What are we doing next?

Kids can wear a guy’s butt out.
Here I sit, on Dec. 29, wondering what next year will bring, but being satisfied that I don’t know and, indeed, can’t know. Oh, I confess that I often lament, in the throes of one crisis or another in life, that I wish I could time-travel six months into the future to see how I resolved my problems.
But I know that’s impossible, except in movies, such as the “Back to the Future” series or “Peggy Sue Got Married.”



I’m no Johnny B. Goode, and I’m no Michael J. Fox, so I know I could end up like Biff, buried in manure, six months hence.



And I’m no Peggy Sue, so I don’t get the chance to go back and start over.



So what if I can’t time travel like Marty McFlighe or Peggy Sue? That’s the way life is, and like another song says: Some days, you’re the windshield; other times, you’re the bug.
It takes patience, and that’s something kids often don’t have. Witness the fact-based jokes about “are we there yet?”
I’ve been encountering a variation on that theme of late: We’re not even done with one activity, and the grandsons are wondering what we’re doing NEXT.
We can be in the middle of a trip to the park, and one will chirp: “What are we doing NEXT?“
We can be halfway through a movie, and one will whisper in the darkened theater: “Where are we going NEXT?”
We can be barely started on an adventure at the zoo, and one will say, plaintively: “What are we doing NEXT, Papa Mike?”
Usually, my plan is to take a nap to recover from whatever it is we’re doing THEN, because they’ve already worn my butt out.
I guess their inquisitiveness isn’t as bad as mine, wanting to know what conditions will be six months from now, and they’re just asking about six minutes from now.
So, although I’m curious about what 2009 will bring, I know I can’t predict it. This time last year, for instance, I had NO idea that I’d have another grandchild by now.
Well, I guess I have one jump on that scenario: My daughter Annie is with child, and the new arrival is expected July 3 or 4. Although she doesn’t know yet whether the stirring in the womb will turn out to be a girl or a boy, I’m lobbying for a July Fourth arrival date.
I have suggested to her that she and Kevin could name the lad or lassie after one of my favorite holiday movies, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” She spurned the idea, just like YouTube did my attempt to show you Jimmy Cagney singing the movie’s signature song. Well, YouTube didn’t spurn it, but somebody did; something about violating terms of use.
So I’ll have to be patient and forgo this blog’s musical signature motif.
Now, what should I do NEXT? I’ve got to rush and get it in, because I know for sure I won’t be around in the year 2525.



How ’bout those Nebraska boys’ hairdos? WhattheHELL were we THINKIN’?

Happy New Year to you all, whether you’re earthbound or a time traveler.

Oh, speaking of the New Year, I just remembered what I’ll be doing next: Playing in my annual Payne Stewart invitational golf tournament, complete with plus fours, on a course overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, on New Year's Day.
Well, if you MUST ask, I've never WON it. I suppose that makes the golfers among you smug. So be it. But if you live Up North, and you happen to be reading this on New Year's Day, I urge you to look out the window and cast your gase upon the snow and the ice. If it happens to be an uncharacteristically warm day, it'll be dirty, filthy slush.
THAT's why I golf here in Florida every Jan. 1: Because I CAN, even if I can't WIN.
Not that I'm trying for the last word, but nah-nah-nah-nah-naahhhhhhhh-nah.

Three Little Wise Men, and a Mum One

MY MUSES, on 2007 Christmas card: The Triumphant Trinity tallied Vincent, then 6; Luke, then dangnear 2; and Jack, nearly 4.


WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES: The Fab Four features Vincent, now 7; Luke, dangnear 3; Patrick Michael, a few pounds over 4 months; and Jack, almost 5.


Today I turn, as is my wont, to my own private trinity for words of wisdom as another big religious holiday sneaks in amid the flocked trees and stocked shelves: Christmas.
Lest my invoking a TRIO causes your head to warp into a devilish Linda Blair spin, let me exorcise your mind of thoughts that it’s slipped my mind that the former shamrock on this stem of grandkids is now a four-leaf clover.
I haven’t forgotten what child is this infant: It’s Patrick Michael, who was born Aug. 12, with cooing and lowing and all the trappings, although there was no manger and no cattle breathing steamy air to warm this swaddled bundle of joy. (After ALL, this IS Florida, for one thing.)
Since the sprout who is the youngest in the quadrangle can’t even talk yet, let alone spout theological wisdom, I can defer to a young singer, whose name just happens to have “Christ” as a root, for a Christmas song.
I bet you thought Christina Aguilera just popped onto the singing scene, full-throated and, uh, full-bodied, such as she displayed in her grinding performance in another Fab Four’s bodice-busting, lusty rendition of “Lady Marmalade” from the movie “Moulin Rouge” with Lil’ Kim, Mya and Pink “rounding” out the quartet, with Missy Elliot as narrator.
Well, since that’s too racy for a Christmas Column, check out what child is THIS from the Aguilera Archives:



Who knew then that she would become a rising star to top the tree of a presidential performance just a few years later:



Back to the Grandfather Clause Archives: I’m looking for childish words of religious wisdom, but I’m not ignoring Patrick. Although he has developed quite a paunch, his vocabulary is lacking, at 4-plus months. So I’m going with the elders in my temple: Vincent, Jack and Luke.
Vincent, at 7, has been a visionary from birth. He imagines things he wants to be, and WILLS them into existence.
I was not surprised, then, when he asked Melissa a couple of months back: “Mommy, why do adults have to SEE something before they believe it?”
I think they were talking about heaven, or God, or both, and she explained to him that those are elusive concepts for many people, but you’ve just gotta believe.
I’m amazed at Vincent’s optimism and his belief system, and I hope and pray he doesn’t lose them to cynicism the way so many of us do. Best prayer I’ve thought of so far: “Dear God, please give the lad the everlasting faith of a Cubs fan.” And just to make sure God’s listening, I might ask Harry Caray to give me a plug:



