August 2008 - Posts

• Why Do You Always Get What You Want?

  So the wife and I decided to spend one of this year’s vacation weeks at a resort area in western Maryland. Since I’m not given to shameless plugs on this blog (unless it results in complimentary bottles of 12 year-old Cragganmore Scotch), let’s just say it rhymes with ‘Beep Reek Cake.’ We blew one week’s break - where we normally would have been eating lobster in Maine, stone crab in Florida or sourdough in San Francisco - thanks to the mandatory hosting of the in-laws who flew in for the nuptials of our youngest daughter.  Hey, it might have been her special day, but our vacation is a special week. Don’t young people elope anymore? No matter how well you raise them, some kids just grow into exceedingly selfish adults. At any rate: the wife and the border collie and I holed-up in a chalet on the side of a mountain in Garrett County. Peaceful, isolated and well-stocked with adult libations, the only time we left our home away from home was to partake of the lake’s freezing cold waters, to visit a couple of our state’s finest park lands and to dine at a few of the area’s noted restaurants. In all three settings we encountered roaming packs of creatures that normally inhabit such summer resort areas: families. Mom, dad, sis and bro – and in some cases, aunt, uncle, cousin and in-law - were all encountered in their unnatural habitat. It’s been awhile since my wife and I traveled with our brood – empty-nesting away from home doubles the enjoyment – but thanks to my current grandfather status, I tend to watch family flocks interact with a little more interest these days. I observe this behavior so I can hang it up as a model for what my family should not be doing.  There seems to be a wall of indifference when it’s your own stowaways that boarded the vacation transportation. Young mothers and fathers, desperate to escape the doldrums of the 9 to 5 and the despondency of daily life, pack their offspring into the car (or plane or train) and travel for hours seeking relaxation Nirvana. Upon arriving, however, they quickly learn that they have traded the problems of the home for the troubles of the road. Depending on the ages of the accompanying cretins, vacationing parents are subjected to skewed schedules, fears of unfamiliar bedrooms, all-new safety concerns, demands for constant entertainment and horrifying public behavior. And heaven help you if it rains. Having just completed our evening meal (in a Chicago-style pizzeria that rhymes with ‘juno’), my wife and I were considering our dessert options when a family of three was shown to the table across from ours. We knew this would end badly when the couple’s young son – we’ll call him Lucifer – kicked out the chair with his foot and slammed his body sideways into the wooden seat. Luce (I’m guessing that would be Lucifer’s nickname), roughly 8 years old, then rocketed from the chair and declared his opposition to the dining arrangement. “Why are we sitting here?” “I want to sit on the deck.” “What was the point of coming here if we don’t sit outside?” While the father flashed a nervous smile to those of us still dining, the mother tried to reasonably explain the situation: “It’s a 30 minute wait for the outside tables, my little prince of darkness, and your father and I want to eat now.” Mephistopheles considered his mother’s rationalization for just a moment and then yelled: “Why do you always get what you want?” Now prior to our encounter with the son of Satan, the wife and I were considering bringing the whole family to Deep Creek…. I mean Beep Reek… next year. Rent one of those mega-dwellings on the lakefront and invite the whole clan – even the grand gnome. Sons, daughters, sons-in-law – a couple of vodka lemonades in the Jacuzzi and we were even considering inviting my mother. And while thinking of mom I also thought of the demanding young devil-spawn we met at dinner. The parents, by the way, gave in to the child’s demands and headed back to the waiting area. In my youth, I would never have asked my mother why she always got what she wanted. She would have cut me off at why and simply stated: “Because I said so.” And it would have ended there, or I would have been eating my deep-dish pepperoni while in the trunk of our old Ford Torino. The moral? Observe the behavior of others; their actions may prove an exceptional teaching tool for children and parents alike. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Aug 29 2008, 11:09 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw, bad behavior [Edit Tags]

• Grand Relations

