CHRISTMAS IS FOR THE BIRDS...UP HOME

     The days and weeks leading up to Christmas at my house during my childhood years pretty much consisted of the same routine.  We'd always be involved in the church play, we would be busy trying to be on our best behavior for fear that Santa wouldn't bring us anything, my mother would be busy baking various goodies, and my father would make the trek to the woods in search of the perfect cedar Christmas tree.  On Christmas eve, we would make the short drive to my grandma's house for a breif visit and then promptly return home.
     My father always referred to Grandma's house as, "up home", which was much to my mother's chagrin.  She always thought that dad's home was where he, she, and us kids resided.  Grandma's house is where he grew up, which was no longer his home. I think he sensed that those two little words irked her, so he threw them around often.
     "I'm taking the kids up home for a bit to see mom," dad would say to our mother, who was busy in the kitchen scurrying around trying to finish up whatever tasty treat she was creating at that moment.
     "Ok.  Fine.  I'll be here when you get back," she would answer with an ominous scowl on her face.
     Dad, Jarrett, Carla and I would pile into our old 1962 Ford Falcon and make the short drive to "up home."  Grandma would greet us at the door with a huge smile and a gentle hug.  We usually arrived at her house in the vicinity of four o'clock or so, due to the fact that she went to bed in the vicinity of five o'clock or so.  "Oh, my.  Just look at how these kids have grown!  Jarrett is almost as big as you, and Neil isn't far behind.  Carla's hair is so beautiful!" she'd say, as she had done every single year since my birth.
     We would then take a seat in her living room and I would survey the place, always amazed at how CLEAN everything was.  When I say clean, I mean you could eat a meal off the commode seat and never think another thing about it.  She would enter soon after with a jug of cranberry juice and a pack of cookies.  When everyone had a cookie and a cup of juice, the generic conversation would ensue.
     "Yeah, the kids are really growing," dad would say.
     "Yes they are," grandma would answer.
     "Yep, they're growing up," dad would say.
     "They sure are.  Really growing," grandma would answer.
     "It's amazing how much they've grown," dad would say.
     "Truly amazing, they're growing like weeds," grandma would again answer.
     "Do you think we'll get a while Christmas?" grandma would ask, changing the subject.
     "Oh, you never know what this weather is going to do," dad would answer.   They would continue for at least another ten minutes about the chances of a white Christmas.   Finally, after grandma noticed that the time was getting dangerously close to her bedtime, she would scurry to the next room and return with a brown grocery bag which contained our gifts.
     "Jarrett, I got you and Neil the same thing, only a different color,"  she said, handing each of us a trinket wrapped in white tissue paper.  "Carla, this is yours.  It's not like the boy's gifts.  It's something special just for you.  I just can't get over how you've grown, and maybe we'll have a white Christmas," she finished.
     We sat quietly with our tissue paper wrapped gifts in our laps when dad spoke.  "Well?  aren't you going to open your gifts?  Go on, what are you waiting for?"
