The Last Class Picture

Does this look familiar? It does to me.  My daughter brings home a picture just like it every year.  My brother and I did too, and so did our folks before that. At some point, like a lot of parents, I'll find them, jammed in a drawer, covered by a tangle of wires for devices we tossed out long ago.  WIFE and I will take them and hold them. We'll sit, put them together, and marvel at how much MONSTA has grown in what will surely seem like almost no time at all.  

But this one is different.  It may not look it, but it is.  This picture is of 15 kids, all the same age as my kid, who were gunned down by a guy out of his head and stocked like a small army. This is their last class picture.  When their parents find it hiding in a deep, forgotten drawer, it will be alone.  For these children, there will be no more class pictures.  

I've tried hard to avoid looking at these faces. I pretended that like the other stories of tragedy, this too would be pushed from my memory by the million things vying for its attention. But it's not happening. This isn't going away.  My daughter is a first grader, and my wife is a school teacher.  And two years ago, we lost a beautiful, but too fragile, newborn baby. Sandy Hook has made a deeply profound and heartbreaking impact on me, and I'm not sure when that will pass.  But I think of their parents, and am quietly grateful knowing that for me, it will.  

Here's all I ask: take a close look.  Please.  Then look at your own kid, or nephew, or friend's kid.  See if you can't make out some resemblance. No matter where you come from, I bet you'll see at least some similarity. Then, when you get a chance, ask yourself: "Is this really the best we can do?"

Thanks for the Heart Attack, Technology!

this, plus 3 missed calls.

Normally, I really like technology. Texting, the internet, iStuff.  I really do. But now and then, I want to murder technology. And not in a clean, Dexter way.  It needs to get messy.  The kind of crime scene cops drink to forget.  Take last night...

It's 6:30 pm.  I've worked all day, and am now sitting in my Advertising class.  We're waiting to start.  Suddenly, I get a text.  "PLEASE CALL."  It's from WIFE.  WIFE never texts.  It bothers me that we have this cool way of "talking", and she never uses it.  But now she's using it, and in ALL CAPS. This is not good.

In an instant, my brain is Usain Bolt.  It's one of the kids, I think.  It has to be. Something has gone terribly wrong with one of the kids. I'm certain. The only questions now are "what, which one, and how bad is it?" I know I should be calm and that it's probably no big deal.  But when you've met tragedy once, it's easy to imagine he's still out there, waiting to meet you again.  

If it's not the kids, I think, it's my parents.  Frantically waiting for WIFE to answer my calls, I imagine her picking up with "It's about your dad."  Both my folks stay in great health, but he travels a lot, so I worry.  I'm also a mama's boy, which means I naturally assume it'll be pops who goes first. 

I'm calling and calling.  Three calls to WIFE and no answer. I'm texting too, and now, in true WIFE fashion, she's not responding.  Now?!  Now you don't reply to my frantic texts?  

Finally, with me just shy of "hot mess", she picks up. "What is going on?", I whisper-scream into the phone. "Nothing's wrong," she says to me.  And she means it.  I can tell.  She sounds happy, and I hear both kids laughing in the background.  Totally cool and content, she tosses out, "Why would you think something is wrong?" YOU USED ALL CAPS, DAMNIT! HOW COULD I THINK OTHERWISE?!  

Only she hadn't. In fact, she didn't even text me. There was no emergency.  No drama. Nothing. There was, however, an incredibly handsome, very curious rascal of a son, who likes to chew on his mother's phone.  And while chewing, he gummed one special button that apparently fires off pre-written texts, like PLEASE CALL...in ALL CAPS.

Next Question: how young is too young to stick a kid in time-out?  

Why My Kid Won't See THE LORAX

The Lorax is everywhere.  Just a couple hours a tv a week and you'd think this country was being overrun with Lorax fever.  I hope not, because in the 12-century, Lorax Fever killed two-thirds of the Mayan population.  It's pretty serious.

It's also serious because this movie is crap!  Hypocritical, big-media crap.  Can't get the toilet to flush?  Look closely, and I bet you'll see a Lorax.  Why?  Because the day to day practices of the companies behind The Lorax are exactly the thing Dr. Seuss's book warns us about.  Don't believe me?  Is ol' Papa sounding a little to "Occupy Seuss Street?"  When was the last time you read The Lorax?  MONSTA picked it up from the library a month ago, and I was treated to the story for the first time.  I've read plenty of the good doctor, and I always appreciate the subtle messages embedded in his bright colors and curvy, made-up words.  But Lorax?  It's just an old-fashioned, bare bones indictment of big business and capitalistic greed.  It should have been printed as a pamphlet and handed out free on college campuses.

