Sad Peter Pan

David’s favorite character right now is Peter Pan. Or maybe it’s Captain Hook. It changes from one day to the next, but regardless of the specifics of the moment, the boys of Neverland have captured his imagination. One day he’s donning his pirate gear, and the next he’s challenging Hook (usually me or Nancy) to a swordfight.

It sounds so perfect: a little boy playing pirates with his parents in the backyard, his sister (equally taken with Tinkerbell) his devoted pixie sidekick.


But there’s a problem: I’m just not always that into it.

Don’t get me wrong. I love, love, love to watch them play. And I like to join in initially. But I find that my enthusiasm for playtime wears thin pretty quickly. I find myself, well, to be perfectly honest, a little bored and wishing I were just watching again.

I feel really awful about it, but am not sure what to do. I’ve tried to convince myself to simply be in the moment and enjoy the mayhem. And I do…for a while. But then someone gets too rough, and someone else cries. Or someone gets different ideas about how the game should be played, and someone else cries. Or they both get distracted and move on to another game, the rules of which I do not yet comprehend.

More likely, I just don't have the imagination to keep up. Luckily, Nancy does. Yesterday she helped them build a dinosaur habitat in the backyard, complete with pond and surrounding jungle. That wouldn't have (and didn't) occur to me as a possibility.


I heard about a new book by Michael Lewis, called Home Game: An Accidental Guide to Fatherhood, in which the author recounts his surprise at the gap between what he thinks he should be feeling about being a dad, and what he actually feels. It’s a gap I feel all too frequently and all too strongly sometimes. My own approach seems to vacillate wildly between patience and tyranny. I’m as inclined to bark “WHAT?” or "HEY, KNOCK IT OFF!" when Trinity screams “DAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDYYYYYYYYY” from the living room, as I am to simply get up from what I’m doing and say “What is it, honey? And please, in the future, just get up and find me.” (although I do the latter sometimes, too).

The bottom line is that I’m starting to worry that I’m not doing this right. Most of the people I know with small kids talk about them in terms like “blessing” and “joy.” And while I know that all of this is true, and that I do find extraordinary joy in my kids, I know also that I don’t always feel like joining in the fun. Sometimes, if only for a minute or two, I’m faking it.

Nancy and I talked about all of this last night. She asked what I remember about playing when I was little, and I couldn’t come up with much, though I know I played all the time, and had a damn good time doing it. Asked if I thought I could dial that feeling up again and just enjoy the exuberance of unbridled youth, I said I didn’t think I could. It just didn’t sound like me.

“Sounds like you grew up,” she said.

Damn.

But I hope they know that, no matter what, I love them with all my heart and will fight off any and all bad guys.

One, Two, Three Strikes...You're Out!

Summertime can really only mean one thing if you are a sports fan.

Sure, there’s the U.S. Open and Wimbledon. And now that the U.S. men’s team is winning, there’s World Cup soccer. But summer means baseball. Of course it does.

For old slugs like me, it has also come to mean recreational softball leagues. I played the last couple of years with a team comprised mostly of Mormons, called the “Fighting Pacifists.” Great name, but a mediocre team at best. We got our butts kicked a lot by teams from the Ballyhoo Tavern and the AC Delco plant, but we managed to hold our own some of the time, too. But we were also prone to needing to find players on short notice – hence the presence of this non-Mormon batting lead-off and playing 2B. There was also a group of students from China filling a good portion of the line-up, and when they left the area this year, the Pacifists folded.

Finding myself a man without a team, I decided to join the men’s senior baseball league here in Terre Haute. They have a 19+ league and a 38+ league. Since it’s been 25 years since I’ve faced live pitching, an since I grunt loudly now when I get up from just about any position, I decided to go with the 38+ league.

And so it came to be that I found myself playing SS for the 38+ Cardinals every Sunday.

Those of you who know me know that baseball is the one sport I was actually good at in my younger years. Sure, I could sink a basket and catch a pass as well, if not better, than most. But real honest to goodness competitive skill eluded me in every sport but baseball. It came naturally. My parents have films of me hitting a baseball around the yard with my tiny bat when I was 2 or 3. I could catch a ball early, and could throw a ball in the air and hit it by the time I was 5.

I used to dream of being a professional baseball player. My first memories of watching the pros were in Marshfield, MA, sitting in the basement of our house on Prince Circle watching the World Series (A’s vs. Reds, 1972) and watching Joe Rudi make one hell of a catch against the outfield wall. I tried to emulate him over and over by tossing a tennis ball in the air and leaping up against the white paneling, much to my parents’ annoyance, I’m sure. I also liked to play full games by myself in the backyard, tossing the ball in the air, hitting it and running the bases, all the while providing play-by-play and cheering as well (this latter element led to one of our neighbors thinking I had asthma).

