Reunion

After Christmas we made an overdue trip down south to visit my parents.

As it turned out, my brothers and sisters, most of whom had been there for Thanksgiving when we were unable to attend, returned for an afternoon—creating a gathering that we hadn’t seen for over 10 years.

My Dad suffered a small stroke in the Summer and he’ll be 90 this year, so having more frequent gatherings is on our minds now.

It’s a 16 hour drive but Finn is a trooper. He only asked if we “were there yet” a few hundred times.

My nieces and nephews who, in past gatherings were running amuck, are now teenage or early twenties, intelligent, witty and well spoken. Not all of them were there so Finn was the lone little one which meant he got lots of attention.

There was a moment where my Dad stood holding onto his walker (which he hates) and offered a blessing before our meal. “This is truly a rare gathering,” he said. “Our hearts feel so good.”

It was an unusually warm day for December, almost 70 degrees so we could hang around outside for much of the time.

We all kind of migrated throughout the yard and the house reconnecting with each other,

pockets of laughter echoing sporadically.

The ‘greatest hits’ stories from our childhood were being retold. Like how my oldest brother once woke me at 4am to milk the cows by pulling my mattress off the bed and throwing it down the stairs (so I wouldn’t crawl back in bed as I was prone to do). Or how my youngest brother and I use to terrorize our youngest sister by dressing as mummies or aliens in the middle of the night.

We were storytelling, the way humans have done it for eons. Sometimes each remembering the details in a slightly different way but the basic story remaining the same.

The next day a few of us made a surprise visit to my cousin Judy, the kind of soul who lives in the moment and relishes the spontaneous drop in. Finn was meeting her for the first time and she did not disappoint. Her house was once the home of an accomplished sculptor and many pieces remained in the basement. Judy took us downstairs and turned on the strands of white lights that wound through the numerous busts and unfinished studies. At one point she called Finn over and held up a few lights to the head of one of the busts. “Look into his eyes”she said to Finn. He was transfixed.

Back at my parent’s, it was late in the evening and out of the corner of my eye I caught Finn and MawMaw having a heart to heart in whispered tones. He may have been recounting his adventures of hunting for the Hobgoblin that he’s fond of doing these days. No matter, he had a captive and appreciative audience and with every reaction he was spurred on to further embellishment.

The next day would be a long ride home but a little easier this time. We had more stories to tell.

A Snowball's Chance

I grew up in the South but moved to New York in my twenties. It occurred to me recently that I have lived in the North for much longer than I did in the South. The one thing I’ve never adapted to is the cold weather.

When the winter moves in, I want to hibernate. I have the feeling that I will never get warm no matter what I do. That is, until spring arrives.

Finn, thankfully, got another gene. On the day of our recent snow, he spent half the day literally rolling in it, eating it, sledding, and throwing snow balls with his friends. Lucky for me, they picked a spot in the yard where I could watch them from the warm comfort of the indoors. Eventually though, I felt like I was missing out so I bundled up and braved the cold.

I saw Finn rolling a ball in the snow attempting to make it bigger. This was something I always wanted to do as a kid. We didn’t get much snow in Alabama. There was only once I remember having enough snow to build a snowman or to sled in. And forget about snow gear. Our “mittens” were athletic socks covered with bread bags. My mom was always very resourceful that way.

The bread bags went on our feet as well, between our socks and boots.

I remember attempting the big snowball. I saw it in cartoons all the time and occasionally in a live action movie. It looked like you could just roll it and in no time you’d have a giant ball.

I’ve tried it a number of times in adulthood with no success. It simply wouldn’t work for me. So I was watching Finn thinking, “ Aww.” But within a few rolls, his was the size of basketball. A few more and it was the size of a tire. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised. It’s what he intended to do.

As it grew too heavy to push, his friend Teo came running to help him. Together they pushed it till it was the size of a big bass drum.

“This can be our fort!” Teo said.

“You can have this one,” Finn said, “I’ll make another one!”

He rolled another one almost as big as the first and put it beside the other. After discussing the possibilities for each ball, they decided to dig in them from opposite sides, then they could meet in the middle and have “the perfect tunnel.” They found a couple of small shovels and in no time had twin forts. Sebastian and Liam rolled a giant ball of their own and turned it into a mini slide.

Observing it all I kind of marveled at how everything had unfolded. It was beautiful and even a little miraculous. But also very simple.

A couple of hours of playing outdoors had snowballed into half a dozen little life lessons.

Election

Two days before the now infamous election, Finn was in full sobbing meltdown. Perhaps a foreshadowing of half the country, if not the world. He was inconsolable because Erin had just explained that he would not actually be able to vote himself.

“But I HAAAVE to!” he sobbed.

If only everyone felt so strongly about voting.

There has been scarcely a road we could drive down without seeing campaign signs for the last two years and Finn has been well aware that this was an historic election.

After his meltdown, Erin created a special ballot for him in red, white, and blue with both candidates’ names and a tag line at the bottom: “Thank you for your patriotism.” Finn took his ballot over to a chair to fill it out in semi-privacy.

Then, on election day, he brought it along in the car and joined us at the polls.

The following day Erin and I were the ones in a stupor while he was, thankfully, going about the business of childhood. I was glad that he didn’t grasp the gravity of it all.

