A Passing Memory

June 23, 2008. It was a Monday. It was cloudy and sunny at the same time, the type of day when Mother Nature just can't quite seem to make up her mind. It was the first day of Max's summer vacation.

It was also the day that my father died.

He was 68 years old, and in fairly decent health. He had been feeling some pains in his chest and his arm, and he had gone to the hospital to see what was going on. While the doctors were trying to figure out what was wrong with him, he crashed, he coded, and he died.

This past week, I have been helping my mother and my brother to prepare for the memorial service that my father never wanted. During the course of these preparations, we have been going through old pictures, looking at videos, and sharing memories. Memories of Dad, memories of each other, and, of course, memories of our own grandfathers.

I was 28 years old when my maternal grandfather died. I have a lot of memories of him. Memories from when I was a child, memories as a teenager, memories as an adult.

I remember when I was little, and he would get down on his hands and knees and let me ride around the house on his back, as though he were my own personal horsey.

I remember the time that I spilled milk on my grandmother's carpet (after she specifically warned me not to do that very thing) and I sprinted out to the garden, bypassed my mother, and spent the better part of the next hour following my grandfather up and down the rows as he plowed, knowing that my grandmother wouldn't dare strangle me if I was standing right next to him.

I remember him at my graduation from high school, at my graduation from college, and at my wedding.

I have many, many pictures, and many, many memories.

I believe that I was in high school when my paternal grandfather died, although I can't remember for certain. I do know that I was younger, and that, because of this, I don't have as many memories.

I remember that he smoked a pipe, and that every time I smell that smell, I am reminded of him.

I remember that he had false teeth, and that he used to drive me crazy by popping the bottom set of teeth out of his mouth and then quickly sucking them back in again. I tried and tried to get my teeth to do the same thing, but alas, it never happened.

I remember that because of the pipe and the false teeth, I could barely understand a word that the man said, other than the fact that he called me "Possum," most likely because of the fact that he frequently found me hanging upside down by my knees on the tree where his hammock hung.

I have a few pictures of him, and I have a few memories.

I worry that my kids are so young, and I worry that they won't have many memories of my father. He was a wonderful photographer, and he could often be found with camera in hand, snapping up memories, and then spending hours in front of his computer, cropping and adjusting and lining everything up just so.

As my mother and brother and I spent time searching through countless stacks of pictures, we came across hundreds of pictures that he had taken, memories that he had captured for us. But we had a difficult time finding any pictures that anyone had actually taken of him.

I know that my children will remember how my father used to take them to see the tractors. When my son, Max, was two, I was convinced that he thought that my father's first name was Tractor. Every time he saw a picture of my father, he would say "Grandpa Tractor! Grandpa Tractor!" As soon as we would arrive in NJ for a visit, my children would tumble out of the car, run up to my father, and ask "Grandpa, can we go to see the tractors?" No matter what he was doing, he would always oblige. Hand in hand, they would wander through the tractor yard, trying out the various machines, pretending to drive, pretending to race with each other. They would always return home covered in dirt, much to my chagrin, and my father would remind me that "Kids are supposed to get dirty. It's how you know that they're having fun."

I know that my children will always remember the tractors.

But what else will they remember?

Will my son remember how my father built him a tee, and then stood in the backyard with him and put the baseball back on the tee, over and over again, while he taught him how to swing a bat?

Will my daughter remember how my father used to sit at the lunch table and flirt with her, laughing at the faces that she made while she tried the different foods that he encouraged her to eat?

Will they remember that he was always in charge of walking the dogs when we went for walks along the canal path, looking for ducks to feed?

Will they remember him working with my mother to craft their floats for the annual Fourth of July parades? Will they remember him sharing his Fourth of July ice cream, drinking his birch beer, buying his 50/50 tickets?

Will they remember how he put out the Halloween decorations and the Christmas lights for them every year, even though every year he said "This is the last time I'm gonna do this!"

Will they remember how he searched online for the perfect Christmas gifts every year, and then sat in his armchair and assembled them after they were opened? And how he fixed these same toys half an hour later when they inevitably and inexplicably ended up broken?

Will they remember how much he loved cars and motorcycles, and how he bought them their own little battery-powered car to ride around the yard and the neighborhood?

Will they remember how much he loved to ride his bicycle, and how he went out of his way to find bicycles that were perfectly sized for them, so that they could one day ride with him?

Will they remember how much he loved Elvis? (Will they ever even know who Elvis is?)

I suspect that Max will remember some of these things, because he is slightly older, and because he never forgets anything. But I worry that Bella will not be able to remember him, that he died before she had a chance to gather enough memories.

I feel sad that he will not see my children and my nieces graduate from high school and from college. That he will not be able to dance with them at their weddings, the way that my grandfather danced with me. That he will not have the opportunity to see them grow to be the man and the women that I know that they will one day be.

