NO PEEKING ALLOWED...

So I picked up Shiloh from school as I often do. It is a Friday and the weary look of Shiloh's teacher greets me at the classroom door. I normally pick her up from outside, lined up her classes red dots. I need to turn in a field trip slip and $22 for the excursion to the theatre to see a play next week.
Shiloh and I hold hands as we walk the short distance to my car, illegally parked in the adjacent alley. I cherish that brief interlude together with Shiloh. She is at that age when she is still a little girl, but I can clearly see adolescence traits developing. Her hair is in the dual ponytail look, parted down the middle. She wears a free dress day outfit of Wonder Woman tee shirt, jeans, and mini boots. When she bends to get in the car her underwear is exposed and I tease her about how this must've looked when she was around the boys in her class. I don't like the idea of the sagging pants, not cute at all. I always insist she wear a belt to keep them up. Because of my crack of dawn work schedule I don't get the chance to make sure on these free dress days to see what she looks like.

We get to 7-11 and she puts in her request for a donut and strawberry milk. I know, not the healthy of treats. I could use some supervision in that area, just as I can be critical of her attire. When we are preparing to leave the store parking lot a wave of sadness rushes over me like some melancholy blanket. I think to myself, in twenty years she will be twenty five years old. And I will be almost eighty. Will she still want to hold my hand and share with me stories about her day. Today it was  Morgan who pulled her shirt up and Reagan who gave her a barrette. Who and what will be happening in her life in twenty years, and will I be around to take it all in. And if I am around, will I have enough sense left to understand and appreciate the ability to experience my child's life? Will she want to take trips to the store with me and get a donut and strawberry milk? She will more than likely have to drive  me, and perform other odds and end errands that I take for granted now. I mentioned to her today when she was adding up how old she will be in twenty years that I wanted her to come by and spend time with me. Not in a guilt inducing fashion, I'll wait for her to get a little older for that. She promised she would. Well, maybe not actually a promise, but she sounded like she meant what she said. I wonder how the dad's I know who are in their seventies and eighties are doing with their relationships with their daughters. The simplicity of the good times we share now will hopefully become an investment in her desires in the future to hang out with the old man. I shudder to think of the loneliness and despair I would feel if she didn't...

UPDATE

It's been a while since the last post. Shiloh was playing soccer with the Pink Fairies at the time and I was coaching the team. She played again in the fall and this time I let someone else coach the team. She did okay, but clearly missed having Dad making sure her goal attempts remained at a sufficiently high quotient.

She is currently finishing up her first foray into basketball. the coaches are a husband and wife tandem that have a nice way of working with a group of five and six year old's. Shiloh has scored one basket in the 7 games played so far. When she scored it I figured she was on her way to scoring in every game. Not so fast there, buddy. She is not feeling the aggressive pursuit of the ball mindset that makes for effective point production. She actually gets a look of panic whenever a rebound  is about to land anywhere near her. But it's okay. She has done well with dance classes and the soccer will continue. Our skill development in the back yard is going well with basketball and her dribbling is improving. If she decides it's not for her so be it. She gets so concerned whenever a player gets knocked down or hit in the face by the ball. It is a sense of dread, realizing that her time is coming. But there is absolutely nothing that bothers me in the least about her not continuing to play. We are enjoying the Oscars as I write this, with her emulating the song and dance numbers and admiring the captivating gowns being showcased. Ah, thank God for little girls...

SOCCER DAD

It has been a minute since I last checked in. Shiloh has matriculated into the little girl stage quite nicely, thank you. She can't go anywhere unless she has her assortment of dolls and stuffed animals. When I try to put a three object limit for church, for example, she looks at me like I'm nuts. So then it gets into , "you can bring three, and take one in with you". She'll haggle me up to two, thoughfully explaining how the one she would bring would be lonely and have no one top play with. Somehow that always seems to make perfect sense to me and so two it is.

Our latest adventure has been a five and under (5U) soccer league near the house. Same league her older brother Cyrus played in when  he was close to her age. I remember wishing I could call the shots as the head coach and how differently my approach as a "former professional athlete" would be vastly superior to that of the perpertrating stepdad who donned the Head Coach golf shirt.

