Why Shouldn't a Baby Come Down the Halfpipe During the Olympics?

If the Olympics are teaching us anything, it’s that perseverance pays off.
Or that what goes up must come down, as in a skier who leaps from the big jump and lands upright (most of the time).
Or what comes down the pipe, or in Shaun White’s case, the halfpipe, takes some twists and turns.
I don’t have to tell that to daughter-in-law Erica, who I’m SURE was tired of persevering when her due date passed, and thought the kid never would land, and learned that a baby holds on for dear life instead of hitting the slalom on time (or as slickly as the Flying Tomato [I know he doesn’t like the nickname, but he can put it in his halfpipe and smoke it] does with his snowboard).
And I’m sure that son Brendan learned patience as he stood at Erica’s side wondering whether she’d be doing a short program or a long one, as ice skaters do in their quest for gold. (Truth be told, I bet he felt like an Olympic skater’s coach, too, nervously wondering whether labor might make Erica so edgy that she’d cold-cock him in the middle of a triple Lutz, with a toe loop.)
And now, you’re learning patience, waiting for the verdict on whether the entity I previously have called blot because Brendan and Erica (well, Brendan, mostly, but Erica indulged him [as far as anybody knows]) didn’t want to know the gender swept into the world, albeit like a curling rock, as a boy or a girl.
But first the facts, ma’am, and man: 8 pounds, 9.6 ounces and 21.5 inches. No WONDER the infant was late coming through the bobsled run. (For the record, that’s only 19.8 percent of what a curling rock weighs, so what’s the fuss? It’s not like the lad or lassie came out carrying a curling broom, sideways, while also wearing slalom skis.)
Name: Avery. I like the name, and it’s got some cool background, I discovered at http://babynamesworld.parentsconnect.com.
For instance, I never would have guessed that it has both English and French ties. Fortunately, it means the same thing in both: Elf counsel. That seems like an odd meaning, but it’s got this bonus: Elf can be interchangeable with leprechaun, which is Irish, which means the child has Irish blood AND an Irish name. (Hey, this is my blog, and I can make up the rules.)
Bigger bonus is that these Irish eyes are smiling because I can kick the Brits and the Frogs off the island.
Another bonus: Not only are several towns and counties in the United States named Avery but also a crater on the moon sports that moniker. That’s only fitting, because entering the world was one small step for Avery, but one big step for the Tighes.
At any rate, it’s only fitting that the baby arrived during the Olympics, albeit without those ubiquitous, and irritating, cowbells, because you can bet Erica and Brendan will put their firstborn on a podium. I’d wager that Erica and Brendan are glad it’s over, and they’ve got the gold, and ESPECIALLY that babies aren’t in the womb for four whole years.
Of course, that doesn’t mean they can’t start preparing for the next Winter Olympics, in four years. I’ve found that four years between kids is about PERFECT, because they can kind of take care of each other when they’re little, and a guy can take a nap.
Of course, it’s their life …
P.S.: If you’re under the illusion that Avery is a girl, you’re in for the agony of defeat, as the ski jumper experienced in the immortalized video from 1970:



DOH! Avery not only can be EITHER a male or a female name but also is more common as a male. With that, and noting that Avery’s middle name is Michael to acknowledge Brendan’s middle name and that of his late uncle Michael and, well, I guess, MOI, I introduce you to: Sir Avery Michael Tighe. And, of course, his co-stars, Erica and Brendan.

I Envy Jack's Life Plan

Jack’s got his life all figured out, at the ripe old age of 6.
I’m jealous of the lad, because he knows what he wants to be when he grows up, and WHY, so he’s got nothing to worry about for the rest of his born days. Hell, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, and I have trouble rebutting people who contend that I’ll never grow up, anyway.
I guess that means you can call him Pollyanna and me, Peter Pan.