To be fair, he doesn't say the Once-ler is evil.  But as it's personal desire grows, so does it's need to control and use the natural space around it.  As the Once-ler's needs grow, so does his thumbprint on the surrounding area.  Stop me if you've heard this one.  The book ends with a lone boy, standing in a space of total environmental annihilation.  Like a cartoon drawing of The Road.   Not a happy story. There's hope at the end, but only if this boy makes the right choices in his own life, which I'm guessing don't involve him opening a manufacturing plant or a company on the NYSE.

It's not a book for everyone.  If you're pro-big business, or "pro-dominion," then you may hate The Lorax.  Fine.  Even I see the hypocrisy in how many trees were cut down to produce a best-selling book about what happens when we cut down all the trees.  But this IS the story, and Dr. Seuss's intentions are clear for anyone willing to see them.

So if this is the true nature of this book, why the hell is little man Lorax pitching cars?  You know, those things that are one of the primary reasons (according to non-Santorum sponsored scientists) that the earth is getting warmer?

And why is the orange dude a judge on The Voice, a show owned by one of the massive, $$$-first conglomerates directly implicated by the book?  Did Blake Shelton's tour bus break down on the way to set?  Was Coolio not available?  

I'm not trying to rain on any parades.  When Smurfs came out, I didn't go because it looked terrible.  Same for Alvin and the Chipmunks 1-14.  But this one isn't about whether or not the movie is good.  My kid won't see Lorax with me around because the hypocrisy factor is just a little too much for me to stomach.    Not every book and story needs to be turned into a movie by the increasingly money-obsessed studios, and certainly not one that openly blames capitalism for the end of the world.

Maybe you can see the film and assure me that it doesn't pull any punches in it's handling of capitalism, but I'm guessing that won't be the case.

A Word of Caution When Buying Kid's Clothes...

If you know what our year has been like, it's probably no surprise that WIFE and I are only now feeling stable enough to consider buying stuff for MONSTA 2.0.  GRANDMA broke the ice, sending over a fancy new car seat and some soft onesies.  Now it's our turn.  If we don't get it together, not only will this dude be nameless, but naked as well.  That can't be legal.  So today, I'm looking for clothes.  But as I do, I'm reminded by TODD BARRY to be careful in what I choose.  After seeing a toddler in a Dead Kennedy's t-shirt, Barry says:

'BUT HONEY, IF HE WEARS A SWEATER, NO ONE WILL KNOW HOW GREAT MY RECORD COLLECTION IS.'

Moral of the Story: 

if people want to know about my impeccable taste in music, they'll ask.

ON THE DAILY GRIND...

Unless you've been living under a rock, or just not reading my blog, or avoiding me completely, then you know that in a couple months, WIFE and I will be welcoming our second kid.  He's a boy, and though he's still without a name, he does have a penis.  I've seen the picture.  We're both really excited, for many reasons, but as his "MOVE OUT OF UTERUS" date draws near, I have to admit to some slight panic.

Having one kid is tough. It's a complete adventure, full of giant laughs, lots of danger, and a man's share of the unexpected. Just last night, MONSTA got a bug bite, but instead of a tiny welt, her entire hand blew up like a birthday balloon.  I didn't even know that could happen. Surprise twists and turns aside, however, most of parenting is about the ROUTINE. Curiously, any discussion of this DAILY GRIND was left out of my pre-baby guide books.  But it's true. Once MONSTA could walk, our daily life became defined by routine.  And the taller she, and her hair, gets, the more rigid and complex the routine becomes. If my life were a math problem, it'd look like this: 

So if this sunny outlook is rattling in my brain 24/7, imagine what I'm feeling about tossing in a little multiplication.  

ABOVE ROUTINE X 2 = HOLY ^%#$!

We'll make it.  It's been five years, and MONSTA is still alive.  She's playing hooky right , on account of the  lobster claw she's sporting, but the swelling will eventually go down.  And when it does, she'll go back to school, and when that happens...welcome back, Routine.  What would I ever do without you? 

  

FINALLY!!! NO TEARS 4 MONSTA!!!

After three weeks, thirteen morning drop-offs, and countless lies of "School is fun.  You'll love it,"  today, finally...NO TEARS.

No Tears!  

