Nubze

Ten years ago I was in the maternity ward at Swedish Hospital. My wife was in labor, in pain, pushing and pushing. Finally, with the help of some Star Wars-looking vacuum machine, Spencer shot out of her womb. The nurse whisked him away to measure and weigh and score his APGAR. I think he scored a nine, or very near a nine.

I recall a tiny, red-faced infant resting in his mother’s arms with a blue beanie capping his little head. I had all the visions a proud father would have about his son’s future. Will he be an athlete, a Nobel prize winner, the president?

A decade later, his mother and I are divorced. He is happy – most of the time – but on special days such as his birthday, his father becomes somewhat melancholy.

I recall my childhood birthdays with my family. Mom always made a cake. My cousins, aunts and uncles, and many of my friends filled the house, which was littered with streamers and balloons. Maybe my remembrance is from some movie which I merged with my own childhood memories.

Regardless, I wanted to provide the same happy experience to Spencer. His mother has a party planned for later in the week, but today is his birthday. He will spend it only with me, my one sister, and his adult cousin. Not the familial celebration of my youth, but I couldn’t expect his friends to attend two birthday parties for him. Could I?

It just seems a little sad: just the three of us watching a ten year old blow out his birthday cake candles. But, I wonder if my moroseness is actually the grieving of the loss of my own childhood; the result of my inability to recreate my own happy memories, and then, live them vicariously through my son. He doesn’t have any of my memories, so he doesn’t know he is missing anything, does he?

Well, anyway, I am off to buy his gifts, and clean the apartment, and then stop at the store to pick up the pizza for the four of us. I am sure he will have fond memories of the intimate tenth birthday he had with just his dad, one aunt, and one cousin, as well as those of his second party later in the week with his mother and friends. What am I so worried about?

I knew the sex talk would be coming, but I had hoped I could put it off for a couple of years. When in the car this afternoon, Spencer asked me, “Dad, does sex hurt,” I about drove off the road.

Once I regained my composure, my next thought was, “only if it’s good and nasty,” but I knew I could not say such a thing to a curious nine year old. I was flummoxed over how to respond.

“Why do you ask?” I croaked.

“Oh, because on Total Drama Island Gwen and Duncan were talking about it,” he innocently said.

A TV show had something about it in the dialogue. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved, or angry that a kid’s show would bring up such a topic.

I asked Spencer what was said on the TV show and he regaled me with a review of the whole episode. It had nothing, really, to do with sex, but the innuendo in the dialogue from one scene was intended for adults. I guessed, to keep the parents engaged in the cartoon rather than changing the station to CNN. It was apparent that Spencer had no idea what sex was.

“What’s sex, Dad?” he then asked.

I took in a breath, and slowly let it out. I definitely was not prepared to discuss it while driving on the 99 – if ever.

I viewed myself as the enlightened parent: willing to openly and honestly discuss topics such as sex with my child. However, I didn’t expect it to be so difficult. I wanted to word my response in such a way as to answer his question, but also not to create more questions, or to instill in him a desire to experiment – especially at his age. Visions of my fifth grader at the pharmacy asking for condoms, while the pharmacist with his disapproving stare, thinks the boy’s father is a horrible example of a parent, produced a pain in the back of my eyeballs.

“Well, you know how the flowers have pollen and it takes two flowers to make a plant seed?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Well, uh, animals kind of do the same thing. A male animal and a female animal get together and make a baby. The act of making a baby, is called sex. Understand?” I said.

“Not really,” he said.

“Um…uh, well you see…“ I stammered. I was lost. Once we got home, I was so getting online and find out how to talk about this properly. However, in the mean time, I didn’t want to shut the boy down due to my own timidity addressing his questions.

“How do I say this?” I said out loud against my wishes.

“Can we go see that new movie this Friday?” Spencer asked, perhaps I thought, sensing my own unease at discussing such a thing with him.

Usually, I would try to return Spencer to topic so I could gain closure on our discussion. But, this time, I was more than happy to let it go.

“Absolutely,” I said. “And, we can have pizza before the movie. Would you like that?”

“Sure. I think the movie looks funny,” he said.

I felt I dodged a bullet that afternoon. Once home, I did go online. And, I found something better than talking points: Children’s Hospital has a session for tweeners and their parents to discuss upcoming adolescence.

I signed us up for the session in November. I just hope he does not shoot that bullet at me again, at least until after the Children’s Hospital session – that, I hope, will provide me with some anti-freakout tools when the subject comes up again.

This past Monday was Spencer’s first ‘real’ day of the new school year. The previous week had no homework assignments – it was more of a settle in period. However, Monday involved a full schedule of study in class and a full folder of homework: math, reading, writing, and spelling.

