So I took a swimming trophy back from a little 10 year old girl at a recent meet! I didn't mean to give it to her in the first place. I had mistakenly thought that she had done just that (as in finished in first place). Surely she didn't feel too embarrassed? After all, there were only a few hundred people in the stands watching all of this. She's young, she'll get over it. I say that in hope, but I know if it happened to me that I probably wouldn't.
And why the gigantic alligator tears from the grade 5 kid at last week's chess tournament? Surely it wasn't because I chose to use "rock-paper-scissors" to eliminate either him or his opponent after several games lead to neither claiming victory. Stalemate was not an option. If I hadn't resorted to a more expedient means of deciding a victor then we'd still be in the school gym waiting for one to finally checkmate the other and I'd be the one crying. Was it fair? Probably not. Would I have felt the same as that little boy and cried a river? You bet.
I fancied myself a pretty good hockey coach, always believing I had the best interest of the kids at heart. My last coaching stint left a lasting impression on me and taught me that my best effort may not be good enough. Sure, most of the boys had a great year but there was one who slipped through the cracks. I had no idea that he was so unhappy and that he considered it to be his "worst year ever". Once again, my actions precipitated the opening of the floodgates. Those tears drowned whatever desire I may have had to continue coaching.
Hockey, chess, swimming.....and I'm only scratching the surface on just how good I am at making kids cry. I've coached basketball and softball too. Maybe there's a message there somewhere?
My own family is not exempt from Jim - The Tear Jerker! On any given Sunday, my brother Bill, his wife, and three young children come over for a family gathering so we can all scoff down whatever feast (must include gravy) mom has prepared. Now his kids are age 6 and younger, so one never knows what mood and manner each will be bringing with them. Inevitably, I (Uncle Jim) will swing one around too fast, bop one little head off another, or scare the daylights out of one or all three because I happened to shout too loudly at my older brother Gord or one of the dogs. You guessed it, tears begin to stream from my nieces or nephew. They often continue unabated until Grammie comes to the rescue with visual distraction, also known as a homemade chocolate chip cookie.
Perhaps this tendency to induce tears comes naturally to me. As a kid I did more than my fair share of shedding. There were sports teams I didn't make, awards I didn't win, got beat up, broke bones, bitten by dogs, stung by bees, bike accidents, two brothers and a sister to learn to live with, parents, and the mind and body altering teenage years. No wonder I balled so much! No wonder mom made such good chocolate chip cookies. They were her tasty, edible pacifiers.
Perhaps the wisest thing I have ever did was to move back to Newfoundland in 2004 after being away for fifteen years. It's no coincidence that this move occurred not long after Lynda and I had children of our own. It was also no accident that our home construction plans included a living area for Grammie. My children, Kendall and Avery, are great kids and were phenomenal babies. But even phenoms cry and with me as their dad they were guaranteed to do more than their share.
Grammie's cookies have saved the day for us on numerous occasions. They put a stop to the waling and balling that came naturally with being so young, as well as for those instances when I may have done something to accidentally induce the tears. There have been a few times over the years when the cookies failed to do their magic. Perhaps I shouldn't totally blame Grammie's baking abilities. I may have had something to do with why her secret recipe was not able to hold back the tears of my children (her very precious grandchildren).
How was I to know that little kids would get upset when their dad took back their cookies and ate them? I figured, being not long past the rug-rat stage, that they'd get over it. Also, they were so young that I believed it was likely they'd never remember that I re-gifted the cookies anyhow. Turns out I forgot one important thing - Grammie remembers. Since those days of my gluttony, all chocolate chip cookies are now taken straight from her oven, packaged and delivered to Kendall and Avery for their sole consumption. None for me, ever. I could just cry!
Monday, May 19, 2014
Wednesday, April 09, 2014
Southern Charm - Floridian Tales
I am presently in Florida. No, I am not telling you I am half a continent away so that any would-be B&E artists amongst you can violate the sanctity of my home. I respect my readers too much to even think that. Also, I recruited the kid from Home Alone to house sit (the one from the first two movies, as he was definitely more creative and vicious than those in the umpteenth sequels.
