Penelope's first happened last year during our family trip to Molokai. As she showered after our long day at multiple beaches, Deanne went in to collect the dirty laundry and noticed pinkish stains on her swim underwear. It didn't take long to ascertain that her first menses had come. It hadn't been a total surprise for Penelope because Deanne had taught her, at my insistence, the facts of life months earlier (see my prior The Facts of Life essay); we just didn't expect it to happen so soon, Penelope age ten at the time, though Deanne did have hers early too at age eleven.
In shock, Deanne scolded her for not saying anything. Penelope, in quiet submissiveness, said yes Mom.
I later told Deanne to take it easy on her, she must have been scared—of course it would be for anyone the first time—and that we should encourage her. It isn't a curse or the most horrible or uncomfortable thing, it's part of how God decided babies would be made.
When I was going through adolescence and my voice was changing, I explained, my mom, the most wonderful mother in the world, teased me about it, and let my older sister tease me about it, too, and I don't want Penelope to feel bad about it at all. Other cultures celebrate the milestone with festivities and for western cultures to act as if it's shameful or dirty is absurd, for every healthy woman goes through it and for those that don't, something's the matter, which would be a real cause for concern.
But Deanne expressed concern about the early onset being far from ideal.
I said it's out of our hands, fretting about it won't help, and it's still within normal range.
So when Penelope emerged from the bathroom with a tremulous look, I smiled, gave her a hug, and said congratulations. She smiled back and said thank you. Taking my lead, Deanne supported her and we distributed special treats for dinner that night in honor of Penelope having passed such a major milestone.
At church that weekend, arm around Penelope's shoulder, I shared with our pastor when we had a quiet moment alone with her, “Congratulations are in order. Penelope is now a woman.”
“Oh,” she said, hesitant for a moment. “How old is she?”—this directed toward Deanne.
“Ten,” Deanne said.
“She's pretty tall...”
“I see her in a whole new light now,” I said.
Minutes later, Pastor Mary came by and congratulated Penelope with a hug and a lei, which made her feel special.
More recently I asked Penelope if she knew whether any of her classmates were having their menses too, and she said yes and named a couple of them—close friends of hers. She hadn't asked them; they'd approached her separately and asked her. I guess they somehow sensed it; I've noticed an increased serious-somber weight in her ever since, perhaps due to the heightened responsibility and/or bouts of natural discomfort.
And just the other night when we were making a jigsaw puzzle of four wolves—two fearsome black and two handsome tan and white—Penelope asked are they all the same species?
“I don't know, perhaps they're different sexes?” I said.
“If so, I bet the black ones are males.”
“Maybe, but sometimes in the animal kingdom, the males are the pretty ones—like peacocks and chickens and other birds—and the females are the drab ugly ones.”
We worked a bit longer in silence and then she said, “Whenever I see a male peacock, its feathers are always pointing straight back.”
“A long time ago we saw one at Hilo Zoo, tale wide open, quivering, and making brrrbrrrbrrr noises,” I said, imitating.
“I remember that,” said Braden.
“I enjoy seeing animals do what they do. Some animals' behaviors just seem
so bizarre by human standards.”
A short while later Penelope said that her friend said she saw a couple of snakes mating at a zoo.
“Were they twisting all around as if they were fighting?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “One just went on top of the other.”
“Did she see anything or did she just think they were mating?”
“She said she just thought they were.”
“Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. Every animal has its own way of doing things. If we lived on a farm you'd know all about these things...”
After a few minutes I noticed Penelope not working on the puzzle, instead fidgeting with something in her fingers. It took awhile to figure out what it was, then I said, “Is there something interesting about that plastic?”
She giggled, said no, and soon walked away.
I was glad that we could have quiet family conversations about the facts of life, something I believe every child should feel comfortable discussing with his or her parents.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Date Nights—Part II
The Downtown Arts District, a couple blocks east of central Chinatown, has a good thing going evenings. Deanne and I have been a couple times—both times smashing successes with hand holding, listening to live music, walking, and ducking in and out of shops and cafes/bars.
When I was in college, the Chinatown area had a bad nighttime reputation. A dorm mate told his girlfriend who was going there with a bunch of girls, “Now if some guy grabs you, I want to kick him in the n___!” She said nothing's going to happen but you could tell he was serious.
We parked at Chinatown Gateway Plaza for three dollars after five p.m. then both times went for early dinners at Murphy's Bar and Grill. It has a family-friendly restaurant section with attentive waitresses and a bricks/brass/window planters atmosphere that seems years and miles away from the hectic financial district just a few blocks away. (The first time we went I had a wine glass of Narwhal beer on tap—the only drink either of us had on either night—and it was fantastic!) Then after eating and talking and relaxing and easing into our togetherness mode, we headed up Bethel Street toward Hawaii Theater.
Now here's where the vibe got funky-fun: young, beautiful people out and about, smatterings of middle-agers walking by or waiting for a bus, and a few senior young-at-hearts ducking into a bar seemed to invite and enfold us into the scene. On our first night there in front of the theater young costumed college types, Caucasian and oriental geeky-chic, put on a sidewalk Celtic-sounding modern pop show featuring singing accompanied by guitar, violin, and cello. Further along and around a corner in a side alley, a few young, slim ladies dressed in Charleston era sexy half-lingeries (they may have been among the Cherry Blossom Cabaret) were filing into the adjacent store's make-shift show room theater with hung sheets for walls (they'd done their thing before in a hairstyling salon). At the Arts at Mark's Garage (it really is a grungy old garage I used to park in decades ago; its street level commercial space is now an art gallery/performing arts center), I was allowed to enter free and see the tail end of a one-man show: he sat on a barstool, recited his final lines, bowed, and was very well received by the small but enthusiastic audience (the place held perhaps twenty. The Rocky Horror Picture show was to be screened later with attendees encouraged to bring rice, squirt guns, plastic tarp, and other audience participation props.) We then ducked in and out of boutiques, vendors warm and inviting, and ended up at Hank's Cafe where a middle aged guy sang and played guitar. The barkeeper/owner was cool and let us hangout in the near empty place that seated perhaps fifteen and I sang along to Beatles & Paul McCartney classics, tipping the musician who played my requested In My Life (Beatles' version).
The second night, after our light meal, we ducked into the dark old-world-looking Brasserie du Vin wine bar/restaurant and had a couple of dainty pastries selected from the refrigerated display case out front. Fantastic, light, and not too sweet—they were the perfect shared desserts for Deane's birthday. Continuing along we looped back around block's end and stopped into Fresh Cafe, which was soft-opening with a new concept with three separate spaces, all clean and well lit with open loft-style atmospheres: restaurant, outdoors lanai seating along a covered walk with high brick walls and industrial refrigerator steel doors to match, and a separate well-lit bar where we snacked on chips with salsa while listening to a twenty-something musician sing and play acoustic guitar upbeat and tight. Another patron and I had fun harmonizing along to songs I never before heard. (The gathering crowd in shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers made me feel like we were grandparents, though, but only in a self-reflective, humorous way.) And we finished the night at the Dragon Upstairs jazz bar where a quintet of oldsters (college professor types) stuffed into a tiny area riffed out fun, humorous numbers I again didn't recognize but appreciated just the same. The sax and trumpet traded conversational riffs like arguing spouses, cutting in on each other, reasoning, insisting, and pleading. Then, as if they both had had enough, they riffed off simultaneous which resulted in ticklish cacophonous dissonant notes and verses that had me laughing half-way through, so taken was I by their show of generosity and humility, neither upstaging the other. (I'd heard the sax player years before at Ward's Rafters in Kaimuki which was in an attic of a house turned jazz venue when he'd played with a pianist parent of a scout in Braden's den. At the time he'd played limpid and unexpressive. At the Dragon, he cooked. I concluded he'd underperformed at the Ward's Rafters as professional courtesy to Dan, the show's headliner that afternoon...)
We'd been to the Arts District before for shows at Hawaii Theater and dinner and never felt threatened so times have, as advertised, changed for the better. Of course our evenings ended well before ten, so that may have had something to do with it. Most locals know of the area's chronic homeless presence (especially at the park beside Hawaii Theater) and problems with drugs, public inebriation, the mentally ill, and crime, so its not something we do often. But once in awhile, when its early, we feel its safe enough. And there is a police substation and Walmart nearby that makes the area feel a lot less shady than before.
When I was in college, the Chinatown area had a bad nighttime reputation. A dorm mate told his girlfriend who was going there with a bunch of girls, “Now if some guy grabs you, I want to kick him in the n___!” She said nothing's going to happen but you could tell he was serious.
We parked at Chinatown Gateway Plaza for three dollars after five p.m. then both times went for early dinners at Murphy's Bar and Grill. It has a family-friendly restaurant section with attentive waitresses and a bricks/brass/window planters atmosphere that seems years and miles away from the hectic financial district just a few blocks away. (The first time we went I had a wine glass of Narwhal beer on tap—the only drink either of us had on either night—and it was fantastic!) Then after eating and talking and relaxing and easing into our togetherness mode, we headed up Bethel Street toward Hawaii Theater.
