now, and cruise with enjoyable, high paying jobs the rest of your life. I can't force you, it's up to you to decide.” Part of me fears he's still too immature to “get it.” Perhaps I'll force him to get a job soon. Perhaps he'll turn things around and get all A's and B's from now on. Or perhaps he'll continue as he has and end up with a thriving career far more successful than mine—stable (stuck) in a white collar below middle management supervisory accountant position.  (My middling writing "career" with hardly a reader doesn't count.) But at least I'm peaceful and content. For now.