When my brothers started to play little league, I wanted to be right there. I ended up being the bat boy on Steve’s team, the Cubs. I got to sit in the dugout and be around the big kids in their grey cotton uniforms. My fondest memory of that time was being given a chance to hit at the end of one of the team’s practices. I must have brought along my special small bat (I was an especially small kid) and I remember (perhaps incorrectly after all these years) the coach, Mr. Noyce, throwing me a slightly patronizing underhand pitch from about 15 feet away, and me hitting him in the knee with a line drive (a soft one, no doubt, but still, I was 6).

When we got to San Diego, and I turned 8, I finally got to play Little League. And I thrived. I just had it down. I could hit anything, strike out the side, pitch a complete game, play shortstop. And it stayed this way until I was about 13. And then the kids who were already bigger than me got even bigger, and I fell behind. I was overmatched and overpowered. I had my moments still; the talent was there, but the speed and strength just weren’t. I played all the way through high school – I always made the team, and even started – but I wasn’t the threat I had been as a young kid.

And then I went to college and it ended.

And now 25 years later it’s back, and I find myself having to think about strike zones and pitch counts, sitting fastball or curve, taking a pitch or swinging away, covering third on a bunt, and turning two. I’m happy to report that the glove – my real forte – is still there. My arm is weak from age, though, and my eye at the plate is taking its own sweet time coming back. I’ve been going to the batting cages regularly over the years, and I always crush the ball. But having a machine throw you strike after strike at a designated speed is not the same as having someone change speeds on you, brush you off the plate, or throw you a goddamned curve ball, not to mention a knuckle ball: a particular favorite of the over 50 crowd.

Between the ages of 8 and 18, I never struck out more than twice in a single game, and that I only did two or three times over 10 years. At age 42, I’ve struck out 5 times in two games. I just can’t seem to lay off the high stuff. And I never could hit a curve worth a damn. I have singled twice, drawn three walks and scored three runs, so all is not lost. And I hit the ball a lot harder in my second game than I did on my first.

My guess is that it will all come back to me in time…

We bought David a batting tee for the backyard and he immediately hit the ball hard and straight. Take a look! I’m particularly fond of his Ichiro-like slapping style that allows him to be a step down the first base line even as he is still making contact with the ball.

I think he likes it, too.

I Am Curious (George)

I had a hair stylist named Tamara. She was a bit kooky, but she could sure cut hair. She left a couple of years ago for Indianapolis and I (along with Nancy) was left to find a replacement.

For a while, I started going to the Fantastic Sam's just down the block: close and cheap. But you do get what you pay for. While they do a great job with David's hair, they never quite cut my hair the way I wanted it. I imagine it has something to do with the distance between my own sensibilities and the current style of the day. A few years back, somewhere around 1989, while living in Portland, I remember sitting in the chair and realizing that even though the woman cutting my hair was trained and talented, something about her suggested that she might think Richard Marx had a nice style going. And that would be a problem.

After a few unsatisfactory cuts from the Fantastic Sam's (and a couple of really unpleasant experiences at the Master Cuts in the mall, where the women cutting my hair were downright hostile), Nancy suggested that I try a barber. There's a barber just down Wabash and so I walked in one day and asked for a cut.

I was somewhere between a David Lynch film and a David Cronenberg film in there. The guy cutting my hair seemed like he'd seen something long ago that shook him to the core. He had a way of speaking that suggested heavy meds, and the pictures on the wall looked like they came from a different family -- one that had stopped existing in about 1964. While I was there, two older men came in, sat down, and talked to each other and the barber about health issues -- my presence went unacknowledged outside of the snip of the scissors close to my ear. One of the men dragged an oxygen tank with him and had no socks on his feet -- which were threatening to burst the sides of his worn out sneakers. The other man didn't button his shirt, which allowed me to get a good long look at the scar that ran up his substantial and slightly discolored belly. He suffered from a throat ailment that made his voice a raspy whisper.

The cut was terrible and the company was creepy, so I paid and got out of there, vowing never to return. Fantastic Sam's was like Shangri-La by comparison.

And then Nancy went to see the woman who replaced Tamara. She returned looking lovely and raving about what a fun person Deborah was. Ever hopeful, I made an appointment. She was fun alright. Peppy as all get out. I don't think she really cared much about what I said I wanted. She just cut it the way she felt like cutting it, telling me how "hot" I was going to look. I am not now, nor have I ever been, hot. Frankly, it was all a bit much, and I left feeling ambivalent at best about my hair. "What's it going take to get a decent, simple haircut?" I thought.

I told Nancy I was just going to go in and say, "Give me the Curious George."

A few months later, as my hair started showing signs of becoming unruly again, our friend Tim suggested that I try a different barber. This guy's downtown and he cuts a lot of the ISU professors' hair. Tim's an upstanding fellow with a pretty good haircut, and so I walked by the shop a few days later to take a look. It was nice and clean from what I could tell, and the barber looked sane, so I made an appointment for Monday.