I know that these things happen for a reason. I know that he would be happy that he died quickly, without any suffering, and, more importantly, without any fuss (he really didn't like fuss).

I know that I am supposed to be happy that he has gone on to a better place, and I feel sure that he is still with us, watching over us and wishing that he could give us suggestions about how to do things just a little bit differently.

But I am also sad that he is no longer here with us, and I am sad about all of the memories that he has taken with him.

At least I can rest assured that, no matter what, whenever my children see a tractor, they will always be reminded of Grandpa.

Say "OK" and do it

My sister-in-law (also known as "the other Michelle Marte") has a saying that she uses when it comes to her children:

"We do not negotiate with terrorists."

If our children want something, and they whine, or they scream, or they yell, the answer is an automatic "No." No matter how much they beg and plead, the answer is, was, and always will be a resounding "No." Our minds cannot be changed by poor behavior. We do not negotiate with terrorists.

But what about the times when they're not screaming, yelling, or whining? What about the times when their requests, however unreasonable, are presented in a slightly more reasonable way?

Then the waters become a little but more murky.

I am convinced that my son, Max, is going to be a lawyer when he grows up. Maybe he will specialize in labor management cases. Or, better yet, maybe he'll be a criminal defense attorney who becomes famous for convincing prosecutors to give his clients the best possible deal.

Or maybe he'll use his powers for good instead of evil, and he'll become a hostage negotiator. Or someone who talks people down off of tall, tall buildings.

Whatever he ends up doing, I can be sure that it will somehow involve his powers of persuasion, which he works to perfect on a daily basis.

Max is a negotiator. You know the type -- he's convinced that there's no such thing as a hard "No," and if he can only say or do the right thing, you will change your mind and give in to his demands.

It's partly my fault that he turned out this way. When he was in pre-school and I was tired after being up all night with his newborn sister, I got lazy and I introduced him to the concept of negotiating. He wanted something, I said no, he started to whine, and I, knowing that my brain would explode if I had to listen to even one more second of whining, said,

"Convince me."

Huh?

"If you really want this, and if you think that there's a really good reason why I should let you have it, then tell me what the reason is. Convince me."

And so it began. He would lay out all of his arguments, and I would determine whether or not he had made a convincing case. If his reasoning was sound, I would change my mind. If his reasons were dumb, my "No" would stand firm.

Most of the time, the "No"s ended up winning. Four-year-olds have a tendency to try to reason with you by saying things like "Because I want it" and "Because I said please." These are reasons, but they are not compelling reasons, and they are not enough to convince me to change my mind.

But his skills have developed over time.

Now, when he predicts that I will say "No" to whatever it is that he wants, he comes in with both guns blaring before he even asks his question.

"I already finished my homework, and my toys are all picked up, and Daddy says that we have half an hour until dinner is ready, so can I please, please play Lego Star Wars?"

How do I say no to that?

For the most part, I think that the negotiations are fine. He's learning a skill that will become useful later on in life (Apparently he started using it with his pre-school classmates prior to moving on to Kindergarten. I once received a report from his teacher stating that Max and another child had had a dispute about something, the other child had threatened to tell the teacher, and Max had said, "Wait! Let's see if we can work something out.")

But sometimes, when "negotiating" starts to feel more like "arguing," I just want him to accept that "No means No."

When it's already half an hour past his bedtime, and I know that he won't want to wake up for school the next morning, I do not want to negotiate about whether he should brush his teeth and go to bed or whether he should be allowed to read "just one more chapter."

When I am tired after a long day at work, and I tell him to go get his clothes off and get ready for his shower, I don't want to debate about why he should be allowed to play his video game BEFORE he takes his shower instead of AFTER he takes his shower.

Sometimes, I just want to give an answer, and I want him to accept it.

This is where our newest favorite phrase comes in.

Say "OK" and do it.

We learned this from Max's Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Moak, who is also known as the most wonderful woman on Earth (more on her another time). Apparently, she has also been introduced to Max's powers of persuasion. But she, unlike us, has learned through her years of teaching how to deal with such a person.

When she tells Max to do something, and he starts to argue with her, she says, "Max, just say "OK" and do it." And the most amazing thing happens. He says "OK," and then he goes off and does whatever it is that she just asked him to do. No fussing. No "But, but, but..." He just does it.

It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen!

The first time that we witnessed this phenomenon was during a parent/teacher conference. Jud and I were trying to talk to Mrs. Moak, and I had asked Max to do something for me. He started gearing up to offer me a list of alternatives to whatever I had just requested, and I started gearing up to pull on my Mom Pants and say, "Because I said so, young man" (or something equally parental sounding), when Mrs. Moak said, "Max, say "OK" and do it." And he stopped, mid-sentence, and said "Oh. OK." and then he went off and did what I had just asked him to do.