Be careful what you wish for. Even though I checked the "assistant  coach" box on the application I was of course named as the first ever coach of the Pink Fairies. When deciding on a team name, the first suggestion was undiscernable and not wanting to put undue spotlight attention on the five year old girl, I asked for any more suggestions. One of the girls blurted out FAIRIES. Her mom threw the Pink part in for good measure.

Let me go back to that application process. You would think I was applying for NORAD clearance with all the quizzes, test and handbook studying required. About two days into it I was about to bag it. Coupled with Commissioner Tanika constanly checking up on me to see if I had completed the certification. I mean I get it, you want to  make sure coaches are well versed in child abuse, concussion awareness, skill development, and all the rest. But I kind've thought it would be a roll the balls out and let them have at it kind of experience.

 I worked with Shiloh for a good month before the league actually started. You can find pretty much anything you want on youtube. She was really good and I thought could dominate her first time playing soccer. What I didn't realize was that she was one of the youngest girls at four and a couple of them had played in organized leagues before. So they ran circles around my little girlie girl at first. But she is slowly catching on to the focus it takes to compete successfully. My first big coaching decision is to find a way to break her and my niece up at practices and games. They're dancing and singing and chasing butterflies. Everything but trying to kick that dang soccer ball...

THE FAMILY BLEND...

The "blended family" can pose its own unique set of challenges. Shiloh is my youngest of seven children. Yes , that's right seven. There are a total of four women responsible for birthing those seven kids. No, I am not a practicing Muslim nor olskool Big Love type Mormon. I only wish we had that type of "sister wife" comraderie with my "four baby mamma's". Though I must remove the current wife from that grouping, she would not take kindly to being referred to as such. During our more than fifteen years together, she has  shown time and again that she has my back, whatever issues we've had to conjointly stroll through. As you can well imagine, things can get pretty tense trying to make it all work. Varying circumstances and personalties in addition to expectations and obligations, it often times is every bit as confusing as it sounds. You toss in other personal demons I've battled over the years and you kind of get the snapshot of what life for MJ is like in its present rendering . For Shiloh's recent fourth birthday it was attendance by selective invite only. There are off shoot elements in the "blend" that have an oil and water affinity for one another. We have to judiciously rotate birthdays and holidays to make sure the proper balance is achieved. It is distressing for me because I would love for this to  be one of those in a  perfect world situations where peace and harmony abound. It's not even close as of this writing, but a fellow can still dream.

I make no apologies, it is what it is. And don't get me wrong, there are many joyous and wonderful moments. Just not with everyone under the same roof or coexisting in the same location. For someone who watched his parents spend fifty five years of mostly wedded bliss together, the outlook can seem daunting. The Family Afterward chapter  of a widely read self help manual speaks about the chaos and confusion the recovery process can have on those closest to the recoveree. Years of dysfunctional behavior and attitudes take their inevitable toll. The long road to reconstruction is a trying one, but well worth the journey. The bed is made and I intend to sleep in it. Sometimes I wish that's all I would've done...

THE HIGH ROAD

Rarely have I been as excited about an upcoming Father's Day. My son Cyrus and Granddaughter Khalilah will be baptized in a ceremony immediately following church service Sunday. My other kids will pay their respects at some point in the day, always a welcomed chance to interact together as a family. And just to think, I was not sure about becoming a father again at fifty. Shiloh and I have this very pure relationship. She has the utmost trust in me to do what is best for her. She's too young to articulate this sentiment, but just from looking into her beautiful brown eyes I know it to be true. I am indeed a very lucky man to have this continual blessing to care for and nurture on a daily basis. I just asked her if she knew Father's Day was approaching. She told me she did and that she had a present for me, a watch. I hope she didn't jump the gun, but even so, the consideration  for her Daddy was heartwarming. Raising a little girl on a daily basis is so different than it was with the five boys. Shiloh and I can spend hours hanging out with each other. We are really into writing letters and numbers. I trace out one or the other, or use dots as a guide and she has the look of tremendous accomplishment when she completes the task. She is insatiable in her thirst to learn, always begging for more. I have to suggest a break here and there to prevent her from becoming too obsessive about getting it just right. We swim, take neighborhood strolls, workout on the Bosu ball, hang at the park, you name it. A couple of days ago she picked a flower from our yard and handed it to me. I asked her what it was for, she told me she loved me and that "Dad's Day"was coming soon. Thank Goodness for Little Girls...