  It’s rare that my mother, Phyllis, attends our Sunday family dinners. A 68 year-old barreling around the beltway in a hefty Ford Explorer should, by law, be limited in the number of times they access the public thoroughfares. On this occasion, mom was coming to dinner not just to frighten other drivers or see her great grand child, Justin, but also to atone for not attending her step-granddaughter’s recent wedding. We forgave her for the emergency kidney surgery, but hospitalization does not excuse omitting the wedding gift. Especially when the present is of the ‘large cash’ variety. So in through the door strolls Phyllis, and she nestles into the love seat waiting for the grand gnome’s arrival. “What time are Jackie and Jay coming?” she asks, which is actually polite code for ‘where’s the baby?’ The aunts and uncles soon arrive, and after they exchange pleasantries and scope the pots and pans from which they’ll be grazing, they all inquire as to the ‘ETA’ of the young’un. My wife and I are starting to suffer from an inferiority complex – it’s as if the free food, free alcohol and free doggy bags are no longer enough to warrant a visit. Now, coming to see the parents depends on whether or not the grand child is present. Years ago, my wife convinced me that I was a much better cook than she was (I think I’ve been had), so I became the guy who not only shops for the weekly sustenance, but also prepares each and every bloody freakin’ meal. But I’m not bitter. If not for the bottle of Lemoncello she keeps in the freezer and the assorted Belgian ales in the fridge, my wife wouldn’t get near the space she calls ‘the room with those burner thingies.’   But my view from the kitchen doorway has its benefits - I can casually observe all the action that is unfolding in the family room. And in between stirring, slicing and drinking, I can examine the relationships the grand runt is developing with all the crazy humans shaping his life. The relationship with great grandma Phyllis has been slow to develop. They see each other on so few occasions that it usually takes Justin a half-hour just to walk on the same side of the room she inhabits. Not as unapproachable as the nanny from “The Omen,” but he’s not exactly skipping and singing ‘over the river and through the woods,’ either. So Phyllis just smiles and makes comments like, “He sure is getting big,” “I remember when you used to do that,” and “Isn’t that cute?” Real Grandma 101 stuff. His Aunt Chelsea – tall, blond and cuddly – spends the duration of the child’s visit chasing him around the house. And what little boy (or big boy, for that matter) isn’t enamored with tall blonds?  “Come give Aunt Chelsea a kiss, Justin.” “How about a hug, Justin – got a hug for Aunt Chelsea?” “Come here, Justin, sit on Aunt Chelsea’s lap.” Substitute the name ‘Adam’ for ‘Justin’ in the above three scenarios and you get a clearer picture of how I ended up with a second son-in-law. His uncles are silly and non-supervising and would only tell him ‘no’ if he was about to stick a fork in an electric socket. Even then, I’m pretty sure Uncle Travis would plunge in the utensil on his behalf. “Dude, I know my earlobes were smoking but did you hear how hard he was laughing?” Grandma is a tough one to call. The gnome approaches the wife with a wee bit of hesitancy. We’ve deduced that this level of caution could stem from his interaction with the enemy grandmother. The generic term ‘grandma’, we’ve decided, may conjure a quick apparition of the paternal version, giving the boy a heightened sense that evil is lurking. And since my wife is a stickler for taking her monthly hormone replacement pills, it can’t be the hot flashes or sudden mood swings he finds standoffish. His father – the initial son-in-law – wasn’t present this Sunday due to the Amazonian parasite that’s been eating his foot. But if this guy can share a house with a demanding, volatile little person, then he should also get along smartly with his son. That volatile little person is my daughter – bless her heart – who brings the role of drill sergeant to my grandson’s young life. Not so much like Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from “Full Metal Jacket,” mind you, but when mommy yells “Justin” the boy replies “Sir, yes sir.” Which brings us to grandpa. I know that my job is to help the child find mischief he hasn’t thought of yet, but having Justin in my life has renewed my desire to teach, advise, tell stories and to also be a resource that enriches his life. I feel valuable again – an integral cog in the most important machinery of all - shaping the life of a child. Don’t tell any one, but I think I’m getting used to this Poo-paw stuff. By J. Doug Gill  Posted Aug 22 2008, 10:00 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Baby Baltimorean

