DadCentric

DadCentric Considers "The Kids Grow Up"

 

Doug Block is first and foremost a father. He has a daughter named Lucy and he spent 17 years of her life loving her from behind a camera.

Doug Block is first and foremost a filmmaker. He has spent 17 years creating a film about his own paternal leanings -- the camera was his crutch.

The Kids Grow Up, Block's touching documentary on the first 17 years in the life of his daughter Lucy, will be released on Friday, October 29th, and audiences will have to decide for themselves which is the real Doug Block.

Perhaps he is a little of both.

I found myself watching the film and thinking often of my own feelings as a father. My boys are young, and yet I can relate to what I sensed in Block, because I already fear it in myself.  I cannot let go.

Doug, as his sage wife Marjorie points out, has a bit of an issue with walking the line between love and attachment. She claims that he suffers from Peter Pan syndrome.

I like to think that there is little of the Lost Boys in all of us. No, I'm not talking about vampires.

Aunt Flo Pays A Visit

"Dad? What's a period?"

He's had a tendency lately to ask questions simply to ask them; he knows the answers, he's just looking for conversation. So:

"It's a punctuation mark. The dot at the end of a sentence."

"No, not that period. I mean a period."

"Um. Like...ah...it's when...you see...there's a...uh...where did you hear the word? How was it used?"

"In a movie. I think a girl was talking about it. Her long period."

"A movie? What movie?"

"Am I in trouble, Dad? You let me watch the movie, you know."

"No, you're not in trouble. What movie?" Did I inadvertently let him watch The Blue Lagoon? When? While I was busy writing my Dad Of The Year acceptance speech?

"No, you're not in trouble. What movie?"

"Uh...I think it was Iron Man 2."

"Iron Man 2? And they were talking about periods?"

"Yeah. Black Widow! She said she was having a long period."

"You sure?" Well, major PMS might explain this.

"Yes. A long period of time!"

"Oh. Of time. Well, a period is just that - a block of time. Like a few minutes, or a few days. Like the two halves of a rugby match. Or a weekend."

He paused to process. The 6-year-old mind has little sense of the enormity and persistence of Time; everything is right around the corner, or will never happen at all. "So a period could be like now, before Halloween?"

"Yep."

He considered this. "So, a period is also a certain time of the month."

Will The Cars Sequel Include Any Scenes At The Gulf Coast?

The folks at Pixar have been hard at work on the sequel to their minimally-titled cinematic and merchandising smash hit, Cars. Heavy sigh. My kids are both fans of the first film. Well, let’s face it, my youngest is a fan of anything that the oldest likes, but I’m pretty sure he would like it even without the elder sibling influence since, you know, cars, all of which are either fast or funny or otherwise appealing to small people, and all of which, interestingly enough, translate well from screen to toy. I wouldn’t’ be the least bit surprised to learn that Cars earned more off of merchandising than it did off of ticket sales. I suppose I could look that up. Yeah, I suppose I could.

You know what’s a good kid’s movie? At least as I remember it? Flight of the Navigator. God, I loved that flick. Did you know Paul Reubens was the voice of the spaceship? They never made any toys for it, either. Can you imagine that? A kid’s movie with no toys? Such a strange time that was, so very long ago.

So yeah, Cars 2. More Lightning McQueen, more Tow Mater voiced by Owen Wilson and Larry the Cable Guy respectively. There’s been a teaser and some concept art released.

DadCentric Reviews: "Toy Story 3" Blu-ray + DVD Combo Pack

Disclosure: The good people at Disney sent me a copy of the Toy Story 3 Blu-ray + DVD Combo Pack for review purposes. Full disclosure: I used the case as a coaster for my beer while watching the Blu-ray disc for review purposes.

Writing a review for a movie that 99% of you have already seen seems silly, especially when we've already done it. However, my kid was one of the 1% who didn't catch Toy Story 3 in the theaters; he watched it for the first time in all of its 1080p 5.1 Surround Blu-ray glory. So for those of you who want an expert's take on the film, here's Lucas with his spoiler-filled review:

 

As I mentioned, the transfer is tremendous - the hair's the litmus test with Pixar Blu-rays, and the incredible detail seen in Lotso (the "mean bear") is why I'm really tempted to stop seeing Pixar movies in the theater. Economics, too: around $40 for our family of four, and an additional $15 for snacks. And then there's the pause button: we took Zoë to see the flick in the theater, and made it through the whole thing without needing to be changed. But there was at least one kid who couldn't hold it, and who left the cinema thinking that Buzz, Woody, Jessie, Bullseye and the rest had suffered a fiery, agonizing death, burned to ash in some nameless landfill's incinerator.

