Soooooooooo, the other day, I took Vincent, Jack and Luke to a movie. One of the previews was for a movie with The Rock in it.
Jack, who's 5, looked at him and said, "HEY! I know who he is!!!"
"Who?" I said, sure he was going to guess correctly, as I was certain he must have seen The Rock in one form or another. After ALL, who hasn’t seen any of the Scorpion King movies, because they play so often on TV?
Well, Jack didn’t answer immediately, and I could tell from his stammering that he was stalling for time. I could almost hear the gears in his brain whirring in the darkened theater faster than I could say, “Eat your OWN popcorn!”
Finally, he blurted out: "BARACK OBAMA!"
I almost laughed right out loud, because I thought he was saying “Rock,” until he added Obama, and I realized I had missed the beginning. (Or, perhaps, he actually said, "Rock Obama."
I mention that incident now, as I post this column on the historic inauguration day of America’s first black president.
PLUS, I’ve got to give the lad credit for his knowledge of current events. After all, when I was 5, I’m positive I didn’t know that Nixon was president.
But NOW, I discover I could be related to the new president. After all, he’s black, and I’m Irish, so maybe we have a Black Irish connection:
Soooooo, top ’O the morning’ to ya, GFC readers.
And, to Cousin O’Bama: May the road rise to meet you, the wind be ever at your back, and may the good Lord hold you in the palm of his hand (to help you get the upper hand on this flagging economy and all the other problems you're deigned to solve!).
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
From the Outside, Looking IN
Wouldn’t you know it, I misplaced my 3-D glasses right before the first picture of my latest grandchild, Bun, arrived. Usually, I’ve got a pair around my neck with those old-fart glass holders, but I misplaced them, too.
I checked my head, where I’ve seen other people forget their glasses, although I have never put mine there because I don’t want to get grease on the lenses; a bunch of drawers; several cabinets; and even the dishwasher, all to no avail (I DID find out that the dishwasher was full, so I turned it on).
I needed 3-D glasses because the picture is a new-fangled one taken in 3-D and I wanted to give the sonogram a very, very, very close inspection, to see what I could see, you know, whether the baby is smiling. Or, well, if you know what I mean: whether there might be any sign of an erector set to indicate whether Bun’s a boy or a girl. (That’s NOT to say that a girl wouldn’t be interested in an erector set; sexist, I’m not.)
But daughter Annie and Kevin don’t know the gender of their child yet. So obviously, they haven’t picked a name yet, and I suspect they will question my arbitrary decision to name it Bun. I’m trying not to meddle, but what else CAN I name the child, when it’s still in the oven?
The beauty of that name, of course, is that the lad or lass already has a song named after him or her. And some day, I bet the little bugger will be lined up in a school performance singing “Hot Cross Buns.” Of course, as is typical at such performances, it probably will be toward the END of a three-hour program during which I’ve had to clap politely, like golf fans at a tournament after a pro mercifully makes a triple bogey that knocks him out of the lead, for all the other no-talent kids parading across the stage.
Oh, come on now, before judging me harshly, admit it: You’ve thought the same thing, and wondered why the teachers don‘t cull the tone deaf (at the same time the parents around you are thinking the same about your progeny). School pageants often are insufferable, but they are rites of passage.
Thank GAWD, none of mine has ever been a scene stealer, as every event has one, the kid picking his nose, or falling off the stage, or lifting her dress, or pulling some other clownish antic. Oh, wait, I just remembered son Brendan’s vaudevillian, exaggerated trip on his way up to get his high school diploma.
But I’ve gotten off track. Back to bun:
Plus, the name fits the nursery rhyme, if the sonogrammed turns out to be a boy, with a lyrical tweak:
“If you’ve got no granddaughters,
“Give them to your grandsons,
“Hot cross buns … ”
Meanwhile, who KNEW they could take 3-D pictures of babies in the womb? It’s a God’s-eye view of biblical in proportion.
As recorded in Jeremiah: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart.”
At this point, GOD knows whether Bun is a girl or a boy. But we got a peek expectant parents didn’t have years ago.
As for me, I don’t care which gender Bun is; I just ask God to bless him or her with health. But I can’t wait to chuck him or her under the chin.
And now, I introduce you to: BUN. In 3-D, I guess; if you've got your glasses. Or, maybe a magnifying glass to find some conclusive evidence.
(If you see any clues I don’t, please drop me a line.)
I checked my head, where I’ve seen other people forget their glasses, although I have never put mine there because I don’t want to get grease on the lenses; a bunch of drawers; several cabinets; and even the dishwasher, all to no avail (I DID find out that the dishwasher was full, so I turned it on).