I share my geo-location only because it is relevant to the telling of this story. Even more relevant is the company I am keeping. Of course Lynda, Kendall and Avery are here, but joining us on this adventure are: my mom (Grammie); my mom-in-law (Nanny); and Lynda's brother, Adam West (Batman).
My stories almost always result from the things people do or say. That is what I find most compelling. People never fail to disappoint. They always provide excellent material. You just have to watch and listen. Of course, it doesn't hurt to stir the pot sometimes either, just to make the story in waiting that much more tasty, albeit not necessarily more tasteful. I digress. Here are a couple of incidents from early in our vacation, compliments of my daughter Kendall and Grammie. I have labelled them as Funny and Not So Funny, but whether they are is ultimately up to you. I am but the messenger.
Funny
All seven of us were on the can't miss ride, It's a Small World. I think it looked exactly the same as when I first came to Disney in 1972. Surely the words to that song become implanted in everyone who rides in those boats on rails and to all who become entranced by the vivid colours and the global, heart warming theme of the experience. Everyone in our boat, as well as those folks nearby, were all quiet, perhaps even reflective. That was when the silence was broken by my 13 year old daughter. She loudly exclaimed, with partial disgust and iPhone in hand, "Hey! There's no WiFi down here.". She has a point, it is supposed to be a small world after all.
Not So Funny
Typhoon Lagoon took on No Holds Barred Grammie and won the day. Determined to do whatever rides her granddaughters do, and do them better, Grammie donned her not-so-bikini after a six year absence from all things swimming. She warmed up well. The Swirling Beast was no match for her tenacity. In retrospect, riding on top of an inflatable rubber life raft perhaps should not be considered such a mean feat.
All seven of us were on the can't miss ride, It's a Small World. I think it looked exactly the same as when I first came to Disney in 1972. Surely the words to that song become implanted in everyone who rides in those boats on rails and to all who become entranced by the vivid colours and the global, heart warming theme of the experience. Everyone in our boat, as well as those folks nearby, were all quiet, perhaps even reflective. That was when the silence was broken by my 13 year old daughter. She loudly exclaimed, with partial disgust and iPhone in hand, "Hey! There's no WiFi down here.". She has a point, it is supposed to be a small world after all.
Not So Funny
Typhoon Lagoon took on No Holds Barred Grammie and won the day. Determined to do whatever rides her granddaughters do, and do them better, Grammie donned her not-so-bikini after a six year absence from all things swimming. She warmed up well. The Swirling Beast was no match for her tenacity. In retrospect, riding on top of an inflatable rubber life raft perhaps should not be considered such a mean feat.
With confidence assured, Grammie
followed along as we ascended the many steps to the top of the next adventure -
a virtual free fall down a tube of white water.
No rubber rafts this time.
Grammie was equipped only with her wits and her millennium era swim
suit. I made sure to precede Grammie so
I would be able to capture the spectacle of her splashdown. Instead, what I saw was my 75 year old mother
arriving at the splash pool at the end of the "ride" and remaining submerged and
remaining submerged and.....
Grammie reminded me of Jack, as he followed the Titantic to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean,
arms waving, no panic to be seen, just acceptance. I watched, waiting for her to standup - the
pool was about 30 inches deep, but she didn't, and she didn't and she
didn't. My mom was drowning!
As Batman looked on, I jumped in front of the lifeguard, who was
not doing that job at that particular moment, and pulled my mom from the not so icy
depths. She was unflappable. Grammie said she thought it was all just part
of the ride, although she said she couldn't have held her breath any
longer. There's no way Grammie would
ever surrender to fear or a near death experience. For her, it was, "What ride are we doing
next?". Unflappable! I put my glasses back on, tucked my cape back into my Speedo, checked in my superego, and returned to being just another nameless face in the crowd.
If there's a lesson here, it is that Grammie needs to learn, that when submerged, to be a bit more "flappable". At least a little bit so that the lifeguard will notice. We don't want to lose the one and only Grammie. A world without Grammie would be a too small world after all.