Spencer’s face looked weighed down when he arrived home. He seemed distant and worried. His distressed expression worsened as I mentioned he should start on his homework. He grudgingly and slowly worked on the word assignments. I sat next to him trying to support his efforts and to deflect his distraction – caused by the nearby transformer – back to the task at hand. After the third request to put down the transformer and focus on his homework, the tears started welling in his eyes and he asked to go to his room.

Earlier, at his after-school language session, his counselor reported he started to cry over one of the exercises they had worked on. And now, back at home, he had a slight melt down in the middle of doing his schoolwork. I felt a dull pain in my gut as I listened to the sobbing emanating from his bedroom.

Sitting there, wondering what to do, I recalled an article in Parent Map concerning the overburden nowadays of homework in school. One sign a child has too much is his crying in the middle of his attempt to complete it, or when directed to start it. So, of course, I started thinking, “those mean school bastards are overloading my son.” But, it didn’t seem like that much homework and I began to recall the first weeks of school from previous years.

Ever since the first grade, Spencer has always had a challenge with the transition back to school from summer. This year seemed no exception. After five years, I think I could recognize the signs. Today, after two and a half months of a carefree schedule, I believed he just felt overwhelmed. At least I hoped that was the case, for I did not want to have that “you’re giving my son too much homework” talk with his teacher. The vision of unreasonable, whiney parents from TV and movies came to mind. I didn’t want to be one of those parents.

After several minutes he emerged from his room, ready to, again, take on his homework for the night. I told him he was going to be alright. He sincerely asked, through his wet, red lined eyes, “I am?”

We spent 45 minutes struggling with spelling sheets and a vocabulary building crossword puzzle. He had not finished all the homework assigned to be completed, but I finally acquiesced and let him stop for the night – with instructions we would continue in the morning. I did not know if he would complete his reading assignment for the day, and frankly I didn’t care. I just wanted to rescue him from his angst.

I feel for the little guy. I have told him I am proud of him and he can do it. I have tried to do all the supportive things I can. But, I know the first few weeks back into academia have always been difficult for him. I could only imagine what was buzzing around in his head. And, I feared this night’s episode was just another exercise that would imprint on him a hatred o learning. I envisioned him as a high school drop-out and that scared me. Now whose anxiety was getting the better of him?

Tuesday morning, Spencer seemed back to his usual self: chipper and ready to take on the challenge of what remained of his homework. Tuesday night, homework was not an issue. He just did it, without my prodding or help!

I can’t explain the switch in attitude. Maybe he realized he is going to be okay, or perhaps he was just tired the night before. But for the moment, my anxiety about his completing high school and graduating from a good college has subsided, a little.

First week of school: new teacher, new class, and new homework. I have to admit, I do not look forward to the battles to get Spencer to do his homework, especially the reading assignments.

Spencer’s school focuses on improving reading skills of the students, and consequently, every class from first grade to fifth, requires daily reading at home by the students. By fifth grade, the minimum is 30 minutes a day.

Last year, Spencer’s teacher disallowed comic books, magazines, etc. The only acceptable books were what they call ‘chapter’ books. I thought most books had chapters. Well, what do I know about the lexicon of public education?

Apparently, a chapter book is a book sans pictures or illustrations, i.e. only words. Well, Spencer acted as if it was a prison sentence everyday when I pushed him to do his reading assignment. “But, there is only words in this book,” he would complain. Ms. Sharkly had to approve each book the children in her class were to read and that meant no Captain Underpants or Spiderman or Fantastic Four.

What it did mean was nine months of pushing and cajoling and arguing every day.

Those last few months of the school year, Spencer referred to his teacher as Ms. Meany, especially when I prompted him to read his ‘chapter’ book. Not because she was mean, but because she held the kids accountable for doing their work, including the reading assignment for ‘chapter’ books.

The first day of school this year, Spencer bounded home exalting praises for his new teacher. She said the children can read anything they want, as long as it is 30 minutes a day. I asked if that meant Spiderman comic books, too. “Comic books, magazines, Captain Underpants, anything,” Spencer told me with a smile.

I am not sure how reading DC comics will help him improve his reading skills, but I am relieved I won’t have to wrangle with him to read each day. I guess this means we will be taking a trip to the comic book store.

I know that summer is not officially over until the 22nd, but when I flipped the family calendar to September 1st I felt as if autumn had already arrived. It is not because of the change in the weather (it is still 75 degrees), the leaves in the trees turning orange (they’re still green), or the Halloween decorations in the store (I don’t shop in the seasonal section). I am afraid it is due to my view that September is the killer of summer.

