July 2008 - Posts

• Implied Incompetence

  Our daughter, Jackie (mother of the grand gnome), needs a vacation. My son-in-law, Jay, could also use a break, but since he’ll be traveling with my daughter and grandson there’s little hope he’ll get one. It’s been three years since they last escaped their suburban Baltimore enclave for a trip to Disneyworld – it came the year before the imp was born. I taught my daughter many things over the course of her life, and I hope she can forgive me for skipping the section on ‘smart planning.’ Nevertheless, the duo has had a tough couple of months. First came the washing machine and the clogged ‘main line’ that brought a flood of biblical proportions to their basement family room. My son-in-law fought the unforgiving cellar seas and managed not to salvage heirlooms and mementos, but did rescue his Jagermeister Chiller Dispenser. I admire a man with priorities.   Next came a monster thunderstorm that destroyed their screened porch, peeled the aluminum siding from upstairs bedrooms and deposited a 300-lb tree limb in the passenger seat of my daughter’s sporty little import. The third jewel of this crown is the callus that Jay grew on the bottom of his foot. The lump became infected, the doctor had to slice out the lump and now we all benefit from refillable percocette prescriptions. Since bad things normally happen in threes, they decided to tempt fate and take a vacation. So, they’re off to the beach. Look for the guy with the ‘beach bootie’ made from plastic blue grocery bags and tell him Poopaw says hey. Ocean City, to be specific, the seaside circus that childless adults should only visit in October, November or February. I know this because my grandson shared the news during a recent phone call. Are you going to the beach, Justin? “Yes, go beee, go poo, go san,” he shared. I translated as beach, pool and sand, hoping plan number two didn’t involve going number two on the Maryland shoreline. There’s always a significant amount of guesswork when speaking toddler 2.5. As my daughter wrestled the phone away from the gremlin, I was readying a list of items and rules for vacationing with a toddler: hats, sunscreen, cover his feet on the hot sand, watch him near the ocean and by the pool, and keep as much of the beach as possible out of his diaper. A little boy with sandy veggies is not a happy vacationer. But in between my grandson screaming ‘NO’ and my daughter saying ‘GIVE MOMMY THE PHONE’, I flashed back to the encyclopedia-sized “Book of Bloody Obvious Advice” I received from meddlesome relatives during my children’s infancy. I vividly recalled the voices of counsel and warning, imparting such gems as ‘that undertow will carry those babies right out to sea’ and ‘it only takes a second to lose them in that Boardwalk crowd.’ ‘Don’t you be drinking and take them swimming,’ might have been my favorite words of wisdom. All three scenarios, however, ended with the same dire consequences: “You’ll never see them again!” The implied incompetence really struck a nerve. It was as if my ability to think with clarity and reason was lost with the onset of fatherhood. As much as I would have enjoyed sending my then seven-year-old daughter to score a couple mojitos from the pool bar, I was responsible enough to know that the ice would melt by the time she asked all those well-tanned strangers to help her find her way back to daddy’s cabana. Some credit here, please? Prior to a long-ago trip to Busch Gardens, one of my aunts lectured me about the importance of ‘watching those kids on those rides.’ Apparently, seat restraints and safety bars only prevent violent ejections from spinning teacups when attentive parents are standing nearby. Dads: the second line of defense behind the ‘must be this tall’ cartoon cut-outs. You don’t know how bad I wanted to say, “Nope, I’m going to chase four grain alcohol shooters with 10 ccs of black tar heroin and dangle the little darlings from the roller coaster head of Loch Nessie itself!” At any rate, when Jackie returned to the phone I opted for generic vacation wishes rather than doling out dim-witted dad-isms. I told her to be careful, to enjoy her time away and that I hoped the weather was of the perfect beach variety. I even held back warnings about losing the gnome in the crush of Boardwalk revelers. They can probably be trusted enough not to send the little guy into the endless line for Thrasher’s French Fries. We’d never see the boy again. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Jul 29 2008, 11:50 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Say My Name

