(In best announcer voice) "Super Mijjy and the Super Team of Justice"

So, I made this on almost no sleep.  But James loves to dress up and pretend.  And with all the Super Hero Ensemble movies coming out, I decided to jump on the bandwagon.  I took some of his sessions and made one giant comic strip.  Good luck on that whole "dating" thing in high school, little man! 

A Brief Reaction to Newtown, CT

This...this evil...is unfathomable. Children, as pure as the freshly fallen snow...I am certain that this quakes the foundations of all man, as we have been forced to be witness to the iniquity of the wicked and darkened souls.  

But, in these moments, we, as a world, are allowed the brief and rare opportunity to manifest, simultaneously, within each of us the ability to love unconditionally.  That feeling...that lump you have in your chest right now...is proof that you know love for another human being...Children whom you have never met; complete strangers. And right now, at this moment, every person who has seen or heard of these dark acts, is sharing that feeling with you. Regardless of your faith, politics, background, race, sexuality; your love for those children is evident by your feeling of sorrow and your heart is burdened that this kind of evil could exist.

Unfortunately for us, however, this unity is brief and fleeting. And even more unfortunate, is that it takes the destruction of the innocent before we afford ourselves the capacity to see what is truly the way: Love for one another. Over the next few days, the hardened hearts will rear their ugly heads and start the arguments and begin hating each other and the other's ideas about how this could have been prevented and who is to blame and what will be done to stop this in the future. But don't let them fade the knowledge that we all love the same. Hate is conditioned. But love, which we all felt today, is instinctual and natural.

I long with great anticipation the chance to squeeze my children a little tighter than normal. And I can only hope that I can bring more love into their lives every day...

Hug It Out Like A Man!

There is, for all parents, a deep longing for hugs from our children that is hard to describe.  It's more than just a physical contact.  And, perhaps, a hug is different to a dad than it is to a mom.  But regardless of gender, the need is still there.

But there is a transformation that happens in us men long before parenthood that puts us psychologically at odds with the embrace.  For when we were small boys, we clinched our parents out of instinct.  We clamored to our mothers and fathers because we felt inclined to seek out their comfort; A scary dream, a bad bike wreck, a fight with a sibling.  And a father's hug is even more powerful.  Not only does it offer solace, but there is a strength to it that allows for a sense of protection, as if whatever caused us to look for him will now be prevented from happening ever again.   As we grow and mature, though, our fears and pains are still prevalent, but we try to hide these self-perceived "weaknesses" and we stop seeking out the soothing and protective arm wraps, especially from our fathers.  Young men, especially teenagers, are trying so desperately to convince our dads that we are independent males, that we mask our suffering and try to fool the adults in our lives that we can handle this alone.

There are three hugs that I remember receiving from my elders that are more prominent in my memories more than any other: 

The first is any and all embraces from my grandfather, Ralph, on my mom's side.  Now matter how cool you try to be, he will track you down and give you the hardest, longest, and most loving hug that you've ever known.  And when he eventually breaks away, he leans back, grabs both your shoulders, and gives the warmest and most genuine smile in the world.  Pure love. After my wife first met him, she looked at me and said, "Man, that guy can hug!"

The second was from my neighbor in Mexico.  Señora Rivera was an Eighty-something that lived in the row house directly next to mine.  After I first moved in, she took a particular interest in me and my immersion into the local culture.  She helped me build my vocabulary, assisted me in navigating through a foreign grocery store (which, I've found is more important than knowing how to ask for the restroom.  People in any language know when you need to use the restroom.  There is, however, no known "Froot Loop Dance"), and she even taught me some amazing authentic recipes (to which, I believe my wife is eternally grateful).  When it was time for me to move away, she looked at me proudly and was a little choked up.  I wanted to show her that her lessons were not wasted, so I decided to use some Spanish.  I tried to dig from my memory the word for "hug," but couldn't remember it exactly.  I remembered her telling me that a lot of Spanish word sound a lot like English in root form.  So, I conjugated quickly a verb in my head that sounded like "embrace." I extended my arms and loudly proclaimed, "Embarazarme!"  Horrified, she took a step back and looked at me cautiously.  And then, after a second, she started laughing hysterically.  "No, no, no!  ABRAZARME!" Apparently, I, in very poor Spanish, had asked her to "impregnate me."