The Other Side

It's taken a while, but I've come to terms with the inherent irrationality and sociopathy of five-year olds.  

I don't expect them to respect the unwritten laws of communication, like the ones that govern interrupting others or using a voices that don't sound like a cross between freight train brakes and a wounded dolphin.  I understand that the word "stop" can only be heard after it's third consecutive usage, and only then when the tone and decibels reach a particularly fierce level.  And I'm still seeking an explanation of "sharing" and "blaming" that doesn't involve either tears or crayons.  

But there's one thing I'm not giving up on.  That's teaching them when they should say, "I'm sorry."

What's so hard about it, really?  It's two words.  "Booger nuggets" is also two words, and there doesn't seem to be a problem saying that.  (It has the advantage of being both gross and hysterical, so it has some distinct advantages).  They'll drop a caterpillar and apologize, but saying it to another human being requires a god damn intervention.  I don't even care if they mean it, frankly...just spit it out so we can all move on.

So when my daughter ignored her mothers repeated requests to stop grabbing her foot (she had exceeded the three-stop threshold and kept going) and eventually caused an accidental but painful injury, I asked her to apologize.  

Then I put her on my lap and explained why she should.  Then I asked her again.

And again.

And again.

My daughter is a stubborn kid.  She knew she was wrong and didn't want to experience the guilt.  I get it.  But I'm a stubborn kid, too.  And I expect apologies when they're warranted.

So I told her I wasn't letting go of her until she said she was sorry.  

You can guess how that went over. 

Her body started writhing in my arms, hoping to call upon the dexterity of a Chinese gymnast to escape. My grip tightened, and began deploying techniques I hadn't used since my ill-fated experimentation with Brazilian jiu-jitsu.  "All you have to do is say you're sorry and I'll let you go," I calmly reminded her.

"NO!  LET ME GO!" she wailed.

And so it went for a five minutes or so.  Knowing I was locked in a battle of wills where victory was impossible and probably not worth it, I gave up and let her go.  She ran off crying and disappeared into her room.

A few minutes later she emerged with a piece of paper.  At first glance it was really sweet...a written apology to her mother.

But my wife started laughing when she read this.  Why, you may ask?  She handed it to me and said, "Check out the other side."

I turned it over, and here's what it said.

Looks like we can add another session for her future therapist.  

But I got that apology...

Boots

"C'mon Daddy, we have to go to the shoe shop. The Pumpkin man's boots have bouncy strings. C'mon daddy!  O no, I left my boots at the shoe shop!  Hi shoemaker daddy, these aren't my boots.  The Pumpkin man's boots have bouncy strings.  We have to go back to the shoe shop, Daddy!" I left my boots at the shoe shop.  These boots have bouncy strings." 

And over and over and over again until that voice-- that voice I find so endearing and sweet is piercing my brain like a thousand tiny icicles and I can't take it any more I can't because I don't care about the damn boots please we made you a brother go force this game on him.

"Oh no. ok honey.  You better get them, ok."

"Daddy my boots my boots daddy, these aren't my boots shoemaker daddy. . . "

I'm just, it's that I'm tired.  I'm tired and she hasn't been the sweetest girl today because she's got a bit of a head cold and I really need to get the house clean and catch up with things around here.

"Ok honey that's good. Ok."

She's got on a pink shirt and yellow rain boots and undies and that's it.  She demanded the removal of her pants immediately upon arriving home.  She wouldn't do it herself today because "she doesn't feel good."

Now she does.

"Daddy, you're the shoemaker daddy. We have to go to the shoemaker and get the boots.  The P-Man's boots have bouncy strings and now the P-man's boots are my boots daddy."

"Ok, honey that's good. Let me pick up this paper."

They got into the construction paper.  It's a paper autumn on the playroom floor. On top of everything, now I've got to clean up autumn. Try to listen to the radio while I do it.  I can't.