CUTENESS UPDATE

Time for another of my tri-monthly updates in this Father at Fifty ordeal. In less than four years it will be Fatherhood at Sixty...great. Shiloh is three years old and her personality is emerging and evolving. The one trait that is most appealing is her concern for Daddy. If I bump my head she will immediately ask, "are you all right Daddy?" She will give my arm an impromptu rub down and willingly shares whatever treats she has. There is a natural shyness around those she first meets, but is all the way live around us at home. One of our favorite past times is dancing  to youtube oldies at the computer. She works up a pretty good lather and will instruct me on the proper technique whenever I try and impress her with some of my old school dance moves. "This is how you do it Daddy, like this." Can't wait until she turns five so we can enroll her in Debbie Allen's Dance Academy.

She is a regular at the family operated child development center. Her best friend is a little girl named Krishay. It's in Inglewood, and she fits in nicely. Her best boy bud is Christopher who is a little chocolate, cute as a button dude. When I pick her up, if I give him a high five, I have to give everyone in the class one too. If I hug my niece Noel, the other kids line up and ask for their hugs too. It's all kind of cute and I am happy to oblige. Never know how much affection they get at home.

The funniest moments with Shiloh at home is listening to her chastise me. It is not an over the top, hash rebuke. But rather one of frustration and consternation. Like when I recently dropped a portion of her chicken nuggets on the carpet. "Dadd-ee", she implores. What else can I do but say, sorry, and kiss them up to God.

I wish that Kiss it up to God gesture was rooted in reality. It would be tantamount to having my own reset button when I have mucked things up slightly past that point of no return. As we approach the New Year, I feel my trust in God being tested daily when it comes to Shiloh, and the rest of those close to me. I pray for His protective covering on them all, like I'm sure parents in recent tragedies prayed for their kids. It is impossible to make sense of it all, as I choose to focus on those things I can control. That is my joy and reverance for this gift of life as represented in Shiloh. And to think, I was reluctant to embrace the idea of being a Father once again at Fifty. It has turned into one of those life changing blessings that only God can provide. I Kiss Her Up To Him, every day...

SHE'S THREE YEARS OLD...

The birthday party is behind us. Nothing like having a house full of sugar fueled, rambunctious 2-5 year olds pillaging the old abode. Some kid named Colton brandishing a Barbie doll like a noonchuk and belting anyone who came within reach was probably the most memorable highlight for me. The hired face painter set up her emcampment around the patio table. This seemed to be the most popular venue at the party. That and the mini-trampoline in the den, languishing right behind my favorite chair. So much for the Ryder Cup. Interesting how the boys declined to have their faces splashed with multi-colored hues in the pattern of rainbows, and puppy dogs, and some other sort of weird Masai Warrior renditions, that for your basic looking white lady, actually appeared pretty authentic. I half heartedly expected a groundswell of muffled chants saying, ZULU, ZULU, ZULU, ZULU... Actually their was one boy that did get into the face painitng. Well, not exactly a boy, seeing how it was my 23 yearold son Josh. His was a solid depiction of a butterfly, all star spangled bannered out  in red, white, and blue. He posted a picture of himself on Facebook with his face painted at a Lupus charity run recently. Is this something I should be concerned about?
Shiloh, the party girl, had a great time. She alternated between the basketball court outside, where her guest entertained themselves with tricycles and scooters and...not much else. We didn't want to do the musical chairs deal with kids this young and aggressive. Potential lawsuits can be expensive. The pin the pony tail on the princess game required a little more neuro-muscular discipline than these youngsters possessed. Except for Bruce Lee Colton, of course. We did have the requisite Pinada (Sorry, can't do the curly Q over the N thing). Our handyman, Raynor, used every ounce of his creativity in making sure the Princess Pinanda was perfectly centered on the court. While observing rope lines running from rooftops to palm trees to telephone poles, to being draped over the top of the basket backboard, I wondered if he had ever served time with the Mexican Special Ops. Had to cajole the liitle crumbsnatchers to let their animalistic natures manifest themselves. They would coyly take the decorative broomhandle like stick and gently tap the thing, like they were afraid to hurt the Princess. It wasn't until my nephew got his turn that things got interesting, Princess be damned. Though we had to ditch the bandana we used to blindfold him. Something about that nasty eye infection of his that caused Josh to alertly and discreetly yell to me, "look at his eye, throw that thing away". The honor method was invoked, sans blindfold. Now, what that usually means if you are like  me, is that you at  find a way to take a little peak. My other nephew, Gene Gene, would have made Abe Lincoln proud. Not only did he not take a sneak peek, but he nearly knocked himself out in the process. Got to love his ethics though. Once the Pinada was thoroughly breached, all hell broke loose. I had to put a moratorium on the older kids and their total disregard for the toddlers' safety. My 9 year old daughter Jasmine was particularly upset, questioning the fairness of it all, while trying to hold on to the 15 pieces of candy in her hands. While 9 year old (yes, this is how we do it) granddaughter Khalilah anxiously panted a few yards away waiting to display another Panther pounce on her Gummy Bear prey. The young ones meticulously gathered their treats with happy smiles plastered on their colorfully painted faces. Just what this party needed, more sugar...