Jack’s also a believer, but he’d like to see God NOW, for a very practical reason: One day, he decided to draw a picture of God and ran into a calligrapher’s conundrum.
“Mommy,” the 4-year-old said, exhaling in exasperation. “Why can’t I SEE God? I don’t even know what he looks like. What color of shirt does he wear?”
Michelangelo, he ain’t, and he obviously never has seen the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or he would KNOW what God looks like.
Luke’s no Michelangelo, either, but he DOES have an appreciation for God’s brush strokes. One day, he beheld a sunset (or sunrise, I can’t remember) and observed: “God painted the sky pink today.”
So there you have it, on this holy holiday: My trinity spouting theological wisdom that I can appreciate more than all the theologians you could fit on the head of a pin.

Now that I’ve weighed in with the innocents, here’s a touch of the sinful side that provoked God to send his son to redeem our evil ways. I know many people find the term “Xmas” offensive, but since I mentioned Aguilera’s lusty side earlier, this video illustrates how she can put the X in Christina, and in Xmas. (It’s here for historical purposes, to illustrate evolving musical genres, of course). WARNING: If you’re taking heart medications, you should consult your doctor before pushing the button:



Don’t blame ME for that. I would rather have showed you her “Genie in a Bottle,” in honor of the boys’ grandma, Jeanne, whom they call GiGi, but I was barred from copying it.
But in keeping with the season, let’s close with her matching the holiness of the saving moment:



With that, I quote another child from the literary world: “God Bless Us, Every One.”

Keep inheritances close to the vest

I don’t have the wherewithal to leave much to those who wish me bon voyage when I cross the River Styx. It’s not that I’m mean, it’s just that I don’t have the means.
One thing I have done is collect several pocket watches of various designs, featuring golfers, dinosaurs, trains, etc., with an eye toward bequeathing them to the kids and grandkids, each geared toward their interests.
I have kept the collection close to my vest because, well, I wanted it to be a surprise. But the thought finally occurred to me that that was dumb, because it would cheat me out of seeing the looks in their eyes when they behold the array. So I have started showing them the watches.
Jack, of course, gravitated to the watches with dinosaurs on the cases and wanted one right away. I told the 4-year-old that he would get one when I’m gone, then realized quickly that you don’t worry a young child about death.
He got the message, though, saying immediately, “Do you mean when you’re DEAD?”
“Oh, no,” I said, backpedaling like a tyrannosaurus Rex was on my tail. “I mean when you’re older.”
“Like when I’m 6?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Maybe when I’m 8?”
“Maybe.”
“How ’bout 15?”
The bartering banter continued, but you get the drift. But the glint in his eyes made me think of that great line in “The Godfather,” when Vito Corleone advises son Michael to keep his friends close, but his ENEMIES, closer. I think I should keep all my grandsons close, but Jack, closer, so he doesn’t decide some day, while we’re angling for some sunnies, to give me a push so I’ll sleep with the fishes.
After all, he IS Italian. But come to think of it, all the grandsons are. Not Sicilians, mind you, but here's the link to explanations of those familial principles. (I searched YouTube high and low for the "enemies" scene, to no avail, and the Luca Brasi fishwrap, reference, includes his death scene, which I figured was too graphic for such a benign column as this.)

http://www.sicilianculture.com/godfather/quotes.htm


Continuing the gift-giving, and death, themes, a couple of days later, GiGi mentioned to Jack that it was her mom’s birthday, although her mom, nicknamed Honey, had died a few years before.
Jack thought for a few minutes, then said, “Well, it’s a good thing Grandma Honey’s dead, because you don’t have to buy her a present.”
I’m sure he was looking at it from a practical point of view, that GiGi would have all the more money to spend on HIM. And, from my practical point of view, we don’t have an address of where she’s sleeping with the fishes.
Of course, my goal as a grandfather is that the boys have fond memories of this IRISH grandfather, that I kept them close out of love, because that is my way.

Kids see a lot of nose hairs from down there!

Kids have a whole different perspective on life.
On the downside, at least from my view of their view, is that they see a lot more nose hairs from down there than I would care to behold. But I won’t delve further into that potential peril of brush fires (especially among smokers!).
Speaking of fiery rings, the combustibility of nose hairs has NOTHING on the searing possibilities of love. Speaking of rings of fire, how ’bout the late Johnny Cash’s teaming up with Willie Nelson, whose snarled locks could face a real scorching if somebody stoked a toke too close to his hair!



Back to the issue at hand: kids’ perspectives. When something has changed, or appears to have changed, from their vantage points, their little minds rev up to rationalize the new reality.
Thus it was the other day, when a guest was holding little Patrick and 2-year-old Luke rushed over excitedly.
Reaching up to touch his little brother’s toes, he exclaimed: “Patrick’s legs are getting LONGER!!!”
From his perspective, they were longer than they had been the day before. The reality was that the guest is shorter than his mom. That’s no small feat, as Melissa isn’t much taller than a blade of grass (fresh-cut Augustinian, and as slender as Kentucky blue, despite having had four children).
So, the fact of the matter is that Patrick’s legs hadn’t gotten longer; rather, the fact was that a shorter person was holding him put his feet closer to the ground.
But Luke’s observation elicited a smile from me, who gets that close to the ground only when he’s wrestling with me, and whose perspective has become jaded after years of life among adults.
That little angel often makes me grin, and enjoy that groundedness of innocence. Which brings us back to Willie.



And THAT brings us full circle, as we started out talking about kids' perspectives because they're so close to the ground.

So I'll go trim my nose hairs so at least their view of me won't include a gnarled bunch of brush.

