Happy Father's day

I’ve heard a lot about different Father’s days.  Some do time away from the family (golf buddy trip), some do time with the family, some make it father and son time.  I think all three are appropriate.  This year I happened to hurt my back (again) and was unable to play golf on Saturday or Sunday like I normally would have.  Instead Nita, Connor, Josie, my mom and I all went to the club pool in our golf carts.  We played in both pools without another person showing up for a couple of hours.  Then we had a nice dinner where my Father’s day platter was unveiled.  Both of our mom’s came for steaks, scallops, roasted corn, and a lovely strawberry cake (thanks for helping daddy blow out the candle Connor). Finally I can bring in everything from the grill in one trip, added bonus that it has Josie and Connor’s foot and hand prints on said platter.

I started thinking about all the crappy ties and crappier excuses I gave my father through our 26 years together.  Sure the wife/mom is responsible for the gift for at least the first 10 or so years, but what about my last 16?.  Okay, money aside, did I do my best?  Not really.  Of course no one tries to be a good parent so they get cool gifts from children three times a year (birthday, Christmas, and Father’s/Mother’s day) or at least they shouldn’t use that as the incentive.  I mean I know if he were still alive now he’d get some really cool stuff.  I know I try to take care of my mother and get her some neat things. What would I do now?  I’d probably take him to a ball game…in another state.  Maybe take him fishing in Canada, or just spend the day with him.

Thinking about this reminded me about March 11, 1996, our last day together.  I’d gotten two tickets to see Texas A&M baseball vs. Michigan in College Station.  I asked dad if he wanted to go.  He said yes.  The night before I went out partying with my friends and was seriously hung over the next day.  So much so that I called mom and asked if dad was even interested in going to the game or if he was being polite (hoping for the latter).  Mom said, “Mijo, he is really excited.  He’s been telling his friends all week.”  So I told her, “Tell him I’m excited too and to meet me at (not important) and we’ll drive up together.”  So dad met me and off we went.  We talked about a job opportunity I had in Phoenix and he gave me advice on how to truly measure salary (proximity to friends, family, laundry, entertainment, travel, soft costs, etc.)  We talked about maturity, success, work ethic, and baseball.  We got to College station with plenty of time to go eat at Tom’s BBQ.  We got to the game and watched the Aggies beat the Wolverines.  Then we drove home.  We didn’t argued at all (rare for us) the entire way.  Most of you who know me know I’m very competitive in the debate arena and I kind of learned it from him. We used to have some doozies.  He dropped me off at my truck, I hugged him and told him that I loved him.

That night he had a heart attack and died in his bed.  I often thank God for the nudge to spend this last day with him.  I don’t know if I’d have ever been able to forgive myself if I’d have blown him off and he then died that night.  I hope Connor and Josie and I have a similar last day.  He also died in the bed of his adoring wife of 39 years.  I hope I get that luxury as well.  I hope the day I go to be judged that I have a chance to tell and hear from my family that I love them and they love me.  I miss you dad, you would have loved Nita.  Connor would have adored you, and Josie would have melted your heart.  Rest in peace and happy Father’s day.

I finally get it.

Technically I got it about 3 years ago, but I REALLY get it now.  First of all I want to apologize to my friends and family, and I guess to some of my co-workers.  For about two decades people sent me pictures of their kids, told stories about them, and tried to share their experiences.  I was a single workaholic who wasn’t really interested in “distractions.”  I was the guy who heard a baby cry or a child yell, “Mommy! MaaaaahhhhhhMEEEE!  MOM!!”  in a restaurant and thought (or even said it out loud) “Can’t they shut that kid up?”  As my friends got married and continued sharing these things I still wasn’t as interested as say, who won last night’s game and what the lead was on SportsCenter.

Then after two years of trying to start a family we got pregnant.  I showed everyone our first sonogram picture.  I even made it my desktop background on my computer.  Then Connor was born.  I took pictures and videos of everything.  I made collages and taped them to the window of my golf cart.  I created a website so my friends and family could share in my joy.  (Yes I am in fact seeing what a jack ass I was.  There is no need to re-point it out). I told countless stories of his development and bragged about each little milestone he surpassed.  I purchased a two terabyte SAN to back up all his pics and videos.  I started rotating the picture collage in my golf cart which has now morphed into three full panels.  Of course then comes Josie and they both own me.  I get it. 