What an awesome privilege, this thing of voting. But how hard it is when the system doesn’t work the way you think it should.

I’ve tried hard to process the results and find a way to move forward.

I don’t think it’s helpful to lump everyone together, making broad criticisms. There is clearly a large segment of the population who simply do not believe the negative characterizations of the President-Elect any more than others believe the negative characterizations of Clinton.

The frightening part is knowing that there is a segment of the population that does believe the negative things and supports them wholeheartedly.

During the conventions we heard a fearful view of America and a hopeful one. We’re still hearing both now but from different sides.

If there are positive things to be gleaned from this election, hopefully one is that we’ve learned that a complacent electorate is good for no one. Maybe another will be that The Presidency is not a monarchy or dictatorship and we have the power to affect change on a daily basis.

But between the protests, petitions and phone calls, we have to find ways to come together. And while we’re working for those who are being marginalized we must seek to understand those on the other side who have felt left behind for some time.

The roadside campaign signs have been removed now for the most part. On the ride home last night I noticed a lone sign in the previously crowded campaign ‘no man’s land’. It read “Love Thy Neighbor”.

I wouldn’t mind seeing those everywhere for the next 4 years.

Playtime

On a balmy fall “Indian Summer” evening just after sunset, Finn was having a hard time with the idea of bedtime. Refusing to come inside, he found one thing after another that he had to do “one last time.”

“I just need to swing from the rope one more time,” he said.

I lifted him to the crook of the maple tree since it’s too wide for him to climb up on his own. A rope tied to one of the limbs has become a recent favorite for him. It was getting dark fast.

“OK, that’s the last time,” I said after he had swung back and forth a few times. “Time to get down and go inside.”

“Noooo! NOT the last time!” he wailed.

Suddenly there were other high pitched voices in the dark from across the way.

“Finn! What’s wrong?!” It was Teo and Sebastian, ages 6 and 5. They came running from next door like the charging cavalry.

“I want to swing from the rope some more!” Finn yelled to them, pleading his case.

“I want a turn! I want a turn” They repeated one after the other.

I relented. “Ok,” I said

They all had multiple turns and then spontaneously broke into a game of tag, chasing each other into the dark.

I was reminded of Fall evenings when I did the same thing as a kid, very often after a Sunday evening church service. My mother was a choir director so we were always there. After the service it seemed like we ran for hours while all the adults stood and talked. We were dripping with sweat by the time we piled in the car to go home.

This may be one of the last nights they have to run barefoot before the weather turns cold, I thought as I watched them run figure-eights on the lawn.

These are the times that create lasting memories, which I’m becoming more aware of since Finn is at the age where he may actually remember them now.

I don’t know if he will remember this. But I will because… well, I’m writing it down.

Watching him and his friends is sometimes like viewing a collection of idealized movie clips. Is there any sound more comforting than kids laughing and chasing each other?

It’s so hard to interrupt these moments for practical necessities, like bedtime. Especially when I know that in a dozen years we’ll be very lucky if playing outdoors holds the same importance for him.

Adults don’t play as naturally as kids. We have to schedule it. In fact I feel pretty guilty when I’m not doing something ‘productive’. But as we all know, when we do play, we connect with our friends and community. We relax, eventually. And occasionally we might even create something we’ll remember. Even without writing it down.

Beginning Again

Fall brings memories of grade school and the smell of new school supplies.

There are no traditional school supplies to get yet for Finn, but we did go shopping for some new rain gear, which he enjoyed trying out in the store a day or two before his first day of kindergarten.

“I have to see if I can run in it!” he said, taking off across the store. “And I might lay on the ground so I better test that out,” he said, lying down on the floor and rolling around. Thankfully there were few customers in the store at the time.

On the first day of school, he walked gingerly onto the grounds holding onto my hand, then tightening his grip when he sensed it was time for me to go.

I looked around at the other parents, some making the separation easily, others not. Last year we had a few difficult drop-offs. I wondered if this would be one. Then a couple of his friends came running up, asking Finn to come play. Suddenly I could barely get his attention enough to say goodbye. He gave me a kind of over-the-shoulder glance and off he went.

The next day Erin took him to get his first professional haircut. I didn’t go, but she sent me pictures. He sat perfectly still and she said he was so serious. The change was dramatic. I’m still kind of mourning the wavy locks. He looks so much older and about an inch taller. “Who is this little man?” I thought.

While he was at school I had begun working on a new painting. A few months ago I sketched a peony on a canvas and it was just sitting on the easel. I guess the creative feeling in the Fall air inspired me to add some color to it.

When Finn got home he noticed it immediately.

“Hey Daddoo you haven’t painted in a long time,” He said. “How come you haven’t painted?”

“I’ve been busy with other things,” I said.

“I like it,” he said pausing to looking at it. “Yeah. I like it. But where are the thorns?” he said.

“It’s a peony,” I said

“Are you sure?! I think it’s a rose.” He said. Then he proceeded to show me where the thorns should go.

He’s only a few weeks away from turning five. I’ve noticed an increase in his confidence and dexterity lately. I guess I can add opinion to that list as well.

Anyway he’s right. Whatever. I have artistic license. It’s a rose peony.