Kids Have Dangerous Minds, for My Wallet

Unlike most spineless, indulgent grandparents, I don’t spoil the five lads on the grand branches of THIS family tree.
And now, to silence the snickers in the background, I’ll invoke the famous line from the “Wizard of Oz”: “Pay no attention to the man behind that curtain.”



I would venture to guess, needing no help from the great Oz, that even my stepdaughter, Melissa, would say her mother, my bride, Jeanne, is a far easier touch than I am. The boys find it easier to manipulate GiGi, their nickname for her, which traces back to Vincent’s flawed pronunciation of her name when he first started talking.
The lads’ visits to our house often include a trip to a hobby shop that 7-year-old Vincent has favored since I blundered by stopping there one day, thus stoking the engine of his train fantasies when he was just a squirt of 3. Also frequent destinations are Toys “R” Us, which I don’t like because I find it overwhelming and confusing, and Kmart, which I also don’t like all that much, but at least a guy can find his way around there.
However, Vincent started out amenable to my “We’re stopping just to look” proviso, although, well, I guess we have picked up a few trains, planes and automobiles at the hobby shop over the years.
It was a delight to take Vincent shopping in the good old days when he was a tad of just over 2-plus. He would ask to look at something, peruse it for awhile, then hand it to me and say, “Let’s put it back.”
I learned later that he did so because his mom had trained him inadvertently while shopping by repeating that phase when he was looking at something. The lad didn’t even know you could BUY things at stores; he just thought you were supposed to look and put them back.
Like I said, the good old days. Even now, we still often escape without buying, as long as GiGi isn’t along.
I bungled into the increasingly dangerous Kmart option a couple of months back when I suggested going there instead of Toys “R” Us, partly because it’s just a few blocks from our house, but mostly to avoid going to Toys “R” Us.
It’s been all downhill since that first trip, when 4-year-old Jack adhered to the “just-to-look” house rule. The next day, he and GiGi sneaked over by themselves, and he came back with a dinosaur (Gosh, I’m tempted to say he went over there with one dinosaur and came back with TWO, but that would be too snarky, wouldn’t it?)
These days, the “just-look” rule seems made to be broken, ESPECIALLY when GiGi’s in tow. When I pleaded to stick to our guns, and not buy any, because it was unfair to the boys who weren’t along, her solution was to buy something for everybody.
She has a dangerous mind, she does, and the boys seem to have a fair share of Jeanne’s genes.
During one stop at the hobby shop, when I told Vincent I didn’t have money to buy anything, he suggested: “Just write a check.” Another time when I told him I didn’t have money, he replied, in exasperation, “What do you DO with your money?” Of course, I replied that I buy him and his bros candy and toys. What’s he think I’m made of, money, money, money; I guess Abba is right: It’s a rich man’s world.



To be honest, I do have to admit that I’ve bought more than Jack’s share of dinosaurs, and Vincent has scored plenty of train-related stuff, but I repeat: I hold the line better at stores than GiGi does.
OK, so maybe eBay is a different matter. You see, Jack has a snow globe fetish; he even fancied that his group of three was a “collection.” Just recently, I went a little overboard buying a dozen snow globes of various sizes and designs to give Jack for Christmas, birthdays, etc., to make it a real collection. I just hope I live long enough to give them all to him.
So I guess I would have to acknowledge that eBay is too dangerous for my tempted mind. I can be as bad as GiGi sometimes.
The topic of dangerous minds always transports me back in time, to the days when I used to hum, and try to sing, Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise.” That was my favorite song, from my daughter Allison’s genre, when she was in high school. I suppose some people would consider it inappropriate, if not to dark, for me to post such a song in a column about grandkids.
After all, even back then, some people found it odd for a dad to like a song, albeit a Grammy winner, featured on the fact-based film “Dangerous Minds.” Well, now, I’m just a nostalgic sort of fella, and it reminds me of Allison’s high school days, not to mention of when I was a younger guy, one who even liked a few rap songs.
And, of course, because I’ve got dangerous minds to cope with, too.



Good luck on keeping your shopping trips thrifty ones, a.k.a.: “just to look.”

Sibling Rivalries Can Become Alliances

Picking up where I left off last week, I'll note that another adjustment to a growing family is the connubial conundrum of how to organize a household so it doesn’t turn into a dysfunctional one, with all the emotional fallout that creates for generations to come.
When a family of three children expands to a fourth, what’s to become of the middle child, who once was the odd man out but now is second of four? He loses the insurance of having that old standby, the middle child syndrome, to blame if he ends up a ne’er-do-well basket case panhandling on a street corner.
If the kids vote 2-2 on something, there’s no tiebreaker any more.
The secret is to make each kid occasionally feel like the only child. Melissa and Skip do that admirably, taking time as often as possible to spend individual time with each of their blokes.
Melissa often does it almost to a fault, such as insisting that she take each of the Terrific Trio on a date even as her date with the stork approached and she was under the weather.
Such attention makes the home an egalitarian epicenter of equality rather than a forbidding bode of favoritism.
And equality builds alliances. No longer considered a threat, the newbie can become an ally, which comes in really handy when the kids need to gang up on the parents to get their way. And then, well, and then, the parents have to learn a whole new set of tools to avoid that dysfunctional booby trap.
Beyond relationships and, perhaps last but certainly not least, the emotional havoc they can wreak in a familial power shuffle, there’s also the financial aspect.
Not the least of concerns is what to do about vehicles. And face it, two-seaters aren’t practical for families of six, space wise or mouth-feeding wise. And that was the case when Skip’s Corvette was squeezed out of the garage and into the classified ads.
He had had fun with that baby for a couple of years, until, well, like one of the neighbors said when the family was out trick-or-treating and infant Patrick was sleeping in his skeleton costume.
“He traded a Corvette in for a BABY!” the neighbor marveled.
That reminded me of the Beach Boys “Fun, Fun, Fun,” which the Carpenters also covered. I’ll defer to the Carpenters here, because the car in this video looks more like a Corvette than the T-Bird in the lyrics:



After Skip said sayonara to the Corvette, Jack told me nonchalantly, “Daddy cried when he sold the Corvette.”
I can understand shedding a tear, or even 96 tears, which brings up the 1965 song of Question Mark and the Mysterians:



Years from now, long after those tears have dried, when the family gathers for holiday meals — the REAL arbiters of whether they are normal or dysfunctional — they’ll still have pictures of that old Vette.