When we were planning our wedding, Nita informed me that two of her friend’s daughters would be flower girls and her cousin’s son would be the ring bearer I was thinking, “Really? They are going to be a distraction, they won’t sit still, they’ll be loud and we’ll have to worry about what they do around the altar.  (I was a groomsman for a friend’s wedding and was put in charge of the ring bearers… it didn’t go well, it was all I could think of).  Of course the kids at our wedding did great and they even had a really cute moment at the reception where they held a plate under the chocolate fountain and were feeding each other the chocolate.  Again, now I get it.

This weekend my cousin’s daughter was getting married.  We were honored that they asked Connor to be the ring bearer.  Imagine a whole bunch of Hispanics on either side of the aisle and Connor in a tux walking down the center with flaming red hair.  He was going to be a hit.  So Nita took him to church a couple of times to practice walking down to do it just right and not go off running or get nervous.  The morning before the wedding Nita took Josie with her to get her hair touched up.  I was to feed Connor.  So I took him to our golf club for tacos.  I thought it’d be fun to take him in the golf cart and even called my mom to meet us.  Connor wanted a granola bar and stuffed too much of it in his mouth.  Then before you could say, “drink some milk sweetie,” he started puking everywhere. I picked him up and tried to carry him as quickly as possible to the showers to have him do it there (sorry BCC, we almost made it) and he threw up just inches away from the shower entry one more time for good measure.  So I pulled off his little collared shirt, rinsed him off and used his socks to wipe off his little arms, cheeks, and legs.  So here I was walking back through the club with a no shirt, barefoot little boy and puke on my shirt and shorts and soaking wet shoes.  I had not one shred of embarrassment.  I felt bad for the folks who had to go clean up and apologized, but I only cared about getting my little boy some sprite and having him rest.

Fast forward to the wedding.  Y’all know a full on Catholic Mass is already a full hour, throw in wedding vows and a gift to La Virgin, and you’ve exceeded the attention span of a 2 ½ year old.  But Connor did great.  We showed him a couple of videos, played etch-a-sketch, and gave him some books to read.  He even kept his flower pinned to his lapel without tearing it up, picking the petals, or even stabbing anyone with the pins.  One time he started calling for mommy and wasn’t using his whisper voice so Nita took him to the front and they played out front for a while.  But he did great and even made it back for Communion. I was so proud of him.  He even stood relatively still and smiled for pictures. He even cooperated for re-enacting a few pictures with his sweet little cousin Sienna who was the beautiful flower girl you see.  We then took both kids to the reception and I’m glad I did.  Connor ate about 15 sugar cookies and basically had a three cameras following his dance moves (which mostly look like bat spin races) until he fell, laughed and did it again. 

For those of you who sent me the pictures 15 years ago, I’m sorry I didn’t look.  But I tell you this… I look at your sweet little Facebook posts now.  I read and share in your joy when your kids turn on a fastball, win gymnastics or swimming meets.  Sing, dance, or act in their latest recital or play.  I watch the cheering and the band formations.  I read your posts on their victories, heartaches, and crushes. I get it.

A Guardian Angel

I promised myself not to get overly religious or political, but I just can’t ignore this story.  My son Connor had an incident last night and this is the context.  I’ve been told about guardian Angels my entire life.  My mother had a – we can call it near death, but she was clinically dead for 8 minutes – experience.  She also had a falling off the roof incident when she was a little girl and she describes seeing a hand catch her and gently place her on the ground.  In any case, I believe. 

Connor is 2 ½ years old (and a few days).  He has a pretty amazing vocabulary for his age, knows his numbers to 15, colors, every single Thomas train engine, truck and tender, and most of his animals, fish, and birds (including the difference between a macaw and a parrot).  He is also very adept in identifying his wants.  Additionally he is really working his boundaries and is thoughtful about things to which he will agree and disagree.   For example the other day he was reaching for a bird feeder.  He said, “Daddy…can’t reach it.”  I said, “Can or cannot?”  He said, “Cannot.”  I asked if he wanted daddy to get it and he said, “No.  Daddy hold Connor.  Connor get it.”  Also, he attends Hope Presbyterian pre-school in a mother’s day out program.  He knows what Angels are.