The third hug I remember most was the day I left for the Army.  My mom and dad waited with me in the morning for my recruiter to come to pick me up.  My dad and I were always close, but not "hugging close." And after my bag was loaded up, I stepped up for the tearful goodbyes.  My mom was a typical mother; crying and smiling and squeezing.  And then my dad stepped in.  It was the biggest, strongest hug I could remember him ever giving.  It was a "dad hug."  The kind of hug that lingers with you.   Since then, embraces have become regular and expected.

I had never understood the desire of hugs myself.  It was a violation of my personal space.  It was touching and intimate and it was odd.  When I offered a hug to someone, it was taken eagerly, because the recipient knew that I didn't often give them willingly.  Hugs were, for all intents and purposes, awkward and uncomfortable.

But then, I became a father.

There is a moment for all fathers that we feel that first hug from an infant.  And it is beautifully new with each individual child that enters our life.  Their head cradled on your shoulder, your cheek nuzzling the top of their head, one arm supporting their weight and the other tapping soothingly on their back.  And then you feel it.  The tiny little fingers grab on to your shirt and pull you in a little tighter.  They may not even realize they are doing it.  But they are...and you know it.  It's at that moment that you realize what your role is...Comforter, protector, provider, fixer....

And it becomes an addictive drug that you want more of.  But unlike any illicit substance, you never build up a tolerance.  Each one is just as powerful as the last.  Unfortunately, though, they will eventually get to point when they stop seeking you out for comfort.  They avoid the contact in public.  You find yourself acting like Pookie in "New Jack City," shaking and twitching and exclaiming, "It be calling me, man!  I just got to go to it!"

But, someday, they will need you...A broken heart, a frightening accident, a fall from grace...And when they do, all you can do is reach out and squeeze. 

Until then, you may have to do what I do:  Hunt them down and bear-hold them like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men" and wait for the kicking and screaming to stop as they realize you won't let them down until they squeeze back...Hey, a hug is a hug!

This Old House

I've had an idea for a project in my home for quite some time.  It's a unique spin on disguising a mounted flat-screen television and a media credenza underneath.  I've got all the schematics, measurements, and steps plotted out.  But, on my latest trip to Home Depot, I came to the sad conclusion that this awesome "would-definitely-be-pinned-by-my-wife" project would have to wait.  You see, with the economy in the state that it has been, gas prices climbing over the summer, and the Eco-friendly legislature that has recently passed, the price of lumber has climbed to new highs.  And frankly, I just can not justify spending that much money on building something as unnecessary as an entertainment center.  But then, I came to the genius conclusion:  Perhaps, I could just eliminate other things that are even more unnecessary and re-purpose the wood from those things into my project. 

So, I have begun creating a list of things in my home that are made from wood and never used.

1.  Bathroom Doors - With a wife and children, the concept of privacy is lost.  These doors have really become decoration and a place behind which to stash the last little bit of clutter before guests arrive.  I've decided that with two bathrooms in the house, they would provide about 60% of the material needed for my project.  And, frankly, when I do actually shut the door, it is only a matter of time before there are knocks and squeals coming from the other side, along with tiny little fingers poking underneath while the handle jiggles.  Someday, I'm sure, they'll finally figure out that I'm not actually doing anything in there, but, rather, just taking a break from the constant barrage of questions, demands, and abuse.  And, to be clear, I mean abuse from the kids, not my wife (She would beat me senseless if I implied to the public that she physically abused me).  Let's face it, as parents, we love our kids unconditionally.  We try to be friends with our kids; playing with them, talking to them, listening to them.  But our kids could care less.  What kind of friend would walk into your bedroom and dump milk right in the middle of your mattress and walk out?  They are mean, rude selfish little people.  Children are the world's worst roommates.  They break your stuff, eat your food, never pick up after themselves, expect rides every where and barge in on you when you're trying to use the bathroom.  But we love them.  And, so, there is very little we can do except just take the abuse and try to find a small hiding place for twenty minutes at a time. 