I don’t remember much from when I was 6, beyond the victorious, warm sensation that enveloped me when I sneaked a kiss from my girlfriend, Jeannie Bartek, on the playground. Until she gave me a fat lip to go with my loose lips. Turns out she was my girlfriend only in Mike’s World, which apparently wasn’t even in her galaxy, so she knocked me back into my own.
And I don’t recall pining for careers like kids always do, daydreaming about being a firefighter or a policeman — or even lawyers and teachers and bakers, oh, my. Well, I did like to pretend I was in fights like the cowboys on TV. (Of course, back then, they never bled, and even if they had, the TV picture was black and white, so there wouldn’t have been any red all over.)
But mostly, as far back as I can fetch a memory, I was going to be a priest, although I still can’t figure out whether it was because I wanted to or because other people thought I should and I let that sway me. (Oh, I did have good times at the vocation evenings the Knights of Columbus sponsored, complete with enticing films about how cool seminary life would be [i.e., fun playing hockey, basketball and football, but not a HINT that philosophy, which seminarians had to major in until right before I entered, and minor in when I was a student, is the spawn of the devil]).
However, I do remember a shaky moment a few months before I went to the seminary when I asked myself, “Do I really want to do this?”
But I figured it was too late to change my mind. I already had let my college scholarship go to somebody else, and I figured Jody didn’t like me all that much anyhow, and I already had bought my cassock and collar, so inertia propelled me to the sem.
Although I had a great time in the seminary (pay no attention to the coffee cup perpetually attached to my hand or the occasional nip of vodka it concealed [nobody suspected, because the cup was like an appendage at all hours, and everybody figured it always contained just coffee]), the mistress of journalism eventually wooed me away from the altar.
So here I sit, still journaling, all these decades later, after wearing out my soles as a reporter pounding the pavement before detouring into editing instead of saving souls as a priest who was bound for Rome, as S’ter Reparata envisioned things.
Of course, that’s not to say that other pursuits haven’t beckoned.
At various times in my life, I’ve wanted to be able to:
· Write music and sing as well as Gene Pitney. (Fat chance.)
· Play the guitar as well as Dwight Yoakham. (Small hands.)
[Dadgum YouTube disabled most Yoakham videos by request, but here’s a URL to what I consider his best:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A2qo1x9rcCc
And here’s one that matches ME:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQcGkzXmPjY ]
· Moonwalk as well as Michael Jackson. (Big feet.)


(Obviously, the only thing I have in common with Michael is the name, and I prefer Mike. Only nuns and old ladies are allowed to call me Michael, so watch yourself!)
· Moonwalking is not to be confused with walking on the moon, like the Buzz that Neil Armstrong got first. (Scared of heights.)
· Own a charter fishing boat. (Saw "Jaws" and realized I’d need a bigger boat than I could ever afford.)
· Play golf like Arnold Palmer. (Can’t get past bunker mentality.)
· Do stand-up comedy like George Carlin’s. (Oh, I can be plenty sarcastic, but he’s LOTS funnier.)
Speaking of the late, great, Carlin, even though I can’t do stand-up like him, I’m getting up in years so that someday I might be an Old Fart, like he talks about, except he uses a different F word from fart — as you can imagine he would.
Etc., etc., you get the drift. My dreams are the stuff Walter Mittys are made of.
But enough about me. This is about Jack, and my envy of his life plan. To celebrate the lad’s recent sixth birthday, Kate and I took him out to dinner.
I immediately discovered two facts that placed him at opposite poles:
· Jack was a little miffed that the restaurant didn’t supply crayons with the kids placemat with fun activities such as coloring on them (what part of practical don’t you understand, national chain whose name I won’t use for free advertising but is the opposite of hot?).
· Even though he wanted to take advantage of the juvenile placemat, he opted to order from the adult menu. (Thus, the price of his entre skied immediately from, like $4.95 including dessert, to, like $12.95 for the sirloin steak PLUS the 6 or 7 bucks for the molten chocolate lava lamp cake he ordered.
At any rate, though, I was impressed with how adult he was, and Kate was stunned at his encyclopedic knowledge of dinosaurs, which surface as he perused the dinosaur book we gave him.
He not only wiped out the steak but also nearly demolished the cinnamon apples he had opted for instead of fries on the side. (How many kids would pick fruit over fries at a restaurant, when Mom’s not around?)
And, when the waitress asked about dessert, before I had a chance to ask whether he still had room, he ordered the bazillion-calorie cake. Well, it was his birthday, and he polished most of it off himself, although Kate and I helped a little.
During a lull in his dinosaur lecture, Kate asked him what he wants to be when he grows up.
With little hesitation, he replied, “A bagger at Publix,” a ubiquitous grocery store chain here in Florida.
I was taken aback, as I expected him to say a paleontologist or some such animal-related occupation.
Kate pressed, as she is wont to do, asking why he wanted to be a bagger at Publix.
“Because then I can just go home at the end of the day and not worry about work,” he said.
What a brilliant observation from such a young man, eh? Oh, I suppose he based it partly on the fact that he sees his dad work a lot at home, because part of his job is home-based.
But STILL, it made this Silver Fox envious, because I’ve spent my whole LIFE taking work home.
On the other hand, TELL me: Would you let THIS guy bag your groceries?

I'll Take High Road on Bathing Beauty

Today's topic offers so many angles I don't know where to begin.
I didn't know whether my oldest, Annie, was playing Truth or Dare with me when the thirtysomething sent me a photo of baby Amelia that BEGGED to be shared — along with a command that I don't post it. (That surprised me, especially in the Facebook era, when people post all sorts of private things.)
OR, could it be that Antonia Leigh still has a little of the teen defiance from the Brat Pack era in which she grew up, before even pagers existed?
Speaking of the Brat Pack era, I STILL love "Don't You … Forget About Me."