  I clearly recall many of the milestones in my children’s early days. Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I clearly recollect just a handful of highlights. Most are fuzzy memories. But, kids, those that remain are indeed a cherished few. (Think they bought it?) And it’s not because the offspring lacked in childhood achievements, but due to the suddenly limited storage space in my aging brain. When you can’t remember where you put your keys, why you walked into the kitchen, the last place you left your glasses or where you parked the car, the day your son or daughter did poo-poo in the pot-pot does not retain its once high priority. Although, the utterance of their first expletive in front of a distant relative, pediatrician or church elder seems like only yesterday. I’ve even managed to legally evade remembrance of my wedding anniversary. My wife and I met on July 5 (could have been the 4th); took our first weekend trip together on July 3 (might have been the 2nd) and were married on July 2 (maybe it was the 1st). The point is: I just tell her happy anniversary every morning for the first week of July and my thoughtful-husband-ruse is secure. But this past Sunday was different. This past Sunday will live in infamy. This past Sunday will be duly noted for eternity. The grand gnome, Justin, came to visit (we try to get his parents just to drop him off for a few hours but they insist on hanging around for food and beer), and the little guy was in a cheery, rambunctious mood. In no time he had strewn toys from the family room to the kitchen. But as he was wreaking havoc on his toy box I noticed something different: the boy wasn’t just making monosyllabic noises, he was essentially speaking in a language other than ‘tongues.’ I was amazed. And not just because his parents managed to pull themselves away from Days of Our Lives and the NFL Network to teach him something. No, I was shocked because I couldn’t recall when my children actually began to form sentences. Something in the adult psyche harkens back to our children as little adults. In my mind, my kids have always been able to communicate. Please, thank you, are we there yet, I have to go to the bathroom, I don’t know who drank the vodka, sorry I got a ‘D’ in math – all prominent phrases throughout the growing up years. So, I stood and marveled at mutterings such as ‘mo juz peeze’ (translation: more juice, please), ‘tuck un shir’ (truck on shirt) and ‘daw go wuf’ (dog goes ruff). It’s funny how one can decipher toddler natters but can’t discern a single word uttered by the teenage Big Mac-bagger at the drive-thru. In addition to expanding his vocabulary, the kid is becoming quite observant. As Justin was helping me gather condiments from the fridge he pointed to the chilling beer-gaggle of Coronas and said, “mom bottle.” ‘Mommy has lots of bottles,’ I said to the tiny imp detective, gleefully grinning about my newly imbedded undercover agent beneath my daughter’s roof. SpongeBob PJs make great camouflage. ‘Yes, mom bottle,’ he replied. I couldn’t help but channel Humphrey Bogart. For the grand goblin and me, this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Uncle Travis was the first to depart the family gathering (we must have run out of food). Trav is the infantile uncle who buys him dangerous toys and teaches him to behave badly. As Trav made the rounds to hug everyone good-bye, Justin blurted, “Trav go home.” And so, the date has been noted – the day that my grandson chose to verbally honor Uncle Trav instead of his grandfather. Chose the uncle over the head of our newly-formed clandestine operation. Over the man who has a never ending supply of ‘mo juz.’ Perhaps instead of words, someone should be teaching this kid some loyalty. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Jul 23 2008, 10:27 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandfather, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• The Irony: Too Old to Rock-n-Roll