I needed 3-D glasses because the picture is a new-fangled one taken in 3-D and I wanted to give the sonogram a very, very, very close inspection, to see what I could see, you know, whether the baby is smiling. Or, well, if you know what I mean: whether there might be any sign of an erector set to indicate whether Bun’s a boy or a girl. (That’s NOT to say that a girl wouldn’t be interested in an erector set; sexist, I’m not.)
But daughter Annie and Kevin don’t know the gender of their child yet. So obviously, they haven’t picked a name yet, and I suspect they will question my arbitrary decision to name it Bun. I’m trying not to meddle, but what else CAN I name the child, when it’s still in the oven?
The beauty of that name, of course, is that the lad or lass already has a song named after him or her. And some day, I bet the little bugger will be lined up in a school performance singing “Hot Cross Buns.” Of course, as is typical at such performances, it probably will be toward the END of a three-hour program during which I’ve had to clap politely, like golf fans at a tournament after a pro mercifully makes a triple bogey that knocks him out of the lead, for all the other no-talent kids parading across the stage.
Oh, come on now, before judging me harshly, admit it: You’ve thought the same thing, and wondered why the teachers don‘t cull the tone deaf (at the same time the parents around you are thinking the same about your progeny). School pageants often are insufferable, but they are rites of passage.
Thank GAWD, none of mine has ever been a scene stealer, as every event has one, the kid picking his nose, or falling off the stage, or lifting her dress, or pulling some other clownish antic. Oh, wait, I just remembered son Brendan’s vaudevillian, exaggerated trip on his way up to get his high school diploma.
But I’ve gotten off track. Back to bun:
Plus, the name fits the nursery rhyme, if the sonogrammed turns out to be a boy, with a lyrical tweak:
“If you’ve got no granddaughters,
“Give them to your grandsons,
“Hot cross buns … ”
Meanwhile, who KNEW they could take 3-D pictures of babies in the womb? It’s a God’s-eye view of biblical in proportion.
As recorded in Jeremiah: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you. Before you were born, I set you apart.”
At this point, GOD knows whether Bun is a girl or a boy. But we got a peek expectant parents didn’t have years ago.
As for me, I don’t care which gender Bun is; I just ask God to bless him or her with health. But I can’t wait to chuck him or her under the chin.
And now, I introduce you to: BUN. In 3-D, I guess; if you've got your glasses. Or, maybe a magnifying glass to find some conclusive evidence.
(If you see any clues I don’t, please drop me a line.)
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Plain Trains, Dinosaurs and Automobiles
Kids may share DNA, some physical attributes and even beds, but their personal interests can split wider than a sumo wrestler’s briefs.
Well, I guess that’s a bad analogy, because sumo wrestlers don’t wear briefs. At least I assume they don’t, but how would I know, as they’re hidden under those diapers they wind ’round, and ’round, and ’ROUND, their bodies, although leaving their cheeks exposed. The garments look like thongs (often known as butt floss, in crass circles, but this column is a class act, so I would never call them that).
Now, HOW did I get sidecracked, uh, sideTRACKED, THAT time?
Anyway, back on point: Kids sure aren’t cookie cutters, when it comes to their individual passions. Oh, they may share interests in some things, such as toy cars. Vincent always has liked cars, and Jack is fond of them, too, but Luke is passionate about them.
In fact, the 3-year-old is a definition of passionate, usually walking around with two or three cars in each hand. And red is his favorite color, so you can guess his star car: Lightning McQueen. Of course, that also makes him passionate about the movie “Cars” because, for him, life is a highway.
For Jack, it’s dinosaurs, always has been, always will be. He’s got enough dinosaurs of various sizes and strains to fill Jurassic Park. And woe is me when I call a T rex a velociraptor. The 5-year-old isn’t patient with dino ignorance.
Jack isn’t one-dimensional, though, as he recently took a fancy to snow globes. Although I’m sure their numbers never will rival his dinosaurs, when he accumulated four of the globes, he proudly started referring to them as his “snow globe collection.”
Not that I spoil the lads, but I promptly went on a quest to circle globes that would have put Columbus to shame. Within a short time, I had accumulated more than a dozen for future gifts. I’m set for Christmases and birthdays for a long time.
One provided a good example of the fact that Vincent could care less about snow globes. Whenever we have a gift for one or the other of the lads, we make sure to squirrel it away when Jack or Luke visits because they immediately would want to know who gets it. And they aren’t that good at keeping secrets.
But I had no worries during one of Vincent’s overnights. I had a snow globe ensconced on the kitchen counter, where I was gluing parts that had fallen off during shipment. I hid it in plain sight, so to speak.
The 7-year-old walked past it a dozen times and said nary a word. Because he doesn’t give a RIP about snow globes.