The End
About the Author
Jim continues to vacation in Florida, where there is no snow. Earlier today he received a call from his lawyer. Apparently, he is being sued by both the propane delivery guy and the NL Power meter reader. Each sustained significant injuries while approaching the Nixon house over the previous two days. The perpetrator is reported to be a 30 something year old male, who says his name is Kevin McAllister. The police [presently have my house surrounded and are trying to get him to come out. The cops say they may use water cannons, but it's a last resort because it has a history of not working. (No kidding! Can you say - Leo Crockwell?) My lawyer tells me that everything will be okay, after all, Kevin is Home Alone.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Man Cave Mathematics
My chest swelled with pride. My daughters wanted me to play video games with them and they weren't taking no for an answer. Perhaps I was still the 'king of cool' in their eyes. My girls, now 13 and 11, wanted their daddy, so how could I refuse. I followed them down to the room that when I built this house ten years ago I had envisioned to be my man cave. It was to be the place where I, as head of the household, would go to regenerate, to relax after a day of hunting and gathering. A place where my woman and my offspring would enter only to bring me my slippers and an occasional glass of milk, to be accompanied by a row or two of Oreo cookies (the dark ones, not the vanilla wannabes; and always eaten whole, never cracked open to slurp the creamy filling all by itself. Sacrilege!)
My cave never was to be. Soon after moving in, it became the vault for precious treasures. That would have been fine but I had neither ownership of nor say in these riches. I'm not sure that I minded though. I just wanted that room to be mine and mine alone. It was never to be. My kids strong-armed it from me. They are tough little girls. They, being two and me being one, had the strength of numbers. More importantly for maintaining their claim to my cave, they had the ever present, lurking in the shadows, not to be crossed, support of their mother. One of the biggest surprises in a man's life is when he learns this mathematical equation: (MOTHER > wife). There are never any exceptions to this rule...never. As a result, I learned another equation: (KIDS > husband). By using the transitive property or my take on it, it then makes sense that: (KIDS > husband) (husband = man cave) (husband < = 0), therefore (man cave = ain't never going to happen).
In the early days, my room of desire was filled to the rafters with such wondrous things as: Barbie's extra large play house; a few thousand stuffed creatures; several large bins that had gazillions of those stupid, useless and one use only McDonald toys; and few million dolls in various stages of undress with many minus a limb or two. Mr. Dress Up would have have been envious of the number of princess dresses and costumes that overflowed from several more large bins. He, Casey and Finnegan could have been trapped underneath those mountainous piles for all I know. I never went in the place. I just did an occasional wishful glance through the doorway as I swept, mopped and did my daily household chores, ever mindful that Cinderella had triumphed. In my daydreaming, I pictured my kids bringing my cookies, milk and slippers and fittingly, my slippers were glass. I was Jimderella.
Today, that room is the "playroom". The Wii and Xbox are kept company by girlie coloured bean bags. No war games make it to the big screen. The girls prefer less hostile pursuits. Their latest craze is some kind of dance thing on the Xbox. This is what they asked me to play with them. I'm not exactly built for dancing of any sort, nor have I been gifted with much rhythm. I held my own on the dance floor in the 80's by doing the ankle slap - 2 side to sides, one step forward and one step back. Throw in the occasional Night Fever arm in the air, pretend to know the words, and you were golden. There was no phone camera, no video this or that. You just had to survive three or four minutes and you could get off the floor, ego in tact. Such is not the case today. Even the damn video games have cameras!
There I was a few days ago, on the dance floor of the kids' playroom, sandwiched between my two little girls. The proud and popular dad. Or so I thought. The music began and I quickly learned that the object of the game is to copy the moves that your video image is performing on the TV. While doing it, we were laughing and having a great time. It's also not a bad workout. After our song ended, the scores popped up and I was third or last. The game said I was "creative", which was a nice way of saying that I didn't exactly copy much of what my image had done. This was not unexpected. What was unexpected is what happened next. The kids played back segments of our dancing. I was worse than I ever imagined. The ankle slap wasn't as timeless as I had thought. To add insult to injury, the kids then proceeded to do weird things to our images. One was to make our heads two or three times there actual size. I have to admit that it was funny to watch. My girls and I laughed hysterically and I felt all warm and closer to them than ever. This was a wonderful daddy-daughters moment. That was until they informed me that I looked like Shrek and they proceeded to laugh even harder.