Moriah's Reflections

A Snickers and a lemon soda
after every chemotherapy.
The pain my brother attained
never seemed to be fair to me.
Josh has cancer.
Blood cells from hell
rebel like black panthers.
Prancing on hollow surface with
souls colder than tap dancers.
Mom just wants answers,
Josh wants to get older.
All I want is my snickers and a cold lemon soda..
50 dollars a shot.
I’m not talking drinking Jack,
but about needles invading,
penetrating, into my brother’s back.
I learned to be grateful
for what I have that others lack,
because here my brother’s dying
and my life is still in tact.
Claustrophobia sets in
as my parents are surrounded by the facts.
All I cared about was leaving
so I could go and get my snacks.
I asked mom for a haircut
so that Josh and I could match.
He was still big brother,
so we were attached like a patch
cut from the same mold.
It started getting cold
and Josh was bald by now
so he’d adapt to wearing hats.
I was young but followed rules.
It wasn’t cool to miss school,
so my mother lied and said there was none that day
so I wouldn’t have the blues.
But when we drove passed,
my friend was walking to class
and my tears grew as glossy
as freshly polished glass.
He was at a crucial age,
as I was missing only days,
he missed the whole second grade.
But as a way to aid against this plague
his classmates made plays
that he could play throughout his stay.
As he cherished everyday,
he perished in his weight.
My parents perished from the wait,
Josh would share with me his toys.
They were praying they wouldn’t have to
hold a wake for their boy.
Each day he would awake
they would gain an ounce of joy,
that God’s angel of death
had not yet been deployed.
After 5 years he was healed.
It couldn’t have happened quicker.
It was all in God’s timing,
He showed He is a listener.
Josh is 23 now.
Got the weight back and getting bigger.
And I’m still addicted to my lemon soda
and my Snickers.

WE'RE BACK...

It's been a while since I last made a blog entry. Life being life , I guess. The hustle and bustle nature, the cares of this world, trying to keep ends meetings, are all legtimate reasons for my prolonged absence. It was initially amusing charting the periodic progress I was attempting to make as an older man with a young child. But as could be expected, the novelty soon diminished and the business of responsible parenting became paramount. That is not say that the experience doesn't continue to produce those special moments. The latest of which is a phase Shiloh is in now where she constantly prepares my meals. Sometime invisible ones she'll make in the miniature pots and pans she received as a recent gift. She thrust it in my face and request that I eat it. How can I say no to that? The spaghetti the other night was especially delish, though she made no mention of what sauce accompanied it. If I can locate my long ago invisible friend, Fred, maybe he could shed some light on the culinary makeup of  these meals.  Closer to reality, Shiloh made me an actual peanut butter sandwich on a tiny hamburger bun, at least the top half of it. I must say she did an exceptioonal job, though she ate most of it. It is such a profound privilege to be the father of such a considerate and sweet young lady. Especially when it comes to feeding her daddy, a trend  that hopefully, will last for quite some time.