2.  The Kid's Dresser Drawers - These things are not pointless.  And they are used.  I know they are, because I distinctly remember placing the clothes into the drawers.  But, it seems that a poltergeist has taken over my children's rooms.  If I were to spend an entire weekend reorganizing the drawers and ensuring that every article of clothing is folded perfectly and placed exactly where it belongs, it wouldn't seem to matter.  Twenty minutes after I am finished, the clothes somehow end up strewn about the floor and hanging out of the drawers.  It's as if the furniture piece was out all night on a sweater and t-shirt bender and is now waking up in a pool of it's own sick.  "I promise, I'll never do that again!  I'm going to be clean and sober for ever!  I'm so sorry!"  And, just like the good little enabler that I am, I clean it all up and tell the dresser that everything will be okay and that it's not his fault; that he was just made that way.  The very next day, however, he's right back into his shenanigans and I can hear the retching and the sickly plop of pajama bottoms and blue jeans all through the night.  So, why not an intervention?  And, by "intervention," I mean, "Why not just chop it up into tiny pieces and use it for good instead of evil."

3.  Cribs and Toddler Beds - While they may look sweet and can really tie the room together, these are probably the most unnecessary items in the house.  I have slept through until morning in James' bed more times than he has.  Seriously.  There have been many a nights when I will fall asleep in his bed while putting him down, only to wake up in the morning by myself.  I will, of course, find him on my side of our bed with his head on my pillow and his drool on my pillow case while being snuggled by his mother.  Honestly, though, I can say that those have been the best nights of sleep I've gotten in the last three years.  Probably, because, I am not awoken by tiny feet tap dancing on my trachea and tiny fists pounding me in the kidneys periodically throughout the night.  I've actually slept in a raccoon's den with hot dogs in my pants before (Don't ask.  It's a long story) and woke up with less physical damage to my body than that little guy provides me on a nightly basis.

4.  The Dining Room Table - Let's face it, a dining room is just a glorified "junk drawer."  If there is a flat surface anywhere in this room, it is probably covered with junk mail and half-finished "projects."  The real dining room is the living room.  My wife and I even have little chairs that are the perfect height for little people to sit at the coffee table to eat their food.  In fact, they are even designing coffee table sets with actual stools that can nest underneath them.

It's as if the manufacturers have hired real-world parents of little children to design their product for practical daily use.  I'm sure it will only be a matter of time before they will come with tiny forks and spoons to make the "family room picnic" complete.


So, I believe that by cutting out these "unnecessary" pieces from my house, I could easily provide the materials needed to build the entertainment center.  And this thought process has kick started other money saving "re-purposing" techniques.  I wonder how my wife would feel about using the soles of her shoes that she hasn't worn since we met as material to re-shingle the garage roof?  Keep your eyes on Pintrest for that little project.  Or maybe the local news.  We'll have to wait and see...

The Tale of a Grade School Cynic

Over the past, I don't know, say 15-18 years, I have been struggling to find a reason for my overwhelming sense of cynicism, self-degradation and low self-esteem; up and down in emotions, regardless of circumstances, and always expecting the worst from myself.  But when I actually come out ahead, it's usually followed by a feeling of grandeur, as if my great mind had willed it so.  I have used this feeling to create distance in relationships and friendships,  walk away from careers, and create a wall to everyone who would attempt to get to know me.  But, don't cry for me, Argentina.  I have also been able to use this strange and powerful brooding to develop myself into, not only a semi-functioning adult with no sense of direction or real depth, but also a hard-nosed jerk that tends to rub people into a weird feeling of alienation and then feels deep, deep sorrow when he finally realizes how poorly he showed in that particular situation.  I am a self-loathing, tragedy-seeking fool with an unending supply of pessimism, sarcasm, neurotic behavior and paranoia.  Simply put, I am Woody Allen, but without all the social graces, good looks or the comedic genius. 

Identifying my own personality has never been the problem.  I've been trying, rather, to figure out when and why I developed this behavior.  Up until recently, I have been able to recall moments in junior high and high school where I exhibited these traits.  But still, no reason.  But this weekend, I realized something deeply soul-shaking and eye-opening about myself: I have always been, since I was first able to communicate, this exact same way.

This weekend, I was cleaning out some old boxes that my mother had dropped off at my house.  Anxious to "de-clutter" our bedroom, I started sorting through the barrage of crap that I had no inclination to hold on to for obvious reasons. (I mean, my old 5th grade science essay, really?  Do I need to prove to future generations that I was a C+ student?  At best?) But then I found a folder containing a slew of writing assignments from 1st - 3rd grade.  And, as I started reading, I slowly began to realize that nothing had happened to me.  I've always been this way!  A tragedian from the start, I wrote some horribly concerning things that, if written today in 3rd grade, would be cause for a meeting with the school representatives, parents and probably some counselors.  But, being that it was the 80's, I was apparently "just another kid."