Okay, now you are caught up.  I’m not boasting about Connor’s skills, I’m just setting the tone.  We have a two story home and Connor’s room is upstairs.  We have a spiral staircase and it is hardwood with no runners. Connor again, being 2 ½ and testing the limits of his independence wants us to carry him some days and others he wants to hold the rail and our hand and walk himself. Sometimes he wants to do it completely by himself holding the rail.  Anyway, he goes forwards, not the backwards crawl. 

Last night I fixed dinner.  Nita was upstairs playing with Connor and Josephine.  When I called them to dinner, I heard Nita say let’s go down and wash our hands.  Connor decided he was going by himself this time.  Nita was just behind holding Josie.  Then Connor tripped and fell forward.  I heard Nita gasp and yell out his name.  When I came running around the corner, Connor was half way down with two hands in the middle of one of the steps perfectly balanced.  His chin was two inches from the corner of the wood step.  His knees were barely on the edge two steps behind.  I ran up and grabbed him and held him, carrying him down the stairs.  He was visibly shaken.  I took him to a chair and just held him and rubbed his back and said soothing things.  When I kind of let him go he sat still staring over my shoulder.  Usually he’d look at me.  I asked if he saw anything.  He said yes.  I asked if it was an angel and again he said yes.  I asked if the angel caught him and again he said yes.  I then told him to thank the angel and he said, “Thank you Mr. Angel.” 

Okay, so some of you may or may not believe. Cool.  That’s for you to decide and God bless you no matter what decisions you make.  All I can say is the more I pray the luckier I get.  Don’t worry, I’ll go back to funny next week.  Yes the picture is an allusion to "Footprints."

Does anything bring dads and sons together like baseball?

A friend and work colleague called me a few weeks back and asked if he could take me to lunch.  He wanted some coaching advice… for his son.  At a lunch a few weeks back he was talking about a couple of books, one called, Talent is Overrated, by Colvin and The Outliers, by Gladwell.  The premises of these books are that in some cases talent can never overcome repetition.  I’m not trying to argue either way on this, because clearly you could hit a monkey 10 Million ground balls and he probably wouldn’t be a better fielder than a hockey goalie who’s never played baseball, but that is a great bar argument and I don’t have a drink in my hand.  So next time you see me we can discuss. 

The point is, as we were talking about this I told him about how my dad would make me throw 100 strikes every other night that we didn’t have baseball practice.  He’d come home from work, we’d eat dinner, then he’d put on some shin guards and a mask.  I’d go stand 46 feet in little league and 54 feet in Pony and literally pitch to him until I threw 100 strikes.  This was before sabermetrics and moneyball, 100 just seemed like a good number to dad.  In any case as it came up I told him that it seemed pretty reasonable because even without picking up a ball for months I can throw a bunched up sock, can, golf ball, wadded towel, rock, or just about anything and hit my spot.  This is because I’ve thrown about a million rocks, balls, acorns, speargrass lances, etc. 

So my friend calls me up and said his son just finished his first year of kid pitch and his 9 year old was interested in pitching.  My friend wanted advice on how to help guide his development.  First of all, I was honored that he thought of me. Second, what a great flood of memories it brought back.  I thought of the old books dad had around the house, The Art of Hitting 300 by Charlie Lau, with pictures of George Brett and Pitching with Tom Seaver.   Now there are all kinds of videos and dvds, even a crappy one with Fred McGriff.  But I remember holding poses to match the pictures, and my dad moving my release point, talking about the tuck, pointing my glove. 