School starts next week and it takes away the carefree days of summer. September marks the time to start filling out the calendar: school shows, parent-teacher conferences, guitar lessons, Halloween parties, etc., etc. I envision the trees dying and our allowance of daylight shortened. The cold mornings and brisk afternoons are coming. Autumn is the time between sun tans and skiing on the mountain snows. It is the nether-time of logistical contortion as the days count down to the dreaded Christmas season.

It is not fair that I give September such a bad rap, I know. But, it is the month that seems to kick off the announcements of harvest festivals, school auctions, and other autumn events. The afternoon has a different color and an older texture because I know August is behind me. It is only a matter of time before the leaves fall and swirl in dance from the autumn winds.

It may still be 75 degrees, but I can already feel a cool sharpness in the breeze, due solely to the ninth month being displayed on the calendar. I anticipate my son bringing home colored leaves glued to cardboard and construction paper haystacks he created in art (uh-hem) class. I can see them taped to the apartment windows.

This is Spencer’s last year at his elementary school (5th grade). Next year he will start middle school, and consequently, the search for the right school for him begins with an education fair in a week. Two dozen schools will be vying for our application. From there, the additional tests, school open houses, interviews, and deadlines will help to fill in any open space that may still exist on the calendar.

I am aware of my whining. But, September’s arrival has brought an end to the relaxed schedule of summer. Funny how my outlook can change in just one day. Did I mention I really miss August?

Spencer and I were sitting under the blue sky on a warm August day. We were waiting to tee off at the Greenlake Pitch and Putt. Every few minutes he would ask me when it was our turn. I would reply, “soon, we need to be patient.”

Waiting one’s turn to tee off, holding back from the green until it is cleared, and restraining one’s tongue while another person putts, are great lessons in patience for a boy. As we watched the group ahead of us take their first shots, I began to think of the other lessons that can be learned by playing golf.

Our time to tee off arrived, and Spencer’s shot veered off near a bush about 50 yards down the short fairway. He showed his disappointment by sitting down on the ground next to the tee. I reminded him that it was only one shot, and perseverance was an important aspect of the game. “You’ll never sink the ball into the cup unless you take the next shot,” I said. “And, who knows what the next shot will be like. You won’t get better if you give up.”

My shot went into the trees behind the green and I wondered for whom my previous line was intended.

Acceptance and self-forgiveness are also part of the game. Spencer wanted to throw his ball into the middle of the fairway. As in life, we have to forgive ourselves for a bad shot and play the ball where it lies. Tiger Woods has made plenty of bad shots, but he doesn’t dwell on them. He accepts where he is, determines his actions for recovery, and eventually gets the ball on the green.

Spencer and I chipped our balls onto the green and I congratulated him on his great shot from the bushes. As I lined up my putt, he was chattering away about his shot. I asked him not to talk while it was my turn to hit the ball. I sunk the putt, and to be helpful, he grabbed my ball out of the cup. I then explained to him, he shouldn’t touch another person’s ball. It is against the rules and it is not courteous.

I realized many of the rules of golf have less to do with scoring than with good sportsmanship and basic courtesy.

By the end of the round, Spencer’s swing was settling down. Through the nine holes we had played, I could see that he was gaining self-control: physical and mental. He could go from a drive to a chip to a putt and use the appropriate swing. He wasn’t talking on the green or on the tee. And, I think mentally he was controlling his fear of playing poorly – something I have personally been fighting for the past 10 years of my game.

I think the lessons from golf are not only applicable for my son, but for me as well. Focusing on the positive lessons from the game always makes me enjoy the round more and feel more self-confident , regardless of how bad I played. And, I want Spencer to feel the same way about his game and his life.

As we walked to the car, I asked him how he felt about the round. He said he had a great time and wanted to play again tomorrow. I told him I was proud of him for showing patience, perseverance, self-control, and courtesy. I also pointed out how good it felt not to have cheated. He asked me what I meant. I said, “regardless of how many swings it took to get the ball in the cup, the ball did go in the cup. And doesn’t it feel good to know you did not have to break the rules to do so?”

He proudly agreed.

I do not usually view my cycling as an occasion to meet women. However, this past Saturday an opportunity presented itself and I blew it.

Spencer was with his mother (my ex-wife) so I went out for a ride. I had never ridden over the Ballard Locks before and they beckoned me this Saturday. I wasn’t sure of the course, but I decided to give a try. Hopefully, I wouldn’t lose the bike route and end up riding on the freeway, or 15th Avenue, which is more dangerous.