  There are a lot of concerns these days about raising a child anywhere, let alone in a large metro area. Crime, poverty, substance abuse, failing education systems – and that’s just at my house. Ha! When you finish this blog (and those of my peers, natch), Google the phrase ‘what parents worry about.’ Aside from the obvious – ever being intimate with your spouse again, taking a vacation that doesn’t involve a theme park, one day owning decent furniture – the Googling hits on topics such as the HPV vaccine, Tweens being left alone and even how much caffeine is in children’s drinks. I’ll let my daughter and son-in-law lose sleep over their inability to fully shelter their son from the ills and tribulations of the world. Grandpa here will be teaching him new ways to be mischievous, fretting over finding the coolest toy to give him for Christmas and making sure there are plenty of his favorite foods on hand for visits. If you read this space on a regular (or semi-regular) basis, you’ll recall that my grandson is beginning to develop quite the vocabulary. This signpost of growing up, however, has added something to Poo-paw’s worry list that had not before reared its head. If you’ve spent any time in Baltimore, you’ve no doubt noticed that the locals speak in a language unheard in the rest of the state. Well, the rest of the planet, actually. This dialect was most recently shared with the world in the musical, “Hairspray.” No one says, ‘I gots arnin ta doo’ like John Travolta as Edna Turnblatt. If you aren’t aware, ‘arnin’ is what one does to get the wrinkles out of clothes. So as the grand goblin started enunciating his newly learned words with gradual clarity, I began listening for tell-tale signs he was developing a Bawlmer…er, Baltimore accent. The ‘oh’ sound is the most common of the determining factors. Not as in “Oh say can you see,” but rather ‘do you knohw it’s time to goh hohme?’ The use of ‘Ohshun’ personifies the ‘oh’ sounds; such as, a citizen of the state of Murlin would watch the sunrise over the Atlantic Ohshun. ‘Oll’ is a close variation. This sound rhymes with ‘doll’ and is used in sentences like “Who’s gonna walk your bride down de oll, hon?” And nothing says you’re from Baltimore like telling your Carnival Cruise mates that you ‘hope dis boht goes all da way out to dem Caribbean Ollins.’ Speaking well is the key to success in all life’s endeavors. We’ve all heard the folks from the Deep South reflect on the tornado that tore through their community. The distressed, weary victim looks straight at the camera and says, “Wooo-eee, that thar twister was a-blowin’ sumpin’ fierce.” The guy who did the Dorothy impression, it turns out, has a PhD in astrophysics, but it still sounds as if he’d have to take off his shoes to count to 20. With that horrible (or ‘harble’ in these parts) thought in mind, I realize that my grand gnome’s formative years will be spent in a land where we have ‘arnjuice’ as part of our breakfast; our children draw refrigerator art with ‘culrin books and crowns’; where ‘farn gins’ are used to fight fires and an ‘amblance’ hauls away the injured; and where ‘Calf-licks are those who practice the religion that’s not protestant, Jewish or Muslim.’ ‘Har’ and ‘far’ is part of what the Human Resources department does and the ‘lahberry’ is the place they keep all the books. ‘Lilitlee’ is the area of the city where you find the best Italian food and ‘plooshin’ is something that going green should help eliminate. And yes, I do have relatives that speak this way. There’s a good chance my grandson will one day understand the following tale of life as a Baltimorean: “Soh, even though I was ‘tarred’, I fought the ‘turble’ traffic to ‘Napolis.’ The seat in the car was so hot I had to sit on a ‘tal’ and I ended up forgetting my ‘pockeybook.’ Good thing I used da ‘tawlit’ before I left, sittin’ in dat back-up was ‘lobble’ to make me pee myself. (The English to Baltimore dictionary would be tired, terrible, Annapolis, towel, pocketbook, toilet and liable) I’ve spent the first 48 years of my life trying to sound like I’m not from Baltimore, and I’ve decided to spend the rest of it overseeing the diction lessons for the grand gnome. I refuse to let my grandson think that the people who sing in church are called a ‘quarr.’ But every time I hear my daughter refer to her Dell XPS as a ‘labtop,’ I realize that the road ahead may turn out to be a mighty long one. By J. Doug Gill Posted Aug 19 2008, 10:00 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandparents, grandfather, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Childproofing the Empty Nest

