Tagged: children
The Morning Paper
Beginning the previous night during a skype session with grandma and pops, little H- manifested a year old Lego instruction guide previously hidden in the depths of her room. Naturally, the pamphlet was equal part instructions and advertisements. As her birthday was rapidly approaching, H- was sure to make her requests for new Lego sets earnestly.
The following morning, her dad placed her bowl of milk-less Cinnamon Toast Crunch in front of her, remembering the spoon and everything this time. He then began to fix himself a bowl and saw she was again engaged by this Lego pamphlet.
“What are you doing, H-?” he asked.
“I’m reading the newspaper,” she answered nonchalantly.
“Who reads the newspaper anymore?” he questioned out loud, looking to challenge the lass.
“Grandma and pops,” she replied, unphased.
“Oh,” he muttered. It was true. The Kansas City Star still made it onto the grandparents’ kitchen table every day. “So, what’s going on? Anything important?”
“Well,” H- began with a breath, “it looks like they’re building something.”
Why I Am Glad I Went To Church On Easter Sunday
All she did was remove her daughter’s jacket. Her adult daughter. Her daughter that normally attended the mega-church, but was either guilted into joining her parents at their church or she possibly understood the importance of going with them this one Sunday each year.
It wasn’t really that warm on the sunny Easter morning, but the building’s south facing stained glass definitely did little to shield her from the sun’s heat.
At eleven thirty the service had been going now for an hour and yet there were at least ninety more minutes to go. All this is to say that I can’t put it beyond the young woman that her decision to remove the jacket at that precise moment had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with an attempt to increase her busy-ness and thereby make the time go by faster. In any case, it was her mom’s action that caused my attention to remain on the movement taking place on the padded pew in front of me.
Her mom brought nothing less than a mother’s tender, loving care to the moment–and a whole lot more. Her fingers, as they brushed her hand, her fingers lingered. And in that infinite instant lay an entire childhood. In that instant, I saw the reason to grab her hand every time she reaches up for mine, the reason to hug her body every time she opens her arms, the reason to kiss her cheek every time she is about to walk away, the reason to pick her up every dinnertime, the reason to rub her back every bedtime, the reason to never put whatever passing chores life presents ahead of touching her. That instant showed those with eyes to see the inescapable truth. It is its temporary nature that bestows upon touch its insurmountable value.
Pooches
“I want macaroni and cheese,” H- said as the waitress held out her pad. She smiled at the girl’s boldness.
Then addressing the little girl’s dad, the waitress clarified, “It’s not Kraft macaroni and cheese, but our own homemade version. It has a heavy cheese sauce-”
“I love homemade macaroni and cheese,” H- interrupted.
Again, the waitress smiled. As did the dad.
“I need a few more minutes,” he said, “but you can bring hers out whenever.”
“Okay.”
Minutes elapsed as H- and her dad partook in their respective lunches during spring break.
H- broke the silence and smartly volunteered, “I should eat all my macaroni and cheese before the strawberries, right?”
Smiling, her dad answered, “Right.”
A few more minutes of diligence on H-‘s part passed.
“You really should eat more, H-.”
“Eat? Look at my tummy. It’s so full,” she began, attempting to stick her non-existent belly out. Then, as if realizing she may be her own worst enemy, she added with determined eyes, “But not too full for dessert.”
“It’s not even big, H-,” he answered, rolling his eyes at the four year old’s endeavor.
“Do you know what a pooch is, Daddy?”
He didn’t want to let her see his shock at her question, so he delicately, though quickly, shifted his eyes from hers to something a few inches away. “Pooch?” he thought. “Why does my daughter know what a pooch is? What moron–no, what mother fucker is using the word pooch around little girls? As if little girls don’t have enough bullshit to worry about in this world, some knucklehead is even now ruining their already set-up-for-failure image innocence. Never again will I let her out of my sight-”
“It’s a dog!”
He turned. Relief? Alleviation, perhaps? Mitigation? Easement? None of these words capture the feeling this answer gave him.
“Maybe the world’s not such a terrible place,” he thought.
eIfYouHaveADogYouDon’tActuallyWantAManSoGetOffTheSite-ony
Ahhh! I can’t believe I’m admitting this. I know, I know. This one is going to ruffle a few feathers. Oh well. Get over it.
