The Bitter End

If we were actual helicopter parents, would we allow something like "Senior Ditch Day" to even be considered in our household? First of all, let me point out that the potential for both of these occurrences are very real. We have this one kid, a son, who has been the focus of much if not all of our attentions and intentions since he came into the world some eighteen years ago. Since then, we have participated in ways both large and small, hoping to keep his nose clean and his future bright, which is infinitely preferable to the obverse.  Dark futures and runny noses are no way to go through life.
That's why we have been standing by with Kleenex and a flashlight, ready for any and all circumstances that would erupt to disturb any of the peace in our little kingdom. I will build playgrounds, make pancakes, attend meetings and even let my wife serve not one but two years as PTSA president in order to make sure that at no time does our little boy have to run afoul of any of the mundane disruptions to the flow of his orderly matriculation through childhood. And now, that's over. For official purposes, my son became legal in all kinds of ways. He announced the other night that now that is eligible to vote, he has no interest in any of the candidates who are currently running. That sounds pretty adult to me. He also, according to California Ed. Code, has the right to sign for and verify his own absences. Suddenly that hum of rotors becomes more distant. Mom and Dad, what do you think? Oh, that's right, you're not responsible for me anymore.
Dad, an elementary school teacher with a keen eye for Average Daily Attendance and its connection to funding for our academic institutions, and Mom who spends more time at my son's school than he does these days, talking often with the principal, have very mixed feelings about Senior Ditch Day. On the one hand, he is a kid who has never spent a day after school unless he was volunteering for something. He has been accepted into the college of his choice and it would be hard for us to argue that he held up his end of the bargain as far as getting through high school. It would also be somewhat hypocritical of me to insist that he attend every moment of every class until the end of his final semester, since I spent a good deal of time at the end of my senior year going out to lunch and hanging out on the front lawn playing football with my friends instead of showing up for those last most important instructional minutes in Ceramics and Pop Lit. I really don't have a leg on which to stand. Other than, "because I said so."
That's why we let it happen. Senior Ditch Day, Rite of Passage? For which I pull out my favorite family response: "Why not?"

Gentle Into That Good Night

This comes as a bit of a spoiler, but since the end is truly nigh and if you are reading this blog, then you have some passing connection with at least some things of a pop culture flavor, and the penultimate episode of "Mad Men" would certainly count for that. You remember "Mad Men," don't you? Before there were zombies and revolutionary war spies prowling about Sunday nights on American Movie Classics, there were advertising executives drinking and driving and hopping from bed to bed in a slick recreation of what we all have come to agree was the most alluring vision of the world as it was fifty years ago. And smoking. Did I mention smoking? Lots of smoking.
And that's why I am taking the time to whine about what has been a solidly diverting ride for the past seven seasons. But this? This next-to-last shocker of a revelation? Was it really necessary to kill Betty? I know, if you're not up on this whole "where are they, who are they" tracking for what is happening to which fictional character, then killing Betty may just be a meme that has no actual meaning beyond the sound of the words, but I'm telling you that it matters because of the way it was done: Lung cancer. After nearly eight years of Mad-Time, and nearly a decade and a half of history, it turns out that the one person to succumb to that great gray cloud that hung over this production was Betty Draper, long suffering first wife of Don Draper, who once sold Lucky Strikes with the claim that they were "toasted." Just like the lungs of the folks who bought them. Except that in real life, the actors are smoking healthful blends of herbs that only serve to make the experience we see on screen as more enticing. Who needs Joe Camel when you've got Don Draper? And his lovely wife Betty?
Out of this haze comes Betty, having missed a great portion of the past couple of seasons, being the ex-wife and all, and it turns out that her dream of going back to college and studying psychology is going to be cut tragically short in order to give us all the object lesson that smoking cigarettes will kill you. Fast. In about three minutes of screen time.
As I watched this episode with my wife, I had to clamp down on my impulse to shout at the screen when Betty fell down on the stairs on the way to her next class. She wasn't getting up. This was the classic "something's wrong" moment, the one that she won't recover from and the one that we were shown to justify what would happen so abruptly in the next scene: Doctor's office. Looks bad. Getting worse. No hope.
Of course not. This is the next to last episode of a TV drama, and sacrifices have to be made. But Betty? Why? Addicted to diet pills wasn't enough? Having Don and then Henry for husbands wasn't enough? Dealing with her own twisting psychology wasn't enough? Now she's the sacrificial lamb. Or Camel. I suppose we can only wait a few days to see what crueler fate awaits her ex-husband. Maybe Ken can run over Don with a bigger tractor. Or something. I just don't see how Betty deserved to go - in  a puff of smoke.