  We never felt the need to childproof our house for the grand sprite’s arrival. We thought we had already protected the dwelling when we put a security device on the liquor cabinet when all four kids lived at home.   When I was a toddler (that would be during the JFK presidency), there was no such thing as Mr. Yuk or the Poison Control Center. ‘Contains lead paint’ labels were practically non-existent and Heimlich had yet to invent his maneuver. As a result, stuffing a plastic army man down your throat in those days meant using your Bozo the Clown penknife for an emergency tracheotomy. And parents, it seemed, were far less concerned about what you put in your mouth. These days, even Nerf Footballs come with a ‘choking hazard’ warning. In my day, parents looked at chewing on sports equipment, insects and other foreign objects as ways to ‘keep them quiet for awhile.” In fact, during a trip to Baltimore’s now-defunct Memorial Stadium, I vaguely recall my father feeding me a urinal cake – fresh from the packaging, of course - just to silent my demands for Orioles’ souvenirs. In the event I did swallow something deemed harmful, someone would force castor oil or ipecac down my gullet and the offending substance would be ejected post haste. Half of my digestive organs would be expelled with it, but we Americans were much tougher back then. There are definitive levels of security for different ages of children. The immobile, strapped-in-the-carry-all newborn phase requires minimal supervision, demanding only that the little one be prevented from gumming off the antennae of the Big Bee Ring Rattle. The moving-infant-through-swarming-toddler stage is the most challenging. Mouthfuls of dust bunnies and dog hair are a given – what you have to keep an eye on is anything round, square, rectangular or triangular that are the exact same color as their favorite Fruit Bites.   By third grade you reinforce that ingesting certain materials will make them ‘very sick’ and in-line for a stomach pumping. This is also the time you secure future favorite munchies for yourself by inventing digestibles the offspring are “allergic” to.  ‘Oh no, don’t eat the Special Dark honey, that’s for dad. Remember when you were little and ate daddy’s expensive chocolate? You don’t? Well, you took one bite, your hair fell out and then you flopped around the floor like a flounder.’  (A side note to our daughters: remember not to eat lobster, girls, you know it will make your faces swell to the size of pre-Subway Jarred) And finally: teenagers. With the acne and attitude set you simply lock up your ‘special headache pills’ and make sure they know that drinking bleach or snorting bug spray will not simulate an ‘ecstasy’ high. Currently, our grand gnome is motoring through the toddler stage, but the boy is remarkably aware of what he shoves in his chops. When he first started crawling (and later, walking) we used an old pet gate to keep him corralled in the family room, effectively prohibiting access to the bath, dining and guest room. He could, however, cruise at will into the kitchen. Being two-story empty-nesters, all of our cleaning chemicals, caustic chemicals and mind-altering chemicals are kept on the second floor, meaning that our kitchen cabinets are relatively free of toxins (unless you count my wife’s wheat and bark trail mix).  What wasn’t so secure was the top of the cabinet on which we store our fruit. At any given time, this piece of finely crafted Amish furniture plays host to ripening bananas, tempting apples and inviting bunches of grapes. It was the grapes that gave us our first confirmed choking hazard, when I came through the kitchen doorway just as the gnome was packing in a handful of California seedless. He did chew and swallow and all was well, except for the distress I caused by manually extracting five of the offending green orbs. But the danger had been exposed. This past Sunday, the grand goblin grazed on numerous slabs of watermelon, a heap of grilled zucchini, stacks of roasted red peppers and enough London broil to warrant a PETA protest. He followed that with his own tiny slice of banana cream pie, and then helped clean the dessert plates of every adult in the room.  No, it won’t be consuming mothballs or chewing a toilet brush that will sideline this diapered eating machine, abusing the seven food groups will be the reason behind this kid’s stomach pumping. As soon as I get back from vacation, the belated childproofing will begin - I’m moving that liquor cabinet security device to the refrigerator. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Aug 15 2008, 08:08 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• He'll Be Fine