Now here's where the vibe got funky-fun: young, beautiful people out and about, smatterings of middle-agers walking by or waiting for a bus, and a few senior young-at-hearts ducking into a bar seemed to invite and enfold us into the scene. On our first night there in front of the theater young costumed college types, Caucasian and oriental geeky-chic, put on a sidewalk Celtic-sounding modern pop show featuring singing accompanied by guitar, violin, and cello. Further along and around a corner in a side alley, a few young, slim ladies dressed in Charleston era sexy half-lingeries (they may have been among the Cherry Blossom Cabaret) were filing into the adjacent store's make-shift show room theater with hung sheets for walls (they'd done their thing before in a hairstyling salon). At the Arts at Mark's Garage (it really is a grungy old garage I used to park in decades ago; its street level commercial space is now an art gallery/performing arts center), I was allowed to enter free and see the tail end of a one-man show: he sat on a barstool, recited his final lines, bowed, and was very well received by the small but enthusiastic audience (the place held perhaps twenty. The Rocky Horror Picture show was to be screened later with attendees encouraged to bring rice, squirt guns, plastic tarp, and other audience participation props.) We then ducked in and out of boutiques, vendors warm and inviting, and ended up at Hank's Cafe where a middle aged guy sang and played guitar. The barkeeper/owner was cool and let us hangout in the near empty place that seated perhaps fifteen and I sang along to Beatles & Paul McCartney classics, tipping the musician who played my requested In My Life (Beatles' version).
The second night, after our light meal, we ducked into the dark old-world-looking Brasserie du Vin wine bar/restaurant and had a couple of dainty pastries selected from the refrigerated display case out front. Fantastic, light, and not too sweet—they were the perfect shared desserts for Deane's birthday. Continuing along we looped back around block's end and stopped into Fresh Cafe, which was soft-opening with a new concept with three separate spaces, all clean and well lit with open loft-style atmospheres: restaurant, outdoors lanai seating along a covered walk with high brick walls and industrial refrigerator steel doors to match, and a separate well-lit bar where we snacked on chips with salsa while listening to a twenty-something musician sing and play acoustic guitar upbeat and tight. Another patron and I had fun harmonizing along to songs I never before heard. (The gathering crowd in shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers made me feel like we were grandparents, though, but only in a self-reflective, humorous way.) And we finished the night at the Dragon Upstairs jazz bar where a quintet of oldsters (college professor types) stuffed into a tiny area riffed out fun, humorous numbers I again didn't recognize but appreciated just the same. The sax and trumpet traded conversational riffs like arguing spouses, cutting in on each other, reasoning, insisting, and pleading. Then, as if they both had had enough, they riffed off simultaneous which resulted in ticklish cacophonous dissonant notes and verses that had me laughing half-way through, so taken was I by their show of generosity and humility, neither upstaging the other. (I'd heard the sax player years before at Ward's Rafters in Kaimuki which was in an attic of a house turned jazz venue when he'd played with a pianist parent of a scout in Braden's den. At the time he'd played limpid and unexpressive. At the Dragon, he cooked. I concluded he'd underperformed at the Ward's Rafters as professional courtesy to Dan, the show's headliner that afternoon...)
We'd been to the Arts District before for shows at Hawaii Theater and dinner and never felt threatened so times have, as advertised, changed for the better. Of course our evenings ended well before ten, so that may have had something to do with it. Most locals know of the area's chronic homeless presence (especially at the park beside Hawaii Theater) and problems with drugs, public inebriation, the mentally ill, and crime, so its not something we do often. But once in awhile, when its early, we feel its safe enough. And there is a police substation and Walmart nearby that makes the area feel a lot less shady than before.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
The Happiest Days
The
first time it happened was at a restaurant in Chinatown. We were
seated at our table waiting to be served in the deserted eatery—a
greasy spoon with aging floors, walls, ceiling, fixtures and
furniture—our first time there. Unprompted, Jaren blurted, “This
is the happiest day of my life!”
“Why?” I asked, surprised. It had been a most ordinary day with no special occasion, events, or activities.
“Because we get to eat at fancy restaurant!”
“Well I'm glad you like it. I do, too.”
While it's true that we seldom eat out (by American standards), on the fanciness scale the restaurant hardly rated five out of ten, even among restaurant at which Jaren's eaten. The rest of us looked at each other bemused, buoyed by his eager anticipation and that ultimate phrase that most people so closely guard.
The happiest days of my life included those of my wedding, Braden's birth, and his baptism (see my related Patience—Part II essay). I've lived innumerable happy days, though, so to rank them all—the transcendent, the undeserved, God's blessing bestowed—would be to underappreciate far too many, especially those that I can't immediately recall. And how could I possibly compare my own baptism (at a beach in Waikiki among members of Calvary Chapel, a church I didn't attend because I wanted to do it for God and no one else and because I love the open ocean)—one of the best things I've ever done—to the last day of Deanne's second trip to Oahu to visit me following a half-year of long-distance courtship when she sang along (a bit off key as usual) with the perfect song on a tape that she had earlier sent me as if she were singing it to me and I knew then for sure that she would be a more wonderful wife (we were already engaged) than I could every have dared hope or imagine and I broke down and cried—she thought because I was sad, but I said no, I'm just happy and she giggled and hugged and kissed me. It was her first time with me crying and she was okay with it and that made me appreciate her even more.
I suppose the second might have been happier (emotional) because God is perfect and people are not and when things turn out right with unpredictable people it comes as such a profound surprise, whereas God always waits patiently for us to return to Him to make things right for us, though I suppose the profound surprise in the first instance was that I had done something good and right for once and didn't feel awkward or goofy at the time or compelled to do it but rather only moved and grateful for the opportunity.
The second time it happened was after Jaren's toy laptop, a Christmas present purchased a month-and-a-half earlier from Longs Drug for twenty dollars went silent—no sound effects, music, or words. Since it ran on AA batteries, I thought I might be able to diagnose the problem, so I opened its back and noticed a disconnected wire. After stripping off a half-inch of plastic sheathing at wire's end, I placed the exposed twisted metal strands where I thought the bundle belonged and stuttering blips and buzzes issued forth. Plastic tape didn't work and even holding it in place barely did—audio came and went—at which point I knew solder would be necessary.
My landlord, a great guy—the best landlord I've ever had, loaned me his soldering iron so twenty minutes later the cheapy toy was fixed and Jaren, delighted, said those joyful words.
The third time it happened came a few months later, just before bedtime. Jaren said, ”Tomorrow's the happiest day of my life!”
“Why's that?” I asked.
“Because tomorrow I get to meet Grace Lin!” (See my prior Making A—Part II essay for explanation, regarding.)
What's remarkable is the smallness of the things that so delighted Jaren, things that were all social by nature (he wasn't happy so much because his toy was repaired, but that we had repaired it together: He helped get the screw driver, tape, and scissors; remove and replace the retaining screws; find, pick up, and store dropped parts; and press the appropriate keys to test the various functions). And such bighearted openness to the small reminded me that life's greatest happinesses often do come during the tiniest of moments during the most insignificant of days. They've come to me while reading, praying, daydreaming, and sitting quiet with a loved one. Blessing others. Camping, swimming, and walking along a beach. Viewing a sunset. Cooking, talking, and sharing. Petting a cat, wrestling my kids, sitting alone, and watching T.V. And like fickle guests they have arrived unbidden during cool quiet evenings and during simple meals at home or even at not-so-fancy restaurants. I think it's wonderful that Jaren is so easy to please. And I suppose that anyone who chooses to, can be too.
“Why?” I asked, surprised. It had been a most ordinary day with no special occasion, events, or activities.
“Because we get to eat at fancy restaurant!”
“Well I'm glad you like it. I do, too.”
While it's true that we seldom eat out (by American standards), on the fanciness scale the restaurant hardly rated five out of ten, even among restaurant at which Jaren's eaten. The rest of us looked at each other bemused, buoyed by his eager anticipation and that ultimate phrase that most people so closely guard.
The happiest days of my life included those of my wedding, Braden's birth, and his baptism (see my related Patience—Part II essay). I've lived innumerable happy days, though, so to rank them all—the transcendent, the undeserved, God's blessing bestowed—would be to underappreciate far too many, especially those that I can't immediately recall. And how could I possibly compare my own baptism (at a beach in Waikiki among members of Calvary Chapel, a church I didn't attend because I wanted to do it for God and no one else and because I love the open ocean)—one of the best things I've ever done—to the last day of Deanne's second trip to Oahu to visit me following a half-year of long-distance courtship when she sang along (a bit off key as usual) with the perfect song on a tape that she had earlier sent me as if she were singing it to me and I knew then for sure that she would be a more wonderful wife (we were already engaged) than I could every have dared hope or imagine and I broke down and cried—she thought because I was sad, but I said no, I'm just happy and she giggled and hugged and kissed me. It was her first time with me crying and she was okay with it and that made me appreciate her even more.
I suppose the second might have been happier (emotional) because God is perfect and people are not and when things turn out right with unpredictable people it comes as such a profound surprise, whereas God always waits patiently for us to return to Him to make things right for us, though I suppose the profound surprise in the first instance was that I had done something good and right for once and didn't feel awkward or goofy at the time or compelled to do it but rather only moved and grateful for the opportunity.
The second time it happened was after Jaren's toy laptop, a Christmas present purchased a month-and-a-half earlier from Longs Drug for twenty dollars went silent—no sound effects, music, or words. Since it ran on AA batteries, I thought I might be able to diagnose the problem, so I opened its back and noticed a disconnected wire. After stripping off a half-inch of plastic sheathing at wire's end, I placed the exposed twisted metal strands where I thought the bundle belonged and stuttering blips and buzzes issued forth. Plastic tape didn't work and even holding it in place barely did—audio came and went—at which point I knew solder would be necessary.
