Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain.
You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.

I’m not sure where the D is for Dad site is going. The posting frequency has definitely dropped and dare I say the quality as well. This isn’t a farewell post but instead maybe a “please bear with me” post.

I think we came out of the gates pretty strong back in September of last year. In retrospect this was a good time to start this thing with fall settling in and everyone with a little more time on their hands as the winter slumber rolled casually in. With spring behind us and summer enveloping us it seems time is at a premium these days (not that it isn’t always, but you know what I mean).

I didn’t start this thing to make money (look ma! No ad’s) or even to find thousands of subscribers. The intention was to share our perspective in a way that might lend to the conversation around being dad. If the site was “discovered” and we could put together some quality stuff then great. Truth be told we put this stuff together for the one guy that isn’t comfortable commenting on a site and can find a bit of silent camaraderie from a few guys that have been there and are still there.

It is relatively easy to throw in a fluff or funny post or two to carry the load but that isn’t what I want this space to become. We know, and have experienced, too much to treat this space from the perspective of complacency. I came into this knowing it would be work.

I don’t do things half way, at least not intentionally. D is for Dad is beginning to feel half baked. Please don’t think I’m being too hard on myself. I’m not. I am my own worst critic. I know this and it has served me well thus far.

With all that said, if you have managed to stay subscribed while we struggle to fill the empty spaces it is definitely appreciated. I just ask that you don’t give up on us quite yet and in return I will promise to do the same.

We’ll get things together soon. – Chuck

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again.
The sun is the same in a relative way but you’re older,
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time.
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time is gone, the song is over,
Thought I’d something more to say.

- Pink Floyd

Our three year old will occasionally employ the “my stomach hurts” stalling technique when going to bed. One such evening she expressed this concern and my wife offered her half of a children’s TUMS. The girl wondered why she couldn’t have the whole thing to which my wife replied, “You don’t need that much magnesium.” This seemed to make perfect sense to the girl as she replied with, “ok Mommy” and off to bed she went.

I imagine many kids have Dr. Seuss or Clifford books occupying the back seat of the car. We have a medical journal or two.

Recently the girl asked her mother what a picture in the journal was. Her mother replied, “That’s part of the brain.”

“Not the whole brain?” the girl asked.

“No. If the brain were cut in half that is what it would look like.” Mom replied. They then went on to discuss the color of the brain and the how it controls action, memory, etc. Amazingly the girl seemed to get it.

It’s hard for me to remember the girl as a baby sometimes. It seems we have been able to have full conversations with her for a very long time even though she’s been with us less than four years.

The other evening I was reaching for a couple of TUMS when a sweet yet commanding voice could be heard just behind me.

“Daddy. Do you really need that much magnesium?”

Yes. She is her mothers daughter.

Once there was a beautiful little girl who sat in a tall chair. She had reached an age of maturity where she could be introduced to a magical new morsel, the Golden Torus. Her parents placed offerings of the scrumptious toroids in front her. She would reach for them and try to bring them to her mouth, but they were elusive and she could only ever consume half of them. The rest would mysteriously disappear.

When the table was empty she would look sad, and to keep her placated, her parents would run their hands over her garments and magically produce more of the elusive morsels.

The little girl watched and grew wise to her parents deeds and tried searching for the morsels herself. Alas, the enchanted bloomers would yield no bounty. Only her parents could coax the desired edibles from the garment’s folds.

And to this day the parents happily, and patiently, continue to conjure up the little princess’ favorite treat, and she continues to be in good spirits. For soon will come a time when all will be revealed to the little princess. The mysteries of the morsels and garments will be mysteries no more.

For those of you who are not aware, I was born and raised in the Philippines. I have a very early recollection of tagging along with my mother to a grade school in Philippines very early in the morning. I remember the sun was just starting to rise. The school buildings were constructed of wooden posts buried in concrete, and clad in recycled corrugated tin roofing as the walls and roof. I was somewhere between the ages of three and five. My eldest sister was present, as was our family Doctor, a few friends of the family, and a school teacher. This motley group was “investigating” a strange phenomenon in one specific classroom which only happened a few minutes after sunrise. The teacher hushed us after she looked at her watch and said “it’s about to begin”. She darkened the room and directed our attention to a sliver of light approximately 3 inches off the floor. Light streamed into the inky blackness through a nail hole, and projected a curious glow onto the classroom floor. At this point I could hear schoolchildren outside walking toward their classrooms. There was the clatter and shuffle of shoes and children laughing and shouting. Suddenly, images of little children with bags and umbrellas filled the little glow on the classroom floor. This was interpreted by the teacher as a window into a different world or dimension. Despite having witnessed this phenomenon before she was still visibly shaken. Over 95 percent of all Filipinos are Catholic, yet they contradictorily believe in the occult.

Just as quickly as the children outside had disappeared into their classrooms, the little children in the glow also disappeared. Everyone was stunned for a moment. My mother finally acted, and sent my sister outside and told her to do something without telling us what she planned on doing. As my sister walked outside the classroom door I caught sight of a tiny being in the light on the floor. She looked like a miniature version of my sister. The girl flicked her hair, and my Mom excitedly called out “Did you just flick your hair?” and my sister acknowledged. My sister made some other movements, and everyone in the room could see it happening on the floor. Case closed, end of memory. What an odd and extraordinarily detailed memory for a 3-5 year old, to have.