The locks require bike riders to dismount and walk across. It was a beautiful day, and I wanted to take a picture with my cell phone. As I was lining up the shot, I noticed out of the corner of my eye another cyclist waiting patiently behind me. Not wanting to be a rude obstacle to her passage, I motioned for her to pass me. She was wearing a tight red top made more appealing by the enhancing effect of the slight breeze.

After crossing the locks, I hopped back on my bicycle and proceeded down Market Street. Waiting at a red stop light, I heard a voice behind me ask, “Have you ever been to the locks before?”

It was the Red-Shirted Woman. I noticed she was by herself. She looked more fit than I remembered from a few minutes before.

“First time by bike,” I said. “Me too,” she replied.

“Now, I just need to find the Burke-Gilman Trail,” I said. She pointed down the road and I thanked her as I took off down Shilshole Ave.

Less than thirty seconds later, as I was peddling towards the trail, I realized I had just missed a great opportunity. An attractive woman who shared at least one interest of mine, talked to me of her own volition. She was interested, but I was so clueless I missed it. What a dork, I thought.

I looked behind me, hoping I could see her still at the intersection, or by some miracle, riding towards me. But, alas, she was gone. I wondered what she was thinking of our exchange as she rode away down Market Street. Maybe I could back track and try to find her. If I did catch up to her then what would I say? Excuse me for being a moron. That would impress her. Yeah, right.

As I continued on my way, I kept asking myself why I took off like a scared rabbit. Was it because I am self-absorbed, or – gasp – I’m afraid to talk to women? No, no, can’t be that. My self-image is based on being a guy, not some timid, furry creature. And, yet…

For the rest of my ride, I replayed the scene at the intersection and berated myself for not coming up with something more witty than, “where’s the Burke Gilman.” I could have asked her where she was riding, or if she rode much, or complimented her on her rack, er, I mean bike. Ok, maybe those lines are not that witty, but they’re better than what I actually said. Why did I say something that made me feel like I am Patrick Star?**

I never thought that along with my water bottles and Clif bars I would need to carry a phrasebook with me on bike rides. How dorky is that?

** Watch Spongebob Squarepants

In the movie Liar, Liar, Jim Carrey plays the character Fletcher Reede. Fletcher is divorced and his ex-wife has custody of their young son. In the beginning of the film, Fletcher promises to attend the boy’s birthday party, but forgets to show up. The movie is not a great cinematic feat, but the scene of the sad and disappointed boy waiting for his father to appear moved me.

I mention the movie, because this last Sunday my son experienced his own Fletcher Reede moment. It wasn’t Spencer’s birthday. And, I didn’t forget about him, but I wasn’t at my apartment for the allotted custody drop-off time.

Yeah, shitty, I know. But let me explain.

I had gone backpacking with my sister in Mount Rainier National Park this past weekend. Knowing I had to be home for Spencer’s drop-off Sunday afternoon, I had calculated hiking distances and timings before taking off into the wilderness. I was certain I would make it back home to receive Spencer at the scheduled time.

Unfortunately, my best laid plans went awry.

Saturday’s grueling hike up 3,000 feet to our campsite had really taken its toll on me. Subsequently, I slept a little later than expected. In addition, my sister recently purchased new boots. Unfortunately, the break-in period wasn’t kind to her. The boots had inflicted blisters and great pain onto her feet. Translation: a late start and blistered feet resulted in a slower descent than I had calculated.

About halfway down the mountain, I realized we needed to pick up the pace and I pushed for a us to move a bit quicker. The pained expression from my sister’s face told me, “not going to happen.” I think she gave me the evil eye, too.

The vision of Spencer standing, waiting for my apartment door to open, made me panic. Oh my god, I can’t be one of those horrible fathers.

I looked at my watch and saw I had several hours until Spencer would ring my doorbell. But, it didn’t look good given our location on the trail.

With a couple miles left until the ranger station parking lot (and 30 minutes to deadline), my calves and quads were screaming at me. My shoulders joined in the chorus. My feet felt as if they were on fire. And, my sister growled at me every time I said, “we’re almost there.” I wanted to stop and rest, but I knew I had to get to the car. I needed to call my ex on the cell phone in an attempt to let my son know I didn’t forget him.

My sister snapped at me like a wounded wolf whenever I asked if she was okay. It kind of scared me. My sister had enough of me the last couple miles. She gritted her teeth, put her head down, and kicked it into high gear. A small cloud of trail dust followed her. I had trouble keeping up. When we finally made it to the parking lot her growling and snapping ceased. I think my sister is tougher than I.