     We carefully removed the tissue paper from our gifts and to be honest, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  Eleven and eight-year-old boys don't sit around dreaming of getting ceramic birds for Christmas.  But, that's what we received that year.  I got a fire engine red ceramic cardinal, and Jarrett got a rather frail looking ceramic blue jay.  Jarrett turned and looked at me with a face that only God himself could love.  He was hoping for a gun, or knife, or maybe something that pertained to the outdoors.  But a ceramic blue jay? No way.  I wasn't especially enthused with my ceramic cardinal either, but I was a bit more successful at hiding my disappointment.  I observed that our father sensed our disapproval based on the ominous slits his eyes had become.  "Carla, why don't you unwrap your gift?" dad said, while taking a sip of his cranberry juice and a bite of his cookie.  Apparently he didn't like the cookie because he would nibble on the thing and then stare at it briefly while shaking his head.  Carla was only five years old, so she hadn't been alive long enough to understand true disappointment.  "Oh grandma, I just love it!  What is it?!"  the child chirped with bright eyes.
     "Why it's an Elvis Pressley plate!  Isn't is lovely?" grandma asked excitedly.  It was an Elvis Pressley plate indeed.  The edges of the plate were made up of words from his recent hit songs, while the middle of it was comprised of a huge Elvis head complete with gold rimmed sunglasses.  I began to chuckle slightly, thinking of Carla eating Christmas dinner while having "the king" himself staring up at her through the mashed potatoes. 
     Jarrett had begun to squirm, surely ready to go.   I was too, and finally we set off for home so grandma could get to bed before the sun set.
     We arrived at our house to find mom still baking and scurrying around the kitchen.  "Well!?  How'd it go at grandma's house?  Did you get something nice?"  mom asked, with a slight grin creeping onto her face.
     "A damn ceramic bird.  I'm going to shoot mine with my bb gun," Jarrett said, while slumping low on the coach and trying to remove his bird from his coat pocket.  "Wow, I broke his leg off," he continued.  My mom suddenly went into some sort of fit.  She began coughing and shaking violently and had to use a tissue to wipe tears from her cheeks.  Jarrett and I stared at each other unsure of what was happening. I was shocked that mom had let my older brother's profanity pass, but she was in no shape to hand up discipline. I hoped she wasn't getting sick on Christmas eve.
     Suddenly Carla burst into the kitchen with her Elvis plate and proudly held it up for mom to see.  "Look mommy!  I got a plate with some guy on it.  Jarrett said he was a hound dog,"  the pitiful little girl squealed.  Mom's tremors got worse.  This time she covered her entire face with a dish rag and the convulsions continued.  Yep, I was sure that she was having a medical emergency of some sort.
     Dad entered with a block of wood for the fire and he too wondered if my mother was having a life altering problem.  "What's wrong with her?" he asked, while discovering that Jarrett's bird was now a one legged blue jay.  "I see that you've already torn your bird up.  Fine with me, but don't think you're going to play with Neil's bird.  You broke yours, so live with it."
     I noticed that my mom was still facing away from us and shaking violently.  "I'm not sure what's wrong with her.  She's been doing that ever since she saw our birds and Carla's Elvis plate.  Heck if I know," I said.
     My mom finally regained her composure.  She wasn't sick at all.  We later surmised that the woman simply found it incredibly funny that two rambunctious boys received ceramic birds for Christmas and a five-year-old girl had received a plate dedicated to Elvis Pressley.  We continued to go "up home" on Christmas eve, and we continued to receive gifts my grandma had found lying around her house.  We also drank lots of cranberry juice and ate a few less than fresh cookies.  To my knowledge, the birds disappeared shortly after Christmas and the Elvis plate also went the way of the birds. 
    

