Tagged: children
On Breeding
Everyone knows that Mormons and Muslims make babies with world domination as their goal. But what about the rest of us? Why do we end up breeding?
If magazines with the word “journal” in their title are to be trusted, then there is at least one well-documented theory. We breed because we’re dumb. That came out wrong. The data doesn’t show that breeding is dumb, it shows that the less educated and lower paid we are, the more children we have. Want the same sentiment in a more positive tone? Try “children are the wealth of the poor.” Aww.
If we put stock in casual conversation, middle-class couples have children because they bought a dog a couple years earlier.
Back on the research front, we know that foreigners who are new to this country breed like bunnies, but that only lasts a few generations. By the third generation (statistics show) they only want one or two children. And those little guys probably won’t talk funny anymore anyhow. Yawn.
But these sweeping generalizations are only scratching the surface. I want specifics. I want to know how individuals make the choice. More than that, I want to know why this topic seems taboo to me? If I tell you that my parents told me that I was “unplanned”, it feels like they wouldn’t be happy that I’d shared that information because it makes them look “bad”. (For the record, I’m pretty sure that my older sister was the reason for the wedding, my younger brother was unplanned, and that I am a gift from God.)
It seems that in the past people had a lot of children because children meant workers, which meant wealth. Adam Smith (of 1776’s Wealth of Nations fame) wrote that a widow with a bunch of kids was very attractive to men back then. Seems like that couldn’t be further from the truth these days. And then in the past babies died a lot, too. So there’s that to take into account. Today, with not so many youngsters passing while on the trail, couples just don’t seem motivated to risk pregnancy’s dangers as much. Or some such reasoning.
And we can’t forget birth control’s far reaching consequences. How many people wouldn’t be alive today if latex was self-lubricating?
I’m curious how many of you have ever asked individuals why they had children? I have. Well, I’ve asked men. (Where are you ladies hiding again?) It’s shocking to me. Tied for the number one reasons are “it felt too good to pull out” and “We(/I) were drunk.”
Never experiencing it myself, sadly, according to locker room tales I’ve heard that some women have an ability to really make mixing the baby batter together seem desirable as the last of the sweat forms. And I know a few fellas who have described their primal finish to be the same as how a shark’s eyes roll back when they go for the kill. Where do these men and women learn this behavior? Maybe it’s genetic?
It feels weak to admit that I want more children. I think that’s because if I admit it, and then don’t have anymore, it will be known that I have an unfulfilled desire in my life.
Why did I do my part to create H-, you ask? Because it was what married couples do. It was time. You know, the dog thing.
Why do I want more children? Because when we were camping the other night and alone in the tent I awoke to the sound of her giggling while in a dream. I just pictured her brain creating fantasy images of her stuffed Twilight Sparkle tumbling through the air; no on a rainbow! Yeah, Twilight Sparkle would likely be around a rainbow or two. Maybe Pingu was there too. And then, later that night, as I started shuffling around to see a man about a tree, H- wakes up and says, “Daddy, if you’re ever scared-” pause “-if you ever need anything, I’ll be there for you.” Good to know. And I hope so H-.
Mel Gibson was in a movie about depression called, “The Beaver”, a few years back. One of the previews on the DVD was for a movie centered around immigration whose title I can’t remember. But in the trailer there was a scene where a teenage son asked his father why he ever had him. The father said, “To give life meaning.” I’m with that dad. What else gives life meaning? Work? My passion? Writing? Spreading the gospel? No, when all is said and done, life is about people. That’s why we keep creating them.
I Cried At Work Yesterday
Dear H-,
I’ve been wanting to write to you directly for some time now, and finally an event at work caused me to put pen to paper. I don’t know how old you’ll be when you read this, but hopefully you’ll be old enough to understand it. If you don’t understand it, ask me or another adult about it.
The reason I decided to write to you today is that I wanted to tell you that I cried at work yesterday.
Now, I know you’ve seen me cry once, but you probably don’t remember it. And I’m sure you don’t remember why. I never saw my dad cry, but I have to believe that he did–at least once. Sometimes I think it would’ve been nice to have seen it with my own eyes as a boy. So in case you never see me cry again, I’m telling you now that I cry.
