Shotgun Daddy

To Push, Or Not to Push

One of the things I struggle with as a parent is knowing when I should push my children and when I should back off.  I can't speak for mothers out there, but my guess is that some of the dads who are reading this might identify with this dilemma, particularly with regards to sports.  I could never be that stereotypical Little League dad who screams at his kid when he strikes out, but I admit that I have high expectations for my daughter, and it can sometimes be hard to watch when I don't feel like she's living up to those expectations.

Before you think I actually am that Little League father, let me explain.  Because Alison has shown that she has a talent for basketball, and because she enjoys playing it, I want her to give her best effort during every practice and every game.  Notice that I don't say that I want her to be the best player on the court -- even though I secretly do -- I just want to her to work hard at it.  But because she's ten years old, she doesn't always work hard.

A while ago I spoke with author Norman Ollestad about his recent book, Crazy for the Storm: A Memoir of Survival, and we touched on this issue. Here's a snippet of our conversation:

BTB: It’s interesting because this is something that, as parents, I think a lot of us struggle with. My daughter is nine years old. She plays basketball, and she has played for quite a while. She enjoys it, I enjoy coaching her. The battle we’re having right now is that I think she can be a lot better than she is. I think she has potential long term to be a good player, and like you said, to enjoy it because she’s good at it. So you wonder, do you push her, and maybe turn her off to it, or do you let her just go out there and play if she likes it. Does she have to be good at it? Where do you draw that line as a parent? 

Ollestad: It’s a completely imperfect science. I don’t think anybody knows. Some people talk about it all the time and write books about it, but that’s a joke. Nobody knows how to do anything. You don’t know. You’ve gotta go on instinct, you’ve gotta go on how your child is reacting to it. I think part of the advantage my father had is he wasn’t thinking about that stuff. He just assumed it was good, because ultimately it was good. It was healthy. As I got better, I did start to enjoy it more, and he knew I would. I don’t think he contemplated it. He was a 50s guy, born in ’35. 

BTB: They didn’t think about their parenting. 

Ollestad: They just did it. And luckily, as opposed to the other male figure, who wasn’t thinking about it either, luckily my father had a loving presentation, a loving natural way. He was always kissing me, very affectionate. He was always telling me I could do it. He never once said, oh, you gotta win, or you gotta be the best. That never came up. That was his whole trip. It wasn’t about that. It was just about doing it. Get out there! Things will happen, you’ll find out about yourself. Not that succinctly thought out, but that’s, I think, underneath what he was getting at.

I don't have an answer to this question, but I promise that if I ever figure it out, my loyal readers will be the first to know.  (And if you've got the answer already, don't hesitate to share...)

If you'd like to read the rest of the interview, you can find it at Behind-The-Book.com, a site I created a while ago to catalog the various author interviews I've done for different websites over the last few years.  Aside from the Ollestad piece, the interviews are all sports related, but I promise greater variety in the months to come.  Stop by and take a look if you've got the time.

Strawberry Fields Forever

 The only cure for the depression that rises with the final few days of a long vacation is a fun outing for the entire family.  For us, it was a trip to Tanaka Farms in Irvine to pick strawberries with our good friends.  If you live in the area, you owe it to yourself and your children to plan a trip this spring.

Here's how it works.  You pay thirteen bucks a person for a guided tour of the farm -- complete with samples of each different crop along the way -- and a basket to fill with strawberries at the end.  The farm is completely organic, and the vegetables taste nothing like what you're used to.  The onions are sweet and biting, the carrots explode with flavor, and even the spinach tastes good.  Henry was in heaven, and even Alison and Kate were brave enough to try everything.

The best, though, is saved for last.  You haven't really had strawberries until you've plucked them directly from the plant and popped them straight into your mouth, still warm from the afternoon sun.  I walked up and down the rows, first helping Henry and then Kate as they searched for the largest and juiciest strawberries.  Alison did just fine on her own.

We brought home five boxes of strawberries which Leslie magically transformed into seventeen jars of jelly by Friday evening, spinach which I paired with balsamic vinegar for a nice salad on Saturday night, and a bag full of green onions and carrots which I sautéed for Sunday's dinner.  It was a great trip, and a great way to spend one of our last days of freedom.