COMPETITION MOMS

     Usually, it's us dads that take the heat for being just a bit overly competitive when it comes to our kids.  We get the icy stares from concerned mothers for questioning why our sons watched a third strike drift carelessly into the catcher's mitt.  "Geez, why didn't he just swing the bat?  It was right down the middle.  He could have hit it with a curtain rod!"  I've said many times since our son began playing baseball.  Perhaps it was our daughter and basketball that caused the competitive flair to bubble to the surface. "She had an open lane to the basket and she passed it off!  That would have been an EASY layup," I'd exclaim time and time again.  My wife, who was always ready to pounce and take to defending her offspring, never failed to have a calm and collected reply.
     "Oh, I guess you were Cal Ripken and Michael Jordan all rolled up into one!?  Give 'em a break. Good Lord they're only kids!  Now pipe down!"  I piped down.
     Despite all our shortcomings as fathers, mothers have us beat in the competition department when it comes to the important things in life. 
     Years ago, when I worked the evening shift, I was "lucky" enough to be Mr. Mom during the day with two toddlers in tow.  Often, I would load the rambunctious children into the car and drive them to the playground at a nearby park.  Without fail, there would be a myriad of moms chasing overly energetic children around, and then there would be the talkers who would sit for hours on end blabbering about their children and how advanced, athletic, smart, beautiful, funny, etc. they were.
     I felt comfortable letting my kids play without me hovering over them, so one day I took a seat on an old wooden bench beside three of the blabbering mothers.  "Hi, I'm Cheryl, this is Kim and this is Jennifer.  Our kids are already potty trained.  How about yours?" the blabberer nearest me said excitedly.
     "Uh, no my daughter isn't even close and my son is more of a free ranger," I said without looking at the woman and keeping an eye on my kids.
     "Tee, hee, you mean a free spirit, or a free thinker," she replied.
     "No, a free ranger.  Sort of like a chicken.  He usually walks around the yard, then digs a hole and poops in it.  He covers it up very nicely though.  Thank goodness for that or else it'd be a little slippery when I mow,"  I continued.  The women looked at me like I had just stepped off the mother ship and was surely going to reboard with my alien children soon.  They stared for awhile longer and continued their conversation as though I wasn't there.
     "Alexander is ALMOST reading.  It's amazing!  I mean the kid is only two and a half! We're thinking of getting him tested," Jennifer said with pride oozing from smiling face.  "I mean seriously, how many kids that age can almost read?"  I was puzzled.  How do you almost read?  I felt that would be akin to almost breathing.  Either you were or you weren't.
     "Oh that's nothing.  My Tommy is nearly swimming, you should see him!  We're already thinking Olympics possibly," Kim shot back with a more serious look on her face than I was comfortable with.
     "Can your kids do anything extraordinary?" Jennifer said, gazing at me and sure that they couldn't.  After all I had a free range chicken for a son.
     "Well, they both love books, that's for sure.  They can't read, or almost read for that matter, but they sure love books.  Sidney, my daughter, seems to like ripping the pages out mostly.  Heck, the other day, she ate part of one.  She's kind of a human/silverfish hybrid I guess."
     Once again, the women turned away surely agitated with my lack of pride in my children.  It wasn't that I lacked pride in my kids, I just lacked the knowhow to compete with these blabbering, competition mothers.
     We continued to sit, watching our kids play.  I was silent and uncomfortable, and they blabbered, and blabbered, and blabbered.  Finally, I broke my silence.  "You know, I'm just happy that my kids are healthy.  The rest will come, I'm sure of it," I said, hoping for a slice of sympathy from the mothers.  My hopes were quickly dashed.
     "Well, we're thankful for healthy kids too, but we're not going to celebrate mediocrity. I mean the world is full of middle of the road types," Kim said, having obviously formed the opinion that I was an unfit father and a true middle of the roader.  No sooner that our exchange ended, Sidney ambled up to me and spit out a mouth full of pea gravel and promptly ran away.
     The expression on the women's faces demanded a response.  "Uh, I guess paper just isn't doing it for her.  Pea, pea gravel.  At least she's got a healthy appetite," I said, trying to invoke some humor into the unsettling situation.  I got an icy stare.
     "Did I tell you guys that Harold suggested that we take the youngest for violin lessons?  The kid is musical, you can just see it.  I played and so did Harold.  It's a natural fit," Cheryl said proudly.  The conversation continued and I suddenly realized that I was sitting in a park watching nearly half of the next generation of the Boston Symphony play on the sliding board. The closest my kids had come to making a musical sound was the incessant banging of pots and pans they'd ripped from the kitchen cabinets.
    I gathered my two filthy, talent lacking children into the car and headed for home.  I was thankful to leave and return to the safe confines of our home away and from the competition moms.
     We continued to frequent the park and the playground.  But, I was always careful to bring my own chair so I could sit alone, quietly observing my lackluster children play.
     Ryan sure enough did learn to use the indoor plumbing, and Sidney hasn't eaten paper for years (or pea gravel that I know of).  Both are fine athletes, and successful students.  Occasionally, I'll ride past that playground and see a new crop of competition moms occupying the bench.  Rarely, there will be the pitiful dad also.  I smile when I think he's WAY overmatched and how sorry I feel for him.  But alas, he will learn just as I did.  There is no competing with the competition moms.
    
    
    
    
    
   
     "