New Kids on Block Move Big Cheese

Funny how kids change a family’s dynamics, and how they don’t, at the same time. Of course, the clan remains a family, but the kings and queens and pawns and knights shuffle on the chess board when they get rooked out of their comfortable roles.
They STILL are FAM-i-lee, and, in this family of four brothers, getting along without any sisters for theeeeeee, unlike the Sister Sledge song:



The most challenging adjustment new parents are forced to make is adapting to a new human in the house. Observing those post-partum expressions can be funnier than imagining Tiger Woods battling gophers on his favorite course. Speaking of:



After all, raising kids can be as challenging as ridding your lawn of gophers, because situations with rugrats are as different as their personalities, just as the yard rodents’ resistance tactics make them so elusive to, and defiant of, conventional approaches.
Similarly, despite parental guidance manuals laying out battle plans for layettes, stories are legion about how solicitous first parents are when the first child gets hurt or sick: The parents move hell and high water to take care of the scrape or scratch, or they head straight to the ER without even stopping to Google fever for an online diagnosis. By the time the third or fourth apple falls from the tree, they have become inured to parenting perils that they just might casually tell the kid not to bleed on the carpet.
Thus it was with Vincent and light and noise. Skip and Melissa were like Noise Nazis and Light Brigades when they brought THAT bundle home. I’m not blaming THEM, mind you; they were new parents. So, when Vincent jumped out of his diaper when a door slammed, or squinted when a sunbeam smiled into the room, they thought they needed to cloak him in protection.
That’s why they shushed me when I accidentally let a cupboard door slam, and quickly closed the blinds when I tried to let some light into the room at high noon because they had the place so shuttered that it seemed like midnight.
They lightened up when Jack came along, more so with Luke and now, well, now with Patrick, they don’t mind that their house is louder than a Super Bowl halftime show, and why not let the sun shine in?
Oddly enough, Patrick doesn’t mind it, either, probably because he got so used to the cacophony when he was in the womb. It’s natural to him to have three boys screaming next to his crib, so he doesn’t even stir while sleeping. I have no doubt that he’d be able to sleep next to a railroad track as a steam engine roared by.
Each boy has adjusted admirably to the new apple on the tree, too, although that also has been an evolving process as the family has grown
At 2, firstborn mama’s baby Vincent evolved quickly from suspicion and a hint of jealousy to a willingness to tell his mom, when baby Jack cried, “Mommy, he’s hungry. You go give him your nipple.”
Greater love hath no brother than the willingness to give up his place at the trough.
Second-born mama’s baby Jack also was about 2, and similarly attached to mommy, when Luke popped out, so I was worried about how he might react.
Imagine my surprise when, upon seeing the intruder for the first time at the hospital, Jack exclaimed: “He’s ME.” How cool is THAT?
Luke was, and still is, the most possessive of Mom, but he has done remarkably well in welcoming the bun from the oven. Which is not to say that he isn’t dragging around on Mom’s leg and pleading for her to hold him when she’s already got her hands full, but he also smothers the little Patrick with affection.
All of this is not to say that everything is peaceful and huggy and kissy EVERY DAY. After all, they’re siblings, and that means rivalry, and they can mix it up with the best of them.
But I’m prattling on beyond my welcome here, so I’ll continue this thesis on family relationships in my next installment, next week.

Patrick Needs a Sponge, Bob

The runt of the litter has a couple of things in common with Patrick, the starfish character in SpongeBob SquarePants, one of the Terrific Trio’s favorite cartoons.
Well, perhaps “runt” sounds severe. Maybe "caboose" would be better (and to think we thought LUKE was the caboose, WINK).
First of all, the infant born Aug. 12 is named Patrick.
Secondly, he couldn’t get much wetter than the cartoon character. Patrick the starfish is wet because he lives in Bikini Bottom; Patrick the human is wet because Luke’s kisses are slobbier than a St. Bernard’s drool.
And that proves we didn’t need to worry about how 2-year-old Luke would accept the sibling arrival.
And thirdly, the human Patrick is as big a rock star to his brothers as the starfish when he crawls out from under his rock.
You always wonder how the first in line will treat the successors to the throne.
I remember back in the day when Vincent was a possessive tot of 2. After all, he had had a pretty solid niche as the little man of the house.
Evidence of his attachment to Mommy arose frequently, whenever he heard a child cry. His standard comment: “That baby needs his Mommy.” Obviously mommies are the solution to any problem.
So, would the baby be a problem child for Vincent? Melissa and Skip prepared him for the new arrival, even making him part of the preparation process.
But we were nervous about how Vincent would react. After all, when adults discussed the upcoming blessed event, he seemed to react as if it would be more of a curse. He would become somber, perhaps retreating into his inner child.
And every once in awhile, a little animosity surfaced, such when they batted around name ideas. I think Vincent's suggestion of Frankenstein Dumbo for a girl reflected his conflicted feelings: He envisioned a monster invading his domain, but he loved “Dumbo.”
As it turned out, the baby wasn’t a girl anyway. But THAT’s OK, especially if you like the original FAB FOUR, and one of my favorites of The Beatles:



Now, back to THIS boy: They named boy No. 2 Jack Thomas, with the Thomas acknowledging Vincent's love of Thomas the Train. Although Vincent showed signs of skepticism about where Jack put him on the food chain, we (Mom, Dad, GiGi, his name for grandma, my wife, Jeanne, and I) took pains to assure him that he is a vital limb on the family tree.
Just the same, Vincent was stand-offish during his first encounter in the hospital room shortly after Jack was born. That’s putting it mildly, as he outright ignored the bundled baby, as if that would make him disappear.
Then Jack started crying. Vincent’s knee-jerk comment: “That baby needs his mommy!”
Then he did a darling double-take, when he realized that that baby’s mommy and his were the same. His panicked look transformed to one of resigned acceptance as he sighed, “He’s hungry, you better feed him, Mommy.”
And so it has gone, with Jack weathering a similar dilemma when Luke arrived. He beheld the baby and said, “He’s ME!” I guess that was his way of coping, and it worked.
Still, despite those successes, I was concerned about Luke when Mom started looking like the Poppin’ Fresh Doughgirl again.
Melissa took some comfort from Luke’s comment one day, before the baby was born, that he would NOT let the new arrival go out into the street. (That obviously stemmed from the fact that was the admonition du jour for him.)
Perhaps I’m skeptical, but I couldn’t help but wonder, “Hmmmmmmm, that might ease HER mind, but the flip side is that could sound like a PLAN,” that Luke was setting up an alibi in case — well, no, that’s ridiculous that I would even THINK that.
As it turned out, my suspicions were for naught, and Luke is more likely to smother Patrick with those slobbery kisses than let him stray into traffic.
Of course, we do hope and pray that Patrick the human is smarter than Patrick the starfish, whose pointy head obviously doesn’t have much room for gray matter.
For example, check out this clip, which is hilarious in the way it inserts Patrick into the movie “300”:



Suffice it to say that the human Patrick doesn’t face the same frustration as the cartoon one. Our boy doesn’t have any trouble distinguishing who might be giving him a little peck in his sleep. The wetter it is, the more likely he is to know: “That’s LUKE!”

Twixt Deviltry and the Deep Boo-boo, See:

We walk a tightrope, between the devil and the deep blue sea, not to mention between the deviltry and the deep blue boo-boos.
For me, it’s a thin blue line in deciding how to police kids’ rambunctiousness without destroying their creativity or making them afraid to experience life.
Teenagers get themselves into mischief because they believe they are invincible. And they assume that we adults just issue willy-nilly warnings about potential perils and pitfalls because we are killjoys with one purpose: To spoil their fun.
Actually, all we are trying to do is make sure that they don't have to pay their dues for deviltry.



I have found that the seeds for the teenage attitude of discontent, and suspicion of all things adult, are planted during the formative years, as early as 4, for instance.
Call me paranoid, but I get nervous enough when one of my grandsons climbs a tree, or they all pile on each other in the yard, arms and legs flailing every which way but broken. Why should I worry so? After all, the grass provides a soft landing, and kids are resilient, so what could happen?
However, my skittishness skyrockets when the landing could be harder, such as on a tile floor. I envision split heads and gushing blood. Not that the blood would bother me (well, it is hard to get out of grout), but so far, I’ve accumulated a lot of baby-sitting days with no serious mishaps, in case OSHA ever starts tracking that statistic.
Thus, few people would blame me for admonishing 4-year-old Jack the other day, when he was whirling like a dervish on our tile floor: “Stop spinning like that!”
Jack, practicing his invincibility lines for those teen years, countered: “Why?”
“Because you’re going to get so dizzy spinning like a top that you’ll fall down,” I said, with the wisdom of my own and my kids’ pratfalls.
“How do you know?” he challenged.
Brilliantly, I replied: “I just do.”
Well, how would you counter that without making the kid afraid of his own shadow? Thus the fine line: trying to guide without scaring the bejabbers out of a kid, and an angelic side into him, so much that he’s afraid to do anything.



I would hate it if Jack fell down and broke his crown, and needed stitches to learn the lesson, but I don’t want to scar his psyche, either. And I hope I never use one of my dad’s tried-and-true lines: “That’s what you get,” or “I told you you’d get hurt.”
Oh, WAIT, I just remembered that I DID use those lines with my own kids. So I will tweak my resolution to say I hope I never use one of those lines with the grandkids. Oh, WAIT, I just realized that I already have.
Well, that’s because I have fears of my own to address. Topping the list is that I don’t want one of the lads to get broken on my watch.
Granted, their mom never has threatened me with concrete boots if one got hurt. But I also saw the look she gave me the day she came home and discovered that 2-year-old Luke had fallen into the lake while I was watching him. (That little narc Jack snitched on me before she was even out of the van.)
Thank God the water was just knee-deep to a grasshopper, so Luke was able just to stand up, startled and sopping. But I avoided the possibility of sleeping with the fishes.
I’ll turn a country song on its ear to underscore my point. My explanation arises from one of the old conundrums of music: Misheard lyrics, except that I misinterpreted them in the case of “Because of You.”
I always thought Reba McEntire and Kelly Clarkson were singing about a woman whose mother scared her from taking risks. It’s a natural mistake, if you ask me, based on this stanza:
“Because of you, I never stray too far from the sidewalk.
“Because of you, I learned to play on the safe side,
“So I don't get hurt.
“Because of you, I find it hard to trust
“Not only me, but everyone around me
“Because of you … I am afraid.”
The mandate I derived from the message was that I don’t want the boys to be afraid of things because of me. I want them to be free to make their own mistakes, but I want to help them avoid the boo-boos.
Then I saw Reba and Kelly singing the song in their video one day, and I realized my interpretation had been about as far off the mark as my golf game. (Well, nothing is that far off the mark, but you get my drift.)
Of course, I still am puzzled about whether the song is about a mom and daughter fighting over the same guy or a mom-dad-daughter thing or a mom-daughter-boyfriend or a dad-mom-daughter-boyfriend thing. The only clear thing, to me, is the guy in the white sport coat should be wearing the black hat (sorry I can't post it, but it's blocked).
The operative line for me in the song remains “Because of you … I am afraid.” I just don’t want the grandsons to grow up and say I’ve discouraged them from grabbing life by the horns.
So I’ll try to bite my lip and hope they don’t split theirs.