Finally, I said, “That snow globe is for Jack.”
“I know,” he replied, not even interested enough to ask whether it was for Christmas or birthday, or whatever.
On the other hand, Jack and I were watching a movie that featured several scenes of trains. “Vincent would LOVE this movie,” he said, acknowledging his older brother’s passion even though his brought yawns from the elder.
Vincent’s passion for trains was fueled back when he barely could walk. Whenever he heard a train in the distance, he’d leap into my arms and we’d run off to see it.
His interests take new turns once in awhile (right now, he’s into karate), but he always gets back on track: train tracks.
He can identify engines by fuel type and cars by work assignment as well as Jack does dinosaurs and whether they are plant eaters or carnivores.
Vincent can sit in front of train videos for hours on end.
As for the caboose of the family’s train, 5-month-old Patrick is passionate about one thing: cuddling up to the trough, so to speak. But we all know the flap that breast-feeding photos are causing on Facebook, so I’ll pass up posting graphic graphics. But I wish there was some way to broaden his interests beyond suckling to sleeping longer instead of just catnapping between burps and other bodily functions.
And I know Mom does, too. The little stinker takes short naps, at his leisure, and, although he sleeps through some nights, he still wakes up for a mid-night snack.
The lad’s parents need their sleep!
Well, I guess that’s a bad analogy, because sumo wrestlers don’t wear briefs. At least I assume they don’t, but how would I know, as they’re hidden under those diapers they wind ’round, and ’round, and ’ROUND, their bodies, although leaving their cheeks exposed. The garments look like thongs (often known as butt floss, in crass circles, but this column is a class act, so I would never call them that).
Now, HOW did I get sidecracked, uh, sideTRACKED, THAT time?
Anyway, back on point: Kids sure aren’t cookie cutters, when it comes to their individual passions. Oh, they may share interests in some things, such as toy cars. Vincent always has liked cars, and Jack is fond of them, too, but Luke is passionate about them.
In fact, the 3-year-old is a definition of passionate, usually walking around with two or three cars in each hand. And red is his favorite color, so you can guess his star car: Lightning McQueen. Of course, that also makes him passionate about the movie “Cars” because, for him, life is a highway.
For Jack, it’s dinosaurs, always has been, always will be. He’s got enough dinosaurs of various sizes and strains to fill Jurassic Park. And woe is me when I call a T rex a velociraptor. The 5-year-old isn’t patient with dino ignorance.
Jack isn’t one-dimensional, though, as he recently took a fancy to snow globes. Although I’m sure their numbers never will rival his dinosaurs, when he accumulated four of the globes, he proudly started referring to them as his “snow globe collection.”
Not that I spoil the lads, but I promptly went on a quest to circle globes that would have put Columbus to shame. Within a short time, I had accumulated more than a dozen for future gifts. I’m set for Christmases and birthdays for a long time.
One provided a good example of the fact that Vincent could care less about snow globes. Whenever we have a gift for one or the other of the lads, we make sure to squirrel it away when Jack or Luke visits because they immediately would want to know who gets it. And they aren’t that good at keeping secrets.
But I had no worries during one of Vincent’s overnights. I had a snow globe ensconced on the kitchen counter, where I was gluing parts that had fallen off during shipment. I hid it in plain sight, so to speak.
The 7-year-old walked past it a dozen times and said nary a word. Because he doesn’t give a RIP about snow globes.
Finally, I said, “That snow globe is for Jack.”
“I know,” he replied, not even interested enough to ask whether it was for Christmas or birthday, or whatever.
On the other hand, Jack and I were watching a movie that featured several scenes of trains. “Vincent would LOVE this movie,” he said, acknowledging his older brother’s passion even though his brought yawns from the elder.
Vincent’s passion for trains was fueled back when he barely could walk. Whenever he heard a train in the distance, he’d leap into my arms and we’d run off to see it.
His interests take new turns once in awhile (right now, he’s into karate), but he always gets back on track: train tracks.
He can identify engines by fuel type and cars by work assignment as well as Jack does dinosaurs and whether they are plant eaters or carnivores.
Vincent can sit in front of train videos for hours on end.
As for the caboose of the family’s train, 5-month-old Patrick is passionate about one thing: cuddling up to the trough, so to speak. But we all know the flap that breast-feeding photos are causing on Facebook, so I’ll pass up posting graphic graphics. But I wish there was some way to broaden his interests beyond suckling to sleeping longer instead of just catnapping between burps and other bodily functions.
And I know Mom does, too. The little stinker takes short naps, at his leisure, and, although he sleeps through some nights, he still wakes up for a mid-night snack.
The lad’s parents need their sleep!
Monday, December 29, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
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.”
Sunday, December 14, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
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.
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.
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