Our mouths gaping open, we turned to this magical teacher, and we said, "What just happened? How did you do that?"

She explained that she had recently attended a seminar where they had discussed this technique, and she had found it to be interesting, so she had started using it in her classroom. So far, she had met with great success.

By asking the children to say "OK," she was asking them to acknowledge that they had heard and understood what she had just asked them to do. And by adding the "and do it" onto the end, she was giving them an almost hypnotic suggestion: of course they would do whatever it was, why wouldn't they?

We fell in love with this technique, and we started using it immediately.

Like any technique, it has its limits. We try not to use it too often, as we don't want to wear it out. And we don't want to quash the brilliant negotiation skills that Max is developing, as we don't want to be held responsible when he is unable to convince a crazed gunman to stop picking people off from atop a clock tower because we insisted that he do what we told him to do, rather than teaching him how to think for himself.

But when the situation merits, when we are tired of having to assert our parental authority for the fifteenth time in a row, we will stop what we are doing and we will say, "Max, just say "OK" and do it."

And he will.

It's a beautiful thing.

I do it myself!

Max has this little sister, Bella. She is very small, and very funny.

One of our favorite shows on the Playhouse Disney Channel is a cute little cartoon called "Charlie and Lola." The show is about two little children: a boy named Charlie, and his funny little sister, Lola.

There are also books based on these characters, and Bella's favorite of these books is one called "I Can Do Anything That's Everything All on My Own." Bella asks us to read it to her over and over again, and she chants this phrase like it's her own little mantra.

"I do it myself!" is a phrase that is heard frequently around our house these days. Bella is two, and she is desperate to become more independent, just like her Big Brother.

The problem is that Max is 6. And Bella is 2. And two-year-olds just can't do the sorts of things that six-year-olds can.

Of course, there's no explaining that to Bella. If Max can climb up the slide instead of walking up the stairs, so can Bella. And if Max can swing on the Big Boy Swing instead of on the Baby Swing, then so can Bella.

Except that she can't.

And so we battle. Every day, we battle.

I find myself using all of the tricks that I learned when I was studying to be a teacher. How to say "No" without actually using the word "No."

"Yes, you can do that. Later."

And how to give choices that aren't really choices.

"It's time for bed. Do you want to go to bed wearing your pink pajamas, or do you want to go to bed wearing your purple pajamas?"

And then I wait while she tries to put the pajamas on by herself.

And I wait. And I wait.

It takes an incredibly long time to do things when one is two.

Here's my dilemma -- on the one hand, I know that she needs to learn how to do things for herself. I can clearly recall how much easier life became once Max was able to dress himself, and to feed himself, and to take care of toileting on his own. I know that, with time and with practice, she will eventually become faster when she does these things.

On the other hand -- she is SOOOOO slow right now!

It takes me two minutes to change a diaper, and it takes five times as long for her to go to the potty by herself. Yes, I would love not to have to spend money on diapers anymore. But I would also like to dry my hair every once in a while instead of sticking it up in a ponytail every day. Bella can't "do it myself" without adult supervision right now, and there's only so much time in a day. Something has to give, and usually it ends up being something that I want to do.

But I guess I signed up for that when I agreed to become a Mommy.

So I wait. And we battle. And then I wait some more.

And while I am waiting, I hope, and I pray, that I am raising an independent little girl, who will grow up to be a strong, independent woman....who will one day give birth to a child, who will turn two years old, and who will insist on saying "I do it myself!"

Max Skywalker

My son likes Star Wars.

No, that's not quite right. The word "like" doesn't quite describe the level of his fervor.

My son is OBSESSED with Star Wars.

Oh, there have been other obsessions in the past. He was obsessed with Buzz Lightyear, he was obsessed with Scooby Doo, and, for what seemed like an endless period of time, he was obsessed with Larry Boy (of Veggie Tales fame).

But the obsession with Star Wars? This one is different.

This one is my fault.

It all started out innocently enough. He came home from school one day, and he was sad. His two best friends at school had been playing together during free time, and he had been feeling left out.

"Why?" I asked. "What happened?" Did he smell? Had he been mean to them? What was going on?

It turned out that the boys had been pretending to be characters from Star Wars, and Max had never seen a Star Wars movie, so he had been unable to participate.

Immediately I sprang into action. My initial impulse was to rush out to the local Target and buy every Star Wars movie, toy, and book that had ever been made. This, I said to myself, is why I work. So that if my boy wants to learn about Star Wars, I can afford to buy him anything and everything that he might ever need.

After I calmed down, I called my husband, Jud, and explained the situation.

"Honey, Max wants to learn about Star Wars."

