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...