I’m happy to see Finn take changes in stride. Tonight he asked if he could go to school “a hundred times a week.” That’s a desire that I’m pretty sure will change as he gets older. But the tinge of excitement and possibility mixed with the cooling temperatures will likely stick around for the duration, if he’s lucky. And I think he is.

Even if he is a little opinionated.

Mosquitoes and Meteors

We had our second annual camping trip with Finn last week. Erin and I have decided that camping is in a category of its own, separate from vacation.

The idea was to camp on the beach. It was late in the season when we booked the reservation so there was little availability.

We would have to spend one night on the “bay side” and then we could move to the “ocean side” for the second night.

It would have been helpful if the website had mentioned that the mosquito situation on the bay side is beyond anything you would have ever experienced, nightmare or otherwise.

I got hundreds of bites (literally) setting up the tent in the 90 degree heat while Finn repeated “I want to go home” hundreds of times. We gave his suggestion a fleeting thought.

Once we had our camp set up we walked to the beach which felt like a different planet. It was about 5 degrees cooler and windy, so no mosquitoes.

It was suddenly very pleasant. Finn no longer wanted to go home. He didn’t want to leave. The beach that is.

We suffered through the night. The tent kept the mosquitoes at bay, so to speak, but the temperature was in the 80s all night so we had to literally sweat it out.

The next day we packed up and fled to town for breakfast instead of battling the mosquitoes, who had decided not to sleep in.

Our second night was in remarkable contrast. We had moved to a site closer to the ocean. There was a gentle breeze. It was cooler. Fewer mosquitoes. And it just happened to be the night of the Persied meteor shower.

Setting up camp again was still a bit of a challenge. It was a walk-in site so we had to lug everything about a hundred yards or more from the car.

But few things are more magical than lying on a blanket beside a campfire, near the ocean, watching shooting stars. Although Finn kept reminding me that they were not shooting stars but meteors. He saw just one before he could no longer keep his eyes open. But it was his first and a memorable one that he’s still talking about.

Erin and I got to see quite a few. Watching several streak halfway across the sky, I wondered how many shooting stars you have to see before they lose their enchantment. My guess is a whole lot because it didn’t happen that night.

I woke up later and saw several more. A silent light show, continuing with or without an audience. I thought about our little camping adventure and how it was such a mix of angst and

joy. And how in the misery of the night before we wouldn’t have guessed what magic was right around the corner.

We may rethink camping in August. And we’ll probably do more research on mosquito populations next time. But camping is definitely in a league of it’s own. And it’s probably best followed by a vacation.

Separation

Lately I’ve been performing again. Singing and acting.

Something I used to do with more regularity years ago but had not pursued very much after Finn was born.

Rehearsals have required me to be in the city away from Finn and Erin for a couple of long stretches. It’s the first time Finn and I have been away from each other for extended periods since he was born.

Facetime has made it more bearable but I think the most challenging thing is explaining to him what I’m doing. I don’t think he fully comprehends the acting thing yet. He has attended some live performances but none where Erin or I have played a character.

On one of my days off we spent the day together and he wanted to know more.

“It’s just pretending,” I said, “like when you and I play pretend, but I’m doing it in front of an audience. I’m actually pretending to be someone’s Dad.”

WHAT!!? He said, followed by a dramatic pause. “That’s silly.”

At night we Facetime before bed. Being able to see each other’s faces when we talk seems to lessen the blow of the physical absence. At least it does for me.

But it also makes that link of communication feel more precious. A few days ago, the morning after performing in a concert on Long Beach Island, Erin and I were enjoying a rare and all too brief time on the beach. I had just snapped a few pictures with my phone when a sudden wave forced us to grab our blanket and belongings and run farther from the water.

Once we were settled back down I discovered my phone was missing. With it being practically brand new I was frantically digging in the sand. I immediately began thinking how stupid I was for not buying the insurance that the pushy cell phone salesman had urged me to get.

We used the phone finder app from Erin’s phone to see if it was still showing a signal. It was, but the blue dot it showed on the map covered a large area. For what seemed like an eternity I combed through the sand with my fingers trying to skim the whole circle.

Then Erin found a way to turn on a ping through the phone finder app. The sound was just loud enough to hear above the ocean waves. Thankfully it was a few feet away buried in the dry sand. I couldn’t believe how completely covered the phone had gotten in that instant.

Of course it would have been ok if we hadn’t found it. It would have been a pain but I would have survived, gotten a new phone and bought the insurance.

But it made me think about the importance of connection and the fear of disconnection.

How essential it is for Finn to have these opportunities to learn to deal with separation. And maybe through the process, his Father will learn to deal with it as well.

Reality

Erin and I got new phones this week. Our old ones weren’t holding a charge for very long.

It still seems odd to me that something that is supposed to have superior technology has only a few years use.

I bet the land-line phone I had as a kid would still work perfectly today if it were plugged in. I suppose texting with a rotary dial would be challenging though.

After we chose our phones in the store, Erin and I stood patiently listening to the sales associate try his damnedest to up-sell us with the latest cell phone add-ons, including a thin piece of plastic to protect the screen for a mere 35 dollars more. And of course, insurance.

“Just a few weeks ago a woman dropped her phone in the parking lot right after refusing insurance,” he said. “It was very sad.”