  There’s trauma in the house of child and its name is daycare. My daughter’s best friend, Minda – herself a mom of two – has been trained, licensed, certified, qualified and accredited in the field of child care (these days, the more hurdles to be cleared by potential providers the better). Make the wrong choice and you end up with Peewee Herman hosting your youth group. But you have to ask yourself: What could possibly inspire any sane human being to pursue a vocation that involves hosting a horde of other folk’s beasts in their home? Hmmm… time for a life choice… should I seek a career in having my fingernails pulled off while being waterboarded or should my calling be one of a professional babysitter? The grand elf, Justin, has been storming the earth for about 30 months. In that time, the two-and-a-half year old has been away from his parents for roughly seven of those days. So when my daughter announced that they would be shipping the sprite off to a parental proxy (her greed finally bested her nurturing), it came as a rather sizeable surprise. After all, the gnome has benefited from being baby-sat by either mom or dad since birth – save for the few times he was incarcerated by the enemy grandmother. The Poo-paw household has hosted the parents-less leprechaun just once – my daughter and son-in-law were desperate for a meal that didn’t include high chairs, drooling and shrill cries of “more.” Given the rest of the world must have been busy that evening, they hesitantly asked us to keep tabs on slobber-boy while they dined in relative peace. To be fair, it’s not like my daughter is afraid to leave the kid with me (not that she’ll admit, anyway). I think it stems from my stern warning upon finding out she was pregnant. I’m paraphrasing, but this was the gist of the conversation: “You’re what?!? Holy @#$! You’ve got to be #*%&$!* kidding! Well, there’ll be no babysitting here until potty-training has reached the self-wiping stage!” Or something like that. Anyway, when they took an abbreviated honeymoon after the wedding that followed the birth of the child (I so like pointing out the rampant promiscuity), my daughter told me I could contact her mother-in-law and ‘make arrangements’ to help with babysitting the boy. But in keeping with the Bush-Doctrine, there is no negotiation with terrorists. I may have missed a prime opportunity to host a marathon sitting session, but I remained vigilant.  Nevertheless, daughter wants income; kid goes off to Minda’s. For my part, I didn’t have to suffer the nervousness of handing my munchkins over to strangers while I worked – just strange relatives. When they hit school age my work was of the ‘at-home’ variety, so anything short of a kidnapping was a welcome option to getting them out of the house. Still, I was versed enough in the parental uneasiness of separation to be shocked by my daughter’s seemingly casual stance on dumping the child and going back to the working life. “He’ll be fine,” was her compassionate retort. She reasoned that since Minda has a four-year-old – Nathan, who the grand gnome just adores - he would be more than willing to abandon mom and dad for play days with his older, world-wise buddy. That little ploy worked for the first day, when Nathan and Justin whiled away the time by playing smash cars, overdosing on Disney DVDs and binge-drinking Juicy Juice. On day two, Nathan wasn’t home. On day three, Justin wrapped himself around his mother’s leg and didn’t let go until day four. Nathan, it seems, had been enrolled in a daily youth camp (not affiliated with Peewee Herman), and would no longer be performing his assistant childcare duties. Now, the trauma in the house of child hinges on the flip of a coin. That’s how my daughter and son-in-law determine which one gets the ‘drop-off’ duty and which one gets to be the hero who rescues the child from his day of Nathan-less abandonment. Let’s hope they have a better plan for choosing my elder care facility. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Aug 12 2008, 11:18 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw, babysitting [Edit Tags]

• Nana Nana Boo Boo