The Wizard of OZ

I am watching the Wizard of Oz with Shiloh for the first time in her life. I love this movie, always have. So many lessons to be learned, especially about fearing the unknown and the case for fear we can build in our imagination. I'm amazed she is as engaged into it as she is. I'm getting drilled with questions of "whaa happened" all during the tornado scene. Had to calm her down when Dorothy got konked on the head and passed out. She seemed to enjoy the black and white portion more so than the color. My little girlie girl with Film Noir appreciation. Uh oh, the Wicked Witch of the West just showed up and Shiloh is mesmerized. She can personally identify with Glenda, the Good Witch because she sports a Magic Wand much like the one Shiloh got at a Halloween fair.
 Dorothy:"how do a start for Emerald City".
Glenda: "it's always best to start at the beginning".
Sage advice that applies to every major undertaking we may have before us. Every journey starts with the first step, or something to that effect. Like with me, I have a project that NBA star Brandon Jennings would be perfect for. It just so happens that a youth a coach I spoke to today is married to his cousin and appeared in Brandon's recent Under Armour commercial. We exchanged info and he agreed to make the connection for me. It's always best to start at the beginning. Great duet is on now with the Scarecrow, Ray Bolger. Wasn't Michael Jackson this same character in the Wiz remake? Big difference though with a forty something Diana Ross in the lead role. Sort of the neurotic middle aged woman trying to find her way home.
Okay Shiloh is totally trippin' on the beligerrent apple tree dude. Whoever thought of this for the cinema had such the original perceptibility. Looks like my hopes that the two year old can hang for the duration are dashed. Mom just got home from Turkey day shopping and Shiloh is sitting on the Dryer, coloring the receipts from the grocery store vibrant color of orange. Now she's writing on the wall, so I definitely gotta go. She got about an hour into it, I can live with that...

YEAR TWO

Well, the "terrible twos" are upon us. Fortunately the tantrums have been few and far between, as opposed to frequent and in close proximity. There was a mini one today. Whenever I so much as reach for the remote control, Shiloh devolves into a fit of panic, terrified she may miss DJ Lance doing something, anything. Yo Gabba Gabba is indeed her favorite. Hard for me to follow, with the aforementioned DJ parading around in that loud orange costume of his. And I could swear that his voice was dubbed in a similar way as Bruce Lee was dubbed in Chinese Connection. The wife had a friend sew a costume like Lance's, hat included. Shiloh was the epitome of cuteness trick or treating in this get up on Halloween. Much to my surprise, my grandson Will was also DJ Lance. As was a friends toddler, Marcel. Didn't realize Lance was so popular. But Shiloh has eased her way into the realm of two years old. She is pretty easy to put to bed. Long bath and a bedtime story does the job. Our fav of the moment is a Toni Morrison story about Peeny Peeny Butter. It is a little weird, with Nana doing some outlandish stuff on one of her visits. But in the end, everyone is all hugs and kisses. And isn't that the most important thing?...

All in a (Nick) Name...

So the wife has taken to calling Shiloh, Ma. As in, "how you doing Ma", or "what time did Ma get up?". I for one, refuse to call her that. I'm just not crazy about Ma as a nickname for my daughter. My little cutesy name, Girlie Girl is something that is reserved for just me and her, hasn't seemed to have caught on with anyone else. I remember always wishing I had a cool nickname when I was in high school. This was after Dr. J came on the scene and I thought that was one of the best nicknames ever. Back then you had the Iceman, The Wizard, The Hawk, Zeke from Cabin Creek, et al. My college teammate, Raymond Townsend, thought I sounded like Bill Dee in the movie Brian's Song. So he started calling me Magic, which I nixed right off the bat. What kind of nickname is that for a basketball player anyway? I liked the moniker, Maestro, but no one else did. My rookie year in the NBA, the PR guy tried to hang "The Slammer" on me, because of my dunking tendencies. I told him that it reminded me too much of jail, and to please discontinue it. He did.