“What you’re trying to do is very sad,” I thought to myself. But I understood. I use to work in retail too.

Finn was standing at my side and had gotten his hands on a demo virtual reality headset. We thought it was cute and snapped some pictures with our new phones.

Then he started walking around trying to grab at things in the ‘virtual world’.

“I want to get that little monkey!” he said, reaching his hand out and bumping into the counter. He pulled off the mask and looked around confused. “Where is it?” he said.

I took the headset from him and put it out of reach, to his dismay.

I explained as best I could how it wasn’t real. I looked through it myself. It was pretty cool, but I could imagine how it seemed to him with his concept of reality.

I remember thinking at that age that people on TV were actually inside the television set. And after it had been turned off, I was convinced they were still there inside, having little parties.

How confusing today’s technology must be to smaller children about what is real, especially since animation is sometimes so hyper-realistic.

Standing there holding the virtual reality headset, looking down at his pouting face, I thought about how parents are kind of guardians of reality in early childhood. In a world where it’s hard for adults to figure out what’s real sometimes, that’s kind of a daunting task.

I thought about how much technology has changed in my lifetime and how different it will be when Finn is older. How one day he will have a phone but hopefully won’t spend too much time staring at the screen.

When I turned back to the salesman, he was telling Erin about a gadget we just HAD to have for the car that would record regular engine diagnostics and all sorts of other things. Then he told us about special watches he bought for his kids to wear so he could track them at all times.

Hmmm.

I think next time we’ll just buy the phones online.

Sweet

A few days ago at breakfast, Finn got up abruptly and went to the refrigerator.

I suspected it was to get more maple syrup since I had just observed him carefully scooping the amount I had given him off of the top of his oatmeal and slurping it down.

“Finn,” I said.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said turning back with a hand in the air and a tone that sounded
more like a 14 than 4 year old.

He then lugged the quart container back and plopped it on the table.
“Please?” he said.

The battle of sweets is fought hard in this household.
Especially since my sweet tooth is the
size of Switzerland, Belgium and France combined.

And it’s the dark confection those countries are so good at that I tend to gravitate toward.

This has not gone unnoticed.

A few weeks ago after I had sneaked a couple of pieces of 70 percent cacao from my secret stash, Finn was suddenly at my side urgently needing to share something with me. He had a set of Lego instructions in his hand. On one page were tiny pictures of other lego sets they want you to buy.

“Come here look,” he said with his nose an inch from the page.

“Just a minute,” I said, pretending to look for something amongst the bottles of oils and vinegars while chewing and swallowing as fast as I could. Then I squatted down next to him to see better.

“This is the one I want for Christmas next year,” he whispered intensely, pointing like he was showing me a map to buried treasure.

“Ok,” I whispered back “but Christmas is a long ways away. You may decide by then that you want something else.”

He turned to me and his expression changed completely to a knowing smile. “Says the man with the chocolate breath,” he said.

“What are you the chocolate police?” I said.

“Where is it?” he said scrunching up his nose and putting his hands on his hips.

I have to say, I love that he loves chocolate. Even if it’s not to the extent that I do. He doesn’t always prefer it and he doesn’t generally like chocolate ice cream. But when I say we’re going to make chocolate chip cookies he lights up as much as he does with the prospect of a new toy. Which makes it even harder to limit it.

“You wouldn’t like it,” I said. “Why?” he asked.

“It’s gluten-free,” I said

“Yuck!” he said and walked away.

I accidentally discovered his aversion to that term about a year ago and I keep it in my special weapons cache. I use it sparingly so as not to diminish it’s potency. And while I do feel a little guilty saying it, I’m kind of telling the truth. He wouldn’t like the effects of having too much, nor would I.

And it is gluten free.

And a man has to do what he can to protect his chocolate stash.

Trust

I took Finn with me to vote this week.
In the car on the way I was trying to explain the concept to him.

“It’s like being asked to raise your hand if you want something,” I said. “Except everyone in the State is being asked who we want for President. We can’t see each other’s hands so we have to write down who we want.” 

(I’ll let his uncle Brad explain the whole delegate and electoral college thing some day.)

“Raise your hand?” he asked.

“You know,” I said, “like when you’re at a party and somebody comes in and says ‘Who wants a cupcake?’ and you raise your hand?” 

I knew it was a bad example the moment the words left my mouth.

“Ooo I want a cupcake!” he said.

It took the rest of the trip to explain why we were not going to have a cupcake right then. Sometimes I’m good at explaining things, other times not.

We arrived at the polling place, which was thankfully in a fire station. If there’s one thing that can get his mind off a cupcake it’s a fire engine.

As we peeked in the windows at the trucks I wondered how much of this he would remember.

I have vivid memories of my Mom taking me to vote when I was a kid, into the big metal booths with curtains. 

She would let me click the levers and when we were done we would pull the long handle and the curtains opened automatically. 

I suppose those are still around.

The electronic voting machines don’t instill as much confidence for me.

On my home computer I’ve seen the message “File may have been lost” a few too many times. I love how it always says ‘may have’ as if it’s still looking for the file. Will it ever flash a message that says “I was wrong, I found it?”

You trust when you vote. You trust the candidate (to some degree), the people at the polling place, and the machines.