Again, the point is not to teach you how to pitch or which books to go read, the point is I could see these things like I was watching a friendly movie…. And my dad has been gone for 15 years.  It brought back dozens of games watching UT play at Dish Faulk (where I would usually sneak out of the stands and try to find a cup ball game with the big kids.  Do they even sell paper cups anymore?).  I remember going to high school state championship games with my dad and his friends (when they’d split a six pack in the car on the way, come on y’all it was 35 years ago, and not even illegal, and there were no car seats).  I remember him hitting me thousands of fungos and fly balls in the back yard.  I remember him drilling me on where I was supposed to be for every position for every situation.  (Playing short, man on first ball hit to right… I’m the second cut for a throw to third or cover the bag on a pop fly; same play Left fielder shades to back up errant throw to second or third).  I remember the smell of leather oil when we’d oil up the gloves before the beginning of the new season and he’d wrap a softball in the pocket with a big old rubber band.  I remember hitting soft toss until my hands hurt and putting on my new uniform dying to wear it to the store.  Connor is starting to throw the ball around and hit from his little “swing away.”  One of my neighbors just built a batting cage in his back yard.  Connor also has a Velcro glove with a ball that sticks to it, and we’ve been playing a little catch in the house.  God I love baseball and I love you too dad.  I hope Connor looks at his own son with excitement someday and has the same wonderful memories I do.

Daddy needs a band aid.

What a week.  It started late Friday afternoon when, while waiting to tee off on number 9 tee box, an errant shot from a duffer on the range hit me in the hip and actually landed in my pocket.  Ouch number one.  Then nine holes later while attempting a stupid shot to try to save a dead round anyway I tweaked my left knee. The tweak was so bad that I cancelled my trip to Tampa.  I was supposed to do some booth duty at a show and could not see myself standing for four-six hours a day for three days.  I actually thought surgery might be in my future. Saturday we took Connor to the mall to ride the train and had fun.  Then Saturday night my throat got a little sore.  Sunday around three AM I woke up with a teeth chattering chill.  I put on a long sleeve shirt went back to bed.  Getting up twice more to change the shirts I’d sweat through.  When I woke up, my throat was swollen and had the tell-tale signs of strep.  The worst of it is our family vacation is just one week away.  We’ve got a beach house rented for a week with the Grandmothers.   So Sunday, I’m off to the after hours clinic and get the swab test, luckily no strep but still contagious… and no antibiotic.  (Don’t get me started).  My new job is to avoid the wife, kids, and moms.  I can handle being miserable and alone for a week, but we can’t have two sick kids or two sick 76 year olds (or any combination) and expect any sort of fun no matter your proximity to ocean water.

For those of you who remember, I almost went to med school.  The two things I said I could never do were to be a vet or to be a pediatrician.  The reasons are neither can understand that what you are doing to them are for their own good.  Connor was so excited that Daddy stayed home from work but couldn’t understand why daddy didn’t want to play with him.  Nita explained, “Daddy is hurt, he isn’t feeling well.” To which Connor offered, “Does daddy need a band aid?”  My boy. J

The next phase of my misery was a tooth issue.  Yes, as if enough hadn’t happened, my swollen throat also put pressure on my gums which in turn aggravated a crown.  So now my tooth is pounding, causing a severe headache, and I’m swallowing razor blades and hobbling around on a sore knee.  The hip bruise doesn’t even register any more.  And while I’m avoiding my family for their own good, Nita thinks I’m just avoiding chores.  (She finally comes around when she comes home on Tuesday and I’ve soaked through four pillows, the sheets, my clothes and my eyes look pretty sick).  Luckily my dentist is awesome.  I called and told them of my situation and he had me come in immediately.  He said, “Let’s not do anything until we get that throat settled down, it may take care of everything else.”  So he prescribed amoxicillin and asked, “How’s the pain?” Thanks Doc.  So I’ve been taking my Hydro and Amox and was even felt good enough to pick up Connor from School on Wednesday afternoon.

So how was my week?  My knee has gotten pretty close to back to normal.  My hip still has a bruise, my throat is still swollen, my tooth still hurts a little and I’ve got plenty of Hyrdocodone left.  I can honestly say the worst pain was not being able to put Connor to bed or take him out of his crib in the morning.  Not being able kiss my sweet pudgy cheeked daughter Josie until she giggles.  Not being able to hang Connor upside down and play the “where’s Connor” game.  “Here daddy, upside down, daddy, here!!”  Not being able to grab his sweet little face and kiss him on the nose.  Or even kiss my wife.  Time heals all wounds and ills, but you know what?  Daddy needs a band aid.

Moving on up!