Mixed, Part II

Last Sunday we drove into Little Tokyo to visit the Japanese American National Museum and view the museum's newest exhibit, a collection of photographs based on Kip Fulbeck's new photo book, Mixed. (Here's what I wrote last week about the book.)

We knew that only a small number of the photos in the book would be included in the museum show, but I had been exchanging emails with Kip's assistant, and she had casually mentioned that she thought we would be excited with the exhibit.  We took this to mean that Alison's photo had made the cut, so we arranged a trip to the museum with Alison's grandmother; her great aunt; and her aunt, uncle, and cousin visiting from Colorado.  Along with our own five-person family, we formed nine-person entourage for Alison as we walked into the museum.

And here's where things got crazy.  Alison's photograph was not technically in the exhibit; it was at the entrance of the show, the first face that visitors see as they walk in.  Alison stood in front of her larger-than-life photograph, smiling proudly -- but she wasn't nearly as proud as I was.

Mixed

When I've written about books or movies on this site in the past, it's usually been because someone has sent me something to review or because I've wanted to share something I found entertaining or interesting.

This time is different.

Photographer Kip Fulbeck has just released Mixed: Portraits of Multiracial Kids, a collection of photos of children who don't fit into the boxes that society (and census forms) used to insist on placing them in.  The photographs are beautiful, and not just because the children are beautiful, resplendent in all colors.  Fulbeck's lens captures the personalities behind the portraits: a boy and his guitar, a girl and her retainer, two twins dancing with joy.  Most importantly, every child is an individual, every child -- save a few who are fussy -- is smiling and happy.

And that's what Fulbeck is trying to tell us.  Sure, these children are all beautiful -- as you turn the pages you will be struck by honey-brown eyes, softly curling hair, and skin tones ranging from café au lait to warm cocoa.  But beneath all of that, these are still just kids.  (But don't just take my word for it, visit Fulbeck's website and click VIDEO to see some of the photographs and listen as Fulbeck describes his project.)

There was no book like this when I was a child.  For much of my youth, the only biracial person in my life was the face looking back at me in the mirror, and I struggled with my cultural identity until I was almost thirty years old.  I even rejected the "mixed" label, simply because I didn't like the way it sounded.  

Because of all this, my wife and I were excited to take Alison, Henry, and Kate to an open call photo shoot for the book about a year ago.  A few dozen families were there, and even though I had never met any of them before, they all seemed somewhat familiar.  A black father would hand a musubi to his hungry child, a white mother would comb the kinks out of her daughter's nappy hair, and the air was filled with conversations describing intricate family trees.  It was a blessing just to be in the room.

The book was released this week, and Alison's photo was included.  (You can also see her in the video mentioned above.)  What a difference a generation makes.  When I was ten years old, I didn't know anyone else like me, but today my ten-year-old daughter's smiling face can be found on the pages of a book celebrating multi-racial children.  

Absolutely amazing.

Funeral for a Friend

 We always had pets as I was growing up, mainly cats, and I have vague memories of their passing.  I'm sure I was sad at the time, but if I were an oak tree and you were to cut me open and look at the rings on my trunk, you'd see no evidence of trauma.  Those deaths didn't stay with me.

I had a dog, though.  Every boy should have a dog.  We found Max at the pound during the spring of my sixth grade year, and he was my best friend for the next decade of my life.  I was in my mid-20s when he died, and I'll never forget saying goodbye to him.  He had passed during the night at a kennel, so when I saw him the next morning he was stretched out on a metal table in a sterile examination room.  I bent over and brushed my face against his fur one last time and whispered into his ear, "I hope I have a son one day, and I hope that he has a dog who's as good a friend as you were to me."  I took his collar from his neck and slipped it into my pocket.  Fifteen years later, the collar hangs on a nail in my garage, and the scar on my heart still hasn't healed.

This is how it is with children and their pets.  The death of a hamster or goldfish or parakeet can be just as traumatic as the passing of a blood relative, or even more so.  Knowing this, we've always hesitated to bring animals into our home.  We've avoided the goldfish offered as "prizes" at elementary school carnivals and resisted the constant cries for a dog, but loyal readers will remember that last summer we allowed Alison to raise some tadpoles.  Two of the tadpoles actually became bullfrogs, but after one jumped out of the tank, only one remained -- Kirby.