I could almost hear the choir music in the background. Like any red-blooded male born during the 70's, my husband had grown up with the Star Wars movies. To hear that his son, the fruit of his loins, his own flesh and blood, now had an interest in these movies? This was a dream come true for Jud.

After a brief debate over whether it was best to watch the movies in chronological order (Episodes 1 through 6 -- my choice) or to watch them in the order in which they had been released (Episodes 4 through 6, followed by Episodes 1 through 3 -- Jud's choice), Jud went off to Target to purchase a box set containing Episodes 4 through 6 (he won), plus an extra disc chock full of bonus features. I contributed to our son's education by purchasing a few Star Wars action figures, a couple of comic books (reading is fundamental, after all), and one or two Lego sets containing various Star Wars space ships (a boy can never have too many Legos!)

That weekend, the education began.

We spent a significant amount of time watching the movies, and even more time fielding Max's questions about the different characters. We perused the comic books, we re-enacted scenes from the movie with the action figures, and we built the Lego ships. At some point, we also purchased a pair of light sabers (one for each child), and, as a special treat, the Lego Star Wars game for our Wii system (Best. Game. EVER!)

Come Monday morning, Max's brain was overflowing with Star Wars knowledge. He was ready to play the HECK out of Star Wars with those boys!

We later learned that one of the boys had watched exactly half of one of the movies, and the other boy had never actually seen any of the movies, he had only played a Lego Star Wars game on his home computer.

Perhaps we overshot the goal just a bit.

But it was too late. The obsession had already taken root, and it has just grown from there.

We have now watched all six of the movies, some of them more than once.

(By the way, for anyone who may have been living under a rock since the early 70's and who, therefore, has not yet seen the Star Wars movies, consider this to be your "**Spoiler Alert**")

We have cleared up the confusion that came from watching Darth Vader die in Episode 6, only to suddenly come back to life as a small child in Episode 1 (part of the reason why I wanted to watch them in chronological order, thank you very much.)

We have discussed why different characters wield different color light sabers (Are blue light sabers better than green ones? And do all of the bad guys have red light sabers?)

And, for several days, we pondered the most difficult topic, the one that is central to the movies -- why did Anakin start out so good, then turn so bad, and then how did he become good again?

We have tackled life vs. death, good vs. evil, and what exactly IS a Wookie anyway?

We have seen countless Star Wars pictures come home from school. We have debated the merits of the light saber vs. the blaster.

And we have sat at the breakfast table and listened as my two-year-old daughter, in all of her nightgowned, pigtailed glory, has hummed the "Darth Vader Theme Song" under her breath, followed by a quick demonstration of how he "breeves."

To say that Max has taken an interest in all things Star Wars would be selling his obsession short. In fact, when our friend Diane recently gave birth to a son and I casually mentioned that she had named him "Luke," Max sprang to attention, like a dog hearing the doorbell ring, as he said "Luke?!? As in, Skywalker?!?" (To be honest, I can't be sure that she didn't name her son after the young Jedi, given that she apparently has her own little obsession with the Star Wars movies.)

I am sure that this obsession will eventually come to an end, just as all of the other ones have. Something new will come along, and he will talk less and less about all things Star Wars.

Unfortunately, I can't do anything to speed up this process, since I was the one who encouraged him to learn about the movies so that he would be able to play with his friends. I brought this on myself, and now I just have to ride it out.

Until then....

May the Force be with you.

My Silly Monkeys

When I was little, I desperately wanted a monkey. Every holiday, every wish list, birthday, Christmas, whatever...

1) A monkey

Oddly, my parents never bought me one. I think they got me a stuffed monkey one year for my birthday, but a real monkey? Nope, never happened.

At one time, I fantasized about becoming a truck driver, like Greg Evigan on "B.J. and the Bear." Not because I liked trucks, and not because I liked travelling long distances, but because B.J. McKay owned a monkey (okay, maybe it was a chimp. But to me, it was the coolest thing ever), and in my little mind, if B.J. McKay had a monkey friend, then ALL truck drivers must have monkey friends, and, therefore, if I were to become a truck driver, then I, too, could have a monkey friend.

Given that I have difficulty parking a minivan, it's probably best that the whole truck driving thing never panned out. But the lust for a monkey? That never passed.

Until.....

I have these two glorious little children. They climb -- oh, how they climb! On tables, on chairs, on couches, on me, on each other -- if there is a surface that can be climbed on, they've climbed it. And they pick -- they pick on each other, they pick on me, they pick up random things that they have no business touching -- sometimes it seems like they have eight hands each!

They giggle, they screech, and, on at least one memorable occasion, my daughter, as an infant, sneezed mid-diaper change and managed to shoot poo all the way across the room (the words "shock" and "awe" come to mind).

In short, they demonstrate monkey-like behavior on a daily basis.

They are my silly little monkey friends.

And they are exactly what I wished for!