MY KIDS, COMEDIANS

     If you've been following my stories, you may remember that I've had an ongoing and very tumultuous relationship with an ornery neighbor named Walt Musselman.  Do you remember?  He's the guy who has the ability to degrade, put down, criticize, and belittle almost, correction, everything I do.
     Since my original story about Walt, I'm happy to report that he has moved on.  Thankfully, he got sick of the neighbors leaves blowing into his yard each fall and decided to move to an area with no trees.  There is truly a God.
     Approximately a year ago, the ornery old codger spied me trimming the shrubs in front of our home and naturally made a beeline down the road and across my lawn.  I had given up trying to sneak around undetected because the man had some sort of superhuman radar that only seemed to alert when I stepped out of my house.  "I'm moving, did you hear?" he said excitedly while simultaneously spraying me with a shower of spit.  He was carefully eyeballing my trim job and was surely ready to launch a barrage of criticisms concerning the shoddy work.
     "No, I didn't hear!  Are you kidding? That's great!  I mean good for you."  I could hardly contain the emotion that was bubbling inside me.  Finally, after years of torment, I would be free of this man. The feeling I had was not unlike having a hemorrhoid lanced. In fact, he had much in common with a hemorrhoid, only worse. Oh, the relief.
     "Yeah, I'm building another house.  'Bout five miles from here.  I'm sick of raking other people's leaves.  Some of them are probably yours" he said.
     "Nah, I doubt it.  Your house is a quarter mile from me.  Besides, the prevailing winds blow from your direction.  You're not getting any of my leaves."
     "Well, you're a better weather man than a shrub trimmer.  That one there looks like someone did it with a weed eater" came the retort, and another spray of spittle.
     I briefly looked at the shrub but didn't let his comment get the best of me that time because I could hardly contain my overwhelming joy and couldn't wait to share the news with Kristi, who still thought it was I who was the problem.  "Nice talking to you Walt.  I need to run, enjoy the rest of your evening."  Without hesitation, I bolted into the house and broke the wonderful news to my wife.
     Sure enough, within a few months, Walt moved and that miserable chapter in my life had come to a close.  Almost.
     Last week, I grabbed my wallet and keys and headed for the door in route to pick up our son, Ryan, from football practice.  Kristi wasn't home, so I yelled for our daughter, Sidney, and asked if she wanted to go for the ride.  "Sure" came the reply from somewhere upstairs.
     As usual, Ryan climbed into the car and the first words out of his mouth were, "what's for dinner?"
     "Uh, mom made fish and broccoli.  Maybe some other stuff."
     "I'm starving, can we go to Wendy's instead" the boy replied, with somewhat of a beggars tone.
     "Yeah, sure."
     I wheeled the car into Wendy's parking lot and stopped.  "We're going in.  Your mom fully expects you to eat what she prepared, so we're not bringing any evidence of eating here home with us.  Got it?"  I learned long ago to never, ever leave any evidence lying around that would suggest that I'd rather eat a Baconator than her fish and broccoli.
     "Yeah, we got it," came the reply in unison.
     We ordered and made our way to a table nearest our car.  We made small talk about the school day and football practice and how we MUST eat a few bites of fish and broccoli when we got home.  Suddenly, without warning, he appeared like a ghost from my past.  Walt!  I hadn't seen the guy for months and yet, there he stood.  "Oh crap, there's Walt.  Don't turn around, he might see us.  I'm still healing from twelve years of pure torture..."  I whispered, before being cut off by my merciless son.
     "Mr. Musselman!  Hey Mr. Musselman!" Ryan chirped, while waving like he was heading off for a six month Navy cruise.
     Walt immediately turned to see who was yelling his name.  Ryan had done the unthinkable.  Sidney was snickering into a napkin, barely able to contain herself.  Directly, I began to wonder how much prison time killing my son with a Wendy's tray would carry.  "What is wrong with you?  Now he's going to come over..."
     "Sit with us Mr. Musselman," Sidney squealed.  I began to wonder if I'd get the electric chair for killing both offspring.   For years, both kids had taken delight in my pain.  Sometimes they'd say that Walt was heading for our house, causing me to run for cover.  Usually it was a mean spirited and hateful joke aimed at me.
     The old man sauntered over and plopped down directly across the table from me.  "I can't believe you're eating  that crap.  You don't realize it, but that's going to cause your heart attack one day," he said.  A simple hello would have been grand.  "Me? I'm a salad man.'
     "I can see that.  Well, I'm usually a very healthy eater, but the occasional hamburger won't hurt I guess," I said, fully annoyed and still unsure of what method I would use to kill my children.
     "Mr. Musselman, I wish you'd stop by sometimes.  Dad said that he misses you and wished you would come by once in a while,"  Sidney said, with a very sinister smile creeping across her face.  "He gets lonely during the day when we're in school and he's home by himself," she continued, to my dismay. Ryan excused himself and was heading for the restroom and briefly glanced in my direction.  That smile would definitely be wiped from his face later.
     We hastily finished our meal, but not before 'ol Walt launched a barrage of putdowns, and criticisms my way.  He claimed that I was over mowing my lawn and thus killing the grass.  He also, said that our home still appeared to be leaning to one side.  He was very complimentary of the kids though.
     We excused ourselves and left Walt alone with his salad.  I climbed into the driver's seat of my car and sat, silently, staring out the window.  "Dad, we just couldn't resist.  It's just so funny.  Sorry," Ryan said, grinning ear to ear.
     As I steered the car onto the road, I smiled.  "My kids, comedians" I said.
    