My landlord, a great guy—the best landlord I've ever had, loaned me his soldering iron so twenty minutes later the cheapy toy was fixed and Jaren, delighted, said those joyful words.
The third time it happened came a few months later, just before bedtime. Jaren said, ”Tomorrow's the happiest day of my life!”
“Why's that?” I asked.
“Because tomorrow I get to meet Grace Lin!” (See my prior Making A—Part II essay for explanation, regarding.)
What's remarkable is the smallness of the things that so delighted Jaren, things that were all social by nature (he wasn't happy so much because his toy was repaired, but that we had repaired it together: He helped get the screw driver, tape, and scissors; remove and replace the retaining screws; find, pick up, and store dropped parts; and press the appropriate keys to test the various functions). And such bighearted openness to the small reminded me that life's greatest happinesses often do come during the tiniest of moments during the most insignificant of days. They've come to me while reading, praying, daydreaming, and sitting quiet with a loved one. Blessing others. Camping, swimming, and walking along a beach. Viewing a sunset. Cooking, talking, and sharing. Petting a cat, wrestling my kids, sitting alone, and watching T.V. And like fickle guests they have arrived unbidden during cool quiet evenings and during simple meals at home or even at not-so-fancy restaurants. I think it's wonderful that Jaren is so easy to please. And I suppose that anyone who chooses to, can be too.
Friday, July 11, 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Making A—Part II
Grace
Lin has always been one of my family's favorite authors, so when I
noticed a flyer at the Hawaii State Library that she was coming to town for
a children's literature conference with free activities for kids, I
decided we'd attend.
The highlight for me, I knew, would be the book signing, when we'd get to meet her in person. We had an old copy of her Year of the Dog purchased used for twenty-five cents at a library sale years before. But since authors' books would be available for purchase, to not look totally cheap I decided we'd give her something to remember us by, especially since I also intended to ask her for whatever assistance she might be willing to provide with my writing career. So I fashioned a script in which we'd all play parts, state our names and something about ourselves, and most important, shower her with tons of aloha.
As we did our read through before our dining room table opposite a chair where we imagined she sat, the outstanding performers that recited lines with gusto and intent were Jaren and myself. The others dribbled their lines like leaky faucets, mumbling with this-is-so-lame expressions. Cajoling these underachievers didn't work: Braden and Penelope saw Deanne's indifference and copied.
I seldom employ guilt as a motivator but since asking nice didn't help, I ended up saying, “You act as if you think, This is Dad's dumb thing, why should I have to do it,” and as Deanne started walking away, “This is for you, too!” then back to the others: “Did I act that way when we went to the Fiftieth State Fair and waited hours in the hot sun for you guys to finish your rides?”—hand on Jaren's head: ”Not you buddy, you did super!”— then again to the others: “No I made the most of it and we all had great times. Now I'm asking this one small thing—five minutes—and you give me attitude?”
Deanne slinked away and I followed her down the hall and asked if we could talk in our bedroom. Neither of us were angry but she still showed disengagement so I made sure I could still visualize how nice it would be—challenging, yet fun—and since I could I said, “Now think of Grace Lin. Here she is. She's been doing dozens of these things and seen hundreds of people just go up and get their books signed, thank you, and that's it. That won't do anything for her or us. If we come up with something new, great. But if we do it like we just did, she'll think, 'Wife's not into it, no way I'm helping the guy and getting between them.' On the other hand if she sees us together—one big happy family—she'll more likely think, 'Sure why not? They seem happy. I'll do it for them.'"
Noting Deanne's continued noncommittal mien, I segued into a long narrative about why I write and possible future courses it could take—good and bod—and how it could affect our family, emphasizing the need for cohesiveness to make it happen. Because she then seemed more receptive, I concluded with, “As wife you're supposed to take the lead on this”—clapping, I demonstrated—“'Come on, let's go,'” I said perky, “'Let's do this, this is gonna be fun'—instead of acting all dopey and giving them an out to act dopey too.”
She then, apparently recalling what a wonderful husband I'd been, capitulated and said she'd do better next time, which, because it was getting late, we agreed to save for another day.
That evening, I asked Braden in private, ”Did you ever read a book that you thought wasn't as good as one of my stories?” Yeah, he said with a smile. “Then that means I deserve to be published, right?” He nodded. “Then you've got to show it when we do this. Sell it. Mean it. Show her that you believe in me. If you—my own son—don't, why should she?” Repentant, he agreed to re-recite his lines, which he did for me measured and sincere in no time.
The next evening, I did the same with Penelope who agreed to do better. She wept a bit when she had to repeat her lines a few times but soon enough, they too came together convincing and real.
It was a simple matter after that for us all to gather together the next afternoon and rehearse—three times is all it took.
The day of the festival, we sat waiting for the book signing line to shorten. To make time go faster, I huddled us together excited, said, “Okay, let's practice one more time,” and passed Braden and Jaren the gifts that they'd present to Grace Lin. Penelope had the book and would tell her if asked to address her comment to “PBJ” (short for Penelope, Braden and Jaren). Whispered words and hidden gestured came together smooth, sincere, and most important happy—we were the strong family unit I had envisioned. It wasn't artifice, it just took hard work to get there since with the exception of Jaren—the natural performer–we all tend toward stage bashfulness. (Earlier that afternoon an abbreviated play at the festival by capable U.H. students served as object lessons in both commitment and dedication. “See how good they are? They're selling it, right?” I asked the kids, to which they smiled and nodded. “Now you know why they were practicing when we first arrived. It's not easy, even for them.”)
As we stood waiting in line in assigned positions (kids in front, parents in back), Deanne held my hand and asked if I was nervous. I admitted I was so she put an arm around me and leaned in close, giggling along with me and flashing her winning smile. I did side and leg stretches to loosen up just before our turn.
Then, last in line by design, we went forward and Penelope presented the book. As Grace Lin drew a picture of a dog (like on the cover) I said “Wow, original drawing!” and on cue when Penelope received the book back I leaned forward and said, “Do you have a couple of moments? We have something we'd like to present you?” to which she smiled, blinked, and nodded. Pulled up tall, I said with a gesture to match, “My name is Tim. I'm fourth generation Hawaii resident: Yonsei.”
Next, Deanne introduced herself and said, “I'm from South East Asia. I crocheted this lei for you.”
Braden draped the lei around her neck then introduced himself and said, “I will be entering high school this fall. When I was young, my favorite book was The Ugly Vegetables. We love to eat Jai.”
Next Penelope introduced herself and said, “I did a book report on Year of the Rat. I said I liked the part when your mom ate cat food.”
Engaged, yet as if from a far away place Grace Lin said, “My mom...”
Then Jaren introduced himself and said, “Please read my dad's blog for me if not for him.”
“Sure,” she said quiet as Jaren brought forth a hidden hongbao (lucky red envelope) with two hands held close.
We then acted out and said the following in unison: hands cupped together, bobbed up and down: “Xie xie;” hands at sides and bowing forward: “Domo arigato!” right hand in front with fingers flashing a shaka: “Mahalo!” and drawn out backhand throwing-kiss motion with sweeping shoulder turn: “And Alooooha!”
True to her word Grace Lin read this blog several days later and even posted to her blog @ gracelinblog.com on June twenty-fourth a photo of the hongbao, folded letter, and token monetary gift we gave her; gracious thoughts about my family and gifts (the money of which she said she'd donate to charity); and a direct hyperlink to this blog at which readers could access my “hilarious essays.”
In hindsight, our making A (doing something embarrassing in public) had been well worth it and fun besides. I can't remember the last time our family got so excited doing something together. And we had done well (except that I got far too nervous, my left leg shaking by the time we'd finished).
Thank you Grace Lin if you're reading this—you went far beyond the call. I pray that God will bless you and your family not so much for what you did for us (Were we excited? Yes!) but for being humble and gracious to all. As stated in my posted comment to your blog, please consider making Hawaii your second home—you, your family, and friends won't regret it! Come to think of it, your heart's already filled with aloha spirit, so upon moving, you'll fit right in.
The highlight for me, I knew, would be the book signing, when we'd get to meet her in person. We had an old copy of her Year of the Dog purchased used for twenty-five cents at a library sale years before. But since authors' books would be available for purchase, to not look totally cheap I decided we'd give her something to remember us by, especially since I also intended to ask her for whatever assistance she might be willing to provide with my writing career. So I fashioned a script in which we'd all play parts, state our names and something about ourselves, and most important, shower her with tons of aloha.
As we did our read through before our dining room table opposite a chair where we imagined she sat, the outstanding performers that recited lines with gusto and intent were Jaren and myself. The others dribbled their lines like leaky faucets, mumbling with this-is-so-lame expressions. Cajoling these underachievers didn't work: Braden and Penelope saw Deanne's indifference and copied.
I seldom employ guilt as a motivator but since asking nice didn't help, I ended up saying, “You act as if you think, This is Dad's dumb thing, why should I have to do it,” and as Deanne started walking away, “This is for you, too!” then back to the others: “Did I act that way when we went to the Fiftieth State Fair and waited hours in the hot sun for you guys to finish your rides?”—hand on Jaren's head: ”Not you buddy, you did super!”— then again to the others: “No I made the most of it and we all had great times. Now I'm asking this one small thing—five minutes—and you give me attitude?”