I think I was set up from the beginning. I certainly can't be mad at my kids for poking fun at me. They actually weren't wrong. Shrek is green and that colour describes me perfectly. Green with envy because they have my man cave. I won't try to get even with with my kids either. They likely come by there deviousness honestly - from their mother, Princess Lynda-ona. To end my story, here's one last formula that may be foreshadowing events to come: (Wife > husdand) (husband = dead man). The end!
My cave never was to be. Soon after moving in, it became the vault for precious treasures. That would have been fine but I had neither ownership of nor say in these riches. I'm not sure that I minded though. I just wanted that room to be mine and mine alone. It was never to be. My kids strong-armed it from me. They are tough little girls. They, being two and me being one, had the strength of numbers. More importantly for maintaining their claim to my cave, they had the ever present, lurking in the shadows, not to be crossed, support of their mother. One of the biggest surprises in a man's life is when he learns this mathematical equation: (MOTHER > wife). There are never any exceptions to this rule...never. As a result, I learned another equation: (KIDS > husband). By using the transitive property or my take on it, it then makes sense that: (KIDS > husband) (husband = man cave) (husband < = 0), therefore (man cave = ain't never going to happen).
In the early days, my room of desire was filled to the rafters with such wondrous things as: Barbie's extra large play house; a few thousand stuffed creatures; several large bins that had gazillions of those stupid, useless and one use only McDonald toys; and few million dolls in various stages of undress with many minus a limb or two. Mr. Dress Up would have have been envious of the number of princess dresses and costumes that overflowed from several more large bins. He, Casey and Finnegan could have been trapped underneath those mountainous piles for all I know. I never went in the place. I just did an occasional wishful glance through the doorway as I swept, mopped and did my daily household chores, ever mindful that Cinderella had triumphed. In my daydreaming, I pictured my kids bringing my cookies, milk and slippers and fittingly, my slippers were glass. I was Jimderella.
Today, that room is the "playroom". The Wii and Xbox are kept company by girlie coloured bean bags. No war games make it to the big screen. The girls prefer less hostile pursuits. Their latest craze is some kind of dance thing on the Xbox. This is what they asked me to play with them. I'm not exactly built for dancing of any sort, nor have I been gifted with much rhythm. I held my own on the dance floor in the 80's by doing the ankle slap - 2 side to sides, one step forward and one step back. Throw in the occasional Night Fever arm in the air, pretend to know the words, and you were golden. There was no phone camera, no video this or that. You just had to survive three or four minutes and you could get off the floor, ego in tact. Such is not the case today. Even the damn video games have cameras!
There I was a few days ago, on the dance floor of the kids' playroom, sandwiched between my two little girls. The proud and popular dad. Or so I thought. The music began and I quickly learned that the object of the game is to copy the moves that your video image is performing on the TV. While doing it, we were laughing and having a great time. It's also not a bad workout. After our song ended, the scores popped up and I was third or last. The game said I was "creative", which was a nice way of saying that I didn't exactly copy much of what my image had done. This was not unexpected. What was unexpected is what happened next. The kids played back segments of our dancing. I was worse than I ever imagined. The ankle slap wasn't as timeless as I had thought. To add insult to injury, the kids then proceeded to do weird things to our images. One was to make our heads two or three times there actual size. I have to admit that it was funny to watch. My girls and I laughed hysterically and I felt all warm and closer to them than ever. This was a wonderful daddy-daughters moment. That was until they informed me that I looked like Shrek and they proceeded to laugh even harder.
I think I was set up from the beginning. I certainly can't be mad at my kids for poking fun at me. They actually weren't wrong. Shrek is green and that colour describes me perfectly. Green with envy because they have my man cave. I won't try to get even with with my kids either. They likely come by there deviousness honestly - from their mother, Princess Lynda-ona. To end my story, here's one last formula that may be foreshadowing events to come: (Wife > husdand) (husband = dead man). The end!
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