I cried yesterday because I found out that a guy who works for the same company as me was killed on the job, by the job. And in a separate incident, another guy was really badly injured and might die as well. As the group of us walked out of the noisily air conditioned trailer where we were handed this news and into the hot sun in order to get back to the dangerous work, I could only think of you. I could only think of how you look when you look at me, which is to say look up at me. Your chin sticks out; your eyes are at attention; your hair falls freely off the back of your head. You’re such a good listener. Well, it’s time to listen up again. Sad things happen in life. Really sad things. One of the appropriate responses to these sad things, even for dads, is to cry. But just because sad things happen doesn’t mean you stop living life. Sad things are a part of life–just like happy things and boring things. You have to move forward, move past them. Even though I was sad, I went back to work.
Okay. I think that’s it. I don’t have any big finale. I love you.
Pete
PS – I do have one more thing. You’re a beautiful girl H-, never doubt that.
Slow To Anger
“Clap now H-!” he said, clapping his own hands in the process.
She began to clap and asked, “Why daddy, why? What happened?”
“Our team did a good thing. And you clap when that happens,” he explained.
“The purple team?” she asked.
“Yes, the purple team. Remember, it’s like I said earlier. Just watch the crowd. When the people wearing purple clap, then you know it’s time to clap,” he reiterated, “but if you hear clapping and see people in red clapping–then don’t. They are the enemy.”
“Clap when the purple people are clapping?” H- asked.
“That’s right.”
The father-daughter duo found themselves amidst an afternoon ballgame’s cheering crowd. The team played in a city whose native residents prided themselves on their origins, and the nearly overwhelming amount of fans wearing red illustrated why. Seated next to the pair was one such Cardinal fan who was unafraid to sport that day’s evil color. And next to her sat a teenage daughter who was about to leave for college. This was learned from the bits and pieces of their conversation that could be heard over the PA announcer, H-‘s incessant demand to know when there would be some shade and/or dessert, and the roar of the crowd. This mother, then, was already nostalgic.
“How old is she-” she started to ask, addressing the man. His face wore raised eyebrows and wide eyes which he hoped would express some mix of “Why are you asking me?’ and “She’s not deaf'”, so the woman turned to the little girl. Re-starting, she asked, “How old are you?”
“Four,” H- answered politely.
“And what’s your name?”
“H-,” answered the girl who then had to clarify upon the mother needing help with the slightly uncommon name. “What’s your name?” H- asked in kind.
“B-,” the woman answered.
“B-?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What’s your last name?” H- asked, never straying from the divinely ordained interrogation method.
“Watts,” B- answered.
As if used to having to repeat herself, or perhaps simply aware that it was a noisy environment, H- repeated herself calmy, saying, “I said, ‘What’s your last name?'”
B- chuckled at this unforeseen development while shrugging as she looked back at another similarly stationed mother who was seated one row up with her teen and was intently listening in on the interaction. As B- answered H- again with “Watts”, her sunglasses did little to hide her sharpened determination to speak clearly.
It was only after the three of them–father, B-, and the mother from the row above–saw H-‘s perfect expression of almost-frustration as she was about to complete the question for the third time that the problem became clear to everyone but H-.
“H-,” the father asserted, now laughing and shaking his head. (So focused was H- on learning B-‘s surname that this interrupting voice and calming touch on the shoulder could be seen to startle her.) Nonetheless, the man continued, “She’s not asking ‘What?’ She’s saying her last name. Her last name is the word ‘Watts’. Watts.”
“Watts?” H- questioned.
“Yes. Watts,” he answered.
“But we don’t clap when she claps, because she’s wearing red,” H- said.
“That’s right. She’s the enemy,” he said, smiling proudly.
Eating Cereal Quietly
“So, George, remind me again what you were telling me last night?” Pete asked upon returning to the kitchen after setting H- up with cereal. “Other things I was doing at the time caused me to miss the significance of the meeting being one-on-one, but I think I get it now. You said you had a one-on-one meeting with your boss and that he asked for your opinion on how your performance should be measured.”
“That’s right. I asked him if he wanted to know how I thought I should be measured, or if he wanted to know how I thought I was being measured.”
“Which was it?”
“He said he wanted to know how I thought I should be measured.”
“And you said that you think your performance should be measured on the quality of your work, but he said that he was going to measure you on the duration of your work?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus,” Pete responded in disbelief, “that’s totally inverse. The goal should always be to get more done in less time–not just to work longer.”
“Pete–I know.”
“So what happened next?”