There has been a lot in the news about voter suppression which causes people to say, “See it’s rigged, there’s no point in voting.” And that’s exactly what it’s designed to do.

But for as many people who are trying to rig elections I know there are just as many who have made it their calling to insure the integrity of our voting system. It’s those people we are putting our trust in when we pull the lever, punch the card , fill in the oval or tap the screen.

Will the system ever be perfect? Probably not. But when we make our voices heard, it’s more difficult to suppress a million votes than a few hundred.

“Do YOU want to be President?” Finn said.

“No, I do not,” I said emphatically.

“Can I be president?” he asked.

“If you really want to,” I said.

“Ok,” he said. “I’ll be president and you can do the voting.”

That I would trust.

Balloons

A few weeks ago Finn and I were fighting monsters in the backyard when he said, “You have to get that red lobster monster over there!”

I went along with it and pretended to fight a big lobster. But he wasn’t satisfied.

“No, it’s really over there in the bush,” he said.

Then I saw it. Something shiny and red reflecting through the branches. 

It was a deflated red metallic balloon. I pulled it out to take to the trash but noticed some writing on it.

“Happy Birthday,” it said. There were a couple of names and “We miss you both” on one side.

There was a phone number with the message: “Tell me where this balloon was found.”

It looked like it had burst open, perhaps from reaching a high altitude.

I texted the number saying I had found it.

“You just made my day. Thank you so much.” came the text back just a few minutes later. The balloon had been released in Philadelphia, about a hundred and fifty miles away.

I didn’t ask anymore questions right away but I kept thinking about it, wondering who the people were on the balloon. A couple of weeks later I texted again saying I was a writer and asking if they wanted to share their story.

We eventually spoke on the phone. He didn’t want his name mentioned but seemed happy to share. The two names on the balloon were family members who had passed. One was his brother-in-law who had survived a horrific car crash. “But then he was prescribed a drug that took him down the wrong path,” he said “He died of an over dose. My wife and I have been trying to raise awareness on the dangers of prescription drugs,” he said “He died too soon.” The other name was a beloved uncle who on the day that he passed “had just visited our whole family” then suffered a sudden massive heart attack.

“They were both good people. Good at what they did,” he said. “Sending the balloon up is like us sending a message to them,” he said “Getting as close as we can.”

I didn’t ask why he put his phone number on there. When we send out a thought or prayer, it’s nice to know that someone heard it.

Over the last several months, three of my cousins have passed suddenly and one just a couple of weeks after this balloon showed up. We had lost contact for years but I have vivid memories of us all as kids at family reunions and extended summer visits.

There is a yearning to reach across the miles and years of separation.

Speaking on the phone with with my cousin Judy, sister of the cousin who died most recently, I had the oddest mix of emotions. Sharing sorrow, interspersed with the sheer joy of reconnection.

We promised to stay in better touch. To at least have an occasional chat. To make sure our thought balloons are received.

Worry

A day or two ago I found myself in a bit of a funk worrying about something and Finn picked up on it.

“What’s wrong Daddoo?” “Nothing,” I said, lying through my teeth. 

“Ok. Well come over here. This will help you feel better. Come play with me.”

And of course he was right. Co-building a Lego pyramid did seem to offer some relief.

I had noticed recently how quickly things can go from being a major disaster to being simply fine again with him. No emotion holds on for too long at this age except perhaps enthusiasm. That is the one thing that is in no short supply.

I would love it if worry was delayed from becoming part of his consciousness for as long as humanly possible. I wonder at what age it takes hold and when it becomes more difficult for one to flip the switch.

There’s that quote about worry attributed to Mark Twain, the wording of which seems to change each time it’s reprinted. My favorite version is, “I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.”

I know worry is a waste of time. But it’s hard to give up something when you do it so well.

When Erin came home as chipper as could be, I jumped in the car to run some errands taking my preoccupation with me.

It was dark, raining and windy. The perfect backdrop for my mood. Then a mile or two down the road, the rain suddenly lessened and the most magnificent double rainbow stood out from the dark sky forming an archway right over the road. I had to pull over to take it in and call Erin. I resisted the urge to snap a picture. (It never really captures it anyway.) The wind was blowing hard and I knew it would be gone in a flash.

I thought of the guy on youtube that videoed a double rainbow asking “What does it mean?” Then my grumpy inner voice interrupted: It’s just sunlight shining through the rain. It doesn’t mean anything. But it is beautiful, I thought. In fact one of the most beautiful complete rainbows I have ever seen.

And then it was gone just like that. I can’t believe I didn’t take a picture! What was I thinking?!

I finished my errands and by the time I got back home the rain had nearly stopped completely.

It was almost dark and Finn was outside with Erin running up and down the hill in the drizzling rain. “We saw it Daddoo! We saw the rainbow!” he yelled. “And look, there’s the moon!”

What was left of my funk was kind of knocked out of the park at that point.

I hadn’t actively done anything to get rid of the worry. In fact I was trying to hold onto to it for dear life. But things kept chipping away at it.

Worrying is no fun when the world around you doesn’t cooperate.

Thank goodness.

Winning

This week our little family had its first real game night.

That is, the first where Finn wasn’t trying to make up his own rules or rake all of the game pieces into a pile.