Deanne slinked away and I followed her down the hall and asked if we could talk in our bedroom. Neither of us were angry but she still showed disengagement so I made sure I could still visualize how nice it would be—challenging, yet fun—and since I could I said, “Now think of Grace Lin. Here she is. She's been doing dozens of these things and seen hundreds of people just go up and get their books signed, thank you, and that's it. That won't do anything for her or us. If we come up with something new, great. But if we do it like we just did, she'll think, 'Wife's not into it, no way I'm helping the guy and getting between them.' On the other hand if she sees us together—one big happy family—she'll more likely think, 'Sure why not? They seem happy. I'll do it for them.'"
Noting Deanne's continued noncommittal mien, I segued into a long narrative about why I write and possible future courses it could take—good and bod—and how it could affect our family, emphasizing the need for cohesiveness to make it happen. Because she then seemed more receptive, I concluded with, “As wife you're supposed to take the lead on this”—clapping, I demonstrated—“'Come on, let's go,'” I said perky, “'Let's do this, this is gonna be fun'—instead of acting all dopey and giving them an out to act dopey too.”
She then, apparently recalling what a wonderful husband I'd been, capitulated and said she'd do better next time, which, because it was getting late, we agreed to save for another day.
That evening, I asked Braden in private, ”Did you ever read a book that you thought wasn't as good as one of my stories?” Yeah, he said with a smile. “Then that means I deserve to be published, right?” He nodded. “Then you've got to show it when we do this. Sell it. Mean it. Show her that you believe in me. If you—my own son—don't, why should she?” Repentant, he agreed to re-recite his lines, which he did for me measured and sincere in no time.
The next evening, I did the same with Penelope who agreed to do better. She wept a bit when she had to repeat her lines a few times but soon enough, they too came together convincing and real.
It was a simple matter after that for us all to gather together the next afternoon and rehearse—three times is all it took.
The day of the festival, we sat waiting for the book signing line to shorten. To make time go faster, I huddled us together excited, said, “Okay, let's practice one more time,” and passed Braden and Jaren the gifts that they'd present to Grace Lin. Penelope had the book and would tell her if asked to address her comment to “PBJ” (short for Penelope, Braden and Jaren). Whispered words and hidden gestured came together smooth, sincere, and most important happy—we were the strong family unit I had envisioned. It wasn't artifice, it just took hard work to get there since with the exception of Jaren—the natural performer–we all tend toward stage bashfulness. (Earlier that afternoon an abbreviated play at the festival by capable U.H. students served as object lessons in both commitment and dedication. “See how good they are? They're selling it, right?” I asked the kids, to which they smiled and nodded. “Now you know why they were practicing when we first arrived. It's not easy, even for them.”)
As we stood waiting in line in assigned positions (kids in front, parents in back), Deanne held my hand and asked if I was nervous. I admitted I was so she put an arm around me and leaned in close, giggling along with me and flashing her winning smile. I did side and leg stretches to loosen up just before our turn.
Then, last in line by design, we went forward and Penelope presented the book. As Grace Lin drew a picture of a dog (like on the cover) I said “Wow, original drawing!” and on cue when Penelope received the book back I leaned forward and said, “Do you have a couple of moments? We have something we'd like to present you?” to which she smiled, blinked, and nodded. Pulled up tall, I said with a gesture to match, “My name is Tim. I'm fourth generation Hawaii resident: Yonsei.”
Next, Deanne introduced herself and said, “I'm from South East Asia. I crocheted this lei for you.”
Braden draped the lei around her neck then introduced himself and said, “I will be entering high school this fall. When I was young, my favorite book was The Ugly Vegetables. We love to eat Jai.”
Next Penelope introduced herself and said, “I did a book report on Year of the Rat. I said I liked the part when your mom ate cat food.”
Engaged, yet as if from a far away place Grace Lin said, “My mom...”
Then Jaren introduced himself and said, “Please read my dad's blog for me if not for him.”
“Sure,” she said quiet as Jaren brought forth a hidden hongbao (lucky red envelope) with two hands held close.
We then acted out and said the following in unison: hands cupped together, bobbed up and down: “Xie xie;” hands at sides and bowing forward: “Domo arigato!” right hand in front with fingers flashing a shaka: “Mahalo!” and drawn out backhand throwing-kiss motion with sweeping shoulder turn: “And Alooooha!”
True to her word Grace Lin read this blog several days later and even posted to her blog @ gracelinblog.com on June twenty-fourth a photo of the hongbao, folded letter, and token monetary gift we gave her; gracious thoughts about my family and gifts (the money of which she said she'd donate to charity); and a direct hyperlink to this blog at which readers could access my “hilarious essays.”
In hindsight, our making A (doing something embarrassing in public) had been well worth it and fun besides. I can't remember the last time our family got so excited doing something together. And we had done well (except that I got far too nervous, my left leg shaking by the time we'd finished).
Thank you Grace Lin if you're reading this—you went far beyond the call. I pray that God will bless you and your family not so much for what you did for us (Were we excited? Yes!) but for being humble and gracious to all. As stated in my posted comment to your blog, please consider making Hawaii your second home—you, your family, and friends won't regret it! Come to think of it, your heart's already filled with aloha spirit, so upon moving, you'll fit right in.
Sunday, June 29, 2014
Public Speaking
Not many Americans enjoy public speaking, my family included, probably because it is such a difficult, unnatural task to do well and the contrast between outstanding and horrendous performance is so obvious to see: A capable speaker casts a spell over the audience that awaits with baited breath each captivating utterance; an incapable speaker mumbles uneasy and indecipherably, fails to establish meaningful audience rapport, and is viewed and remembered unfavorably. And no one wants to perform on the lower end of that spectrum.
Several months ago, my daughter read the scripture verse of several sentences at church service which was held for a change in our church's fellowship hall. She had a microphone but it being her first time, she mumbled through at near record speed so it sounded a bit as though she were gargling salt water for a sore throat. I could barely hear her utterances, much less comprehend what she was saying despite my familiarity with the bible. But she hadn't stressed at all, which was the main thing, so overall, for her first time, she did fine.
(The first time I read scripture at church—a different one—I was a wreck, getting virtually no sleep the night before. An attempt to get out of it failed when the guy I called refused to substitute. The reading went fine without a hitch but I'd been so apprehensive that taking communion on stage prior to reading didn't happen: I palmed the tiny cracker, held the tiny cup to my lips, and hid the undrunk vessel beneath my seat. Thank God that was the last time I ever got asked to read.)
A few days following her recitation Penelope shared that she'd be participating with four fellow students in an upcoming district speech festival. They devised their own excellent script for the The Empty Pot story in which Ping is unable to grow a flower from the Emperor's (secretly) cooked seed, whereas all the other kids display fantastic flowers despite also having received identical (cooked) seeds. So the Emperor appoints honest Ping—the only child with an empty pot—his successor.
Penelope's role was the pivotal Emperor, made all the challenging because lines were to be memorized, costumes weren't allowed, they were required to look at a single point above the audience throughout, and there could be no direct contact between actors because it was a group interpretation, not a play. Since she was group leader and it was a G.T. class, and since I knew it would be challenging for them to do well, I decided to coach Penelope at home.
(Note: G.T. = Gifted and Talented, an inaccurate moniker, since all kids are gifted and talented. We had declined invitations for her to join the program in prior years due to it offering much added homework and little added benefits and at her age and academic standing such optional classes ought to be fun! fun! fun! This past year, we let her decide if she wanted to enter and she said yes, which worked alright, I guess.)
To help her then, we did a practice read-through of the script with Braden and I playing the roles assigned to her teammates. Right away, problems with Penelope's performance surfaced: mumbled, rushed lines delivered without voice modulation, pause, or drama as if she were hurrying to finish; a slouched and twisted posture; and fidgeting hands, legs, and shoulders suggesting gross unease. After stopping repeatedly while going over the first few lines to redo them (I gave her rundowns on background, setting, cultural significance, and an Emperor's mindset, and acting pointers such as head positioning, hand gestures, voice control and technique, and how to get into her role—lots to cover but important to help her develop stage command and to keep her mind on-task while performing), her frustration began to show, her attitude became petulant, her lips began to quiver, and eventually she quit trying altogether. I asked, “Do you want my help or not?” She didn't answer, looking down with tears now spilling over. When I asked again, she shook her head no, so I got up to go, then said, “You're the one that wanted to go to G.T. I'm very disappointed, those other schools are going to have it together and if you rush through like this, it's going to show that you don't care. As group leader, it's your responsibility to make it happen. I expect best effort and you want to settle for this shoddy I-don't-care stuff.” Turning to leave I said, “I'll be in my room if you change your mind.”
She later came by and asked for help and we made good progress, but left off at bedtime with a long way to go.
The next night I said shall we try again? and she said no thank you. I shook my head, snickered at the thought that she thought she was mature enough to assert her independence, and walked away.
But she came by later and asked for help and we had a productive practice session, leaving off at about mid-way through the script but with still lots to cover. In the coming two weeks, we worked it, honed it, and even modified gestures: extended fists held straight out front coming apart suggested the unrolling of a large imaginary scroll; up and down and left to right head movements suggested the reading of the scroll; a raised arm signified Ping's appointment; and fists on hips and an angry frown showed that all the children who dared attempt deceive the Emperor were in for it.
I missed the performance because I had to sign Jaren and Penelope up for Summer Fun that morning, but Deanne said she did fine—lines spoken loud and clear, though rushed in parts due to understandable stage jitters. And their group did well overall, too—the story line intelligible if not moving. Another group from their school performed even better. “Of course they did better,” I told her, “because they practiced three times as much as your group.” (Her group members were neither as available nor as committed.) “Yours would have done just as well had it practiced as much.”