"I did it daddy, I went to the shoe shop and got my boots. These aren't my boots daddy The P-man's boots have bouncy strings, daddy, they're my boots now. We have to go to the shoe shop and talk to the shoemaker.  O No!"

The boots in question do have bouncy strings.  Little rubber loops on top to aid in pulling them on to your feet.

"Daddy, oh no!  We have to go to the shoem--

"Peanut. Is this game from Dora?"

"Yes!'

Dora. Motherfucker. My ancient nemesis. She's the Library of Congress for annoying game ideas.

"Honey, I don't like that game. Can we play a different one."

"No daddy, I like this one."

"Can you play with your brother?"

"He won't play, daddy.  My shoes!"

"Well, this game is boring Peanut, I don't really want to play it anymore."

"Ok daddy.  Ok.  I guess I'll go play by myself."

Shit.  I blow out a thin stream of air.  Shit.  

"Peanut. What happened to your boots?  Do they have bouncy strings on them? I'm the shoemaker!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Riding The Storm Out

A blinding flash lights up the room, a BOOM! causes the house to shake, the dog barks hysterically downstairs. Plane crash, I think, not sure if I'm asleep or awake even as I'm up and moving. Cacophony at 1:46 AM. Need to get to Lucas. Double-time, into his room - he's sitting up, wide-eyed. The dog skulks and whines. "Lighting. Thunder. Nothing to worry about", I say. I know what he's going to ask. "Come on. You can sleep in our room tonight." 

Afterwards, we'll say that it went exactly like we thought it would. He was nervous, watching us putting on our raincoats. The first Parent-Teacher Conference of First Grade. The clouds roiled; the rain had slowed to a mist, and the school was littered with puddles. Of course he'd jumped in a few; the damp brown cuffs of his jeans was damning, even as he tried to deny it. We try to qualify our admonishments: "I don't want you jumping in the puddles because your shoes will get wet, and if that happens your feet are gonna itch. Like you wouldn't believe." Asking him not to jump in a puddle. Might as well ask him not to smile. I'm thinking about his puddle-jumping even as his teacher tells us what we already know: he's very smart, he's very friendly, the rest of the kids love him...but he's having trouble focusing. He's easily distracted - no, she says, he doesn't have ADD...well, no more than any of the other kids, because really, they're 6, and they've all got a little ADD, you know? Of course I know this. But these days he's a dervish, constantly whirling to music that I can't yet hear.

Churning black skies. It's 8:00 and we're going to be late. The rain will make it worse; any time it rains in southern California, civilization grinds to a halt, the screeching courtesy of thousands of sets of anti-lock brakes. He's still in the shower, doing some sort of weird shower dance, looking like one of those stereotypical awkward "Natives" in a 1950's Tarzan movie, extras with bad makeup and New Yawk accents. "Lucas." He dances. "Lucas." Dances. "LUCAS!" He snaps out of it. Stands there looking at me. "Wash your hair." Nothing. Jesus. I grab the shampoo bottle and pour some on his head. He idly pats his hair. "Like this," I say, massaging the shampoo into his scalp. "You know how to wash your hair. You do it every morning." He shrugs. I turn off the shower and hand him a towel. "Dry yourself off, please. I'll go get your clothes." I do, he doesn't. Until I tell him to. "Ok, brush your teeth." There is an argument about something. Lately, there are lots of arguments. The storm's made it worse, turning our house into a container. A game of tug-of-war, played inside a submarine. "Just brush your teeth, please." "But..." "Your teeth. Please brush them." "But..." "Brush. Your. Teeth." There's a basic disconnect here. He's having trouble focusing. His refusal: me yelling, hating myself for it. "BRUSH YOUR TEETH!" He does.

He sleeps between us. The dog paces the room, breathing like a locomotive. The rumbling and flashing have stopped. I watch him, watch his eyes, moving back and forth behind the lids. I wonder what he's dreaming about. I wonder who we are to him.

On the drive to school, I talk to him, about why Mom and I get upset when he argues with us, or talks back to us, or simply ignores us. The Why's are met with the I Don't Know's. We've had this discussion before. I remind myself: he defaults to Good, like most kids. Do I? I'm not sure. As they always do, this discussion ends with an exchange of OK's and I Love You's. I think about the water cycle - this was something he'd learned about last year. He was so proud of this, this knowing. "Water doesn't really go away, Dad. It rains and then some of the rain gets soaked up into the ground and some turns to clouds and some goes into the ocean. But it eventually goes back up into the sky. And then it rains again." My smart boy. We pull into the parking lot. The clouds hang low. We hustle in to school before they open up. 