  We spent this past Wednesday with Sue and Alan, two of our dearest friends in the world. Quite a bit of time had passed since we last saw them – the birth of the grandchild, weddings, college graduations, vacations and business travel – it seemed there was always an issue that prevented the four of us from getting together for quality time (translated: serious drinking). Our mates are the prototypical hippie couple. Pull a random snapshot from the Haight-Ashbury “Summer of Love” era and you’ll get a feel for our friends - tie-dye, political activism, environmental awareness and peace and love and rock-and-roll, man. And they’ve held those ideals since they pinned on their first ‘Down with Nixon’ buttons. It’s the main reason we love them so. Not the politics; the passion. Sue has been a teacher for many years and Alan is a massage therapist – with a law degree – who is a couple of weeks away from retirement. Alan finished law school, shunned the establishment, threw a sack of clothes (and Sue) in his car and set out on a cross-country drive. Sue likes to tell the story of sharing this adventure with her very Jewish mother: ‘Mom, Alan and I are driving from Maryland to California.’ To which her mother replied: ‘And you have reservations?’ This pale-skinned, hot-tempered Irishman just loves ethnic humor. So on Wednesday we showed up at their Carroll County digs with a chilled bottle of white and a temperate bottle of red and proceeded to drain both jugs during our catch-up conversation. We shared with them stories of the grand goblin. Sue and Alan – in spite of having two grown sons – have yet to immerse themselves in the Poo Paw experience. The irony was obvious; Alan is nearly two decades older than I am and I’m the one toting around a portfolio of baby pictures. To give you a clearer picture: my mother celebrated her 68th birthday in June. Alan happens to be a few months older than mom. Sue is <censored> (you know how women can be about that age-divulging stuff), and my AARP eligibility-age wife and this 48 year-old blatherer are the ones with the grand kid. After talking of delivery and diapers and the joys the little imp has brought us, Sue told us of their most recent milestone: the last rock-and-roll concert they’ll ever attend. Last spring they hopped in their CR-V and set out in search of the Moody Blues (I told you they were hippies). Alan had fallen down a small flight of stairs earlier in the day and admits that he may have thumped his head a little harder than originally thought. They opted for a nap before the show and as a result, were delayed in their departure for the concert hall. Rush hour traffic was typical and by the time they arrived at the Lyric Theater the adjacent parking garage was full. They found a space blocks away from the hall – in a not-so-friendly neighborhood – and began their hike. They had covered a considerable distance when Sue spotted a curb-side opening that would mean a shorter ramble back after they had been sufficiently ‘rocked.’ Alan ‘guarded’ the parking space and sent Sue off in search of the car. She returned just in time to find Alan leaning against a wall, short of breath and with his heart pounding fast and loud. My wife would have assumed I just had contact with a college coed, Sue was thinking of calling the paramedics. Leaving their cell phones at home rendered that option moot. And they say seniors aren’t technologically savvy. Alan estimated they had missed about 20 minutes of the show by the time they reached their seats. The Moodies launched into their next golden oldie and strobe lights began to beam into the crowd. With his headache from the earlier fall and the respiratory distress caused by the marathon trek, the last thing Alan needed was a simulated trip on LSD. He thought he was having a stroke. The band played two more tunes and broke for intermission. The pair had had enough. It was loud; it was annoying; and it was most definitely enough. Sue and Alan found their CR-V and headed back to Carroll County – their rock and roll days disappearing into the rearview mirror. And Diana and I are the grandparents. We teased them about being old and they laughed and agreed with our assessment. And then we told them that our latest ‘rocking’ adventure included listening to Big Band music at a Fourth of July picnic. They laughed even louder when we told them our local retirement community hosted it. I think we all appreciated the irony. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Jul 18 2008, 01:12 PM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandparents, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Grandparenting by the Book