More recently, she was asked to recite scripture at church again. This time I asked her to do it for me just the way she intended to. A mumbled jangle of gibberish spilled forth and I asked do you understand what you just read? She said yes, but when I asked her to explain it in her own words she looked at it and said, “I don't really understand it.” So we went through word by word, learned and relearned definitions, and eventually comprehended what Apostle Paul was saying in each clause of the long, complicated sentences. Through tears aplenty she re-recited many times, things improving markedly after I underlined key words for her to emphasize and told her where to insert pauses to give listeners the chance to absorb what they just heard.
The night before the recitation, for the first time, the poetic proclamation of God's immeasurable love came through. And the following morning at service, they came again—beautiful promises spoken perky and alive. “You did superb,” I told her afterward with an arm about her shoulders—tall praise coming from me. She smiled and thanked me.
Several months ago, my daughter read the scripture verse of several sentences at church service which was held for a change in our church's fellowship hall. She had a microphone but it being her first time, she mumbled through at near record speed so it sounded a bit as though she were gargling salt water for a sore throat. I could barely hear her utterances, much less comprehend what she was saying despite my familiarity with the bible. But she hadn't stressed at all, which was the main thing, so overall, for her first time, she did fine.
(The first time I read scripture at church—a different one—I was a wreck, getting virtually no sleep the night before. An attempt to get out of it failed when the guy I called refused to substitute. The reading went fine without a hitch but I'd been so apprehensive that taking communion on stage prior to reading didn't happen: I palmed the tiny cracker, held the tiny cup to my lips, and hid the undrunk vessel beneath my seat. Thank God that was the last time I ever got asked to read.)
A few days following her recitation Penelope shared that she'd be participating with four fellow students in an upcoming district speech festival. They devised their own excellent script for the The Empty Pot story in which Ping is unable to grow a flower from the Emperor's (secretly) cooked seed, whereas all the other kids display fantastic flowers despite also having received identical (cooked) seeds. So the Emperor appoints honest Ping—the only child with an empty pot—his successor.
Penelope's role was the pivotal Emperor, made all the challenging because lines were to be memorized, costumes weren't allowed, they were required to look at a single point above the audience throughout, and there could be no direct contact between actors because it was a group interpretation, not a play. Since she was group leader and it was a G.T. class, and since I knew it would be challenging for them to do well, I decided to coach Penelope at home.
(Note: G.T. = Gifted and Talented, an inaccurate moniker, since all kids are gifted and talented. We had declined invitations for her to join the program in prior years due to it offering much added homework and little added benefits and at her age and academic standing such optional classes ought to be fun! fun! fun! This past year, we let her decide if she wanted to enter and she said yes, which worked alright, I guess.)
To help her then, we did a practice read-through of the script with Braden and I playing the roles assigned to her teammates. Right away, problems with Penelope's performance surfaced: mumbled, rushed lines delivered without voice modulation, pause, or drama as if she were hurrying to finish; a slouched and twisted posture; and fidgeting hands, legs, and shoulders suggesting gross unease. After stopping repeatedly while going over the first few lines to redo them (I gave her rundowns on background, setting, cultural significance, and an Emperor's mindset, and acting pointers such as head positioning, hand gestures, voice control and technique, and how to get into her role—lots to cover but important to help her develop stage command and to keep her mind on-task while performing), her frustration began to show, her attitude became petulant, her lips began to quiver, and eventually she quit trying altogether. I asked, “Do you want my help or not?” She didn't answer, looking down with tears now spilling over. When I asked again, she shook her head no, so I got up to go, then said, “You're the one that wanted to go to G.T. I'm very disappointed, those other schools are going to have it together and if you rush through like this, it's going to show that you don't care. As group leader, it's your responsibility to make it happen. I expect best effort and you want to settle for this shoddy I-don't-care stuff.” Turning to leave I said, “I'll be in my room if you change your mind.”
She later came by and asked for help and we made good progress, but left off at bedtime with a long way to go.
The next night I said shall we try again? and she said no thank you. I shook my head, snickered at the thought that she thought she was mature enough to assert her independence, and walked away.
But she came by later and asked for help and we had a productive practice session, leaving off at about mid-way through the script but with still lots to cover. In the coming two weeks, we worked it, honed it, and even modified gestures: extended fists held straight out front coming apart suggested the unrolling of a large imaginary scroll; up and down and left to right head movements suggested the reading of the scroll; a raised arm signified Ping's appointment; and fists on hips and an angry frown showed that all the children who dared attempt deceive the Emperor were in for it.
I missed the performance because I had to sign Jaren and Penelope up for Summer Fun that morning, but Deanne said she did fine—lines spoken loud and clear, though rushed in parts due to understandable stage jitters. And their group did well overall, too—the story line intelligible if not moving. Another group from their school performed even better. “Of course they did better,” I told her, “because they practiced three times as much as your group.” (Her group members were neither as available nor as committed.) “Yours would have done just as well had it practiced as much.”
More recently, she was asked to recite scripture at church again. This time I asked her to do it for me just the way she intended to. A mumbled jangle of gibberish spilled forth and I asked do you understand what you just read? She said yes, but when I asked her to explain it in her own words she looked at it and said, “I don't really understand it.” So we went through word by word, learned and relearned definitions, and eventually comprehended what Apostle Paul was saying in each clause of the long, complicated sentences. Through tears aplenty she re-recited many times, things improving markedly after I underlined key words for her to emphasize and told her where to insert pauses to give listeners the chance to absorb what they just heard.
The night before the recitation, for the first time, the poetic proclamation of God's immeasurable love came through. And the following morning at service, they came again—beautiful promises spoken perky and alive. “You did superb,” I told her afterward with an arm about her shoulders—tall praise coming from me. She smiled and thanked me.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
The Tooth Fairy—Part II
Penelope
must take after me. The other day Jaren loses a tooth and shares
this fact at the dinner table. Penelope shares that she lost a tooth
a month earlier and got nothing from the Tooth Fairy for it.
“Did you stick it under your pillow?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“Where is it now?”
“In my drawer.”
“You have to tell us,” Deanne says with a smile.
“Just like last time, she must have missed it,” I say more for Jaren's sake than hers. (See my prior Fire the Tooth Fairy! essay for details regarding.)
What bothers me is her blabbing about her unclaimed tooth in front of Jaren, even though inside, I'm somewhat impressed by her scientific inquiry that seeks independent verification of facts via experimentation—which was exactly what I'd done when I was about her age and had doubts about the Tooth Fairy story—instead of assuming things one way or another.
That night the Tooth Fairy visits both Jaren's and Penelope's rooms and exchanges their lost teeth for U.S. currency.
By contrast, older brother Braden at about Jaren's age, was so unsophisticated and slow, missing so many truths behind stories and events, and so hypersensitive besides that I felt compelled to let him in on the little secret for his benefit. I pictured him sans truth asserting to playmates that the Tooth Fairy does exist—Mom and Dad said so!—to their guffaws, teasings, and cruel revelations. Then he'd later ask us is it true? and deem us untrustworthy liars for leading him on if we admitted yes it is, or unreliable double-talkers if we said, “The Tooth Fairy exists if you believe in her.” The subtle differences between good and bad lies, half-truths, and stories would be far beyond his ken and not something I'd have dared share for fear of misapplication, for it's tough enough teaching a youngster not to lie, much less when and how it's okay to not always tell the full truth.
So here's Braden with deep concern asking, “How does the Tooth Fairy get in our apartment?”
“I guess she flies in,” I say.
“Thorough the balcony?”
“I never saw her, I suppose so.”
“How does she know I lost a tooth? Or does she check every night?”
“I don't know, but she somehow does. I guess it's magic. She doesn't check every night.” By now his stranger anxiety has set in, his voice wavering and his eyes searching mine—we taught him well about the need for home security, but sometimes he takes it too far.
“Does anyone ever call the police?”
“What for?”
“The Tooth Fairy?”
“But she's not stealing.”
“But suppose someone wants to keep it?”
“Then they shouldn't stick it under the pillow. But then they wouldn't get any money for it, right?”
“Yeah... But suppose they just want to keep it there?”
At this point, I can see where the conversation is headed so I say in quiet tone, “Come,” gesturing for him to sit before me. Hand cupped over his ear as if I were blowing soap bubbles, lips pressed to the circular opening, I say, “The Tooth Fairy is really Mommy.”
His body jerks to, then eases with limp knowingness. “Noooo....” he says with a smile.
I nod and whisper, “Yes, she is. But only for your teeth.” Here his posture perks up again, keen and alert. “There's no such thing as magic,” I continue. “She doesn't grow wings or fly around or anything like that. She's still just Mom—just like we see her right now doing dishes.” I pause to gather my thoughts while he looks on and nods. “When you're asleep, she goes into your room, feels under your pillow for the missing tooth, and leaves money behind for you to find when you wake up in the morning. Neat, huh?” He nods. “Don't tell Mom I told you, okay?”
“Can I play now?” he asks. His eyes show a readiness to move on to matters less profound.
“Sure,” I say.
Later I tell Deanne what happened and she smiles, knowing Braden is happiest when in on the truth.
“Did you stick it under your pillow?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“Where is it now?”
“In my drawer.”
“You have to tell us,” Deanne says with a smile.