Age Of Consent

I need to be very careful now. Anything I say could be used as justification by my son to run off and join the Army. Or Navy. Or Marines. Or maybe he'll jump to the big leagues and get married. He can do that now. He's eighteen.
He doesn't need my permission to go see a movie. He doesn't need me to open a bank account for him. He is his own man. These are the eyes of the state I am using currently. If I turn my old parent eyes on this young man, I see a guy who could, in a pinch, do any of those things. But I don't think he will. There are far too many other things that he is interested in doing, being and seeing before he enlists in any of those more mundane activities. Sure, if he joined the armed services, he could travel the world and seek out new people and experiences while carrying weapons he has only seen on video games, but that isn't where he is headed.
I don't actually know that. It may be precisely where he is headed, but not right now. He doesn't know for sure what he is going to do. That is the magic of being this magic age is that he can make all kinds of adult-ish choices, but he doesn't have to. We are his safety net for a few more years while he makes his way in the world. His mother and I will pretend for the time being that he is going off to slay his metaphorical dragons while we stick close to the phone and monitor Al Gore's Internet for any actual dragon sightings so as to make certain that his path is clear.
Whatever path that is. It's another jumping-off point. It becomes more and more clear to me with each passing year that this parenting gig isn't a short-term one. It's a lifetime. I think of the words from the Alice Cooper song: "I got a baby's brain and an old man's heart/Took eighteen years to get this far/Don't always know what I'm talkin' about/Feels like I'm livin' in the middle of doubt." I wonder how Alice's parents felt about that, but he was twenty-two when he wrote it, so I'm not sure if that counts.
Of course it counts. This is my son, and when he turns twenty-two, I will be just as interested about what is going on in his life as I am now. I find him fascinating. His story is full of pending twists and turns, and I want to have a ringside seat for all of them. And hopefully I will be a spectator. A very pleased and proud spectator. I give him my consent to rise to the heights he chooses. Bon voyage!