Why is it so commonplace to give nicknames to our kids? There must some kind of emotional investment in it for the bestowers. Something that maybe intensifies the connect bewteen adult and child. The problem arises when the adult pins one on a kid and it sticks, like Doo Doo Boy. A kid in Louisville was actually called that into his teenage years. Imagine walking around the rest of your life and that is what people remember you by. Hey, aren't you Doo Doo Boy? Or the one a family friend tried to paste on my son. She started calling him Bug. Boy am so I glad that didn't have much staying power. If only I should be so lucky with Ma...

Lion in the Yard...

I heard someone once say that if you have a backyard swimming pool, you need to treat it like it was a ferocious Lion. Do everything humanly possible to keep it away from your kids. Chain it up under lock and key if you have to. Great advice that I wished I had heard year earlier. I lost my namesake, 16 month old son to a drowning accident in 1987. It is something that is indelibly seared into the mind, while taking temporary respites, never completely straying too far awy from your thoughts. It happened in May, so this month can be particularly tough at times. What type of man would he be? How tall, how smart, how handsome?

Back to the Lion, I came across Conrad, the neighborhood Swim Whisperer a couple of weeks ago. He teaches swimming to kids as young as 2 years old in his backyard. Parents will schedule visits to L.A. from as far away as Chicago, so that their young ones can spend a week with Conrad. He is so patient and gentle, you can sense the assurance and confidence he dispenses. Couple that with a backyard that suits his approach to a tee. A running fountain, Buddha statue, soft music, torches, it is a veritable serentiy panacea. I took Shiloh to observe and she was very much at ease. I have been doing what was suggested to prepare her for his class when she is closer to two years old in August. Submerging and developing the leg kick, she has shown improvment in a short period of time. When I mention this to a parent at Cyrus' baseball game, it elicits positive affirmations from other parents who hear our conversation. Seems like Conrad has taught the whole neighborhood to swim. And as you can well imagine, it will be a welcomed relief when Shiloh is able to swim herself to safety. Until then, the Lion lurks, never sleeping...

Inspirational Bebop...

When I stop to ponder what it means to be a Father at Fifty (plus) years old, certain imagery materializes in my mind. My second son Josiah, telling me he sucks at baseball at 10 years old after a tryout at the local park. I wanted him to play because, well, because, I played. I loved the experience of being a part of a little league team. Trying on the uniform the night before the first game and visualizing heroic exploits that snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Blasting towering homeruns that easily clear the ivy-packed left field fence of Sportsman's Park. I still relish my best worst memory (or is it my worst best memory?) Showing up to the park at 9 years old hoping I had made the All Star team. Nevermind that
 I tried to foil the coach's effort at sparing us humiliation by proclaiming that if he didn't call us the night before, don't come to the park. It was all too easy to simply take the phone receiver off the hook, sparing me the anxiety ridden anticipation. Upon being told that we weren't selected for the team, me and my childhood buddy, James Lofton (yes, that one) commiserated  together through our tears while playing a game of strikeout between ourselves while the selected few practiced on a field a few feet away.
Which brings me to my youngest son Cyrus. I could sense the fear in his voice while bodly proclaiming his hatred for anything remotely related to baseball. My wife, being sensitive to not wanting him scarred for life by being forced to play, quickly supported his decision. Experience taught me that his passion for the sport could not of so easily reversed itself. And watching a young man battle Leukemia, bone marrow proceedures, chemo and its resulting side effects, all the while maintaing his upbeat and positive attitude, only solidified my position that my son needed to face his fear. This young man, Bebop as he is called, is the son of one Cyrus's coaches. His constant presence at practice, exhorting and encouraging, has served up benefits not limited to the 11 and 12 year olds. The meticulous approach he takes to scorekeeping and fulfilling his duties as the PA announcer are truly inspirational to all priveleged to observe. There are far more important things in life than being on the winning team, clutch hits, and outstanding defensive gems. Watching how this one family has handled the most difficult of situations, reminds me that one of sports most compelling lessons is to never give up. To continually press toward the mark. No matter how dire the circumstances may appear...