  A few blogs back I ruminated on a text entitled, “The Grandfather’s Handbook.” That was a crock. No publication exists. Everyone knows that kids, grandkids and furniture from Ikea are the three things in life that come without instructions. Are you a fan of the instructional books? An aficionado of the self-help, how-to, all-about or motivational books? Has a “Dummies” or “Idiot’s” Guide ever had a profound effect on your understanding of certain subjects? Nah, me neither. Were you aware there’s a Dating for Dummies Guide? And more importantly, would you date someone who had read it? And no, The Ubuntu Linux For Dummies is not about the goofy names Brangelina gives their kids. There’s a Household Hints for Dummies, Cool Careers for Dummies, Food Allergies For Dummies, Weddings for Dummies, and Free Money for College for Dummies (should dummies really be trying to weasel their way into our institutes of higher learning?) Now we could joke about the I.Q. of those about to enter into wedded bliss, but my wife reads this blog and I don’t want to give half my stuff to her and the other half to her lawyer.  So it wasn’t as if I was searching for a copy of grand parenting for dummies when I scrolled through the Amazon website. I figure that my tolerance for our little grand imp is in line with any other empty nester that periodically returns to the days of coexisting with a heathen toddler.   Show me a grandfather who has grown to love his quiet, clean, child-free home and I’ll show you one with a new appreciation for Big Pharmaceutical and single malt distilling after he spends a couple hours with a two-and-a-half year-old. I sought the list of how-to-grand-parent books not for advice, but due to a natural curiosity about other folk’s lives. Surely there are thousands of not-quite-50-year-old’s that have been thrust into the grandpa role by a reckless, promiscuous daughter or by an irresponsible and doubly licentious son. One takes solace in knowing someone out there is way more dysfunctional than one’s self. Our kids – products of a family joined as a result of two divorces – spent the early days of their high school years marveling at our level of dysfunction. Then they all met the parents of their high school friends and our daughters met the families into which they’d be marrying. Suddenly the wife and I were dubbed Norman and Norma Normal, which (if you knew us) would scare the beejeezes right out of you. So I chose Amazon to enlighten me to the ways of the Poo Paw – to find and digest tomes on American families that are just as bizarre as ours. First up: “Grandparenting With Love & Logic: Practical Solutions to Today's Grandparenting Challenges” by Jim Fay. The title alone screamed “chick book” so I clicked on number two. “Grandloving: Making Memories with Your Grandchildren” by Sue Johnson, Julie Carlson, and Ann Ruethling. Whew, looks like there’s a theme developing with this tender and affectionate garbage. Next? “The Gift of Grandparenting” by Thea Jarvis. Gift? So far I’ve received holiday cards he can’t sign himself, a toy box, high chair and carpet stains in my dining room, higher grocery bills (have you priced Cheez-Its lately?) and a bad attitude about every third visit. The terrible twos: the gift that keeps on giving. Where are the how-to guides for proper child behavior while watching sporting events? What happened to anecdotes about spoiling the grandchildren while happily annoying the parents? Where are the instructions about giving gifts that require batteries, make lots of noise and need ample assembly? How about a chapter on the proper procedures for saying no to baby-sitting requests? And there – sandwiched between “The Complete History of Horsey Rides” and “Your Bladder and the Theme Park” - was the Holy Grail of Grandfatherdom. Walter Roarke’s “Keeping Your Grandkids Alive till Their Ungrateful Parents Arrive: The Guide for Fun-Loving Granddads” is what this grandpa is all about. If grandparenting is to be one of the most rewarding journeys of my life, then let’s make it a thrill ride. I want to impart irreverent knowledge, have silly conversations and make the most of the time spent with the gnome. I want the little sprite to laugh, love and rise above the dysfunctional world we’ve given him. I want to pump him full of snowballs and ice cream and chocolate chip cookies and let his parents worry about his diet. I want to haul him to zoos and aquariums and science centers and I don’t care if his “schedule” calls for a 9 o’clock bedtime. Let mom and dad tell him ‘no.’ Poo Paw wants to always say ‘yes.’ Sounds like a practical solution with love and logic to me. Oh, and Janet Lanese’s book, “Grandfathers are like Gold: Every Family’s Treasure”? I bought a copy for each of our lovely offspring. And if it’s ‘grandloving’ you want, my grandson’s copy is on the house – the rest of them owe me $14.95. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Jul 14 2008, 01:26 PM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandfather, poopaw, grandparenting [Edit Tags]

• Grandboomer?