Kirby died on Wednesday night.

The details aren't important, except to say that frogs -- like hamsters and goldfish and parakeets -- sometimes just die.  Alison was already asleep when we discovered him, so we chose to hide the truth until Thursday after school.  I asked her to sit next to me on the couch, and I told her quickly before she could wonder what was happening.

"Your frog died last night."

Those simple words brought the world crashing down around us as she immediately began crying.  She never asked why or how, probably because those details didn't matter to her.  Her frog was gone.

She slid from my arms into Leslie's, and I noticed that her socks had frogs on them.

Because things don't always go exactly as planned, Kate wandered out and was immediately worried when she saw her older sister sobbing in her mother's arms.

"What's wrong with Allie?"

"Her frog died last night."

"He's not coming back to life?"

"No."

She gave Alison a little rub on her back, and then ran to her room, returning almost immediately with a stuffed frog.

"This is my frog!"  And then she started hopping around the room and ribbet-ing as her sister continued crying.  Perhaps not the most sympathetic gesture ever.

Alison decided she wanted to bury him, so we slipped Kirby into a perfectly sized cardboard box coffin and headed out to the flower bed in the front yard.  As the entire family gathered around, I dug a small hole and Alison gently deposited her friend into the ground.  I said something about what a good frog Kirby had been, and then explained that at funerals the loved ones usually put the first few shovels of dirt back into the grave.  Alison took the trowel and pushed a bit of soil onto the box, but quickly gave in to the tears and asked me to finish.  I fully expect to see a red fern growing there in the spring.

But things brightened after the funeral.  When we came back in the house, we asked Alison if she thought she might like to get another frog.  Twenty minutes later we were at the pet shop, peering into terrariums at frogs of all shapes, sizes, and colors.  She chose two, a green tree frog and a grey tree frog, and the new additions have definitely filled the hole in her heart.  She named them Sticky and Jumpy.

In the span of an hour or so, we saw the beauty of being nine years old.  At five o'clock her world was shattered, and we were powerless to put the pieces back together.  By 6:30 Alison had fallen in love all over again.  Who needs a prince when you've got a frog or two hopping around?

Silencing the Whispers

 

Ever since I became a father ten years ago, I've seen my teaching job as a daily peek into the future.  As hormones blossomed in the young hearts of my eighth graders each spring, I would take careful notes.  As foolish boys tried to impress girls with paper airplanes and regrettable haircuts, I imagined a fourteen-year-old version of Henry, long and gangly, awkward and goofy, performing for giggling girls.  When girls suffered their first heartbreaks and dissolved in tears, I saw my own daughters, and wondered if they'd come to me for comfort, or if they'd turn instead to their best friends.  

Sometimes I would convince myself that all that time spent in front of the crystal ball actually gave me an advantage.  While other parents feared adolescence and puberty like the plague, I would surely navigate those years flawlessly.  After all, I've been soaking in it for the past nineteen years.

Recently, though, I've begun to think that even though I might know what's coming, I still have no idea what's coming, if that makes any sense.  The eighth grade can certainly be difficult for boys, but it's the girls who really have to walk through the minefield, and there are times when it scares me to death to think that we'll be sending Alison out into that world in just two years.

In early September, just a week or so into the school year, the father of one of my students came to my door during the last period of the day and asked how his daughter was doing.  She had been coming home later than usual, and he was worried she might be spending time with a boy.  When I offered to call her out of class to speak with him, he immediately declined.  His plan was to follow her as she left school to see where she went.

A few weeks ago a former student of mine came to visit me after school.  She had been one of my favorites when she was in my class two years ago, a bright girl with a bright future.  She instinctively sat down in her old desk and wept as she told me about a failing grade in chemistry and an argument with her parents.  Most troubling, though, were the troubles she was having with her boyfriend.  She described him alternately as a sweetheart and an ass, and told me that he was pressuring her to give him sexually explicit pictures. Equally disturbing, he wanted her to drop out of activities that took her away from him, and she admitted that she couldn't really act like herself when they were together.  When I asked her if she ever spoke to her parents about him, she responded, "I can't talk to my parents like this."