Grandpop Pops Corn the Grand Old Way

Steam was rising as Vincent and I squabbled, but not because the disagreement itself was heated.
Rather, the verbal jousting was because the now-7-year-old lad, a tad over 4 at the time, quibbled to bits with me over the ingredients for a late-night snack during a sleepover at our house.
I suggested popping corn the old-fashioned way. Always game for an activity, not to mention popcorn, he readily agreed. He headed to the cupboard to snag the microwave popcorn, while I headed to the cabinet to retrieve my old-fashioned, hand-crank popper.
I told him to put the Pop Secret back, because we were going to step back in time. He looked puzzled as I intoned The Judds' song, “Grandpa, tell me ’bout the good old days … ” I suppose even somebody who knew the song would have been puzzled at my tune-challenged rendition, so I'll give you a break and give you the REAL McCoy:



Back to popcornpalooza: Vincent watched intently as I poured oil and salt into the pan but looked even more confused when I poured in the kernels.
“What are those?” he said.
“That's popcorn,” I replied.
“They look like nuts,” he responded.
“They're popcorn kernels,” I persisted.
“Well, they look like nuts,” he insisted.
“Kernels.”
“Nuts.”
Oh, nuts: You try to win that circularly cacophonous collision of world views.
But like I said, the argument itself wasn’t steamy, but the steam soon hissed from the lid as I turned the crank and the kernels built pressure toward bursting. That’s about the time it dawned on me that he was puzzled because he never had even seen real kernels . His only popcorn experiences had been with pre-packaged microwave corn or the big buckets I buy at theaters. (It wasn’t all that long ago that popping for the large bucket earned free refills, but that bubble seems to have burst with real estate and everything else monetary these days, reducing my stock in theater corn faster than my 4019(k).)
Well, that night, Vincent was able to time-travel to see how grandpa did it in the good old days.
When I die, I think I'll leave him that old popper so he can show off someday, when one of his own grandkids approaches him and says, “Grandpa, tell me ’bout the good old days …”
He, too, will be able to demonstrate that there is a kernel of truth about the good old days.
Similarly, not long ago, I was rummaging through a closet and ran across another relic: an old record player. I resolved to take Vincent, then 6, Jack, 4, and Luke, 2, on a spin down memory lane, back B.C.D, as in Before CD’s.
It would be a slow spin, because the only albums I have in those musty old boxes are the big 33-and-a-third rpms.
But Vincent and Jack surprised me, and spoiled my surprise, when I cockily pulled out a big, black disc and trumpeted, “I bet you don’t know what THIS is.”
“It’s a record,” Jack said nonchalantly.
“How do you know?” I said, as deflated as a beach ball that had landed on a piece of sharp coral.
Vincent chimed in that their pre-school teacher played platters on a little record player.
Sigh, so records aren’t yet a foreign concept to that generation, but I bet eight-track players would be. Unfortunately, I don’t have one of them; never did.
We still had fun with that old player, as I carefully put the platter on the turntable and set it spinning. I demonstrated how to put the needle down, ever so gently.
The lesson was lost on Vincent, though, when he asked how to change songs, and I said I would move the needle. He tried himself, scratching it across the record in the antiquated “seek” mode we take for granted these days.
Gently, I took his hand and said, “GENTLY, because the needle will scratch the record.”
It’s sad that one generation’s advances wipe out previous ones’ fond memories. Well, not in EVERY case. I can’t say as I miss outhouses all that much. My experience with them was limited, but I do recall how uncomfortable they were on a cold winter’s night. Even if you didn’t have to sit down, it wasn’t much fun bundling up to trek out into the snow to commune with nature. And I’ve grown accustomed to other comforts, in addition to Charmin Plus (with ALOE!), such as air conditioning, automatic transmissions, multi-CD changers, cell phones and texting. Well, scratch the texting like the needle on an old record. I have gone textual only a couple of times because I just can’t get a handle on it.
On the other hand, it’s sad that some day, kids won’t know the fall-off-the-fork, melt-in-your-mouth texture of a slow-cooked roast. Or even the days before computers, when we relied on directions to get from point A to point B. Everything is point and click these days.
For instance, one of Vincent’s delights is our trips to the hobby shop, where he toy trains transfix him. Occasionally, he’ll con me into buying a train book or snag a free catalog that he will pore over until it falls apart.
One day, he was bugging his mom to go to the hobby shop. Apparently, he assumed she didn’t know how to get there, even though they have to drive past the shop to get to our house.
“Just call Papa Mike,” he said. “Ask him for the address, and you can Mapquest it.”
I guess that puts a whole new, modern spin on the saying that the pleasure isn’t in the destination, but in the journey.
If only we could Mapquest our lives as easily, eh?