The game of choice was Zingo. Kind of like Bingo except with little pictures on each square of the game card. A little gadget deals the game pieces two at a time. If you see one that matches an image on your card you have to grab it before another player does. The first player to fill up their card wins.

When we began, I wondered what Finn’s reaction would be if he lost, and, like most other parents, I considered trying to slant the game in his favor.

I didn’t get far with that thought before I saw a little competitive being emerge with quick hands and the singular goal of domination. He won the first round but didn’t seem the least bit fazed when he lost the next one. He even seemed happy when Erin and I were winning, making sure we each got all the right game pieces. His enjoyment seemed to come from trying to guess whose card was going to fill up first. I loved seeing his easy going spirit and found myself wishing he could somehow hold on to this healthy view of competition forever.

I thought back through my own childhood experiences of competition, some good, some not so good. There was a brief disastrous career in little league but more positive experiences in elementary and junior high football.

I thought about how competition influences so much of our culture to the point where we perceive it to be in places it isn’t. We fall into the trap of comparing ourselves to people who seem to have it all together and then act as if someone is keeping a tally on how we measure up. I’ve heard so many parents say they have felt in competition with other parents at the play ground or in social situations. The art world presents it’s own challenges. When I’m in a venue with other artists, as different as we all may be, it’s difficult not to compare myself to someone who’s more successful.

Recent studies say that competition is not innate in humans as previously thought. Our nature is to be cooperative, or help each other. Even animals that prey on each other create networks where they peacefully co-exist most of the time.

How would life change if we no longer viewed our accomplished peers as competitors but rather as influencers spurring us on to develop our own best gifts? And what if we found ways to reach out to those who look up to us?

It may not solve the all the problems in the world but when we allow someone to excel without feeling personally diminished we’re allowing ourselves to shine as well.

Competition in itself may always be challenging, but family game night is a keeper.

Now!

If there is one thing children are on earth to do it’s to continuously challenge our concept of time.

After all, it isn’t natural this business of numbering the months, days, hours, and minutes.

Finn’s natural tendency is to explore the moment until it has reached it’s natural end before moving on to the next thing.

“We’re late!” I kept saying one recent morning on the way out the door. “Please get your boots on!” 

“Ok, as soon as I shoot the bear,” he said, running back inside to fire his lego missile one last time.

I’m past giving him the speech about why you wouldn’t want to shoot a bear because he always responds, “It’s just pretend Dadoo.”

Instead I said, “Do you know what late means?” 

“No, what?” he said. “It means we’re supposed to be somewhere else right now,” I said. “But I have to do this now,” he said randomly picking up a stick to delay getting in the car a few more seconds.

I myself have lateness in my bones. (Just ask my editor.) Also being a night owl has never helped the situation much. From my earliest memories my dear mother often wrangled my other five siblings into the car only to find me still in my pajamas. When we had to get up at 4:30am to milk cows my oldest brother once pulled my mattress off the bed and threw it down the stairs to keep me from crawling back in. And in high school my dad employed the torturous device of uncovering my feet and slowly pulling me off the bed. I was still late most of the time and sometimes ended up walking to school. Uphill both ways.

I had hoped Finn would get Erin’s prompt and early gene, but the signs are looking otherwise. He likes to take his time. Start a few minutes earlier and he’ll take a little more time. He’s the embodiment of ‘there’s no time like the present.’

When we received a couple of Christmas cards the other day he wanted me to read them out loud. One said, “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” “What is a new year?” he said. I made a feeble attempt at naming all the months. “But is it new?” he interrupted. I thought about it. “Not really,” I said” “Is it right now?” he said. “No.” I said. Then he abruptly changed the subject. If it isn’t now, it must not be important.

If we weren’t already caught up in the construct of time that would be easier to remember. But since I’m not a zen master or a monk I’ve got the next best thing, a little being who naturally brings me back to the now. As long as I pay attention, which is a task in itself. And if we pay attention together maybe we’ll fully appreciate the moment, learn what it has to teach us, then get in the car so we won’t be late.

Heirlooms

A few nights ago during after-dinner conversation with friends, Erin was poking fun at things that I have held onto over the years.

Two manual typewriters, a small film projector, and a couple of vintage sewing machines usually get honorable mention during these discussions.

If it goes on long enough, my box of childhood toys will come up.

On this night it was books she’d noticed while rearranging the shelves. She pulled out a few to show our friends.

Invitation to a Royal Wedding of Charles and Diana got a pretty good laugh.

Then some papers fell out of it onto the floor.

They were things from my early childhood that I had forgotten about and for a moment I was baffled at how they ended up there.

Then I remembered one weekend in the basement at my parents house, searching for something with my Dad in his old metal filing cabinet that he’s been feeding with papers and clippings since I can remember.

In our search for whatever was so important, I saw a few of my childhood drawings sticking out of a folder. Thumbing through them, I found a letter that I wrote to Santa when I was around five or six.

I still don’t know how that got in there because I distinctly remember putting a stamp on it and my Mom saying she would mail it.

I took the letter and several of my favorite drawings and tucked them into a nice big hard cover book I knew I would never get rid of. Invitation to a Royal Wedding.

And here the letter was for a fresh reading.