To begin, my eHarmony profile reveal for today: The First Thing People Notice About Me…
I usually wear glasses with large white frames, and that my mom made me
wear braces as a child.
Isn’t that clever? Not the white glasses part (that’s just honest), but the part about good teeth. And why do people notice good teeth? Because I’m smiling a lot. Layers.
I’d date me. Apparently I’m the only one. It’s been one month of membership and not a single date.
As a reminder, eHarmony sends 10 matches and 30 more “what ifs” for your consideration each day. The matches are supposed to be just that, people who fit your criteria/settings. The “what ifs” are people that you might be a match if it wasn’t for little things like location. I haven’t had a proper “match” since day one. Even the “matches” that they tell me are matches are just “what ifs” that somehow are presented as “matches.” But they’re not matches. They all say, “So-and-so is a great match who just happens to be outside of your settings.” (To be clear–eHarmony is a crock of shit, don’t waste your money fellas.) My “what ifs” live in Oklahoma, Utah, Texas, Kansas, Arizona, Montana, Wyoming and Idaho, which I believe are all states not in or around Denver.
As with all of life’s trials and tribulations, however, I know the fault is my own. You see, one of my criteria (I don’t think it’s listed anywhere) is I don’t date women with dogs. (Or cats, but cats is due to allergies.) Why not? Because my ex left me with the $1200 dog that only she wanted in the first place, and so I was the one who got to hear H- say, “Where’d my dog go?” as we walked from the dumb friends league foyer to our car without it. Because I couldn’t stand watching the next woman I dated rearrange the furniture daily for her dog. Because I will never understand why anyone would live their life on a twelve hour leash to an animal. Because the woman I dated after her had two little shits that of course weren’t shits to her, but they were and I was supposed to be fine with them joining us on the couch. Well, I wasn’t. They’re animals. And it’s not cute or acceptable that they jump on people. Moreover, it’s maddening to watch dog owners repeat the same silly behavior endlessly as if they are in control.
But more than that, I don’t date women with dogs because they invariably and inexplicably choose the animal over the human. When given the proposition “man or dog,” they choose the dog. And that’s just wrong. “I know I never got around to having kids like I wanted, but I did get to carry little bags of warm shit every day. I mean that’s something.” Right.
As if there wasn’t enough to sift through during a relationship between adult humans, I am supposed to be fine with ten more years of your dogs jumping on me every time I come over? Fine with watching you push them down only to notice they snagged your clothing and that you now have to change outfits? Ten more years of your dogs waking us up because they have to pee even when we could have slept in? Not to mention that your car is filthy and smells. And don’t even get me started on the actual dollar amount involved in owning a dog.
I just can’t deal with the fact that such an invasive, intrusive part of a single woman’s life is something she advertises like it’s no big thing, or worse, like it’s attractive in her profile–sometimes in multiple forms. From pictures to “what I’m passionate about” to “things I can’t live without” dogs are everywhere. Go, Dog. Go!
I know, I know. Women are not wrong for liking dogs, they’re just not for me. That doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating. So I wrote about it.
The Crumby Face
“Type daddy, type!” H- said.
The pair was finishing up breakfast. That is to say he was finished and had moved on to the laptop and she was diligently using her fork’s four tips to scrape up every last bit of cinnamon roll frosting from his plate, having already completed the chore on hers.
He looked towards her, tapped his skull, and smiled as he said, “I’m thinking of ideas.”
“I’m going to count in my head,” she responded naturally.
“Nice, H-. Do that,” he said, returning to the laptop.
A moment passed before she announced, “Daddy, I’m thinking of ideas,” and in doing so chased away one of his.
He turned.
“Oh yeah?”
He wanted to get frustrated, but a dab of icing and an abnormally large chunk of the roll prevented any emotion from surfacing save head-shaking disbelief.
She hadn’t spilled in ages. She used adult size silverware. She dressed herself, sometimes even expressing gratitude when seeing that what he laid out for her matched. She could lift the piano key lid and make her own music for thirty seconds at a time before tiring. And despite answering, “The dragon talks?” when asked how she liked her dad’s Smaug-turned-Bane stylings, she could even call out sight words as she struggled to get comfortable atop him at bedtime.