Maybe It's Time for THE TALK

Love triangles are challenging enough when they back a guy into a corner, but it appears that a quadrangle just might help a fella wriggle OUT of a corner.
I always had figured that Vincent, a 7-year-old who has been blessed with sultry, lady-killing good looks, would be the Class Casanova of his clan. Serious and thoughtful, he projects a come-hither look into a camera that would have melted the celluloid back in the days before digital. And some day, I suspect that that same Hud-like visage will melt the hearts of the ladies swooning at his feet.
His 4-year-old brother, Jack, also is a handsome devil (lest you think this is blind bragging on my part, I must inform you that they are step-grandkids, so I can’t take credit for their looks). But Jack’s devil-may-care approach to life and his fondness for snakes, snails and dinosaur tales had led me to believe that he would just as soon see a girl squished under a tyrannosaurus rex as give her the time of day. Even though he makes friends easily with girls, I still doubt that they will become a priority for him anytime soon.
The gaggle of girls who have taken a gander at Jack at preschool are another matter. They had tried to elbow each other out of the way to get close to him several times previously, but they apparently got into such a dust-up the other day that it could have rivaled the latest bodice-ripper on a bookstore shelves.
This particular time — perhaps it was preschool mating season, for all I know — the coquettish covey’s quest for attention from the laid-back lad escalated toward a full-scale, fur-flying furor. With their claws extended and teeth bared and manes flared, acting more like ferocious lions fighting for turf and a lair of lionesses calmly waiting for the winner, they loudly proclaimed their intentions to marry Jack.
Perhaps I exaggerate, but I can only relate what I heard, more or less.
“I‘m going to marry Jack!” one said.
“No, I’m going to marry him,” another proclaimed.
Still another: “I‘m going to marry Jack!!”
As the struggle approached biblical proportions, God’s gift to wimmin decided to intercede. Jack raised his hands, probably similar to Moses’ gesture when he parted the Red Sea, and invoked the wisdom of Solomon, proclaiming: “Girls! Girls! GIRLS! You can marry one of my brudders!”
The teacher nearly died laughing, and apparently the hubub subsided, with no injuries to body, mind or heart.
The thought occurred to me that, if Jack starts pimping his brudders, the boys might need The Talk sooner than expected. And, although Vincent likes to pal around with girls, the only girl whom 2-year-old Luke is interested in these days is Mommy.
And baby Patrick, well, let’s just say Mommy’s his priority, too, because his mother’s milk speeds him on his way to his other two talents: sleeping and dirtying diapers.
I guess that makes him the closest of the Fab Four to being a couch potato, so there aren’t going to be any girls fighting for HIS attention in the long run, if the youngest of the Italian stallions doesn’t change his ways.
Something tells me that’s all in good time, my pretties.

The Four Boys of the Apocalypse

I had trouble handling just three horsemen, so what are my chances with four? That may seem as if I am branding one branch of grandsons as Conquest, War, Famine, and Death like the biblical Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Not so. Rather, it refers to the fact that grandkid visits sometimes have left our house in a mess of apocalyptic proportions when they were just the Triumphant Trio: Vincent, Jack and Luke. Oh, there were trademark examples of each of the four horsemen:
* Conquest: I considered it a conquest when I could get all three boys to nap at the same time. That was an elusive goal, partly because of their diverse napping styles.
Vincent, who rarely naps now that he is 7, was the most pliant, often taking three-hour naps with me as a toddler. Those were the good old days, because he kept his head nestled on my arm and wouldn’t let me get up, so I could justify those lazy afternoons.
Four-year-old Jack’s resistance to naps includes doing somersaults and other antics to stay awake, while 2-year-old Luke mimics that technique but usually eventually slips to sleep after a prolonged period of procrastination with gymnastic gyrations.
* War: With three boys under 7 knocking around the house, there are bound to be dust-ups, and there are. I have found a balance in the battles, though, with a 2-year-old sometimes landing a punch that can collapse a brother five years his senior.
* Famine: This is a remote possibility, as we keep a hearty supply of foods that I believe boys need to build strong bodies 12 ways: candy and ice cream. But once in awhile, we run out of the preferred flavor, and the squawking would make you think we were starving them. (Sometimes, enough ice cream drips on the couch to feed a starving Third-World nation.)
A couple of weeks back, Vincent said, “Papa Mike, WHY do you have so much candy around?”
“So you boys can have some when you come to visit,” I replied.
“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you that for years!” he said.
Talk about hyperbole. YEARS? He picked up an exaggeration gene somewhere.
* Death: Obviously, this is the least likely to occur. The boys do nothing but enrich my life, unless I die in a fall after stumbling over a toy. On the other hand, substitute the last two letters in death with an “f,” and it might apply. Sometimes, the chaotic cacophony they create could be the deaf of me.
In short, the Triumphant Trinity presented challenges galore. Now that adding infant grandson Patrick makes four, you might think I should cinch up my saddle to avoid a fate of even more apocalyptic proportions.
Perhaps, but I’m taking Vincent’s lead to a more optimistic approach and assume that they will carry me. Indeed, 7-year-old Vincent guaranteed as much when he was just a tad over 2.
We live close to railroad tracks, which spawned a tradition for Vincent and me tracing back to when barely walked. When he would hear a train whistle, he would leap into my arms and I would run the block to the tracks so we could watch the train roar past.
The tyke became a fanatic about those trains and developed an uncanny knack of hearing whistles far off, allowing us time to trek to the train. The first time he stayed overnight with us, I heard a train whistle in the middle of the night. (Well, 2 a.m., but that’s the middle of the night for some people, right?)
Like a church bell calling people to worship, the whistle prompted me to utter a prayer, as well: "PLEASE, God, don’t let Vincent hear that whistle!”
God either didn’t hear, or she was just in a frisky mood, because there was Vincent at my bedside, tugging on the covers and saying, “Papa Mike, I hear a train, too.”
“I do, too, Vincent, but it’s the middle of the night.”
“We should go see it,” he insisted.
The plea in his eyes forced my hand, and my body, out of bed as I swept him up in my arms, bolted down the stairs, unbolted the door and loped toward the train. He was delighted as he watched it barrel by.
As for me, I realized what a pickle I would be in if a police officer saw me standing there, in my shorts, with no ID, holding a diapered toddler in the middle of the night. Fortunately for me, no officer drove by, and we had set a precedent of going train spotting, even in the middle of the night.
As time passed, and Vincent got heavier, my strides grew slower and my breathing, more labored. But that didn’t sway Vincent’s nocturnal missions. One night, when it was particularly dark, he nearly cut off my breathing because he was clutching my neck so hard.
But he assured me: “It’s dark, but I’m not scared, Papa Mike.”
As I breathed harder, I said, “You sure are heavy. I can hardly carry you.”
He put his hands firmly on my cheeks, looked me straight in the eye and promised: “Don’t worry, Papa Mike. When I’m older, I’ll carry YOU.”
Awwwwww. That’s why I’m sure that I might be able to keep up with all four of them, when Patrick gets past the eat-poop-sleep (mostly sleep) stage.
Forget the Four Horsemen; I’d rather look at them as The Fab Four, with no apologies to The Beatles.