We arrived at the car about 15 minutes before the deadline. Whew. I was relieved and grabbed my cell phone. But, I had no signal. My heart sank. I get signal at Crystal Mountain Ski Resort (which is right on the border of the park), so why not at the ranger station? After heaving our gear into the car and checking with the ranger to see if he had a phone (nope, just a short wave radio), I tore down the road towards the town of Wilkeson. Hopefully, Wilkeson was in the 21st century and had a cell site.

My sister had become car sick as I sped along the curvy road towards redemption. Luckily, she didn’t need me to stop so she could relieve her nausea.

We each were constantly checking our phones along the way to see which one of our providers had the better network. The dashboard clock showed 5:15. My heart sank deeper as the vision of Spencer crying, wondering where I happen to be, was stuck in my head. I was officially Fletcher Reede.

Finally, I saw the “Welcome to Wilkeson” sign and both of our phones beeped. Bars showed on the phone displays. Yay!

I saw I had waiting voicemails and I knew who left that last message. It was 5:30 when I pulled over and frantically dialed. I heard my ex-wife’s boyfriend answer the phone. I didn’t bother asking why Spencer’s mom hadn’t answered.

I explained the situation and the tension over the phone was palpable. It was apparent he thought of me as a loser jerk. Then, he handed the phone to Spencer. I could tell the poor guy was on the verge of tears. I told him I would pick him up at his mom’s condo soon, knowing that a nine year old doesn’t consider an hour and a half as ‘soon’. A picture of his sad eyes in my mind created a heaviness in my chest.

Luckily, traffic on the I-5 cooperated. The cops also must have issued a no fly zone as we encountered none while racing up to Seattle. We made it in one hour and ten minutes.

By the time I picked-up Spencer from his mom’s condo, he seemed to have recovered from his disappointment. But, he didn’t greet me with his usual joy. I figured he was worried and mad and trying to get over his sense of abandonment due to his father’s Fletcher Reede impersonation. I promised ice cream when we got to our apartment and that seemed to cheer him up a bit. Okay, I admit it, I am not above bribery.

I am not sure who suffered more from this episode. I can only hope Spencer was not scarred permanently; I think I was, though. Next time I will definitely have a ‘plan B’ in place. Don’t know what that will look like, but I know I don’t want to be Fletcher Reede again.

Sorry I haven’t posted anything in the last few days, but my sister and I were on a backpacking trip in Mount Rainier National Park. No cell, no internet.

Today I am stiff and sore and moving very slowly. Even my hands hurt as I am typing this. So, I will leave you with a few pictures, and hopefully, tomorrow I will have all my gear cleaned-up, stowed, and my hands working again. I’ll leave more details about the trip in future posts.

Some lakes at Windy Gap.

Trail up to Windy Gap.

Beautiful Trails in the Gap.

Yellowstone Cliffs on the way to Windy Gap.

Ciao!

It was sunny and warm and I wanted to go outside. I asked Spencer, and he said he just wanted to stay inside – as he had been all day. I suggested tennis, or playing catch, or basketball, or anything outside. He didn’t even look up from his Nintendo DS to reply, “I just wanna stay in.”

I recalled when I was a child, especially in the summer, I couldn’t wait to get outside to ride my bike, dig in dirt, play with trucks, and, yes, blow up plastic army men. I would frequently join the ‘gang’ of children from my street to go explore the neighborhood, play basketball, tag, hide and seek. What is wrong with my child? Or, am I just remembering my childhood differently.

My consternation was relieved a bit after reading the article by Meagan Frances, “How to Get Kids Outdoors.” I say relieved only a bit, because, while she writes my child isn’t alone in his aversion to the outdoors, she did say I, as a parent, will have to put more effort into persuading my son to go outside. Just what I want, more work as a parent. I’m not lazy, it’s just that it takes a lot of work already trying to be a good parent. And, this is just one more thing to be piled on.

Frances writes about the reasons kids are inside more today than when she was a child. She also provides some solutions. I found that most of her solutions are unworkable in my situation. I live in an apartment in the city. I don’t have a backyard to customize for Spencer. Also, there isn’t a lot of kids his age in the neighborhood. So, enlisting the ‘village’, to help watch the kids play in the front yards of our street, just doesn’t work out. And, while I do take him camping several times a year, it doesn’t seem to have changed his desire to go outside, or rather, his desire to stay inside.

But, I will try some of Frances’ ideas, albeit modified somewhat. I will try to arrange play dates to occur at parks, rather than inside. And, maybe I will supplement weekend camping with day (or partial day) hikes. I can hear his moaning already.

Other than firmly stating, “we’re going outside and leave your Nintendo in the apartment,” (over Spencer’s protests), I want more ideas that may help me get him off the couch. But, I do prefer ideas that don’t require me to be a community organizer.

Comment with your thoughts?