  Do you read all of the blogs here at Families Only? I hope so – and not just because of our revenue sharing plan, but given that we have quite a collection of creative, witty writers who offer perceptive observations on all things family-related. Their sage advice and insider information benefits us all: from the young couple newly shackled to their cooing eight pound money pit all the way to the veteran pack-leaders who are neck deep in the parental quicksand. And their observations appeal to yet a third group; those members of the populace who simply like to observe the domestic madness and utter: ‘It sucks to be you.’ I’m in the last group. I tune in to the musings of Super Dad, Maryland Mom and District Mom not because I have a deep desire to masochistically relive my own “active” parenting days, but to point at the chaos of their lives and say: nana nana booboo. Hey, just because one is old doesn’t mean one has to be mature. I purposely wait a week or so before I peek at the words of my peers. One, I don’t want their narratives to in any way sway my creative process (the New York Times calls this ‘plagiarism’) and two, it takes at least 7 days for a kids’ resume to bear a sufficiently entertaining amount of turmoil and disarray. To clarify: just because one’s brood has vacated the premises (remember our motto: raise all four and show ‘em the door!) doesn’t mean the Damocles-sword of parenting no longer hangs above your head. Nope, the parenting cycle is perpetual (I’ve always felt that ‘til death do us part thing’ should be on birth certificates) and goes from vibrant idealist to exhausted cynic to worrisome consultant in just about two decades. Unlike other consultant firms, however, we’re not collecting on our billable hours. Hell, we’re not even collecting on a lunch tab or getting return dinner invitations. At last count, our kids owed us 6,247 meals. So it was with great guffaws that I met Maryland Mom’s inquiry about the odds her offspring would end up in therapy as a result of her parental decision-making. I’ll try to avoid endless psychobabble and put the answer in layman’s terms: You betcha, sister! But it won’t be from mistakenly choosing the wrong PBS programming or an erroneously enforced finger-painting session, it will stem from the evil revenge plottings once the child hits the society circuit. Nothing says “I’ll never forgive your terrible twos” like interacting with your kid’s friends and saying things like “word” or "peace out.” Payback for the temper tantrum in Target can be delivered by dancing on to the field at soccer practice like James Brown with ‘jazz hands.’ And what better way to say thanks-for-the-parent-teacher-behavior-conference than by playing air guitar to the tunes presented at their high school’s annual Winter Concert? Oh yeah, I got a million of ‘em. Showing naked tub photos to future suitors is child’s play. Therapy is definitely coming; but it’s up to the parent to choose how deeply the trained professional must probe. Super Dad often reflects on his ‘soul age’ – that is, the ‘inner age’ that makes you feel either older (or younger) than your actual date of birth. Let’s see: I’m 48 years old, so plugging my numbers into his template – four kids, 28, 26, 25 and 22 and all the facets of getting them that far, plus the invasion of the slobbering grand gnome – means my soul age is… well… dead. When his three-year-old son’s ‘soul age’ reaches 16, he might want to check the ratio of water to vodka in the Absolut bottle. District Mom laments her difficulty with ‘baby apparatus’ and worries about places “one can dine without their little swine.” I’m more interested in where they dine with their swine – that way I can make reservations at the restaurant next door. When my kids were toddlers, the baby equipment we dealt with came straight from the foundry. The playpen could have hosted an Ultimate Fighting match. Fortunately, it folded into something the size of a VW Beetle and weighed in at a svelte 74 pounds. We never tired of dragging that back and forth to the beach. So while I’m truly sorry about the scratches received from the plastic parts of the new car seat the Bees family struggled to install, I’ll be anxious to one day compare those scars to the ones left behind by my half-dozen hernia operations. Now, I’m sure when (and if) my fellow bloggers read my words they find the ravings of a cynical, world-weary, middle aged man who has forgotten most of the fun parts of being young and idealistic. And they’d be spot-on. A jaded, curmudgeonly outlook has definitely replaced my youthful, buoyant optimism. But if the trials and tribulations of my fellow bloggers remain this entertaining, cheerful could soon make a comeback. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Aug 09 2008, 01:42 PM by poopaw with 1 comment(s) Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, grandparent, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Going for the Gold