This silly little memory has been bouncing around in my mind for the last three and a half decades. As a child, I asked my mom if she had ever done anything remotely resembling what I just shared with you. My questions were always met with the “what kind of drugs are you on?” kind of look, as well as the “you’ve just got an over active imagination!” speech. In my own mind, I questioned the reasoning for having this random group of people to investigate this “paranormal” occurrence. What possible credentials could a housewife, a Doctor, a teenage girl, and assorted other people have had to warrant being the authority on this sort of thing? I bought into the “overactive imagination” theory, yet this memory was so vivid and complete. To me, this brought credence to my mother’s claim of my “overactive imagination”. From then on I lived with the stigma of someone whose memories were half fantasy, and to this day my family always chides me about things I remember from childhood. “Is this real, or one of your made up stories?” they always ask. It’s quite irritating, sometimes even maddening. It’s been the reason behind feelings of self-doubt my entire life.

As a young boy I tinkered, and built things. I was very interested in science….all kinds of science. we had 5 sets of encyclopedias in the house and I would lay in bed every night with one or two volumes, flipping pages until something caught my eye. I would obsess on that topic for a few nights, and cross reference the information gleaned between all the other volumes of encyclopedias. This was before Al Gore “invented the Internet”.

One night, while flipping through pages, I stumbled across an article regarding pinhole cameras and how they worked. The rich illustrations and images on the glossy encyclopedia paper struck a chord. Shallowly suppressed memories of that day at the school surfaced and I suddenly clearly understood how a tiny nail hole in a boxlike, darkened room could feasibly project images from the outside world onto a classroom floor (in color no less). That weekend I built a pinhole camera out of an old shoe box, Aluminum foil and some Japanese rice paper to see how it worked, and after seeing the results secretly claimed victory, telling myself the memory had a chance of being real. I kept this to myself until just recently.

A few months ago, my mother, my sister (the one in the story), and I were chit chatting at the dinner table. The subject of my “faulty” memory was resurrected and ridiculed once more. Needing closure and vindication, I launched into a fully detailed description of my memory as I had never done before. This time I made mention of peoples names, the name of the school. the time of day, etc., etc. For the first time, ever, there was a glimmer, a dim spark of recollection, in my sister’s eyes. She told us that she remembered the incident, her role, and the people in my memory, but only distantly. That was all I needed, some confirmation, albeit shaky, that I was not completely insane.

I have come to understand, and accept, that no one remembers this as clearly as I do because I was slightly older than a toddler when this occurred. The spectacle must have invoked feelings of excitement, wonder and awe when I saw strange little beings, the size of toy soldiers, walking and talking on the concrete floor. It must have been like magic to me. My neurons must have fired off so many times that the vision of this time and place was indelibly “burned” into my mind. To others present, it was probably just another day; Another day lost among other nondescript, unremarkable, unmemorable days.

I have many memories, just as richly detailed, that have yet to be corroborated by members of my family. My mother is notorious for not remembering what she did yesterday, or the exact names of her children(!), and yet my memory gets questioned. This memory was so vivid that I had to reconcile everything that came through a young child’s eyes, and filter it years later through the mind, knowledge, and know-how of an adult. Although I feel better about it today, this one particular memory has caused me grief almost my entire life. To this day I hesitate committing things to memory, yet I can recall our very first phone number, and street address in 1970 (I was only 2).

I told you that story to highlight this one concept. One day your child will come to you and ask you about something of which you have no recollection. He or she will insist it happened, and you’re going to be frustrated because the child just won’t let it go. Instead of brushing it off as pure fiction, simply say “I don’t remember”. Chances are the incident did happen, but meant nothing to you, and your subconscious has since purged the memory to make room for the RBI of a certain baseball player in 1986, the correct timing on a 351 Cleveland, or the Pythagorean Theorem. The incident that is completely meaningless to you may be a treasured moment for your child. Tread lightly.

My wife and I almost spewed dinner across from each other.

About 3 minutes later, while wiping the tears from my eyes, and through high pitched giggles and snorts(from me) I finally asked: “Why do you ask son?”

At this point I thought the worst and was expecting some story about a classmate who called another classmate a bad name, or some such story.

“Well, today at school I heard a story about a little boy who stuck his finger in a di….”

(More uncontrollable peals of laughter)

A few minutes later: “What’s so funny Dad?”

“Oh, nothing Son (*snort, coughing up chunks of Broccoli, more tears).”

History:

Quite a few years ago one of the jokes in my repertoire went like this:

“Did you hear about the little boy who stuck his finger in the dike? She kicked his @$$!”

I told it so often that my wife used to groan every time I started telling the joke to somebody. Little did I know these very words would cross my son’s lips one day and conjure up some pretty funny images and memories from my past.

Please note that I try to be careful about words I use around my kids. I’m human, and there are the occasional slip ups with some “bad” words, but I don’t use derogatory words like this.

There are times when something hits you in the funnybone just right. Crass language is something I usually don’t post, but this was just too funny not to share.

Watch what you say; Little ears are always listening!