The Motorized Monsters Set, I have no recollection of wanting. I got the Hot Wheels race set, and the cowboy suit. The Smokey the Bear I still have in a box. He’s missing his hat, one eye and a great deal of his fur.

On Sunday Finn abruptly announced out of nowhere that he wanted a bike with a bell on it from Santa.

“Ok” we said. “Do you want to write him a letter?” “Oh...let’s just call him,“ he said

“You want to FaceTime Santa?” I said. “No...Actually,” he said, “I want to write Mrs. Claus.” “Really?” said Erin “Why is that?”

“Then she could tell Santa to send me the bike,” he said.

Clearly he’s picked up on the most likely chain of command.

He’s getting close to the age I was when I wrote that letter. And I can’t shield him from the disappointments that are bound to happen from not getting everything on his list some years.

I know it will happen. Just like the chemistry set that Santa wisely omitted from my list when I was six. Or the chimpanzee I wanted so desperately.

But hopefully there will be something like Smokey the Bear that he’ll remember cuddling and torturing and doctoring that will some day earn a place of honor in a very nice shoe box.

Next to two old typewriters and a vintage sewing machine.

Transition

On a hike with friends this past week a strange being inhabited my child, replacing the slightly awkward son of a few short months ago.

We live close to a trail that leads to a beautiful water fall. 

The fifteen minute trek requires scrambling over some rocks and boulders. It was impossible for us to do the full hike when we first moved here. We couldn’t get past the main entrance. 

Sticks and colorful bits of broken glass held more fascination for Finn.

Subsequent hikes have taken us to the bottom of the falls but not without plenty of detours and a long piggy back ride home. If we want real exercise we usually go separately.

Erin had colleagues over so she wanted us all to hike to the top of the falls before dinner. 

I thought that was ambitious for Finn, but Erin had recently done it herself so I trusted her motherly instinct.

We had both noticed Finn’s recent growth spurt, preceded by increased food intake and several added hours of sleep. And just that morning at breakfast he looked so tall in his chair I had to check to make sure he wasn’t sitting on a book. I wished I had taken his picture before bedtime just to compare.

I almost expect to wake up some morning and find a teenager sitting there. I’ve been told that actually happens.

When we reached the trail head he whizzed right through and was running well ahead of us all. That was a first for him. I thought he was just showing off in front of company. But then when we were crossing the stream he fought for me to release his hand and away he went balancing himself. Then he scuttled up the the mountain almost as easily as the rest of us.

Time lapse videos of kids have almost become cliche these days but I’m especially fond of the short film by Frans Hofmeester who captured his 12 year old daughter in front of the same backdrop for a few seconds every week from infancy. And then of course there’s the film Boyhood, which had Erin sobbing during the opening credits.

I had the thought of wanting to capture and stretch this moment out. “Slow down” I echoed several times throughout the hike as he hopped from one rock to another with skill I hadn’t seen before. But even film can’t quite capture these transitions that seem now more abrupt than the changing seasons.

On the way back down the mountain there was a slip and a scrape, a brief cry that required a hug of comfort before he said “I’m ok” and then he was on his way again. There was indeed a piggy back ride but much shorter this time.

Walking home through the woods Erin lifted her hands in the air, feeling the gentle shower of yellow and orange leaves falling from the trees. “It’s so beautiful,” she said “But just a little sad too.”

Superhero Sessions

In the midst of a marathon Batman/Spiderman play session Finn suddenly realized that he wasn’t wearing any pants.

“Batman!!! Where are my red pants?!“ he yelled.

I couldn’t help but for a moment imagine that line being in one of the Batman or Spiderman movies, and what might have led up to it.

“I don’t know, Spiderman!” I replied “I think they’re in the laundry! Have you thought of using your red shorts?”

“Yes, yes I’ll use those!” he said “Thank you Batman!”

Finn is constantly breaking new ground in the superhero world. He can be fighting crime one moment and completely domestic the next. We have been hiking, had lunch, tea time, and even been grocery shopping all while in character. He changes “costumes” about five times a day. And when he’s in character, it has to be his decision when to break it. We have had melt downs in the supermarket because we spoke to him as Finn and not the character he was playing.

He’s not always a superhero. He enjoys being knights, monsters, aliens with fifteen syllable names, construction workers and of course firemen.

The most entertaining part is the costume assembly. He pulls bits and pieces from his own closet and ours, and not always what you would expect for the character’s clothing. He’s fond of a particular grey sweater of Erin’s when he’s playing a knight because it looks like the protective chain mail he has seen in medieval illustrations. His Daniel Tiger costume is a red sweater vest and then he wears nothing from the waist down because “Daniel doesn’t wear any pants”

When we’re playing together I try to be completely committed to my roles. If my acting is too good he’ll stop and say, “You’re just kidding right?” Or if I seem just a little too frightened of his monster, he’ll take off his mask and say “It’s ok Daddoo. Look it’s just me. Finn!”

Several times a day he plays on his own and he’s usually ‘in it to win it’. I watch him and remember vividly what it was like to be lost in play, what a gift that is and how hard it is to do that as an adult. I do get lost in my art often, but rarely with a sense of abandonment.

I finally understand those moments as a kid when I would catch my Mom just staring at me. Thinking she was trying to catch me at something, but then she would just smile. I know that my gift is getting lost in observing him.