 

Five Years High And Rising

Five years and nine-ish months or so ago, I climbed down out of the light booth in the theater where the  play I was working at the time was showing. My wife walked in the front doors wearing a pair of blue jeans and a dark green sweater, her dark hair loosely pinned up. She wrapped her arms around me, placed her mouth close to my ear and whispered.

“I’m pregnant.”

My firstborn child turns five years old tomorrow, a fact that nobody seems able or willing to believe. “But he just got borned!” everybody says, albeit with slightly better grammar. In some ways, I’m right there with them in their disbelief. The baby, the infant, the toddler -- these people are gone. It seems like they were here not that long ago, but now barely a trace of them remains. And in their place stands a full-fledged little boy. There’s a little boy in my house! That I helped make!

Sad News From Happy Days

These days are ours, happy and free.

Howard Cunningham got it.  The man understood relationships. He loved his wife, raised two wholesome boys (although one disappeared without a trace) and sent Joanie to her room. He knew when to give a guy a warning cough before opening the door on a "study session," and he didn't judge a leather-bound book by its cover. He was a father and a father figure.

These days are ours, share them with me.

Of course Howard Cunningham wasn't real. He was just a made-up man on a fictional show set in the mythical town of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  But Happy Days was filmed before a live studio audience, and for 10 years of my youth I found myself there in the Cunningham's living room, sitting on it.

These happy days are yours and mine.

Tom Bosley was well-known for many things.  He was Father Dowling. He was the sheriff on Murder, She Wrote. He sold us Glad Bags. The man lived.

Tom Bosley passed away today, October 19, 2010 at the age of 83 from a staph infection.

By all accounts he was a good man. It is said that he was a loving husband, father and grandfather, and while I understand that he was, in fact, Tom Bosley and not Howard Cunningham, I find it difficult to separate the two.

There are things from my youth which I think back on fondly, and Happy Days is among them.  Howard Cunningham will be there, always.

 

Well, what can I say? Both of our children are married now and they're starting out to build lives of their own. And I guess when you reach a milestone like this you have to have to reflect back on, on what you've done and, and what you've accomplished. Marion and I have not climbed Mount Everest or written a great American novel. But we've had the joy of raising two wonderful kids, and watching them and their friends grow up into loving adults. And now, we're gonna have the pleasure of watching them pass that love on to their children. And I guess no man or woman could ask for anything more. So thank you all for being, part of our family... To happy days.

                                - Howard Cunningham

                                   (from Happy Days, last scene of last episode)

Goodbye, Mr. C.

Goodbye, gray skies. Hello, blue.

 

 

 

Candy Corn and Fishnets: Happy Halloween!

My daughter Riley wore her first Halloween costume when she was 2.  She went as, yes, a pirate.  (My call.  It was completely awesome.  More cute than bloodthirsty, but she did sport an eye patch and a hook for a hand.) 

 After that, it was three years of princesses.  Tiaras, sequined tutu dresses, plastic jewelry.  Dark days for her Goth-loving father.

 But when she turned 7, she started going in for more grisly fare, and that’s where her tastes remained -- which was great fun.  For the past three years in a row, her go-to Halloween option has been Vampire.  Badass Vampire.  Cape, pale face, black hair spray, black widow’s peak drawn on her forehead, and the slightest trickle of fake blood on her chin.  Very, very fearsome.  And when I say fearsome, I mean adorable as hell.

 Last week I went into her room and found her flipping through a magazine.  Subsequent investigation revealed it to be a costume catalog.  Every year, when my mom sends the kid a Halloween care package, she throws in a few of them to help Riley brainstorm ideas.

 “So,” I asked her, “what’s the costume plan this year?  We going to pull out the ol’ vampire cape again?” 

 “I want to go as Alice,” she said, “like from Wonderland.”

 I was surprised.  A little girly for her recent tastes, but a relatively easy costume to put together.  “That’s a cool idea,” I replied.  “You haven’t mentioned that one before.  What made you choose it?”

 “It’s right here,” she said, holding up the glossy catalog page for me to see:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Um.