Teach Me A Lesson

The most obvious one would be piano. I just stopped. Probably because I felt like there was nothing more for me to learn, since I obviously wasn't going to go pro anytime soon. Ever. I was learning to play piano because it was what we did. My mother played. My older brother started taking lessons when he was about nine years old. We had a piano in our living room. We had another one in the basement. They weren't going to play themselves. Well, to be precise, the one in the basement could play itself in that it was a player piano and if you pumped the pedals with enough gusto, you sounded just like Van Cliburn. The image I had of myself playing dazzling honky tonk and jazz riffs never came to pass. I stalled out somewhere amid the Mozart sonatinas, without ever becoming the Leon Russell/Elton John/Billy Joel or Preston that I felt might dwell inside me. If I had that kind of talent, it was buried deep inside. Very, very deep.
This was kind of like my marine abilities. Perhaps growing up in Colorado I didn't see any particular need from a survival standpoint to hone my swimming skills. I stalled out at "Minnow," and never went back. I still enjoy frothing about in swimming pools, and the lessons I did retain in that one summer were not lost on me: entering the water in as many silly and ridiculous ways as possible. Mister Man rides a bike. Mister Man trips over a curb. Mister Man leans against a wall that suddenly isn't there. Falling into the water was the main thing. Once I got there, I found that I could hold my breath and eventually push myself through whatever depths I found myself to the surface, and then make some amateur attempts at a crawl or paddle that would get me to the edge of the pool. Where I would then crawl out and toss myself in once again. Mister Man skills aside, I wasn't cleared to move on to Tuna, Halibut or Stingray. I would never get a Shark badge to sew onto my trunks, nor would I ever look back with much regret on any of those accomplishments, though both of my brothers found more success in this area.
I've just never been good at taking lessons. Lessons require practice, and I don't have the temperament. I would much rather have someone show me once and then I go off and figure it out on my own. This was nearly a deal-breaker for my wife and I, when she became somewhat insistent that I learn how to dance. Not just the floppy, loose-limbed gyrations that I had been passing off for so many years at parties and bars. She was asking me to learn steps. Just like learning the backstroke or scales, this seemed an unnecessary use of my time and energy. Wasn't my enthusiastic pantomime imitations of those movements sufficient?
As it turns out, they weren't. Not if I was going to dance with a partner anywhere near me. Not if I wanted to make it appear as though I had a partner instead of a bemused spectator. For a series of very difficult and uncomfortable minutes, I put myself in her hands, in hopes that I would no longer be stepping on her toes. I would love to tell you that I discovered that I relaxed and found that the joy I took from dancing with my wife made it all worthwhile. I still take a great deal of joy from each turn I take on the dance floor with my lovely and patient wife, but I can't say that she has taught me more than those very basic steps. Mister Man on the dance floor.
Someday I'll learn my lesson.

iCarly

Poor Carly Fiorina. She just wants to be President of the United States. Is that so wrong? Katie Couric seems to think so. She's out to get our girl, just like she went after that other maverick a few years back. Why would she need to know what magazines a vice presidential candidate reads. Or doesn't read. Or if she reads at all. Isn't that kind of a sexist question to ask? Why isn't she asking all those male candidates these hard-hitting (sexist) questions? Would she really ask a guy who was polling around one percent if he was gearing up for a run for the second highest office in the land? Maybe we should have Katie Couric interview Katie Couric what the deal is to find out what the deal is with Katie Couric. 

Feel free at this point to note that Katie Couric is currently the "global anchor" for Yahoo News. Not ABC. NBC, CBS, CNN, FOX. Since the 2008 campaign, when she was the anchor for CBS, Katie has moved around a bit. Things change. Like when former Hewlett-Packard CEO Carly Fiorina signed on as an adviser to John McCain's campaign in 2008. 

Hold on a second. The 2008 campaign. The same one that brought us the "um, all of them" answer to what magazines and newspapers vice presidential candidate Sarah Palin gave to future global anchor for Yahoo, Katie Couric. Is this "Back to the Future" or what? Did she show up to the interview in a DeLorean? Of course, by this time, Hillary Clinton was already on her way to the curb to wait for her opportunity to become Secretary of State. And to wait another half-dozen years until it was time to rev up the web site development team to get herself ready for another shot at the highest office in the land. Not the second highest. Will Katie Couric ask Hillary is she's positioning herself for second place? 

In a word, no. Katie will probably ask Hillary about her personal e-mail server. And Benghazi. And maybe, just maybe, she'll ask how she will be a good grandma while she's busy running the country. That would be sexist. Or ageist. Or somethingist that would make it possible for Katie to continue her career as global anchor for Yahoo. Carly, in the meantime, will be working hard to make Katie and the rest of us forget her failed run for senate in 2010 and her forced resignation from HP in 2005. But we shouldn't probably bring that up. That would be failist. 