  My wife is an AARP member. For those unaware, AARP is the acronym of what used to be known as the American Association of Retired People. One can join the organization when one reaches the magical age of fifty. In scientific terms, and based on an average life expectancy of 74, you can sign up when your ‘gonna die’ beaker is 68% full. I’m not sure when 50 became a ‘retired people’ age. I did a little calculating the last time Uncle Sam sent me that swell report on the current value of my Social Security. According to my government, if I stay in good health and continue to contribute at my current rate, my 118th Birthday will launch a life chock full of golf, home improvement projects and scuba diving.  Anyway - not only do I revel in teasing my wife about her being old enough to be an AARP member, but yours truly also benefits when she cuts her annual dues check. As a member spouse, I qualify for such windfalls as: early-bird restaurant specials, discount cataract removal, complimentary cholesterol screening, and a coupon for one free colonoscopy. Membership does indeed have its privileges (my wife still raves about the bladder tuck – gratis, thank you very much - that came with her hysterectomy). And since we were among the first 500 callers, we got a bonus CD with 26 of the best Acid Rock tunes of the Sixties and Seventies. No. Wait. Wrong promotion. Still another perk of the AARP is their website (I just love the large print homepage). It must have been a slow news day. It was only noon and I had exhausted stories of interest on Drudge, HuffPo, The Onion and MILFs Gone Wild. Thanks to Ed McMahon’s elder-safe bathtub commercial, I suddenly remembered that my wife was old and I logged in to the AARP website. Scrolling past stories such as ‘Cycling at 60,’ ‘62 and Skydiving’ and ‘65 and in Traction’ I clicked on an innocent-looking read entitled ‘Grandboomer.’ According to AARP, the advertising geniuses that sell their crap to the baby boomer demographic have identified a new group of patsies – boomer’s who have become grandparents. AARP cites statistics culled by a group called the Legacy project, and they say that 75,000 baby boomers per month join the grand parenting ranks. No wonder airlines, restaurants and theme parks are overflowing with these loud, germ-spreading goblins. The article tells of marketers who have identified these ‘Grandboomers’ as educated, socially active, adventure-seeking folks with gobs of disposable income to spend on their grandchildren. In other words: suckers from whom we can lift hedge-fund-like profits. The article noted that first-time grandparents spend an average of $1100 bucks in the first six months of the humanoid’s life and another 700 Benjamins over the next 12 months. The researchers behind the study claim that the bulk of the spending goes toward cribs, changing tables and bedding ensembles so the Grandboomers can  “turn guest bedrooms into nurseries for their grandkids to come over.” Who are these people? The first thing my wife and I did upon the departure of our children was to dig a moat. ‘They may have keys,’ we thought, ‘but there’s no need to make it easy for them to reach the front door.’ Now we did purchase a crib for our little grand gnome – but we had it shipped to his house. The only time that child sleeps here is when he passes out in his high chair as a result of the enormous dinner portions he consumes. We did buy him a reclining chair (with a vibration feature) that we keep here, but the main selling point was not the ‘rocking’ capability but the straps that allowed us to contain him until the alcohol kicked in. Our booze, not his. Changing table? Puh-leeze. Babies have had their diapers changed on the floor since the first caveman covered his rocks with hardwood. If this carpeting is good enough for the dog to scoot his butt across it’s good enough for the baby to roll around pants-less. After finally finding a decent use for our children’s bedrooms (formal dining room, exercise room, dressing room full of sports memorabilia), the last thing you’ll find in this house is a nursery. So while I’m still 15 months shy of AARP eligibility… Oh, jeez! Will you look at the time? I gotta go - if I don’t get to Outback by four I’ll have to pay full price for my Bloomin’ Onion. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Jul 07 2008, 03:06 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Little Boy's Toys