But when it came to actually fitting food in her mouth, the battle was lost.
He began a careful examination of the data with high hopes of determining she wasn’t at fault. As she returned his stare, shadows shed light on the explanation. He swung round for a profile view. She matched him.
“Hold still H-,” he excitedly requested. Then he happily declared, “Yep, that’s the problem.”
I mean, could you keep food off of your cheeks if they stuck out farther than your lips?
The Importance of Loss
Back to the good stuff, if I do say so myself.
I don’t take advice on life from my younger brother. Actually, I don’t take it from any immediate family members.
When we discuss life, we mostly just fight. All parties are to blame, of course, but when pitted against my younger brother I’m always ready to accept more blame because I’m older and should know better, the theory goes. Amidst our current unpleasantness I have been thinking about why I never listen to him. This naturally led to me contemplating how I decide to ever listen to anyone. In other words, which criteria do I use to seriously consider another person’s invariably well-meaning advice? As always, I’m curious to read how others would answer this question too.
For me, however, it boils down to loss. The more loss a person has experienced, the more I listen. If a person has experienced less loss than me, then I don’t listen. After all, what do they know?
So mom and dad, brother and sister, I hear you, but your life choices haven’t resulted in much loss according to my all-seeing eye. Sorry. If I’m missing something, please share. At this point, what do you have to lose?
Loss is important to me because it demonstrates risk. Taking risks demonstrates belief, which demonstrates passion, which, in turn, demonstrates that you are alive. At least this is how I see things. I’m not prescribing this to you. I just want you to know this is how I am. I don’t mean any disrespect. We’re just different. I live the inverse of: “You won’t fail if you don’t try.”
Actually, come to think of it, since I hold the “lost most” card, I do want to prescribe this way of life to the four of you. Live a little. All four of you play it too safe.
Now, I know at least mom is rolling her eyes and asking “Why should I listen to him again?” “What’s he lost?” I’ve lost half of H-‘s childhood. Half. How’d I lose it? By passionately rushing into a marriage that K- and I should’ve seen wasn’t ever going to work. And let me be clear: It is no good that neither K- nor I can ever get back the time lost because of our decision–no good at all. But the flip side to that coin is we each get half of H-‘s childhood. And we would’ve never got any of it if we would’ve played it safe. And without H-, well, we’d all be worse off. You know that’s a fact.
I just smiled after writing that. Because it’s true. I’m actually excited now. (I love writing.) So until you convince me that you’ve lost as much, I’m not taking your advice to play it safe. I’m not going to pad the walls by considering all the outcomes or what strangers or relatives will think. I’m just going to keep doing what I’m going to do–and do it better. Forever. So there.
Life Alone
Diary style again…apologies.
Eudaimonia. Two years ago a professor wrote the word on the chalkboard in both Jesus-fish style Greek and the more familiar alphabet version. It had been a long time since someone had impressed me. Suffice it to say he had my attention. It means to flourish. Two years later almost to the day, today, I can’t help but wonder if anyone knows what it means to flourish.
Robert William Case, friend and author of Icarus and the Wingbuilder, does. But he’s already married. Actually, I could go on and on naming folks I know, 60+ years old, who demonstrate an understanding of eudaimonia daily.
But I want to find someone who understands it, is under thirty and, here’s the kicker, female. Does she exist? Because, unlike say Batman, God, or Rainbow Dash, this is a person that I don’t even think I’ve heard of existing.
By way of example, as I’ve mentioned before, I play the piano. Both the instrument and the piano. Yep, I don’t pass by opportunities to confess that I have the greatest one. Anyhow, once, after playing for an older lady friend, she flattered, “Oh Pete, you’d be wasted on a younger woman.” Oh boy. It’s a good thing I was sitting. But was she right? Most of the time I think so. And then when I discover not many young people can even play an instrument (one small attractive quality), let alone enjoy playing one (eudaimonia alert!), I reach a consensus.
One of the many reasons I left my last job was because I hadn’t been on a date since beginning it. The schedule was just too crazy. It’s been months now of not having any crazy schedule, of establishing some social patterns, of trying to meet new people, and still no change. When do I get to give up? Because this notion that there is hope is getting very old.