Last episode we had Soupy getting used to his new environment. And by new I mean same bowl and same rock just different house. Now since retired people have nothing better to do than obsess, Soupy’s five year habitat was deemed unfit for turtle-hood.  So now Soupy is moving on up, like a Jefferson.  Yep, my mother and her friend the turtle whisperer have decided to deputize themselves the turtle version of CPS and confiscate Soupy.  Now bless her heart she is a big time animal lover and she does have time on her side.  Personally I thought it would be neat for Connor to watch a little turtle grow up, and in fairness Connor ends up at mom’s house at least every other week, so no real harm done.  And, as Christine said when she gave us our little green bundle, other than the ten seconds a day that Connor wanted to hold and kiss Soupy, I was in charge of bowl, rock, and Soupy cleaning…as well as feeding.  Since his digs were so inadequate, mom went and bought a terrarium and had the Petsmart people install it.  This thing is loaded complete with gravel, filter, heat lamp, free range organic turtle chow (okay so I made that part up), and two flat screen TVs looping the tortoise and the hare. 

Concurrently, our new nanny Kara came down and stayed with us for a couple of days.  As an added bonus she brought her dog Ellie with her.  Connor of course went CRAZY with that dog.  After Ellie went back home, she was all he could talk about.  He loved petting her, giving her treats, kissing her, and racing her in the back yard.  He’s such a sweet boy and he loves animals.  Ellie also got along great with Josie.  She’d come up to Josie in her exersaucer and lick her face and was rewarded with Josie’s very boisterous giggle.  I know. It’s time.

Family vacation coming up in a few weeks, after that it looks like we’ll be taking a little trip to the pound to go find us a new Martinez.  I hope we get as lucky as we did with Rio.  In the meantime, good luck Soupy. Enjoy life in first class.

Housewarming for Soupy

Housewarming gifts usually stay with the hosts don’t they?  And I’m pretty sure it’s a violation of all etiquette books to take something home with you isn’t it? 

Well, we received an invitation to attend a housewarming to the home of friends we’ve known for about 20 years.  It was a whole family invitation and we were all excited to see how both kids would do in someone else's home.  So we packed up a nice bottle of wine, and the kiddos.  We got there and mercifully Josie was still asleep from the car ride.  Connor however, saw a puppy dog and was off and running.  Then Josie woke up and we switched off.  Connor and I ran through the house and played with some of the older kids toys.  It was a lovely party with fun crackers and the house was beautiful.  Here is where I didn’t realize I was getting snookered….by a cute little 8 year old girl.  The question, simple and innocuous enough went like this, "Do you want to see my turtle?" 

Connor of course LOVES all sea animals, Nemo, etc.  So Connor just fell in love with the turtle.  Mark, the host said, "Do you want it? Take it!"  His wife Christine said, "Seriously, we've had him five years and I'm the only one who even looks at it anymore." 

I said, "Sure." Nita said, “How hard can taking care of a turtle be?"  We decided to name him Soupy.  Just in case we're really bad at turtle parenting, well there's always ... well you know.  We more than likely wouldn't eat soupy, but it's also very cute the way a 2 and a half year old says, “Good night Soupy.”  So I had to fly out on Sunday, but all he could talk about Saturday and Sunday morning was Soupy, Soupy, Soupy.  We went to mom's house for breakfast and it was Soupy the HUGE sea turtle (he's a little aquatic turtle about four inches or so in diameter). 

Thanks to the internet we all have access to information.  Have you ever noticed that no one gives two hoots about how you raise your dog. You can hit it with the paper, pick it up by the collar, smack it on the butt, crate it, and rub its nose in poop.  But bring home a turtle who has happily been in the same environment for five years... and EVERY one is an expert on how you are doing it wrong.  It’s worse than your first child.  Ever notice how the morning you bring home your bundle of joy (child not turtle) you already have 15 voicemails on how to burp, change, swaddle, raise, discipline, feed, and soothe your baby?  And don’t forget the 200 emails on proper clothing, how to pick a preschool, church, and the proper amount of the first check for their college fund.  I’m telling you only bringing home a turtle comes close.

 I'm not going to name names, but if it gets any worse, Soupy really may end up with some potatoes in a nice broth.  Or we'll have a little neighborhood party, rent a jumpy castle and lure some unsuspecting kids over...... bait and prepare to set the hook, "Hey, there neighbor!  Wanna see my turtle?"