The Penultimate Charge

I have been working March Madness in New York the past few days. The City is a beautiful place this time of year. My hotel view looks out over the Hudson River and to say it is spectacular does not do it justice. I take a walk most mornings on the outskirts of Greenwich Village. It is funy how we appreciate the color and pageantry of a place a lot more as we get older. My daily trek leads past a typical New York  City playground. I am amused at the stylish way the toddlers are dressed. They could be lifted out of whatever the chic children's fashion magazine is at this time. Scarves neatly adorning their necks, P coats, Ugg boots, tweed jackets, it is an all encompassing assemblage of elegant couture, for the mini-me set. I am reminded of Shiloh, and her early signs of fashion awareness. At 9 months she was already adept at wrapping a fake fur boa around her neck and sporting whatever trendy sunglasses her mom left laying around. Being the wardrobe consultant she is, you can well imagine the pleasure mommie gets from having her little girl representing the epitome of avant garde apparel. Then she smiles, and the reality of the challenges of parenting assume the front and center position. Shiloh has cavities that need to be addressed with the assistance of an Anesthesiolgist. I don't want to get into the fear and apprehension that come with having to subject one so young to such drastic measures. She has been allowed to sleep with a bottle of milk to drink. That is our fault as parents, and now Shiloh suffers the consequences. And we suffer also. So I flew back home to be present at the upcoming proceedure. I want to be there when she falls asleep and there when she wakes. Then it is back to New York for more March Madness, and more playgrounds with the finely dressed children. I will experience a wave of gratitude at the realization that I have been afforded this penultimate charge, and to handle it accordingly.

Bedtime Story

Been a while since I last checked in. Everything is going okay with the Little Girlie Girl. She's growing and talking and displaying facial expressions that have me stumped as to their origin. We are really honing in on establishing specific routines and bedtimes. This is a little different for an olskooler like myself. I'm more used to going by my parental instincts, having been through the routine enough times to have it indelibly etched in my membranes. But I must say, there is something to be said for the familiarity of established patterns. Story reading time is my favorite. I think I enjoy reading The Cat in the Hat every bit as much as she does. The anxiety ridden fish my favorite character. Shiloh will let me know when she has had enough rhymer hyming by closing the book, hopping out of my lap, and handing me another book. She then usually makes a break for it out of the bedroom door and down the hall. I guess she figures if she can get me occupied with the reading, it will be enough of a diversionary tactic for her to make a clean getaway. Sorry, Little One, this ain't my first rodeo. I quickly (as quick as a 55 year old can) leave the comfortable depths of the pink and lime green rocking chair and swoop her up with one arm. It's time to conclude story time, and in a soft gentle voice tell her how much I love her. I tell her how proud I am that she is going to sleep on her own and that morining and all the excitement a new day brings will come shortly. I lean over to plant a kiss on her, and whisper in her ear, Good Night Moon...

Talk The Talk...

I am out here, On the Road, again. The dreariness of the Northwest reminds me why this isn't the top spot in the country to live, despite its lush beauty. But there is a reason for everything. If this part of the world had eighty degree days in January on the regular, it would be bursting at the seams with inhabitants, thereby losing a lot of its appeal. These four day trips have a double edged affect on me. I do enjoy getting away from home for short stretches, if for nothing else than to clear my head with constant solitude. This usually entails a drive of no more than two hours to whatever intended destination. A favorite Uncle has provided me with the musical backdrop, a vintage Miles Davis CD of Greatest Hits. The flip side of a trip like this is the torture of being away from the Girlie Girl. I thought being upright and mobile would be the penultimate watershed moment that signaled the inevitable crossover from infant to toddler. It pales, though, in comparison to her talking. One word attempts that follow the prompting of her mom and me. "Mine" sounds like nine, and "Happy" is becoming clearer and easier with every time she says it. I notice her watching my lips as they form to say the word, giving her the template to duplicate as she tries. The killer is when she says "Hi", and will press the issue until you greet her likewise. She still gets all dressed up, like that should be our hint that she has no intention of being left behind. Boa's and bracelets, Kangols and sunglasses. And of course, she never leaves, or prepares to leave the house without the toy cell phone Granny got her for Christmas. It's just a matter of time, a short one at that, and she'll be burning up minutes. Minutes that dissipate into the ethers, never to be lived again...