Dreams Comes True
“Does anyone know who this man is?” asked the teacher with a playful smile. The question proved her worth on many levels. One of the two women in charge of the small class of four and five year old pre-kindergartners, she was about the only diversity these white youngsters ever experienced. And on this occasion her husband, also black, came to the classroom on some errand still wearing his business attire. He towered a healthy six foot two over the seated suburbanites-in-training.
The children shook their heads, revealing that they did not have a clue who the man was.
“M-? Is this your dad?” she joked again at poor M-‘s expense.
M- opened her eyes wide, shook her head in the horizontal plane and verbalized, “No.”
“So no one knows who this man is?” the teacher egged on one last time.
Finally, a beacon of light. Of all children, it was the daughter of Pete Deakon himself–writer of should-be-world-renowned blog post Black People Does Not Exist and self-proclaimed leader of the twenty-first century Renewed Effort to Stop Self-Segregation Movement in America (Denver its origins)–it was his little girl, the beloved H-, that fearlessly raised her hand and said, “I know who he is.”
Naturally, other children began to follow their new leader and place their hands in the air, indicating that they too had come to recognize the man.
Quieting down the kids, the teacher asked, “H-, you know who this man is?”
“He’s Martin Luther King!”
There are instances, as rare as double rainbows and three wolf moons, where the lines between our concept of pure joy and the reality of it blur. This is one of them. Take a moment, then, and join me in both picturing and experiencing the delight of the adults present in that classroom last week.
The man did not disappoint, by the way. He looked down at H- and declared, “I do have a dream.”
To Touch or Not To Touch
“And how old are you, Daddy?” H- asked for the third time.
“I thought I told you earlier today, H-, I’m thirty-three,” he said.
“Well, I’m four and a half,” she responded. “When I’m thirty-three, how old will you be?”
Taking longer than he’d like to admit, he finally concluded, “I’ll be fifty-two. No, wait, sixty-two.”
“And when I’m sixty-two, how old will you be?”
“Hmm, I’ll be,” he paused to do the math again. “I’ll be ninety-one.”
“And when I’m ninety-one, how old will you be?”
“Well, I probably won’t be around,” he said, figuring she mentioned death enough while playing with her stuffed animals that she’d get the point.
“Where will you be?” she asked with a look of simple confusion.
“Never mind. You’ll have your own kids and they’ll have kids and they’ll have kids when you’re ninety-one.”
“I’ll have kids?”
“Probably.”
“Like one?”
“As many as you want.”
“Two hundred and,” she paused, “nineteen.”
He laughed.
“Sure, H-, you can have two hundred nineteen kids.”
“But then my belly will explode!” she said with a giggle.
“Well, not all two hundred nineteen will be in there at once.”
“I think I’ll have two kids,” she said, revising her desire drastically.
Playing along, he said, “Okay. And sometimes two kids can fit together.”
“And they will not touch the stove,” she said, wagging her finger.
Looking at her and smiling, he thought, “And there it is. Seems I probably was too dramatic on that lesson last week after all. I’ve been wondering about that. Noted.”
Then he said aloud, “Yes, H-, they probably shouldn’t get in the habit of touching the stove.”
It’s Not
It’s not. I promise it’s not.
It’s not that a four year old was beating me in Memory.
It’s not.
It’s not that I was even trying a little bit because two losses in a row to a child in anything is embarrassing.
It’s not.
It’s not that she was teaching me how annoying my victorious mannerisms were as she copied them instantly and completely, saying, “Haha! I’m cleaning up!” when she saw that she was on the home stretch and knew she could not lose.
It’s not.
It’s that her body position, essentially half-standing, half-sitting so that she could easily pivot on her knee and reach any card that she desired, had resulted in her other leg’s pant leg being pulled up to near high-water-Frodo-Baggins-hobbit height and every time she moved her now protruding bare foot I could not but think of the emphasis Peter Jackson placed on those abnormally long, obnoxiously hairy feet as if they were the most difficult piece of trick photography in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. That’s what it was. That’s what annoyed me so. Promise.
Captain’s Log 