During class today, I intercepted a note that had been travelling back and forth between two girls. 

Girl 1: What's wrong?  R U sad b-cuz he is not here??

Girl 2: YA!

Girl 1: Jenny and me think he likes you!!

Girl 2: I doubt it!

Girl 1: Y??

Girl 2: Cause I'm ugly why would he ever lay eyes on me!

Today after school I spoke with a girl who was in my class last year, and she tearfully explained that she wanted to leave home because she didn't believe that her mother, sister, or step-father would miss her if she left.  Not surprisingly, there is a boyfriend, and she talks about wanting to marry him.  She is fifteen years old.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I don't stay up nights worrying that Alison will someday travel down one of these roads, but there is a voice whispering questions in the back of my head.  What will I do if I stop trusting my daughter?  What will happen if she can't talk to me about her problems?  What if she stops believing that she's beautiful?  What if she convinces herself that I wouldn't miss her if she were gone?

I silenced the whispers when I got home tonight.  After helping Alison decipher the metaphors in her homework, we headed out to the driveway to play basketball.  I passed the ball to her over and over, and watched as she dribbled in for lay-ups or turned to sink jump shots, one after the other.  We worked and played and laughed for thirty minutes or so until it was too dark to see the ball.  Alison made one final shot, and we headed in for dinner.

During those thirty minutes, everything suddenly became clear.  Alison will be fine.

The One Where I Drop Out of the Running for Father of the Year

I woke up Saturday morning and the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and the roses were blooming. The children were awake, but still too sleepy to bicker with each other or demand breakfast. In all ways, it was a beautiful day. 

As I looked out the kitchen window I saw several strange men walking up to the front door -- two with video cameras, one with a giant boom mike, another with a trophy and an oversized cardboard check, and someone who looked suspiciously like the late Ed McMahon. A glance back at the driveway told me everything I already knew. Emblazoned across the side of the van were four simple words: Father of the Year.

I should probably make something up about how surprised I was, but that would be a lie.  Afterall, I thought, who else deserves to be Father of the Year more than me?  As I was tossing around ideas for my acceptance speech, a tiny voice in my Father of the Year head told me to check on Alison's frogs.

We keep the frogs (there are two of them now) in a small tank on the kitchen counter, where they're relatively out of the way but still convenient enough to be fed and fawned over.  The first thing I noticed was that the lid of the tank was wide open, and I immediately realized what had happened.  Just before going to bed on Friday night I had gone out to the kitchen to give the frogs a few crickets.  I had opened the lid of the tank, but when I discovered that we were out of crickets, I must've forgotten to close the lid.

This was one of those moments when your life stands still, when everyone around you stops what they're doing and stares directly at you, waiting to see how you'll respond.  I froze in the middle of the kitchen floor, only long enough for this thought to pass from one synapse to the next: "Wouldn't that suck if one of the frogs had gotten out?"

Now keep in mind, even though these are North American bullfrogs, the very frogs which inspired Mark Twain to write The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, we're still talking about two creatures which could each sit on a quarter and give you back about ten cents in change.  Escape would mean a jump of about eight inches straight up, a truly Olympian feat.

But even so, what if they had jumped out?  I quickly saw that the smaller of the two frogs was still there, which was a huge relief.  I didn't see his larger friend right away, but that wasn't unusual.  I peeked in the corners and behind the filter but still didn't see him.  I desperately plunged my hand into the tank, swishing my fingers through the gravel, overturning their sunning rock, lifting out the filter.  He was gone, and it was my fault.  I looked out the window just in time to see the Father of the Year van backing out of the driveway.

My first thought, of course, was for Alison.  I called to her and told her what had happened; the tears were flowing before she got to the kitchen.  We searched the counter tops, pulled dishes from the sink, scoured the floor, and pointed a flashlight deep beneath the stove, dishwasher, and refrigerator.  No luck.

It was difficult for Alison to help me look because she was sobbing almost the entire time.  She had learned enough about frogs to know that he would die if he dried out, but what we didn't know was how long he could last.  Hours?  Days?  My heart ached for Alison and hoped that we would find him soon, but my head knew better.  The house was big, and the frog was small.