Back to the topic at hand: Did NO mean YES, in this instance? After all, if Annie posted it, somebody might say, "How DARE you post a nekkid pic of your daughter!" But if I did, the worst that could happen would be somebody clucking and asking what more to expect of a doddering old granddad.
Yup, Annie could have been trying to make me the fall guy, to have me do the dirty work of publishing a photo that might haunt my granddaughter if she ever tried to run for Senate or even president. (That’s assuming, of course, that these ancient Web archives even exist when she’s of an electable age.)
I can just see the news story now: “The wheels fell off of Amelia XXXXX’s campaign applecart today when photos surfaced of her posing nekkid in the tub … ”
Back from the future to the present: I thought Annie had left me some wiggle room, the way she phrased the warning: “This better not get posted on any blogs! But I thought it was cute so I'm sending it!”
I think a guy could read between the words to find the hidden message: “This better not get posted on any blogs (unless YOU want to, Dad)! But I thought it was cute so I'm sending it! (AND, it‘s OK if you want to post it, Daddy Dearest.)”
See, the message was in there, when I squinted.
On the other hand, what if she were serious, but I've still got enough parental p--- and vinegar to embarrass my kids once in awhile, as all parents do? In their youth, they all seemed to think I was pretty embarrassing, even though I didn't try and I don't recall ever picking my nose or farting in front of their classmates. Evidence:
* After I went to a special event at Annie's school when she was in, oh, seventh or eighth grade, she stormed into the house that night, pitched a fit and banned me from wearing my elephant pants in front of her friends ever again. (I was thinking about those pants just the other day; DAMN I miss 'em.)
* When Brendan was in high school, he routinely told me he was playing at baseball field "A" when he actually was playing at field "Z," which was a bazillion miles away from "A," so I would go to the wrong field and wouldn’t have time to get to the real site. Once in awhile, I'd trip him up and get there on time.
I never could figure out why he didn't want me to show up, especially since you'd think he owed me some loyalty for getting him out of bed at 5:30 a.m., trekking through the Minnesota north to the ice rink and putting on his skates from the time he was 6. (Back then, his main gripe was having to get up that early; my gripes were legion, from bundling up dead weight and carrying him through the cold into the car, trying to force ice skates on the floppy feet of a sleeping kid, and then trying to stay warm myself during practice.)
After all, I didn't ever upbraid a ref or an ump or scream, "Brendan Michael Tighe," if he made a slip-up, like my stepmom hollered, "Michael Joseph Tighe," across the field in our small Nebraska town, loud enough to be heard on both coasts, one day when I let a ball scoot twixt my legs at shortstop.
* When Allison was 12 and I would take her to the mall, she insisted that I walk 20 or 30 feet away, or just disappear, so nobody would see that I was with her. Or she was with me, depending on your perspective.
Sooooooooo, if Annie were serious, how could I blunt her anger, if she didn't buy into fact that I've always been a source of embarrassment? Spread it around.
Since this involves nudity, would it be fair, for instance, to recall the time the neighbor across the street called and asked me whether I knew Brendan was running up and down the sidewalk. Nekkid? Well, to tell you the truth, I had to tell her no, that I didn’t know where my son was, but I wished it was dark instead of broad daylight.
He was only 4 then, but I also recall the time, when he was 16 or so, and his sisters burst in on him while he was taking a bath on Christmas Day and shot a picture of him. Even though nothing showed, and it not only wasn't the era of instant gratification but also wasn't these days of Facebook, in which it could be posted worldwide, he was furious.
How mad? Well, as siblings will do, even though Annie had instigated the photo session, he nonetheless joined her in an unholy alliance and proceeded to eavesdrop on a phone conversation Allison was having. This was before cellphone era, right smack dab in the beeper period of antiquity, so they were listening on a phone extension.
When Allison heard them giggling, she blew a gasket, ran into the living room and turned the air of Christmas Day blue, and FROSTY, with a string of invectives that included words I never had heard and didn’t know you could combine.
So, if I revealed all those — how mad could Annie get if I posted the photo of Amelia bathing? It’s soooooooooooo cute.
And, as I mentioned before, there also was the chance Annie actually WANTED me to post the tub photo. After ALL, the rubber ducky was placed strategically.
Until she told me that no, in this case, DEFINITELY meant NO. (Sadly, part of the reason is that, these days, all sorts of unsavory characters are cruising the Web, looking to prey on children’s photos.)
So, I heed her wishes, and you’ll just have to be satisfied with a photo of Amelia playing with Miss Kitty.



P.S.: No rubber duckies were injured in taking the photo of Amelia in the tub, I presume.