MONSTA started going to school three years ago, most of which she has enjoyed.  Last year, she didn't cry once, and that was at a Catholic school.  So now, she's going to a charter school, where it's illegal to stress the "fires of hell" and other horrible things, but still, every morning, she's Blanch DuBois.  Tugging on pants, death gripping to our legs, furiously waving a white handkerchief as the Kindergarten train pulls out of the station.  Because of her experience, we didn't think she'd have any problem with the big K.  But we were wrong.  She's cried every single day except for the first, which I assume means she thought she was on a really long play date.  She had no clue that for the next 13 YEARS, this is her life.    

But this morning, finally, a breakthrough.    Though not "jazzed" or "psyched," - her look was, according to WIFE, "melancholy," - MONSTA'S cute lil' face was DRY.  I hope this is a trend, but I doubt it.  She's a dramatic kid, and what's a better show-stopper than a big weep as her mother and I walk out of the drop-off zone, perhaps never to return again.  But as dads and moms know, even one day without tears is a welcomed gift from the gods.  

10 YEARS LATER...

From the corner of 35th Avenue and 41st Street in Astoria, the end of our block, you can see the lights that burn in memory of those who died on September 11, 2001.  You can see them from many parts of our neighborhood.  I imagine you can see them from most everywhere in New York.  That makes sense.  Every person who lived in New York at that time, at least those I've met, has a immediate connection to the tragedy.  Either they lost someone, or they knew someone who lost someone, or they themselves had to run from the rubble.  

Certainly no one has a more important connection to 9/11 than children.  Recently, I saw on a program that there THOUSANDS of kids who were orphaned by the attack.  The rest of their lives, without a parent, because of hate and ignorance. Without getting political, it's fair to say that in the military response, thousands more were added to this number.  As long as I live, I will refuse to see the fairness or justification in such man-made loss.  

Whatever your feelings, today, tomorrow, and the next day - but especially today - hold your kid close.  Tell them you love them, even if they're acting nasty.  Parenting is no cake walk, but I'm grateful to be around to do it. And today of all days, give some good thoughts to those who aren't. 

HOLY FIT!

A Question:  what's your response to those special fits?  You know the one.  Your kid, this thing that was, at one time, perfect and delightful, is flailing about, kicking everything in sight like a horse about to win the Glue Factory 500.  Part of you is thinking, "Man, is she having a seizure?" but the other part of you doesn't care so long as she quits.  

MONSTA had one of those last night.  We don't spank, but man did I want to punch her.  Not really punch, but like, lightly tap her with a closed hand.  The kind that the refs in the WWF will warn you about, but not call the match.  One of those.  But I'm a peaceful man, so we just took away television...on a Sunday.  Tell me this:  who gets punished on that one?  

So how do you handle those?  My parents whooped me, and since that isn't an option, we're always open to new ideas.  Of course, when her head starts spinning, and goo is pouring from her ears, having a chat doesn't seem realistic.  

Picking A Name Aint' What It Used To Be

In just a couple months, another beautiful, loud, hungry mouth will be making noise in our apartment. No, my father isn't coming to visit.  WIFE is preggers, silly.  Along with diapers and booty cream, this little thing will also need a name.  Today, parents have a wide variety of names to choose from.  Once people stopped feeling obligated to give their child a religious name, it was like the gates of crazy opened up.  Ashley Simpson named her kid "Bronx," which is hilarious because I'm CERTAIN she has never been to the Bronx.

Our specific dilemma is that WIFE, MONSTA, and myself are all M's.  I've been warned that if we give this boy a name beginning in something other than M, he'll feel left out.  (God I hope he's more secure than that)  Needless to say, we've boxed ourselves in on this one.  But what we choose is important.  Society makes a lot of judgments based on first names.  Did you know that resumes with ethnic names may be less likely to get called in for an interview?  So a name counts, man!  I don't want to be supporting little Marsuvious for ever.  Here then, are the ones my wife and I are considering, along with what it may say about who this guy will be.

MARTIN - a nerd or tiny black stand-up comedian

MORTIMER - a magician, nerd, or mid-level cartoon villain

MITCH - guy who answers phones at GEICO and/or small town D.J. 

MYSTIKAL- great rapper, terrible person

MYSTERIO - tiny hispanic wrestler

MALCOLM - revolutionary activist for rights of middle-income kids of mixed race

MATT - cool guy and/or smooth operator and/or old lady across street walker (and/or Second Coming???)

At some point I'll let you know what we choose.  Until then, we'd love some ideas.