“He told me that to achieve an excellent on my review next time that I will need to work nights and weekends.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him that I wouldn’t be aiming for an excellent then.”
“Ha.”
George opened the door to leave for work and paused, saying, “You don’t know how close I was to asking him, ‘Do you want to be a soul crusher?'”
“Ha.”
As always, the crack of the wooden blinds against the door signaled George was off to work. Pete then turned to H- who was all the while quietly finishing her cereal.
“Are you a soul crusher H-?” he asked her, using extended, slightly squinted eye-contact to signal playfulness. “I know I don’t want to be a soul crusher. I want to be a soul creator, a soul grower,” he reported, increasing the melodrama with the repetition in an effort to summon a response from the speechless little girl.
With her familiar, lovable earnestness and attentiveness H- responded, “I’m still growing.”
How ‘Bout?
A strict father, though one who exercised a parent’s hypocritical initiative frequently, he never let her watch television. And his list of approved-for-her movies included only three titles: Holiday Inn, White Christmas, and The Lego Movie. She fell asleep during the first two, and, much to his chagrin, she lacked the context–not to mention the capacity for abstract thought–requisite to enjoy the third.
But every once in a while he would hear her say something that beckoned the playing of a song. Not just a song, but a music video. This evening was no different.
Instinctively these days, she knew to flip up the paper-thin seat cushion, so as to not ruin anything if she spilled, before assuming her oddly favorite eating position–one that had the left-half of her body sitting on the chair, while the right-half stood on the creaky hard-wood floor.
“You’re the greatest, daddy,” H- said, much to his delight. “You’re the greatest, not mom.”
“Hey!” he said firmly, not wasting time on a crescendo, “that’s not true H-. You’re mom’s the greatest, too. I’m the greatest dad, and she’s the greatest mom. Understand?”
“You’re the greatest dad and mom’s the greatest mom,” she recited.
“That reminds me of a song H-. Have I ever played R. Kelly’s “World’s Greatest” for you? The song he wrote about the boxer Muhammad Ali for the movie Ali?” he asked, making his way over to the laptop.
“World’s greatest?” she asked, in kind.
“Yeah. I didn’t think so. It’s a good one, just give me a sec to pull it up,” he said, trying to remember if the video contains anything a three year old shouldn’t see. “Okay. Here it is.”
“Is it the rainbow song?” she asked.
“No, it’s not the rainbow song,” he answered, chuckling as he tried to remember what past video had a rainbow in it.
Like most R. Kelley videos, there was a touch of a melodrama before the music began. Finally the music started. Memories and feeling flowed as Kelly sang, “I am a mountain. I am a tall tree, oh-oh-oh, I am a swift wind, sweeping the country.” Searching for any sign of understanding or enjoyment on her face, he couldn’t help but get caught up as the song built to the chorus. Soon he found himself singing along.
“If anybody acks you who I am, just stand up tall, look ’em in the face and say-ay-ay-ay-ay-ee: I’m that star up in the sky. I’m that mountain peak up high. Hey, I made it. Mmm. I’m the world’s greatest.”
“How ’bout-” she began.
“I know, I know, you want the rainbow song,” he interrupted, breaking from the song.
“How ’bout you not sing it, so I can hear it?” she finished.
“Oh,” he said, laughing. “I suppose I can try.”
The “77% the Height of Adults” Myth About Kids’ Size
Recently, the Wall Street Journal’s online edition published an opinion piece which discussed the questionable raison d’etre behind the little known “Equal Pay Day.” Only slightly less familiar to the general public is another “day” that has dubious origins.
Nearly a decade ago, April 14th, 2005 to be exact, the federal government acknowledged the plight of kids across the country by establishing “Equal Height Day”. Much like “Equal Pay Day”, “Equal Height Day” seeks to raise awareness for a specific social injustice–that kids are shorter than their adult counterparts–by adding a second title to the otherwise repetitious monikers (Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday) that help distinguish each complete rotation the Earth makes on its axis. Though left unsaid, it is clear that supporters of “Equal Height Day” are hoping to achieve a portion of the attention they receive on other dually designated days–notably “Christmas Day” and “My Birthday”. The trouble with the claim that kids are shorter than adults, however, comes when the supporting data is examined.