So, I submit to you, for your entertainment and your crude and personal judgement against me as a person, some samplings from Daddy J as a small child, anxious to begin a writing career that would cause J.D. Salinger, Stephen King, and John Steinbeck to stop and say,"Dude, that's kind of messed up..."

This first story is written in 3rd grade.  We were asked to take part in a collection of short stories.  I submitted "Leprechaun."

Also, in 3rd Grade, we wrote in our daily journals.  Apparently, on this day, I was extremely salty with my mom.

Titled "My Mom is Great"

"My mom is great at yelling.  My mom is great at hitting.  My mom is great at telling me to clean my room.

(song)

Mom! Mom!  You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With words.
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me.

You bake some gross food, you drop the dishes too,
You iron my new shirt and burn a hole right through.

Mom! Mom! You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With your words
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me.

You wake up Erin in the middle of the night
Just turn out the light
Why don't you fix your tuna casserole and scare everyone away, Mom.

Mom! Mom! You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With words
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me
I'd rather not live with you."

(NOTE:  You can take your hand away from your mouth now, because the very next entry in my journal was about how much I love my mom and all the things I was going to get her for her birthday...Also, my mom was not great at hitting and cursing...She was ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT at it!  Just kidding.  She was a great mother who embraced me with warmth, compassion and support growing up, and she still does to this day.  As I said, I must have been having a "Terrible, Horrible, Not-Good, Very Bad Day.")

But it started even earlier than that.  In 1st grade, I wrote a small novella entitled "Two Fat Cows."

"This is a fat cow with a fat little cow.  The little cow went far from home that he couldn't find his way home.  So he called the police and his mother called the police too.  And his mother was so nervous that she hung up on the police.  The little cow was so nervous that he hung up on the police.  So, they never seen each other again.  THE END"

And there are so many more little pieces of paper out of my "Big Chief" tablet detailing my disdain for fire drills and how I wished that they were real, or how I could never be a Speech Therapist because "I don't speak right," or about the souvenir poster of Billy the Kid's Funeral Announcement that I picked up from the Pony Express Trip in St. Joseph.  After reading these (and laughing hysterically with my wife for the rest of the day), I came to the conclusion, that I am not a victim of some odd circumstance that created a down-trodden and emotionally cursed man from years of misfortunes or a poor environment.  I was made this way!  I have, since my earliest years, been a mildly off-balanced individual with a sick yearning for sadness, poor life choices and dreariness.  I have been the "Fat Little Cow" and "Pat the Leprechaun" and various other characters from my youthful attempts at story-telling throughout my 32 years. I still seek tragedy, subconsciously, and go through my days expecting terrible outcomes every day.  And knowing that I have never changed frightens the neurotic side of me, but, at the same time, satisfies the individual in me. 

Perhaps, though, that is why I strive to be such an involved and present dad and husband.  Because, even with all my fears, preoccupations and anxieties about failing, they are always there to give me the validation that I am a success through their constant love and support.

Gasping Dad

I've come to the conclusion that I will explode soon.  I don't mean emotionally, mentally or financially.  I don't mean, "If you can't get in touch with me, blow me up on facebook."  I mean literally, I am going to explode, with little pieces of Daddy J debris flying through the air. 

"Why?" you may ask. 

You see, as a parent of a small child, it is imperative to teach them day to day functions through repetition and routine.  And, as the parent of a stubborn child, it is imperative to make everything that they don't want to do seem like something that they do want to do.  And that requires trickery.

I know my parents tricked me.  But usually by making me the butt of a joke.  I don't ever recall a point in which they got me to do something, like take a bath, and as I sat in the middle of the Mr. Bubble deluge, thinking, "Hang on a sec!"  No, instead, they would get me to believe things that were completely outrageous and cause me to think, "Either, this is going to be really cool, or I am REALLY dumb."  For example, I remember a time when Dad had put a new stereo in his work truck.  It was the eighties, and I was about 6 or 7.  I had never seen a digital tape deck before then.  It was complete with green illuminated back lighting and smooth turning volume and tuning nobs.  It even beeped as you punched your selection into the number pad that held the stations in it's memory.  Memory!  To me, it was if he had stolen a piece of the USS Enterprise and installed it into his beat-up Silverado.  Anything was possible with this wonderful piece of technological advancement.  So, of course, I didn't think anything of it when Dad started shouting "Change!" at the dash and the stereo would automatically change stations.  It was voice operated!  Amazing!  So, after he demonstrated the unique capabilities of his new stereo, he jumped out of the truck to run into the hardware store real quick.  While he was gone, I sat there in the truck, shouting "Change!" at the truck, but to no avail.  Years later, when I started driving, I finally discovered the SCAN button that is on every digital car stereo...