What struck me the most was how Alison handled the whole situation.  Her sadness was completely pure and never wavered towards anger.  I had admitted my responsibility, but she never once blamed me and didn't even ask me why I hadn't closed the tank.  She wasn't looking for justice, she was just looking for her frog.  At one point during the search, she stopped and looked up at me, her eyes overflowing with tears, and asked, "Daddy, if you were a froggy, where would you go?"  I think that was the moment when my heart broke.

She remained positive throughout Saturday and into Sunday as we continued to search the house, but I realized that each passing hour made a positive outcome less likely.  We kept looking in the same places and getting the same results until we returned to the family room couch for a more thorough search.  We had looked beneath the couch on Saturday morning as soon as we spread our focus from the kitchen, but on Sunday night I suggested that we take everything out from underneath it, just to be sure he wasn't there.  

I pulled out a few boxes and bags of things stored beneath the couch, all the while crossing my fingers that the frog would come hopping out from behind the next item I picked up.  I found him soon enough, but it wasn't the happy ending I had been hoping for.  I slid out a rolled up yoga mat and suddenly there he was, completely dried out and almost flat.

I looked at Alison on the opposite side of the couch and chose my words carefully, so as not to instill false hope, even for a second.

"Alison, I have bad news."

The tears came instantly as she ran around to where I sat on the floor.  She took one look at her frog before collapsing into my arms, her body shaking with sobs.  I won't soon forget how small and powerless I felt, slowly rocking her back and forth and feeling her tears against my skin.

Why hadn't I just closed the tank on Friday night?  What if I had searched beneath the couch on Saturday morning instead of Sunday evening?  There were no answers to these questions, and as Alison continued to cry, going from my arms to Leslie's and back again, there was nothing I wouldn't have done for her.  A puppy?  No problem.  A pony?  Let me build a pasture in the backyard.

But to Alison's credit, she asked for nothing.  When Leslie offered to buy some more tadpoles, she refused, probably not ready yet to think about replacing her missing frog.  Instead, she found a small cardboard jewelry box in her room, gently placed her frog atop the bed of cotton inside, and set him in a place of honor.

I took her to bed and she pulled out one of her library books, All About Frogs.  As we laid side by side reading about frog croaks and metamorphosis, the tears finally stopped.  She even laughed a little when we learned that frogs can pull their eyeballs into their heads to help push food down their throats.  As it turned out, I hadn't scarred my daughter for life.  She was still sad, but she was getting better, and I was relieved beyond belief.

We finished the book, I tucked her in with a kiss on the forehead, and I turned out the lights.  Through her bedroom window I saw another van pulling up into the driveway.  This one, though, said "Daughter of the Year" on the side.

And So It Begins...

The subtitle of this blog ("Because someday there will be a boy who will want to date my daughter..."), nestled neatly beneath the image of shotgun, has always seemed to reference a future that is far enough away that it's kind of fun to joke about.  When people look at Alison and say things to me like, "Oh, you're gonna have to watch out for that one..." or "Just wait until the boys start knocking on your door..." we would always laugh.  Someone would mention that I'd have to buy a shotgun, and we'd laugh some more.  

 

But somewhere deep in my Shotgun Daddy heart, there was a place where there was no laughter.  This was the place where I loaded shotguns, built towers, and researched Catholic boarding schools.  This was the place where I knew that "someday" would be here sooner rather than later.

 

Let it be known that Someday arrived on the Fourth of July, 2009.

 

We spent the afternoon at a friend's house, watching the kids chase around and frolic in the afternoon sun as burgers and dogs sizzled on the grill.  It was America at its best.  The kind of day that made you feel like all was good in the world.  I relaxed, enjoyed a cold beer, and soaked up some sun.  Not a care in the world.

 

But then I saw what was happening right under my nose.  There were more than a dozen or so kids frolicking back and forth, but there was one particular boy (we'll call him Romeo) who seemed to be frolicking after Alison a bit more than necessary.  When the kids were playing on the water slide, Romeo always seemed to slide down right after Alison.  When they started throwing poppers, those tiny little things that snap and pop when they hit the ground, Romeo threw them at Alison's feet.  When the water balloons came out, he threw every one of his balloons at Alison.