“Just like last time, she must have missed it,” I say more for Jaren's sake than hers. (See my prior Fire the Tooth Fairy! essay for details regarding.)
What bothers me is her blabbing about her unclaimed tooth in front of Jaren, even though inside, I'm somewhat impressed by her scientific inquiry that seeks independent verification of facts via experimentation—which was exactly what I'd done when I was about her age and had doubts about the Tooth Fairy story—instead of assuming things one way or another.
That night the Tooth Fairy visits both Jaren's and Penelope's rooms and exchanges their lost teeth for U.S. currency.
By contrast, older brother Braden at about Jaren's age, was so unsophisticated and slow, missing so many truths behind stories and events, and so hypersensitive besides that I felt compelled to let him in on the little secret for his benefit. I pictured him sans truth asserting to playmates that the Tooth Fairy does exist—Mom and Dad said so!—to their guffaws, teasings, and cruel revelations. Then he'd later ask us is it true? and deem us untrustworthy liars for leading him on if we admitted yes it is, or unreliable double-talkers if we said, “The Tooth Fairy exists if you believe in her.” The subtle differences between good and bad lies, half-truths, and stories would be far beyond his ken and not something I'd have dared share for fear of misapplication, for it's tough enough teaching a youngster not to lie, much less when and how it's okay to not always tell the full truth.
So here's Braden with deep concern asking, “How does the Tooth Fairy get in our apartment?”
“I guess she flies in,” I say.
“Thorough the balcony?”
“I never saw her, I suppose so.”
“How does she know I lost a tooth? Or does she check every night?”
“I don't know, but she somehow does. I guess it's magic. She doesn't check every night.” By now his stranger anxiety has set in, his voice wavering and his eyes searching mine—we taught him well about the need for home security, but sometimes he takes it too far.
“Does anyone ever call the police?”
“What for?”
“The Tooth Fairy?”
“But she's not stealing.”
“But suppose someone wants to keep it?”
“Then they shouldn't stick it under the pillow. But then they wouldn't get any money for it, right?”
“Yeah... But suppose they just want to keep it there?”
At this point, I can see where the conversation is headed so I say in quiet tone, “Come,” gesturing for him to sit before me. Hand cupped over his ear as if I were blowing soap bubbles, lips pressed to the circular opening, I say, “The Tooth Fairy is really Mommy.”
His body jerks to, then eases with limp knowingness. “Noooo....” he says with a smile.
I nod and whisper, “Yes, she is. But only for your teeth.” Here his posture perks up again, keen and alert. “There's no such thing as magic,” I continue. “She doesn't grow wings or fly around or anything like that. She's still just Mom—just like we see her right now doing dishes.” I pause to gather my thoughts while he looks on and nods. “When you're asleep, she goes into your room, feels under your pillow for the missing tooth, and leaves money behind for you to find when you wake up in the morning. Neat, huh?” He nods. “Don't tell Mom I told you, okay?”
“Can I play now?” he asks. His eyes show a readiness to move on to matters less profound.
“Sure,” I say.
Later I tell Deanne what happened and she smiles, knowing Braden is happiest when in on the truth.
Tuesday, June 17, 2014
Haircuts
I
cut everyone's hair in my immediate family, including my own (what
little is left). Now, before assuming that we must all look like
crap, consider that my family and I have received far more
compliments for their haircuts (never mine) than we ever have for my
writing and guitar playing combined—this despite having spent tens
of thousands of hours more mastering (bungling) the latter than the
former. This disproportionate share of hair cutting compliments must
mean something.
Perhaps the kids' and Deanne's hair really do look like weed-whacked vacant lots and the “compliments” were more commiserations? But such compliments often were accompanied by the question where did you get your hair cut (as in which salon) and astonished expressions upon learning the source. Deanne has even received requests from lady friends that I cut their hair. It hasn't happened yet, but perhaps one day it will.
Hair cutting is fulfilling in a very non-serious way: it's practical, convenient, saves tons of time and money, and I get to sculpt—one of the few visual art forms (not counting photography) with which I feel comfortable. The tools all came in a hair clippers (Wahl) kit purchased from Sears a dozen years ago for thirty-five dollars: mechanical clippers (buzzzzz...) for the boys, and scissors and comb for the girls.
Here's how I did it when Braden was a toddler: Line the bathtub with newspapers. Have him sit inside wearing only the plastic cape (to be followed by a bath). Work from back to front, bottom—nape of neck to over the ears and sideburns—with short comb spacers first, then up top with longer spacers. There is an upward and outward pull away wrist flick from the scalp that creates a smooth medium–length transition in the in-between sections between shorter and longer hair. Instructions were included in the kit, but recalling what our barber did when I was a child, I just imitated. Lastly, trim off side burns and back using clippers without spacers and touch up as necessary.
For the girls, have the kitchen dining room floor lined with newspapers with a chair placed atop. I'm not a fan of cutting with the subject's hair wet because it's not how it normally looks or falls (no one wears gel these days). Have her comb her hair natural (wash and wear is best—no elaborate blow drying, curling, or perms necessary). And, again, start from the back.
At first when Penelope had rather thin hair, her hair in back naturally fell like a water fall, so the cut merely enhanced it with the sides cut to match. Short straight bangs set off her chubby Squirrel Nutkin cheeks. Later when she grew a fuller head of hair, a careful chop—block cut in back that fell evenly to a soft point at the spine worked well with her shoulder-length hair. By “chop-block” I mean cut all about the same length from neck on outward.
When I was a youth it was deemed ugly to have a “chawan haircut.” A chawan is a tea bowl. Picture a large tea bowl placed atop the head with hair cut all the way around to match the bowl's rim. Ugly, right? I did not cut Penelope's hair to look that way. Hers would have had an angled canoe shape toward the back with a cute manicured duckling tail. Long, eyebrow-level straight bangs softened her maturing oval face. The sides came up at an angel with the tips of her earlobes peeking through. Shorter hair on the front sides were just out of reach her eyes—practicality always coming first.
With Deanne, a more layered, feathered look helped thin out her full, thick pate. I had previously used this technique with Braden since he had been afraid of the clippers at first, and modified it for Deanne's much longer hair: Comb and scissors in right hand, use the comb's end tines to separate a pencil–barrel's worth of hair away from the scalp, flatten between straight fore and middle fingers of left hand pointing down approximately parallel to scalp, palm facing in. (This process may take a few passes to create nice even spacing of hair between the two fingers, the object being cutting all this hair approximately equal length.) Transfer comb to left hand by gripping between thumb and forefinger, then cut hair as close as possible to the left hand fingers holding the hair, nice and straight. (I'd observed hairdressers doing this for decades whenever I went in for a cut.)
After cutting the back, cut the sides and lastly the front to match. Altering them with each new cut helps keep things interesting.
Another technique is to view the silhouette of the head and hair from all sides and cut to shape a pleasing profile. This softens the effect of rogue strands (no one's hair falls identical everywhere throughout). Such shaping means not all hair will be cut the exact same length at each given latitude (given distance below the head's North Pole top center), but that's okay because good irregularity can add personality and character. Also rather than a perfectly even helmet-shaped look, recent fashion trends have created jagged edged bottoms and cleaved crevices (like Charlie Brown's zigzag shirt design), whereby zigzag intervals, lengths, layering, and depths vary according to taste—from quite severe to barely noticeable. (Youth on the bus and downtown workers serve as Hawaii's fashion models for these and other cuts—fun to notice.)
Very short cuts tend to be tricky on Deanne because of her full head of medium thickness hair. Certain strands of late tend to bow out, creating unsightly tufts up back. I'll never cut her hair so short again unless she's certain she'll gel it to keep it down, or unless that “look” happens to be “in.”
Best thing about cutting is enjoying looking at my subjects—God's handiwork touched up—everyday.
Tip: Start off with guys or an infant while he or she is asleep in the crib using a children's safety scissors because these just don't sweat their appearances much. The first time I cut Deanne's hair was shaking–hands stressful—especially when things started looking botched halfway through. But as the cut progressed, things improved and by cut's end, all looked well (to me at least).
Cutting a resistant daughter's hair takes a measure of gall, insistence, bull-headedness, arrogance, or confidence—especially when she's crying. This happened twice with Penelope because she wanted longer hair so she could better tie it up in a pony-tail, pig-tails, or braids. I had no problem with that, but both times I warned her twice not to eat her hair or put it in her mouth—a vile habit I have no tolerance for—lest I cut it. So both times when I caught her, I followed through, cutting all the way around just out of reach of her mouth (plus the usual shaping and balancing). Both times she walked away smiling, pleased with her new “look.” (Maybe it'll become a hot new hair cutting technique—at least for the longest strands within mouth's reach?)
Perhaps the kids' and Deanne's hair really do look like weed-whacked vacant lots and the “compliments” were more commiserations? But such compliments often were accompanied by the question where did you get your hair cut (as in which salon) and astonished expressions upon learning the source. Deanne has even received requests from lady friends that I cut their hair. It hasn't happened yet, but perhaps one day it will.
Hair cutting is fulfilling in a very non-serious way: it's practical, convenient, saves tons of time and money, and I get to sculpt—one of the few visual art forms (not counting photography) with which I feel comfortable. The tools all came in a hair clippers (Wahl) kit purchased from Sears a dozen years ago for thirty-five dollars: mechanical clippers (buzzzzz...) for the boys, and scissors and comb for the girls.