Christina Taylor Green

There is a passage from the Bilble that speaks about " a corn of wheat falling to the ground and dying". And if it dies how it will bring forth much fruit. This quote by Jesus struck me as I read more about the nine year old senselessly gunned down in Tucson this weekend. Christina Taylor Green was born on September 11, 2001. That is the day that will live in infamy as terrorist brought down the World Trade Center and killed thousands in the process. Christina was interested in politics and wanted to know more about how our government works. Christina's dad was a scout for the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball team. The fruit that will be brought forth from this horrible tragedy? It is way too early to tell. The vitriol being spewed by our politicians will more than likely subside for a minute. After our short memories reduce the impact of this weekend, it may very well be business as usual. We will go back to our polarized positions and our distrust of the fundamental motives behind them. Ideally I want my kids to grow up in a better space than I did. I want my eight year daughter to have the same inquisitive nature about life and our political system as Christina Taylor Green. I don't want her to pay for it with her own life. I hope Christina's death will not be in vain. The mere fact that it has provoked my thought process along these lines, means that it hasn't been. But there is so much more fruit that needs to be brought forth. So much more...

BLUE BENZ...

A good friend of mine passed away a couple of months ago. He was as nice a guy as you'd ever want to meet. He was particularly proud of his two grown daughters, making many a trip across country to support them in whatever ways they may have needed. I'm leaving soon on a redeye to see my son at college down south. I think about my friend who never hesitated to hop on a 5 hour plus flight. I fly all the time, way too much for my own liking. It is an occupational necessity that I could easily live without. I've had second thoughts about making this trip. It is at a time when I have a two week respite from work and travel. More importantly, I was given the dreaded "Middle Seat" on the long flight back. But I feel there is a need for me to make this trip. Call it parental intuition. Issues have arisen that I need to observe first hand, allowing me to better able evaluate and offer advice, if I am asked to. Back to my recently deceased friend, his family lives right across the street from me. His daughter is in town for the holidays and uses his car to get around. In one of those serendipitous moments, I found myself following her for a good distance, both of us headed home. It brought back memories of the good times we shared. It also reminded me of how much he loved his girls. I could only imagine the connection his daughter felt driving his car. The smells, the aura, the feeling of being close to her Father through one of  his most cherished possesions. It is a vintage Mercedes Benz, owned by him for many years. He took good care of that car, the same way he took good care of everythning else he loved. We leave this world at the appointed time. Fortunately, we leave a piece of ourselves behind, for those who cared for us most to remember us by...

Second Xmas

This is the second Christmas for Baby Shiloh, but it is almost like her first. Last year she was exactly three months old and totally oblivious to what was going on around this time. Not so this year, as she insist that every gift that is so  meticulously wrapped belongs to her.She is like a little squirrel hoarding nuts. I stumble upon half opened gifts all over the house. And of course the decorative ornaments that "The Wife" breaks out of storage and proudly and strategically places on the "little tree" are also fair game. A few moments ago Shiloh came in with a couple of them and ran away from me when I had the audacity to attempt to confiscate them. Back to the "little tree", which by the way, is the title of one of our favorite movies. I refer to it as such because a good buddy of mine persuaded me to purchase it as a fund raising vehicle. Proceeds go to the local high school basketball team, a really worthy cause. Except "The Wife" had her designs set on our customary semi-gigantic topiary spectacle that fills up a room like Bill Cosby. You know, the larger than life, bought to impress kind of thing. She finally came around to the whole "spirit of the season" point of view, albeit reluctantly.
I love this time of year and the way she gets so engaged in maintaining our family traditions, some new, some old. There is the mid-day brunch that features an egg souffle that is quite delicious. It is accompanied by croissants, fruit plate, and juice. For the past twelve years it has been an unmitigated success. It was passed down to her by her mother, who died eight years ago, so it remains an important connection to some very special memories. We'll have my kids and some other friends who have become regulars join us. Shiloh will be bounding about, taking it all in. Another tradition is to have the kids in Santa's lap photo op. Shiloh is screaming bloody murder in her photo she took today, just like her brother did at the same age. Can't have any lingering bad thoughts dominate her mind about the Yule Tide season. We may have to assign her as the official gift unwrapper. She has definitely had enough practice at it... MERRY CHRISTMAS!