Soon enough he wants to pick up where we left off. “Oh. Hi batman.” he says “Do you want to play with me?” “I would love to.” I say. “Ok “ he says “but first I have to go to the potty. Can you come wipe my bottom when I’m done?” “Of course I can Spiderman!” I say enthusiastically. “No Daddoo.” he says “It’s just me. Finn.” Of course it is. Silly Batman.

The Extra Twenty

When Erin and I decided nearly five years ago to have a child, my first thought was of having the physical energy to do so.

I saw my former high school classmates on Facebook becoming empty nesters and grandparents. I was embarking on territory where I had no peers to look to for advice.

I had a brief conversation with a friend who was several years my senior. He had become a father for the first time three years earlier. I told him we were thinking about it and he said nothing. He just stared with his mouth open, seeming at a loss for words.

Moments passed and I heard air escape as if he thought, “If I just let some breath out maybe the right words will follow.” Finally he said through a forced smile, “It’s just so expensive.”

Yes. Well there is that too. But having grown up in a large and sometimes poor family I knew that a child could be happy with very little.

There is the school of thought that if one can be discouraged from doing something, then it wasn’t meant to be in the first place.

We began ‘trying’ at the beginning of the year. Our first ultrasound was a few months later. The heartbeat was so strong that even the technician jumped. As a father-to-be, I heard the sound of child who was ready for this world and stopping for no one. My thoughts turned again to being able to keep up with my child.

“You don’t wanna wait till you’re too old to play catch with them!” was a comment rattling around in my head.

By chance or maybe by design, we were invited to dinner along with another couple. They were becoming empty nesters, but I soon discovered they’d had their child at the same age we were embarking on our journey.

I voiced my fears. The father calmly said, “What you lack in energy you will more than compensate with the extra twenty years of life experience.”

That extra twenty years gave me time to realize that I don’t remember ever playing catch with my dad. But he gave me much, much more to get through life. I realized that my happiest moments from childhood had common denominators. They were moments free of expectations that included the presence of one or both of my parents.

As an artist I worried there would be no time for my work. Not in the way I was used to anyway. That, I was right about. My way of working would never be the same again. But neither would anything else. Work, sleep and socializing would all morph rapidly into a form I wouldn’t have recognized or imagined five years ago.

But the pay off. Ah yes, the payoff. It’s the joy of sharing fleeting moments free of expectation with a boy who shoots out of bed every morning like a rocket, ready for this world and stopping for no one.

Immortalized

When I was around nine or ten I remember working furiously on the portrait of a celebrity.

I was lost in my work until one my siblings happened by. 

“Who is THAT?” they said.

“Farrah Fawcett,” I replied.

“WHAT?! That doesn’t look ANYTHING like her!”

I responded, “I appreciate your candor, loved one. This work is in its early stages. I would be most grateful if you reserved judgement for the final rendering.”

Or… I may have torn it up.

It was one of those responses. Hard to remember, really.

I have had a fear of portraits as I suppose many artists do. 

The likeness thing is tricky. You think you have it one minute then you erase something by mistake. Four hours later it starts to look like one of the Simpsons.

Do something everyday that scares you is a piece of advice included in many ‘How to Live Your Life’ lists floating around on the internet.

When I started working on a portrait of Finn, I felt I was checking that off the list. 

Though I have to admit it lessened when Finn happened by and commented,
“Hey Daddoo that’s me! What am I doing in there?”

If I needed a litmus test that was it.

A friend recently visiting my studio commented, “He’s immortalized now.”

Which got me thinking......

We use that word when referring to someone preserved in art,
but less often when referring to eternalized fears or thought patterns we immortalize in our head.

In a way the creation of one (the art) became the undoing or de-immortalization of the other (the fear).

Maybe by doing this I de-immortalized the fear of it.

At least for the time being.

I don’t know. How many portraits does it take to unscrew a light bulb?

Witness

Finn sat through his first wedding this weekend.

Mostly silent except for a few, loudly whispered questions.

“Why are they getting married?”
“Why is that man talking so loud?” (the minister)

It was the first family event we’ve attended in a while that I haven’t spent most of the time chasing after him.

However towards the end of the reception he was beginning to show the effects of a long drive and inadequate napping.

He was done.

We retreated to the car while Erin made the rounds to say goodbye.

While Finn snuggled in his car seat, I checked my phone for calls or emails.

Then I got on Facebook.

For all the flack that Facebook receives there is an occasional gem to be found.

After I deleted the sixteen invitations to play candy crush, I sifted through some rants, political postings and a comment section that read like dialogue from “The Real Housewives.”

I took a moment to get over the fact that everyones lives looked more successful than mine.

Then I saw it in the news feed.

A day of life events.

Other weddings, graduations (Congratulations, Jordan!), births and career changes.

All people who had no connection to each other except for the fact that I spent some time with them at some point in my life.

When I see unrelated people in different parts of the world experiencing life changes on the same day, it makes me smile.

A little reminder that we’re connected to a mass of humans experiencing life together on separate journeys. Sometimes as a participant, other times as a witness.

And a reminder that both roles are important.

While I know the world is synchronistic, it’s great to get a reminder from an unexpected source. 

It somehow made the beautiful wedding of Wyatt and Stephanie even more special.