Here's how I did it when Braden was a toddler: Line the bathtub with newspapers. Have him sit inside wearing only the plastic cape (to be followed by a bath). Work from back to front, bottom—nape of neck to over the ears and sideburns—with short comb spacers first, then up top with longer spacers. There is an upward and outward pull away wrist flick from the scalp that creates a smooth medium–length transition in the in-between sections between shorter and longer hair. Instructions were included in the kit, but recalling what our barber did when I was a child, I just imitated. Lastly, trim off side burns and back using clippers without spacers and touch up as necessary.
For the girls, have the kitchen dining room floor lined with newspapers with a chair placed atop. I'm not a fan of cutting with the subject's hair wet because it's not how it normally looks or falls (no one wears gel these days). Have her comb her hair natural (wash and wear is best—no elaborate blow drying, curling, or perms necessary). And, again, start from the back.
At first when Penelope had rather thin hair, her hair in back naturally fell like a water fall, so the cut merely enhanced it with the sides cut to match. Short straight bangs set off her chubby Squirrel Nutkin cheeks. Later when she grew a fuller head of hair, a careful chop—block cut in back that fell evenly to a soft point at the spine worked well with her shoulder-length hair. By “chop-block” I mean cut all about the same length from neck on outward.
When I was a youth it was deemed ugly to have a “chawan haircut.” A chawan is a tea bowl. Picture a large tea bowl placed atop the head with hair cut all the way around to match the bowl's rim. Ugly, right? I did not cut Penelope's hair to look that way. Hers would have had an angled canoe shape toward the back with a cute manicured duckling tail. Long, eyebrow-level straight bangs softened her maturing oval face. The sides came up at an angel with the tips of her earlobes peeking through. Shorter hair on the front sides were just out of reach her eyes—practicality always coming first.
With Deanne, a more layered, feathered look helped thin out her full, thick pate. I had previously used this technique with Braden since he had been afraid of the clippers at first, and modified it for Deanne's much longer hair: Comb and scissors in right hand, use the comb's end tines to separate a pencil–barrel's worth of hair away from the scalp, flatten between straight fore and middle fingers of left hand pointing down approximately parallel to scalp, palm facing in. (This process may take a few passes to create nice even spacing of hair between the two fingers, the object being cutting all this hair approximately equal length.) Transfer comb to left hand by gripping between thumb and forefinger, then cut hair as close as possible to the left hand fingers holding the hair, nice and straight. (I'd observed hairdressers doing this for decades whenever I went in for a cut.)
After cutting the back, cut the sides and lastly the front to match. Altering them with each new cut helps keep things interesting.
Another technique is to view the silhouette of the head and hair from all sides and cut to shape a pleasing profile. This softens the effect of rogue strands (no one's hair falls identical everywhere throughout). Such shaping means not all hair will be cut the exact same length at each given latitude (given distance below the head's North Pole top center), but that's okay because good irregularity can add personality and character. Also rather than a perfectly even helmet-shaped look, recent fashion trends have created jagged edged bottoms and cleaved crevices (like Charlie Brown's zigzag shirt design), whereby zigzag intervals, lengths, layering, and depths vary according to taste—from quite severe to barely noticeable. (Youth on the bus and downtown workers serve as Hawaii's fashion models for these and other cuts—fun to notice.)
Very short cuts tend to be tricky on Deanne because of her full head of medium thickness hair. Certain strands of late tend to bow out, creating unsightly tufts up back. I'll never cut her hair so short again unless she's certain she'll gel it to keep it down, or unless that “look” happens to be “in.”
Best thing about cutting is enjoying looking at my subjects—God's handiwork touched up—everyday.
Tip: Start off with guys or an infant while he or she is asleep in the crib using a children's safety scissors because these just don't sweat their appearances much. The first time I cut Deanne's hair was shaking–hands stressful—especially when things started looking botched halfway through. But as the cut progressed, things improved and by cut's end, all looked well (to me at least).
Cutting a resistant daughter's hair takes a measure of gall, insistence, bull-headedness, arrogance, or confidence—especially when she's crying. This happened twice with Penelope because she wanted longer hair so she could better tie it up in a pony-tail, pig-tails, or braids. I had no problem with that, but both times I warned her twice not to eat her hair or put it in her mouth—a vile habit I have no tolerance for—lest I cut it. So both times when I caught her, I followed through, cutting all the way around just out of reach of her mouth (plus the usual shaping and balancing). Both times she walked away smiling, pleased with her new “look.” (Maybe it'll become a hot new hair cutting technique—at least for the longest strands within mouth's reach?)
Thursday, June 12, 2014
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.
“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.”
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.
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)
“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.
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Cleaning
I
hated when my mom used to say, “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
What she really meant was, “Not clean enough—do better, do
more.” She'd go on these cleaning jags whenever special guests
were to arrive, which I found hypocritical. Weren't we good enough,
as is? For what purpose were we attempting to impress them beyond
treating them well and with dignity?
Besides having us clean toilets, mirrors, and sinks, she'd go over-the-top by adding jalousies, screens, windows, and sills. I'd say “Do you really think they're going to inspect?” After all, they were arriving at night and the drapes would be closed. She'd response, “It doesn't matter, I notice the difference.”
“Then why now? They're hardly even dirty?”
When she ignored the question that meant “Hush up and get to work, you're doing it because I said so.”
Now, with older and wiser (foolish) eyes, I understand a bit better her motives, because I find myself becoming slowly cleaner.
When Braden, our first, was a newborn, we let our place get pretty decrepit—toys left strewn across the floor along with burp cloths, books, papers, and diaper cleaning accessories and supplies, stains dotting the greater portion of our living room carpet. We were just too worn and exhausted to expend the energy to “do things right.” Only after those first few (they seemed forever) sleep-deprived months did I stop and think, “This is getting disgusting” and hand-cleaned the carpet and tidied up with Deanne's help the living room every night before bedtime.
Things held steady like that for the next dozen or so years during which time Penelope came, then Jaren, and we raised them all through toddlerhood and beyond. Now that they are quite independent and helpful (one of the best ways to prepare children for adulthood is to assign them chores—see my prior Chores essay—which means less chores for Deanne and me as we offload more to them) we've got time on our hands. How to fill the hours?
I, like my parents, am not one to sit idle for long—too much restless energy. While they filled countless hours watching TV and Dad read a fair amount, I watch zero TV now and instead play guitar, exercise, do some black and white digital photo processing, and odds and ends projects around the house. Even so there are still too many hours to fill. So, cleaning beyond usual chores (it never ends) is a productive, satisfying way to fill some of the void. Odd isn't it? I've become one of those that “enjoys” cleaning. My wife and I (mostly her) even do extra cleaning before the arrival of special guests and before we go on trips (to give ourselves the treat of a clean house to return to—always a pleasant surprise. This started for me when I was a bachelor fresh out of college and I once came home exhausted from a trip to a sink of filthy dishes—never again!) Such cleaning, I have found, makes the time go by faster before the anticipated event—not necessary, but quite harmless, though cleaning before the arrival of special guests is cultural: Don't look bad before others and always put your best foot forward; if they're impressed, so much the better.
An engineer friend once said something that surprised me. I had been sharing about Braden's struggles in school and how I supposed it would be okay if he ended up doing yard work for a living. He said, “I'd do that,” smiling a rare heartfelt smile. “You would?” I asked, stupefied. He nodded. “I enjoy working in the yard. I find it relaxing.”
It was then that I realized that my dad hadn't spent all those weekends and vacations doing yard work—mowing, trimming, and spraying poison; painting; wiping down the exterior walls with Clorox to free it of mold; washing and polishing the car; cleaning windows, screens, sills, and jealousies; and endless other chores ad nauseum because “they needed to be done,” as he had so often claimed, but rather because he had enjoyed them, all the while lost in thought, listening to his tiny transistor radio, earbud attached if he was operating noisy machinery.
In that regard, I've become like my parents, sans radio (I work in silence), though not yet to their degree. And I don't know whether to feel proud or embarrassed.
Besides having us clean toilets, mirrors, and sinks, she'd go over-the-top by adding jalousies, screens, windows, and sills. I'd say “Do you really think they're going to inspect?” After all, they were arriving at night and the drapes would be closed. She'd response, “It doesn't matter, I notice the difference.”
“Then why now? They're hardly even dirty?”
When she ignored the question that meant “Hush up and get to work, you're doing it because I said so.”
Now, with older and wiser (foolish) eyes, I understand a bit better her motives, because I find myself becoming slowly cleaner.
When Braden, our first, was a newborn, we let our place get pretty decrepit—toys left strewn across the floor along with burp cloths, books, papers, and diaper cleaning accessories and supplies, stains dotting the greater portion of our living room carpet. We were just too worn and exhausted to expend the energy to “do things right.” Only after those first few (they seemed forever) sleep-deprived months did I stop and think, “This is getting disgusting” and hand-cleaned the carpet and tidied up with Deanne's help the living room every night before bedtime.
Things held steady like that for the next dozen or so years during which time Penelope came, then Jaren, and we raised them all through toddlerhood and beyond. Now that they are quite independent and helpful (one of the best ways to prepare children for adulthood is to assign them chores—see my prior Chores essay—which means less chores for Deanne and me as we offload more to them) we've got time on our hands. How to fill the hours?