  It’s way too soon to tell what level of athleticism the grand gnome will possess. He’s got a fair bloodline. His mom, while not lettering in any varsity sports, could hold her own in any athletic contest and would occasionally flash the leather on the softball diamond. Alas, while once playing catch I beaned her in the forehead with a ‘pop-fly.’ Her baseball career never recovered, but at least she’s spent a quarter century of life not throwing like a girl. The father of the imp played football, basketball and soccer (which qualifies as half a sport), and is still in good enough physical shape to rekindle a weekend warrior version of all of the above – well, save for that horrifying foot disorder I’ve been throwing into the last few blogs. And, just so I can relive my glory days: his grandfather not only played third base for many Baltimore County All-Star teams, but later in life excelled at not kicking over a single Foster’s oil can while owning the same position for my company softball team. So, between relatives pushing him and some of the talent he was hopefully born with, the imp will be forced into playing organized sports in no time. Sports has been front-and-center in my daily life for a few months now – that’s how long I’ve been doing my absolute best to avoid exposure to anything Olympic-related. And not because I’m interested in a free Tibet or because listening to Bob Costas gives me a rash or due to ‘The Games’ now including sports such as badminton and beach volleyball. No, I shun the Olympics because network TV inflates a hundred hours of competition into 2,000 hours of coverage. And, well, because the games include ‘sports’ such as water polo and ping-pong and badminton and beach volleyball. If you can play them at backyard barbecues, then they shouldn’t be feats worthy of precious metal rewards. Kudos, however, to the fashion consultant for the women’s beach volleyball team. I know, I know – I’ll anger those who champion the emotive, heart-wrenching drama of handball and synchronized diving. But given the choice between watching rhythmic gymnastics or shaving my backside for a Sitz bath in rubbing alcohol, I say hand me the Bic Triple Blade. I’d been doing pretty well – except for the 36,000 promos NBC runs morning, noon and night – until I recently peeked beyond my morning paper and saw a segment on the Today Show about a 16 year-old gymnast from Iowa. We watch the Today Show because my wife likes to hurl expletives and verbal assaults at the 94-lb nutrition expert who gives us dietary advice. It gets her ‘stoked’ for the daily commute. After watching the requisite highlights of aerials, pikes and saltos (that’s what hip gymnasts call somersaults), the reporter asked the annoying little pixie when her gymnastics career began. “Well,” she replied in a voice normally heard during the Oz Munchkin Parade, “I had so much energy that my parents signed me up when I was three.” Three?!? I instantly thought of the grand goblin, just this side of two-and-a-half. The little dude throws pretty well, even if he is a bit confused about his dominant hand. The TV remote, coasters, and select dog toys are hurled from the left side; launchings from the right include his mini basketball, refrigerator magnets and everything in his mother’s purse.  Perhaps we can get him in shot-put school. Running pretty fast in a circle is also a top skill, although wooziness sets in after five or six laps and the kid goes into the ground like a lawn dart. Good for Ring Around the Rosie, not so good for the 1000 meter hurdles. Coordinated? The only thing the child does synchronized is alternate from his right fist to the left as he shovels in chicken nuggets and green beans. Nope, I can’t see setting the grandchild on his path to Olympic glory at three. Unless they add “Eating like a pack of Hyenas” to the current list of ‘sports.’ Then again, there’s always “America’s Got Talent.” By J. Doug Gill   Posted Aug 06 2008, 08:40 AM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandchild, grandfather, poopaw [Edit Tags]

• Touchdown Revisited