  Our eldest child – Travis – fancies himself the crazy, irreverent uncle to our grandson. Travis teaches Justin how to make various noises and silly faces, and his formerly favorite game to play with the elf is one called ‘Aaaargh.’ ‘Aaaargh’ consisted of gathering every plastic utensil in Poo-paw’s kitchen, piling them in skyscraper-like fashion, and then scattering them across the floor while screaming aaaaaaaarrrrggggh. The baby laughed uproariously and genuinely seemed to love it – the rest of the adults not so much. In fact, I say former favorite game because the last 36 times it was played almost resulted in serious injury for Uncle Trav. Not from flying cookware, but because his sister (the one who is not the child’s mom) threatened to snatch out his hair with salad claws. So, given the ‘Aaaargh’ moratorium, Travis arrived for dinner one Sunday toting a Junior Explorer kit. The equipment – made for outdoor discoveries – came with plastic binoculars, a ‘humane’ bug habitat and a yellow plastic pith helmet. And even though it was made in China (and recommended for 4 years and up), we deemed the kit lead-free and let the two-year-old gnome plop the pith atop his skull and set forth on a backyard bug hunt. Travis tried to convince the little guy that the Baby Ruth-like land mines (deposited by our Border Collie) dotting our yard were bugs, but thankfully both children (the 28 year-old and the two year-old) had begun their journey with adult supervision. They returned sans insects, but during the expedition the word ‘poo’ had become firmly ensconced in the boy’s vocabulary.   A male child, Justin has been deluged with masculine toys since birth. Dump trucks, footballs, airplanes, tractors, big red fire engines, a push lawn mower and a Radio Flyer Little Red Roadster are among the hundreds of ‘boy toys’ that now clutter his bedroom. For decades now, politically correct social engineers have frowned on such gender divisions in the toys we buy for our kids.  Male children were, supposedly, no longer to be reared with toys that were stereotyped by gender. Girls, they told us, should be just as willing to play with action figures as their male playmates. Boys, then, should be just as comfortable combing Barbie’s hair as they would be dressing G.I. Joe in his battlefield camouflage. Those predictions worked out about as well as the ones that had us strapping on jetpacks for the morning commute. I recall a newspaper article from a number of years ago where an outraged mother was incensed that a friend had given her daughter a shopping cart as a birthday present. The cart had big pink wheels and came with assorted plastic groceries. I’m paraphrasing, but I recall the mother pointing out that the pink-wheeled cart was stereotypical of a female’s place in society and that her daughter did not need a toy that relegates her to the role of housekeeper. That ‘role’ stuff would come as big news to my wife - she hasn’t set foot in a grocery store since the advent of the UPC scanner. And in my daughter’s house, it is my son-in-law who does the grocery shopping (what’s that adage about marrying someone just like your dad?). These days, it seems as if there’s a determined effort to stop boys from being boys. Plastic swords, daggers and battle-axes have been eliminated from Halloween costumes and ‘Cowboys and Indians’ and ‘Cops and Robbers’ have been deemed ‘war-like games’ and are no longer allowed on playgrounds. And given the reaction of some of the populous, a boy playing with toy guns warrants a wanted poster hanging in the post office. Which brings me back to Uncle Trav. A couple of weeks after the ‘bug hunt,’ Travis presented Justin with a new toy – a colorful, plastic mini-replica of a paint ball gun. When fired, a ‘spring trigger’ would launch a plastic ball that was a bit smaller than a golf ball – and it did so with all the force of someone spitting gum from his or her mouth. Everyone – including my son-in-law – was aghast that someone had bought this child a weapon. Apparently they had instituted a no toy gun policy for Justin, mirroring social sentiment that toy guns serve absolutely no purpose. They hadn’t, however, realized that if denied a toy gun, a boy is liable to use a stick, his fingers or some other worthy surrogate to pretend to shoot at the enemy or the bad guys or whatever his imagination could concoct. I was trying to remember a quote from British essayist G. K. Chesterton – the 19th century writer who once mused on archery: “No society would dream that you could abolish all bows and arrows unless you could abolish all boys” – when Travis derailed my support for his purchase. ‘Look, Justin,” Uncle Trav offered, “You can shoot the dog with your paint ball gun.” Suddenly, searching for poo to put in the bug habitat didn’t seem like such a bad thing. By J. Doug Gill  Posted Jul 01 2008, 01:28 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: poopaw [Edit Tags]