Monday arrived and I went downtown. The barber was waiting for me, and he wasted no time getting going. He never said, "So what are we doing today?" while running his fingers through my hair, the way Tamara would. He just said, "Trim it up." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

He had lots of sports memorabilia on the walls, along with some posters of the Indianapolis Colts cheerleaders,
and I noticed a pile of Sports Illustrated on the table by the front window. So we talked sports. At one point, during a lull in the conversation, I looked to my right, toward the back of the shop and noticed a second table, this one by the farthest chair. It was covered with Playboy. "Huh," I thought. "Never seen that in Fantastic Sam's." No, in Fantastic Sam's and Tamara/Deborah's place you just get a mixture of hair style portfolios and upscale urban niche market magazines like Indianapolis or Popular Kitchen Designs. Not a lot for the non-metrosexual man.

But here was a man's world.

He wrapped a piece of tissue paper around my neck before placing the cape on me and snapping it in place. He used clippers primarily, and then brought out the scissors only for the fine work. He cut my hair short, so short it hurt in places. He used a straight razor on the back of my neck, and got rid of those hipster sideburns I've been sporting for 18 years now.

And then, when he seemed to be done, and had removed the cape form my shoulders and brushed the hair form the back of my neck, he did something I didn't expect. He pulled out what appeared to be a hand-held belt sander. He plugged it in, flipped the switch and proceeded to give me a vibrating back and shoulder massage. I watched in the mirror as he moved the machine around my back with striking ease and skill. I was impressed and confused at the same time. Is this standard? How long would this go on? Was I supposed to tell him when to stop? Would it be awkward of me to tell him to stop now? Would it be more awkward to just let him keep going?

It was a strange mixture of intimacy and mechanical efficiency. I glanced over at the stacks of Playboy and suddenly felt ill at ease. I was out of my element.

After several minutes, the massage came to an end. I thanked him for the cut, paid, and left. I told him I'd make another appointment. But I probably won't.

You know, I think I just miss Tamara.

I Love That Dirty Water

My dinner time job is doing the dishes. I used to complain about it a lot, but then we got a dishwasher and a garbage disposal and my life became infinitely easier. Of course, I never quite trust the appliances to do their job as well as I could, so each evening I rinse the dishes thoroughly before putting them in the dishwasher, and I'm prone to double-checking the disposal even when the sound of it tells me that all is clear.

Last night as I was loading the dishwasher and the kids were busy painting with watercolors at the kitchen table, my rinse water started backing up from the disposal. This is a pretty common occurrence since the food I'm rinsing off necessarily gathers in the disposal, which needs to be cleared occasionally. And so, as I do frequently, I reached under the sink and flipped the switch for the disposal.

But the water didn't clear; it just bubbled up and got murkier, filled with little bits. And the disposal sounded all wrong. The familiar grinding that turns quickly into a clean whir and hum was replaced by a kind of troubled buzzing, indicating that, while the motor was working, the blades weren't doing much of anything.

I shut it off, used a wooden spoon to turn the blades manually (hoping to clear anything that might be jamming them), and tried it again.

Lately I've been aware of all the less-than-savory puddles that surround us on a daily basis:

The inevitable bathtub spillover -- a mixture of tap water, soap, and errant hair -- that manifests whenever one of us turns our back on either child for more than 10 seconds during bath time.

The surprising little ponds found at the bottoms of various bins that hold soggy bathtub toys.

The puddle with little footprints leading away from it that states all too euphemistically: "Mommy! Daddy! I had an accident!"

The birdbath that goes green if not refreshed regularly.

The huge square lake that forms underneath the compromised gutter at the back of the house every time it rains, and that drives the kids to remove all their clothing and roll around in it.

The wagon, the metal tub, the wheelbarrow, and the canvas chair in the backyard...every time it rains.

The nastiness that gathers at the back edge of the bathroom sink and in the bottom of the toothbrush cup -- ironically, the results of everyday hygiene.

It's not unusual to get surprised by a puddle of... something...during even the most innocent stroll through our little house.

When I turned the disposal on again, the sound hadn't changed. I let it run for a few extra seconds thinking whatever it is might get jarred loose. In a way, I was right. The extra effort exerted by the disposal overwhelmed the connection between the appliance and the plumbing. The white piece of PVC burst away from the gasket and the fetid water in the sink began to flow downward, full force, into the disposal and then out into the cabinet and onto the floor. Gallons of the stuff, complete with bits of potato peel and egg shells (the two culprits it turned out).

There was yelling, and mopping, and inquiries into exactly how many potatoes were peeled. Pipes were removed, vile odors were commented upon, buckets were filled. Curious kids were held at bay, their questions met with a series of responses like: "Please, not right now," and "Yes, I can fix it, but I need you to back up."

In the end, the shock of wet garbage spewing from underneath my sink gave way to a clear sense of what had to be done. The whole thing lasted no more than 30 minutes, and when all was said and done, you would never know that anything happened. We were puddle-free.

And then David knocked over Trin's cup of paint water.