    
    

THE FAMILY PESSIMIST

     I'm a pessimist.  I can't help it.  I try to stay positive, but somehow my good attitude always seems to be derailed like a runaway train.
     A few times a year though, I have a calm and pleasant feeling that sweeps over me, which briefly causes the pessimism to dissipate.  Usually during those fleeting times, the house is clean, I don't have to work the next day,  I'm well fed, my wife and I have seen eye to eye on everything in recent memory, the kids aren't fighting, the finances are in good order and water isn't dripping from an overhead light fixture and onto my forehead.
     Recently, for example, I was able to enjoy that good vibe that rarely visits me.  Temporarily.  I had come in from a long day at work and was pleasantly surprised to find that the house was spotless (it's tough with two messy kids around) and warm.  The pleasant aroma of my wife's lasagna wafted past my nose as I entered the kitchen door, and even more to my delight, was the envelope on the counter that contained a check from the hospital stating that we had overpaid when our son was treated for a broken arm.  I didn't have work the next day either.  I was feeling blessed.
     After a hearty meal of lasagna, I retreated to the upstairs part of the house for a long, hot shower.  "Life is grand" I thought, as the water splashed off my face and chest. 
     Finally, after my shower, I poked my head into each of our kid's bedrooms to say hello, and found each lying comfortably and quietly on their beds fixated on whatever the iPhones and Ipods  had to offer at that time.  "Hi dad" Sidney said, before rolling over and becoming enamored with whatever she was watching once again.  Ryan simply waved, never making eye contact with me.
     Slowly and cautiously, with a pang of pessimism ricocheting inside my skull, I made my way back downstairs to find my wife curled up in the recliner reading a book.  "Do you mind if I watch the ball game?" I asked, while pushing the power button on the remote.
     "No" came the answer.
     Easing my tired body down onto the couch, I once again felt at ease that all was right with the world at that very moment.  I also felt the cold sensation of water bouncing off my forehead on onto my eyeglasses.  "What the..." I barked.
      Kristi slowly turned her head in my direction and simply asked, "What?"
     "There's water dripping from the light above my head!  That's what!"  I replied, already sitting up and staring at the dripping light fixture.
     "Oh, I almost forgot.  One of the kids, Sidney I think, overflowed the bathtub earlier and it ran down through the ceiling" she said, never removing her eyes from the pages of her book.
     "Don't you think it's important that I am made aware of something like our house being flooded by an overflowing bathtub?"
     "Number one, it wasn't a flood.  Number two, it will dry.  Stop worrying, relax" she said, finally looking away from her book.
     Truly, she was right.  The water would dry, eventually.  I did have to shift my spot on the couch slightly due the occasional drip from above, but thankfully it wasn't more serious.
     Once again, I began to focus on the baseball game and began to wonder if the Kansas City Royals could possibly win the World Series.  Suddenly, things got a bit fuzzier and my focus began to fade.
     It should be noted that our daughter is a completion cheerleader, which means that when she's not stationary, she's upside down, flipping through the house or bouncing off something.  Mostly bouncing off something.
     Suddenly, somewhere during the third inning, a thunderous crash rocked the house.  "What the hell was that!!!" I screamed, trying desperately to quell a possible heart attack and at the same time find my footing to make a beeline to the upstairs.
     "It sounded like something fell upstairs to me" she quipped.  At least she did take her eyes away from the book long enough to look concerned.
     "Something fell?!  It sounded like a bomb went of up there" I said, already on the third stair and heading higher.
     I bounded down the hall to find Sidney lying in a heap of drawers, clothes, a broken lamp, and an overturned chest of drawers.  "Dad, guess what!" the child squealed.  "I finally got my standing back handspring!  MOM!  I got my standing back handspring!"
     At that point I had to try my level best not to smother my child's glee at her latest accomplishment, but I also needed to point out that she had nearly destroyed one end of our home doing it.  "That's great, but for heaven's sake..."
     "That's great Sid!"  my wife chirped, interrupting my Mike Brady moment, while hugging the child with both arms wrapped around her.  "Do it downstairs, I want to video it." 
     Just like that, they both disappeared down the steps and away from the rubble, leaving me standing, dumbfounded.
     Briefly, I peered into Ryan's room to find him still deeply engrossed in the dark world Iphones and Beats headphones.  "What?" he said, sliding one headphone slightly to the side.
     "Did you not hear the crash on the other side of the wall?"
     "There was a crash?  No, didn't hear it." He slid the headphone back on and rolled over.
     I finally cleaned up the mess and set the chest upright and reinserted the drawers.  I took the mangled lamp to the garbage bin in the garage.  Once again, I returned to my spot on the couch to catch the last couple of innings of the ball game, and my wife had returned to her chair, having completed the filming of Sidney's standing back handspring.  "Finally, maybe I can watch what's left of the game in peace" I said, as a cool drop of water landed on my head and ran down onto my cheek.
     "Maybe, good luck" she said, never glancing my way.