  You don’t need a calendar to know that it’s the dog days of summer in Baltimore. Roadside produce stands populate nearly every neighborhood, white wife-beater tees have been replaced by soft pastels, and if the wind is just right you can drive to Anne Arundel county and still get a whiff of the Essex water treatment plant. And since it’s been ten years since we’ve had a professional baseball team in Baltimore, summer means the focus is on training camp for the NFL Ravens. Camp, for the uninitiated, means hanging in the hot July sun watching large men do some of the most mundane tasks ever witnessed. There are a few minutes of actual football action, but the bulk of the time is spent watching an automated ball machine fling deadly pigskin missiles and betting on which 350-lb lineman would be the first heat stroke casualty.    I mention football because since before the grand gnome was old enough to know better, the family would teach him to do silly things for our amusement.  Parlor tricks, if you will. Not inane activities such as shake, speak and roll over – that’s what the dog is for. Well, that and so I can periodically dress in a HAZMAT suit and eradicate heaps of recycled Iams from my backyard. My neighbors must think I’m storing spent nuclear fuel. No, we’d show him things like “knuckles” (you know, the Fox-described ‘terrorist fist bump’), “flex” (where – in body builder fashion - he would clench his fists, curl his arms and snarl) and ‘touchdown.’ Justin: touchdown! The little imp would then thrust both arms into the air, and the men in the room would grunt and growl and celebrate all that is masculine. Does Fabreeze mask testosterone? Anyway, a couple of summers ago, the sons-in-law (Jay and Adam) and I began what we hoped would be a yearly tradition – blowing off a workday and spending it with our most beloved group of overpaid athletes. It made for a great bonding opportunity – they’re both still wracked with guilt for disgracing our innocent little girls – and it’s one of the few things connected to professional sports that doesn’t involve cashing in a 401K to attend. Naturally, my daughters were aghast that the men could actually enjoy themselves sans the female tether, and had the nerve to suggest accompanying us this year. I refused the request and they pouted, but nothing removes a long face like half a dozen free vodka and lemonades. At last year’s camp – fresh from the newness of the birth of the next generation of football fan – the three of us envisioned the day the grand elf would make us a quartet. We’d throw a junior Ravens jersey on the boy, pack him some juice boxes and Cheeze-Its, and make the pilgrimage to camp. Sadly, Jay’s foot decided to fall off just a week before this year’s adventure, so it was left to Adam and me to carry on the tradition. Once we found our spot in the bleachers, Adam and I reflected on last year’s hopes for one day bringing Justin with us. The reminiscing had just begun when a family with two small children sat down in front of us. ‘Where’s Ray Lewis?’ ‘Let me HAVE THE CHAIR’. ‘She won’t stop sitting on me.’ ‘I left my sunglasses in the car.’ ‘Can we get autographs?’ ‘I want ice cream.’ ‘Who are they playing?’ ‘It’s too hot.’ ‘Can we go?’ ‘I have to go to the bathroom.’ ‘He won’t stop sitting on me.’ ‘Buy me a football.’ ‘How come they’re just standing there?’ The father (drawn, pale and sickly) and the mother (tense, blanched and ailing) said nothing, staring blankly into the sea of purple and white uniforms. We didn’t mention Justin again, opting instead to talk of quarterbacks, injury concerns and whether or not this group could produce a winning year. Perhaps when one is in the midst of toddler parenting, one is immune to childlike behavior in public places. I gather that’s why parents of tiny beasts can be sympathetic to the mom of the young-un who wailed for the duration of the coast-to-coast flight. It’s the childless adults – and the adults (like me) who’ve raised their kids and are decades removed from preschool antics – that are more apt to flash the stink eye to the couple with the four year-old that just intruded on the evening of fine dining. No, I’m not advocating banning children under 12 from all public places (I simply don’t have the energy to clash with activists), but I do find myself with steadily dwindling patience when it comes to interacting with (and tolerating the heedless behavior of) younger kids. When Justin does ‘touchdown’ these days, he accompanies the arm thrust with an exciting exclamation: “Tuh Dow!” It’s cute. And thanks to the haggard, pallid, nameless couple at training camp, it’s as close as he’s going to come to summer football bonding until middle school. By J. Doug Gill   Posted Aug 01 2008, 01:00 PM by poopaw with no comments Filed under: grandfather, poopaw, grandson [Edit Tags]