 

For her part, Alison wasn't too impressed.  He was probably about eleven to her nine, but it didn't seem that Alison felt he was worth her time.  After his water balloon barrage, however, she did get angry and chase him around for a bit, probably the best two minutes of his life.

 

After we moved on to grandma's house later that night, Leslie mentioned to Alison that she thought maybe Romeo had liked her.  Alison didn't bother looking up.  

 

"Yeah, I know," she said.

"What?  How do you know?" I asked.

"It just seemed like it."

"How did it seem like it?"

"He chased me, he threw balloons at me, he pushed me..."

 

I could only shake my head, as my inner Shotgun Daddy fought the first of what will likely be thousands of battles with Understanding Daddy.  Understanding Daddy won out, and he offered this advice:

 

"Don't worry, Alison.  One day the boys will figure out something that makes more sense than chasing and hitting."

 

Alison's twenty-year-old cousin, Rachel, who had been listening nearby, caught my eye and said knowingly, "But not for a long, long time."

 

So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Bullfrog Love

The poets say that you can't put a price tag on true love.  But for those of us who don't live our lives in iambic pentameter, we know better.  In this story, love can be had for the bargain price of a single dollar.  Read on.

It started at a garage sale just over a month ago.  We were looking through piles of old books, toys, and clothes when Alison discovered an old frog hatchery kit.  Maybe you remember the one you had when you were a kid -- inside the box is a small plastic aquarium, frog food, a magnifying glass, and a coupon to send away for some mail-order tadpoles.

This particular kit was almost certainly older than Alison, and when we got home and opened it up, there was no coupon to be found.  Alison was disappointed, but I told her not to worry; I knew we'd find her some tadpoles with just a few clicks of the mouse.  Within minutes we had landed at a site which promised six live bullfrog tadpoles for $12.95.  After adding some food and paying $16.95 for shipping (they had to come via FedEx since they were live organisms), we were in for $34.40.  And it was just the beginning.

 

The box arrived a week later and Alison's face lit up like Christmas morning as she lifted the plastic bag out of the styrofoam box and saw not six, but seven tadpoles flitting around in the water.  She saw seven frogs, but I saw seven funerals.  I hoped that they'd all grow up and turn into bullfrogs, but experience taught me that this was unlikely.  Death was inevitable.

 

We realized after only a few days that we needed a bigger tank, so we headed off to the local fish store and bought a tank, water conditioner, some gravel, a large rock, and a filter.  $63.98.  We spent about twenty-five dollars on another trip, and about ten bucks since then on miscellaneous supplies.

 

But even with all that, the tadpoles started dying.  After a few more trips to the fish store for advice, we were finally able to settle things down, but not until only two tadpoles remained.  Since then, one of the tadpoles has lost his tail and become a frog.  It's hard to believe that he'll be a bullfrog someday, because now he could sit on a nickel with room to spare.

 

Perhaps because he's so incredibly cute, or perhaps because of all the tears shed when the other tadpoles passed away, Alison is head over heels in love with her frog.  She checks on him as soon as she wakes up and wonders what he's doing when they're apart.  She enjoys feeding him crickets (see below), and asks every single day if she can keep him when he grows up.  This is still up for debate.

 

But the really interesting thing is that her bullfrog love has triggered an academic curiosity of all things frog.  She took it upon herself to start a frog journal on the day her tadpoles arrived, and she has filled it with sketches of the tadpoles and written observations of what's been happening.  When I suggested that she could check out a book about frogs from the library, she immediately produced one she had checked out earlier that day.  When she returned that one, she checked out three more.

 

These tadpoles have been more than just a passing novelty.  They have inspired her to learn, encouraged her to care, and brightened her life.  Sure, we spent a lot more than that original dollar at the garage sale, but it's been worth every penny. 

Sunday in the Park

We spent our Sunday afternoon riding bikes at El Dorado Park.  Here's the video proof, with words to follow tomorrow.  Leslie bought me a Flip video camera for Father's Day (very cool, by the way), and this is the first film I've actually edited with it.  Since all the camera work was shot from the seat of a bike, it's a bit jumpy at times.  Apologies.