Absolutely

Basketball playoffs are heating up, baseball season is starting too, and the National Hockey League continues to stretch their season into the summer. When ice melts. What better time to talk about matters in the frozen north, specifically Foxborough, Massachusetts? Yes, the combines and the college draft and all the discussion connected to the National Football League has passed. There is a serious potential for Roger Goodell's ship to sail out of view for a few months. But since this is America, and there is no dark side of the moon, really, we should keep that logo on the tip of everyone's cerebral cortex. Yes, the New England Patriots won the Super Bowl just a few months ago, but that's no reason for them to be old news.

That may explain why the findings of the National Football League's blue ribbon commission on cheating and such came out this week with their findings on Deflate Gate. If you haven't cared about this scandal before, maybe some of the highlights of the report issued this past week will intrigue you. Text messages between a part-time New England Patriots employee and an equipment assistant with talk of cash, free shoes and autographs. The part-time employee, a locker room attendant responsible for twelve footballs before the AFC title game, spending one hundred seconds in a bathroom after game officials had approved the balls for play. The Patriots' star quarterback and the equipment assistant suddenly exchanging phone calls in the days just after news of under-inflated footballs blew up. That's a little Deflate-Gate humor: "blew up." Get it? For me, the most interesting tidbit may be those one hundred seconds in the bathroom. It caused me to consider the number of seconds I spend in the bathroom, especially on game day. It also cause me to reflect on just how carefully statistics are maintained for all aspects of the National Football League. Whether all bathroom trips are monitored and recorded, or do they just count the ones during pre-game and warmups? What about during games? Ultimately, it seems as though there was some sort of shenanigans going on. What sort of penalties will be handed out is still anyone's guess, but when he was asked if any of this would taint the rest of the Patriots' achievements, quarterback and cell phone user Tom Brady insisted, "Absolutely not." Of course not. Just like that video tape hullabaloo from a few years back, the one we felt compelled to attach a "gate" to back then and called it "Spygate." That didn't detract at all from the undefeated regular season they had way back then. No word from the NFL or the Patriots about whether "Murdergate" will cast a shadow on any of the accomplishments the Patriots made with Aaron Hernandez on the field. My guess would be "absolutely not."

When We Go Boom

My mom fell down. If you're of a certain age with a parent of a certain age, you know what that phrase means. Or can mean. In my case, it meant that my heart leaped to my throat, and I began to imagine all the things that might have happened. The happy news was that the bag of laundry she was carrying broke her fall, and while it's generally never a good thing for human beings to fall anywhere, and it turns out she is going to be okay. Bumps and bruises. A cut on her forearm. No broken bones. There was relief from all quarters as my family breathed out and the alarms were turned off. But we all realized we must be ever-vigilant.
This comes as a creeping annoyance for my mother, who prides herself on her independence and tenacity. These were also, coincidentally, qualities she helped her sons gather in abundance. Just like she gave us all her capacity to care. Deeply. I can understand how frustrating it must be to have her children checking up on her, making sure she is okay. That's kind of the way her boys used to feel when we were off on our next adventure or escapade. I know that any fear that I may have experienced upon hearing about my mother's tumble was nothing compared to what she must have felt when she got the call about me being hit by a car. Or the sight of my younger brother and I standing on the shoulder of the road where I had just recently driven my older brother's truck, nearly rolling the two of us down the side of a mountain. And on and on. I cannot complain about my mother testing my adrenal glands, since there were three of us, and only one mom.
That is why, on this Mother's Day, I would like to salute all the mothers I know who pick us up, dust us off, and help us start all over again. I know how different it was to have a scraped knee with my father. I got love. I got attention, but mom could make a boo-boo better than anyone. I know that I have never felt more out of my depth as a parent than when my son was hurt and I was left to make all better. I couldn't. That was what mom could do. It is their peculiar magic. Over the years I have adopted the language and mannerisms. I use the same cotton balls, hydrogen peroxide and band-aids, but it's just not the same. It is the magic touch that makes falling down okay. Not just because we know that we can get back up again, but because of the love we receive on the way back up. Thank you, mom.