I don't trick my kids this way.  Mainly, because I don't want them to grow up with the same sense of low self-esteem that I did from years of realizing that I was an idiot for believing crap like that.  I, instead, will trick my kids into thinking something that see as terrible is actually fun and exciting.  Like, bed time, for example.  James, for the most part, hates bed time. And when Gina says, "It's time for bed," he usually protests with angry tears.  In my childhood, that would have been countered with, "Too bad."  But instead, I have turned into the "Gasping Dad."  Gasping Dad is the guy that takes a giant inhale after the suggestion from the mom of anything that the child won't want to do. 

Gina:  James, it's time for bed.

James:  No!

Me:  (Gasps) We're going to bed?!?  Alright!

Gasping Dad works for just about anything.

"(Gasps) You get to take a bath?  Alright!"
"(Gasps)  You get to eat brocolli?  Alright!"
"(Gasps)  You get to sit on the potty? Alright!"

And every time Gasping Dad makes his appearance, the task in usually completed with minimal or no conflict.  Baths are taken, food is eaten, and beds are slept in.

But, simply because of the sheer amount of things that James hates to do, I spend most of my time sucking in giant gasps of air to convice him otherwise.  By the end of the day, my body is holding more air than an tractor tire.  And this will be what ultimately will cause me to explode...Or, at the very least, light headed and dizzy.

Zoom, Zoom

My wife's car is a pigsty.  All the time.  I can spend hours at the car wash; vacuuming, wiping, shampooing and tossing out trash to give her a clean, organized car.  But within three hours, it will, once again, be cluttered with papers, coffee mugs, toys, and countless other types of litter.  I've often imagined a day when I call A&E and have them conduct a special "Car Hoarders" episode.  In the episode, family members (me) would, in front of the cameras, hold an intervention, full of tears and sobbing the phrase, "You need help!"  To which, my wife would defiantly reply, "I don't have a problem!  I NEED all this stuff in my car!"  And I'm sure that at the end of the episode, across the black screen in courier font, the update would read, "Since the taping of the episode, Gina was able to successfully keep her car clutter free for 48 hours.  But after two days, she relapsed and started hoarding once again.  Justin has begun crying himself to sleep in the garage every night, wondering how it could all be possible..."

And the worst situation, as a man, is when I swap vehicles with her for the day.  My car, for the most part, is fairly "trash-free."  My front seat is passenger ready at any given time, and my trunk is clear and able to haul any grocery store conquest on a moment's notice.  But (and any man can relate) if you give a wife/mother your car for an afternoon, it will come back to you in her own state of chaotic ruins.  It drives us insane.  What did you do today that would constitute leaving this much clutter and junk all over my car? 

It's that question, though, that we never really think about the answer to.  "What did you do today?"  There is a reason why there is everything in your car.  Because they just spent the day doing everything.  I wake up, go to work, drink a cup of coffee on the way, take my cup inside with me, and come home in the evening.  My day's activities involving my car are limited.  My wife, on the other hand, has an average day that goes like this:  Wake up, get the kids fed, get them dressed, load the diaper bag, gather up toys for car ride, take a quick shower, run out the door, drop off at day care, run and pay a bill, grab a McCafe from the drive-thru, work half the day, run home to let the dog out and grab a bite to eat as she runs back out the door, go pay more bills, run copies at front office, go back to her office, meet with youth group kids, run back home to let dog out again, Sonic "Happy Hour,"pick up from daycare, run to the store, collect permission slips for youth group trip, go home and make dinner.  And that's not even including the "at-home" activities.

I don't always remember how much my wife does throughout each day...every day...all day long.  But with all that she executes, there is bound to be some residual clutter left over in her car.  And I have to remind myself that sometimes.  She is an amazing woman.  And if she needs me to clean out her car for her from time to time, that is the least that I can do for her. 

Now, if only I could get her to find some connection between my strong work ethic and the fact that I leave my wet towels on the bedroom floor...