To begin, while it is easy to remember that each of us once had to tilt our head back to look at an adult’s face, we shouldn’t let nostalgic feelings affect the science of the problem. Kids–by definition–are still growing. Adults are done growing. Even if it were possible to measure each kid at precisely the same moment and compare the resultant median kid height to the median adult height, the data will have changed before the ink of the report dries, so to speak.
Next, it appears that instead of actually measuring a bunch of kids with a tape measure, the researchers simply went residence to residence and measured existing lines drawn by caring parents on kitchen walls. But everyone knows that kids use tip-toes when measured at home.
Lastly, and most deploringly, these very same researchers did not even measure the adults who took part in the study. Instead, they opted to simply ask the adults how tall they were.
This last decision should betray more about the supporters of “Equal Height Day” than just insufficient methods.
Only kids would believe that adults tell the truth.
Still Timeless
Happy that she chose waffles over doughnuts, he found himself preparing the batter when she called to him from the couch.
“Daddy, come lay with me. Don’t you want a little rest before breakfast?”
“H-, you know I’m cooking. If you wanted to lay, you should’ve said something earlier.”
“You’re cooking?”
“Yep. It’s almost done though,” he responded.
“Why you keep saying almost?” she asked.
“Do you know what “almost” means, H-?” he asked, genuinely curious about her response.
“Not done yet?” she answered, her voice betraying a modest level of hope.
“Sure. It means not done yet. But so would lots of words. How close does “almost” mean?”
“Fifteen?” she guessed.
His smile grew as her answer reverberated in his head.
Proudly, then, he cooed to himself, “She’s learning.”
Mac ‘n’ Cheese’s Home Date
“How’s your mac’n’cheese H-?”
“It’s far away,” she responded matter of factly.
“Huh? How’s your mac’n’cheese?”
“It’s far away. It’s in Townsville,” she said, finally elaborating.
“Wait what?” he asked, shaking his head. More curious than ever to discover where this would lead he again asked, “How’s your mac’n’cheese?”
“I told you daddy. It’s far away. It’s in Townsville. On May 10th. That’s my birthday,” she said, nodding her head while staring at the dish. Searching eyes exposed her thoughts more than words ever could. “How can I be more clear? I think I’m being clear,” she thought.
“Your mac’n’cheese is far away, in Townsville, which is on May 10th?” he asked, attempting for clarification.
“Yep,” she answered, delighted by his demonstration of understanding.
“Oooookay then.”
High Class
“Do we have cauliflower?” she asked after he mentioned broccoli.
“Nope, just broccoli,” he answered.
“Why don’t we have cauliflower?” she persisted.
“Because I didn’t buy any,” he said, not giving in.
After finishing her broccoli, she watched as he slid the grilled chicken on to her plate. Together now, they began to eat.
“Oh,” he interrupted, “did you want barbecue sauce?”
“Yes,” she said, “the new sauce.”
“I know, I know. You didn’t like the hot stuff.”
“Hot stuff?”
“Nevermind. Here’s your sauce. And here’s my sauce.”
To the sound of silverware squishing into chicken, they returned to the task at hand. Suddenly, she let out a shriek.
“What?” he asked, fearful that even the new sauce was too hot.
Spitting out the chicken, she replied, “I don’t like the roasted ones. That one’s roasted.”
“Huh?”
“See daddy? Roasted,” she said, pointing at the grill marks on the chicken.
“Oh. You don’t like the burnt part. Excuse me, the roasted part. Okay, you don’t have to eat it,” he allowed. “High class H-, you’re high class,” he thought, pride swelling.
Stump The Dummy
She was off in her corner, by her dollhouse and playing some such game of make believe. He figured there was a monster involved. There was always a monster.
“Ahhhh! A monster!” she said, running to where he was in the kitchen. “A monster daddy! Help! Help Strawberry Shortcake and Lemon Meringue! Help daddy!”
“You know I’m cooking H-. Can I help later?” he asked her.
“Okay,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “Can I look? Can I see what you’re cooking?”
“Sure- watch it, watch it! You’ll knock the utensil off the counter if you’re not careful,” he warned.
“Me tensil?” she asked.
“No, utensil,” he replied.
“Me tensil?” she pressed harder.
“Yoo-tensil,” he answered in kind.
“Me tensil?” she said with uncommon determination.
“No. Yoo-ten,” he stopped.
“Yoo-,” he stopped again.
“Yoo-,” he was embarrased.
“The spoon.”
Victory at last.
Captain’s Log 