I, like my parents, am not one to sit idle for long—too much restless energy. While they filled countless hours watching TV and Dad read a fair amount, I watch zero TV now and instead play guitar, exercise, do some black and white digital photo processing, and odds and ends projects around the house. Even so there are still too many hours to fill. So, cleaning beyond usual chores (it never ends) is a productive, satisfying way to fill some of the void. Odd isn't it? I've become one of those that “enjoys” cleaning. My wife and I (mostly her) even do extra cleaning before the arrival of special guests and before we go on trips (to give ourselves the treat of a clean house to return to—always a pleasant surprise. This started for me when I was a bachelor fresh out of college and I once came home exhausted from a trip to a sink of filthy dishes—never again!) Such cleaning, I have found, makes the time go by faster before the anticipated event—not necessary, but quite harmless, though cleaning before the arrival of special guests is cultural: Don't look bad before others and always put your best foot forward; if they're impressed, so much the better.
An engineer friend once said something that surprised me. I had been sharing about Braden's struggles in school and how I supposed it would be okay if he ended up doing yard work for a living. He said, “I'd do that,” smiling a rare heartfelt smile. “You would?” I asked, stupefied. He nodded. “I enjoy working in the yard. I find it relaxing.”
It was then that I realized that my dad hadn't spent all those weekends and vacations doing yard work—mowing, trimming, and spraying poison; painting; wiping down the exterior walls with Clorox to free it of mold; washing and polishing the car; cleaning windows, screens, sills, and jealousies; and endless other chores ad nauseum because “they needed to be done,” as he had so often claimed, but rather because he had enjoyed them, all the while lost in thought, listening to his tiny transistor radio, earbud attached if he was operating noisy machinery.
In that regard, I've become like my parents, sans radio (I work in silence), though not yet to their degree. And I don't know whether to feel proud or embarrassed.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Sleep
A
good night's sleep is priceless. There was a time when I would have
loved to move back to Hilo (it's slow, calm, easy pace soothes my
soul like nowhere else), but no more due to the coquis: noisy
non-native frogs recently introduced that chirp all night
long—annoying and disruptive—and that don't have a single natural
predator in Hawaii, thus, everywhere they've populated—virtually
the entire east side of the Big Island—they've overrun. Some
claim their chirps register near a hundred decibels. Try sleeping
through that in peace (sort of like sleeping through boo whistles
over bad calls at a French Open tennis match for ten straight hours).
Michael Jackson died over want of a good night's rest and so have countless others—asleep at the wheel, overdosed on licit or illicit drugs, or done in by cardiovascular disease or stroke brought on by chronic over-exhaustion. Along with obesity and insufficient exercise, America's youth now suffer all too often from inadequate sleep. The way our family ensures sufficient sleep is by eating healthy, getting plenty of exercise, following our consciences (albeit we're far from perfect), and adhering to strict early-to-bed, early-to-rise routines. The last is easy, sleep coming natural, if the first three are practiced and there is a no-TV (see my prior TV-less Bliss essay), no computer, no electronic devices, and everybody has to do something quiet before bedtime policy that's enforced.
Here's our crazy-beautiful weekday evening schedule starting from after school:
2:00 – 5:00 Kids come home, do homework, exercise outside, read and bathe.
4:00 – 5:00 I come home, wind down, and do some exercises, Deanne makes dinner.
5:00 – 6:30 We all eat dinner, clean up. Deanne goes for a walk with one or more of our kids, I bathe and brush my teeth.
6:30 – 7:00 Everyone reads or does a quiet hobby/activity.
7:00 – 8:00 I read on my bed to each child in turn.
Children's bedtime are as follows: Jaren 7:30 pm; Penelope 8:15pm; Braden 8:40pm. My bedtime ranges from 8:15 to 8:40pm., Deanne's ranges from 9:30 to 10:00pm.
I awaken at around 3:30 and read the bible until 4:15 to 4:30 (I read it because it works; everything in my life and our household runs smoother as a result and we all just feel better too, and the alone-time I get to spend with God is humbling, instructive and peaceful).
Here's the remainder of our early morning schedule:
4:30 – 6:00 I eat and get ready for work, spending a few minutes with Deanne in bed before leaving, giving and receiving quiet well-wishes for the day.
6:00 – 6:10 I walk to the bus stop.
6:00 – 7:10 Deanne and the kids get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, clean up, brush teeth, and head off for school.
Deanne was volunteering at a hospice twice a week during the kids' school hours. Now, she's employed twice a week as a teacher's assistant at Jaren and Penelope's school. The rest of her weekday hours are spent keeping our household running—cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and ironing my work shirts; doing craft projects; and reading.
I read in a book In Search of Silence about how the journalist writer went to one of the most austere monasteries in the U.S. and when he inquired about their sleep schedules (similar to mine, I was amused to note), a monk said, "...the darkness is a very safe space. It's about birth... The quiet, dark places are where the treasure is buried... We have six free hours before our workday begins. how many rich people can say that? We call it 'holy leisure.' Having that time does something to your humanity."
For me, the early sleep and rise schedule started when Jaren was an infant: sleep when the infant sleeps or you won't get much sleep—so we discovered early on. Because Deanne nursed Jaren (who never had much formula), she had to wake up for middle-of-the night feedings. By 4:30am Jaren, after being fed, was ready to start his day and so was I (I suppose), so I took him out for walks around the neighborhood. It was quality father-son time that allowed gave Deanne time to catch up on her Zs.
The schedule stuck. It's been years since I've set an alarm; I wake up when I do and check the time and ask myself did I get enough sleep? I feel fine with six—and—a half hours of sleep each week night. Weekends I get a bit more with an occasional after-breakfast or after-lunch nap.
Sleep as a parent is so precious, we savor every minute of it, yet do our best not to overindulge, which is easy enough when three kids are waiting outside wanting to be fed or something to do. They're good about waiting patiently, and Braden and Penelope have been instructed to feed themselves if they're hungry, but we start feeling bad about making them wait too long. They get enough sleep, and so do we, so getting up-and-at-'em is rarely a problem for any of us.
Michael Jackson died over want of a good night's rest and so have countless others—asleep at the wheel, overdosed on licit or illicit drugs, or done in by cardiovascular disease or stroke brought on by chronic over-exhaustion. Along with obesity and insufficient exercise, America's youth now suffer all too often from inadequate sleep. The way our family ensures sufficient sleep is by eating healthy, getting plenty of exercise, following our consciences (albeit we're far from perfect), and adhering to strict early-to-bed, early-to-rise routines. The last is easy, sleep coming natural, if the first three are practiced and there is a no-TV (see my prior TV-less Bliss essay), no computer, no electronic devices, and everybody has to do something quiet before bedtime policy that's enforced.
Here's our crazy-beautiful weekday evening schedule starting from after school:
2:00 – 5:00 Kids come home, do homework, exercise outside, read and bathe.
4:00 – 5:00 I come home, wind down, and do some exercises, Deanne makes dinner.
5:00 – 6:30 We all eat dinner, clean up. Deanne goes for a walk with one or more of our kids, I bathe and brush my teeth.
6:30 – 7:00 Everyone reads or does a quiet hobby/activity.
7:00 – 8:00 I read on my bed to each child in turn.
Children's bedtime are as follows: Jaren 7:30 pm; Penelope 8:15pm; Braden 8:40pm. My bedtime ranges from 8:15 to 8:40pm., Deanne's ranges from 9:30 to 10:00pm.
I awaken at around 3:30 and read the bible until 4:15 to 4:30 (I read it because it works; everything in my life and our household runs smoother as a result and we all just feel better too, and the alone-time I get to spend with God is humbling, instructive and peaceful).
Here's the remainder of our early morning schedule:
4:30 – 6:00 I eat and get ready for work, spending a few minutes with Deanne in bed before leaving, giving and receiving quiet well-wishes for the day.
6:00 – 6:10 I walk to the bus stop.
6:00 – 7:10 Deanne and the kids get up, get dressed, eat breakfast, clean up, brush teeth, and head off for school.
Deanne was volunteering at a hospice twice a week during the kids' school hours. Now, she's employed twice a week as a teacher's assistant at Jaren and Penelope's school. The rest of her weekday hours are spent keeping our household running—cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and ironing my work shirts; doing craft projects; and reading.
I read in a book In Search of Silence about how the journalist writer went to one of the most austere monasteries in the U.S. and when he inquired about their sleep schedules (similar to mine, I was amused to note), a monk said, "...the darkness is a very safe space. It's about birth... The quiet, dark places are where the treasure is buried... We have six free hours before our workday begins. how many rich people can say that? We call it 'holy leisure.' Having that time does something to your humanity."
For me, the early sleep and rise schedule started when Jaren was an infant: sleep when the infant sleeps or you won't get much sleep—so we discovered early on. Because Deanne nursed Jaren (who never had much formula), she had to wake up for middle-of-the night feedings. By 4:30am Jaren, after being fed, was ready to start his day and so was I (I suppose), so I took him out for walks around the neighborhood. It was quality father-son time that allowed gave Deanne time to catch up on her Zs.
The schedule stuck. It's been years since I've set an alarm; I wake up when I do and check the time and ask myself did I get enough sleep? I feel fine with six—and—a half hours of sleep each week night. Weekends I get a bit more with an occasional after-breakfast or after-lunch nap.
Sleep as a parent is so precious, we savor every minute of it, yet do our best not to overindulge, which is easy enough when three kids are waiting outside wanting to be fed or something to do. They're good about waiting patiently, and Braden and Penelope have been instructed to feed themselves if they're hungry, but we start feeling bad about making them wait too long. They get enough sleep, and so do we, so getting up-and-at-'em is rarely a problem for any of us.
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