Grandkid chatter

Feel free to send me your anecdotes and/or observations about your grandkids or grandkids you know. Or your own kids; like my Uncle Frank used to say, ALL kids are GRAND. I'll try to post as many as I can. I would appreciate being able to run your name, too, but if you'd rather NOT have your name published, please note it. Otherwise, I will assume I have your permission.
OR, of course, you can skip the me as the middle man and post comments as you see fit.

Old Dog Learns New Tricks

Imagine my surprise upon discovering that my grandkids teach me most of what I need to know as a grandparent. And here I thought I would teach them.
After all, I’m the one who is full of the wisdom of experience, while they are empty vessels waiting to be filled with the ways of the world.
Instead, I have found that their innocence and inexperience are the very teaching skills from which I can learn at this point of my life, which has pivoted around journalistic deadlines, multi-tasking, and, well, an OCD tendency to let the tasks direct me rather than vice versa

I was naïve enough, and egotistical enough, to believe that I had a good sense of important values. Then the boys took me to school on some values I lagged in, such as goal setting, optimism, flexibility, courage, patience, persistence, and the pivotal priority that people should be the most important focus of my life

So, this old blog dog has learned new tricks from the lads, such as

* Goal setting: Perched on one branch of the family tree is Anthony, a 16-year-old who has been an athletic juggernaut in baseball and, to some extent, soccer. A fan of sports of all sorts, he surprised me when he decided to play football in high school. He had not taken to the gridiron previously. His build was slight, and I had assumed that he wouldn’t like the smackdown nature of the sport

But he set the goal to play football, and he transformed his slight build into one of might. He persistently pumped iron to pack muscle onto his skinny frame, sans steroids, of course. (And now, he even dons boxing gloves on occasion.) I don't have a photo of him handy, but if he's like all the other kids these days (from 9 to 90, actually) he probably has a MySpace page or some such somewhere out in cyberspace.

* Optimism: On another family tree branch are 7-year-old Vincent and his brothers, Jack and Luke (in the photos accompanying this installment, the top one, courtesy of Hardage Photography, was taken when Vincent was 3+ and Jack, 1+; in the second one, the tot holding the flower is Luke, at about one and a half). Vincent's forte is optimism. He envisions a goal and harbors unswerving faith that he will achieve it, such as his belief that he would get a train set for Christmas. After his mom explained that it would strain the family budget, he countered, “But Santa can bring it, and you can get me something else, cheaper.” His optimism was rewarded when his parents, or Santa (I can’t remember which), found an eBay deal on a train set

Even more optimistic was his secret Christmas wish to have a baby join the clan, against all odds. His parents didn’t even know about it, PLUS, the rule at his house is that Santa gives each child two presents. When Melissa and Skip discovered a month after Christmas that there was a surprise bun in the over, Vincent reacted by saying, repeatedly, “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it

He finally explained the object of his disbelief: “I can’t BELIEVE Santa finally gave me three presents

His optimism was rewarded with a new brother, so I have to add the recently born Patrick to Vincent’s family tree.

* Flexibility: This trait could apply to the physical demands I sometimes face because of 4-year-old Jack’s penchant for roughhousing, such as the time I was napping on the floor and he did a WWE raw leap from the couch onto my stomach.
But I’m referring instead to his mercurial changes in interests and moods. We can be in the middle of one activity, and he’ll jump ship without warning to another. One minute, he can be delighted with the smallest thing, and the next, devastated over the tiniest slight

* Courage: Luke’s overcoming some serious health challenges has made the 2-year-old an inspiration. He has endured several painful, and just darn inconvenient, therapies to take the upper hand in his life

* Surprise: Patrick, well, he was a surprise just by showing up. And since he’s but an infant, maybe I can teach him a thing or two. (Or maybe he could teach me how to scan his picture to post it here

So there you have it, the pedagogues in my life. One of the most important values I have learned at the feet of my grandchildren is the value of time. Not the value of time spent at work, which I held dear in my youth as justification of my existence. But rather, time spent with them. (Not that I didn’t do plenty of camping and fishing and hockey-team ferrying and soccer coaching with my own kids, but grandkids are different animals, you know

I saw evidence of this at Jack’s preschool the other day. The teacher had had students list things that make them happy and sad. For sad, he said: “When there’s nobody to play with.”
Often, he wants to play with me, and I have to remember that

Just a couple of weeks ago, Melissa said the boys were hoping I would take them fishing. I alibied that it was too hot, and that the lake was too high, and tossed in a couple of other trumped-up reasons. After hanging up the phone, I felt guilty for making excuses instead of exceptions

So I got some worms. And we fished. More than that, we CAUGHT fish. But most important: We spent time with each other.

I’m hooked on my teachers.