The Pride of Parenting

The telltale heart of being a parent is that ever present aroma that accompanies that cardinal sin; Parental Pride.  Oh, you may take careful steps to double, nay, triple-bag those double deuces that the two-year old drops in his diapers, and you may place that waste in the waist-high pail that waits outside the walls of your child's room, and you may even endeavor to emigrate that excrement to the exit, but no matter how you slice it, the smell seems to seep right back in.

And that smell is the Pride of Parenting.

If, at this point, it is unclear what I mean when I pronounce this Pride of Parenting then I humbly encourage you to consider the following:

a)  There appears to be an innate natural drive to having children.
b)  Leading up to having children, there appears to be an innate natural tendency to inaccurately judge the skills and values of those who insist on allowing their children out in public.
c)  Having children is humbling, not in small part due to the amount of crow you are required to eat, when realizing just how small minded we were about the context and condition of those parents we shamelessly judged while slug-a-bed we wallowed in the murky, tepid waters of prenatal self-righteousness.
d)  Parenting a child is rife with doubt, feelings of supreme inadequacy, hopelessness, fear, and regret and a particular awareness that there are people out there still enjoying life in part b).
e)  In order to survive d) one must realize that children seem to (at the best of times) grow and develop in spite of everything we appear to be doing wrong, and arrive as a semi-competent adult due (in no small part) to blind luck, or divine intervention.

BUT... every so often a parent will adopt a policy akin to b) where they start to believe that they are doing something right.  Or doing something well.  Or doing something better than other parents.  And that, my dear friends, is the Pride of Parenting.

It is a fetid, ugly thing and I feel it is my duty to warn you of its perils while seeking my own redemption for committing such a heinous thing as believing I might be on the road to being a successful Stay-at-home Dad.

For those who might be regular readers of my irregular ramblings you may, at this point, say to yourself, "Self, I read those irregular ramblings often irregularly and I thought that man was doing things just fine."  No really, I give you permission to say that to yourself.  And sure, maybe you weren't looking to harshly judge me.  Maybe you actually thought, "hey, good on you man, you're taking on the responsibility of raising two boys with your head held high and an army of support behind you."  Maybe you truly believe I can help you consider something valuable that will help you become the parent you know you are capable of being.

And that my friends is the Pride of Parenting.

So as I settle into the irony of writing this message to you, know that I'm really just writing to ask forgiveness for thinking that what I was doing was "working" any better than what someone else might be doing.  It's true!  Listen, I actually hear myself think things like, "well I'm sure not going to be that dad that races to the side of my boy when he falls down..." or "You won't catch my boys in organized sports/school/scrapbooking too early." or "these boys of my will grow up to be resilient and confident men because I love them openly and with signs of physical affection like a hug, or a kiss."  or "I wonder what my wife thinks I do in this #microoffice of mine for such a long time..." but I digress.

I'm working to raise my kids to be independent, strong-minded, men of integrity... with a delightful sense of humour and killer smiles.  As I start to see evidence that it's working I realize that in my zeal I have forgotten to let them be boys.  Vulnerable, frightened, and reliant on the knowledge that there is someone there next to them to catch the bike when it falls, hold their hand in the thunderstorm, or just simply let them cry when they fail.  You see?  I got caught up in my own Pride of Parenting.

My son will wander off in the middle of an event to see the sights explaining that he "was bored, so he went for a walk."  Or he'll disappear into traffic because he saw something cool, and says "Dad, what are you worried about, I looked both ways?!"  I half expect him to be out in the backyard grilling meat on the barbecue before the end of summer announcing that he "was just jonesin' for something juicy."  But he's FOUR.  Maybe I shouldn't make him stand in line to apologize to the desk-clerks for making a scene in their lobby, or let him wash the dishes when he asks.  Maybe taking the training wheels off his bike and letting him take the neighbour-kid's homemade jump the next day is too soon... Maybe these signs of hyper-independence really are symptoms of what happens when you ask him to fold his own laundry and ride the bus to work in the morning; doing things earlier, writing things earlier, reading things earlier, producing his first symphony... I'm realizing more and more that I've had a part in all this...  Before I know it he'll be grown up and resentful just like we were and I'll have let him miss the best part of being a kid:  Being a kid.

In my reflection I've realized something important, and I hope you have too.  AND I hope the next time my four-year old says "Dad, can I help you use the band-saw." I really hope that I'll remember to say, "you know son, I think you're too young for that... let's wait and cut-off your fingers tomorrow."

Postscript:

No son's (in whole or in part) were harmed during the writing of this article.  I think... wait, I hope they're still in the yard.  Oh right... phew, we already put them to bed.

Make Your Own "Canorpheum"

In 2007 my wife and I spent some time touring the jungle in Borneo.  Whilst we were there I got the unique opportunity to play some of the authentic village instruments, in particular anything percussive.

 I searched high and low while we were there for some small instrument I could bring home as a special treasure and ended up bringing home 9 plate sized gongs... and they do get played now and again, especially by some young boys of mine.

What I learned from the trip though, is that the "authentic" instruments from villages in Borneo are not the ornate and beautiful carved gems that many of us might see in an import store down Specialty Lane in Super-Hipsterville, CA but are put together from the most basic materials that scavenged from the nearest renovation project.

For instance--  The instrument I am playing in this photograph is largely old wood floor boards which have been sized so that they make different sounds.  These are tacked onto old plywood with what looked to be shoe tacks, and the blocks themselves rest on rubber cut from the soles of old flip-flop sandals.  A couple Balsa-wood sticks from the forest and some paint and you've got yourself a pretty ingenious indigenous instrument.

Since that trip I have been longing to create my own unique instruments, and I have finally found the resources I needed to do so.

It started with some empty Pringles cans which I collected post 4 year old birthday party.  Add in some scrap planking and screws that were left over from the bed I made (in the last post) and some rubber bands stolen from the junk-mail rolls that perpetually appear on our front doorstep and I had myself a design for what I have called The Canorpheum.

I'm in between on providing the schematic on how to make one yourself... seems excess... but I have it for anyone that wants to comment.  I was lucky that the boards were already cut almost perfectly for the box itself.  I had but to chop a couple boards here and there, and use a drill and jigsaw to make the template for the cans to sit in.

Now all it needs is some paint.  I'm using the iPod to create some unique stencils of the boys (Fotofiti for anyone who cares).  Take a listen:

Stay at Home Furnishings

So last week I was involved in a production of one of the world's only Parkour-Plays as part of a #GIGYYC grant that was won by a friend of mine late last year.

He phoned at the end of January to say that he could have ~$1200 if he could put up a play inspired by Parkour by March 30th.  He just needed a script...  And as proud as I am of this project we are all overwhelmingly proud of (every ticket was sold) my wife knew that it was keeping me from my real passion -- dumpster-dive furniture fashioning.

That's right.  Be it known that I have always had a real knack for handy work, in particular carpentry.  And there is no subfield in carpentry more respected and awe inspiring than that of quality home furnishings.  Yes, I know it seems like I have never actually built anything, but when you've spent as long as I have thinking about building stuff, I'm practically an expert.

In all seriousness-- I get this phone call midway through March:

Tom, I have an odd favour to ask, you see there's this old palette I saw in the alley behind the church, if you get a chance while you're out with the boys to swing by and pick it up--

Sorry what?!

An old palette, look I saw on the internet [during a late night in front of the t.v. of course] that you can make a headboard for a bed from an old palette and I was hoping you'd pick one up for me.  I know it's weird but ---

Yes, it's weird.

but, really, don't feel obligated to pick it up...

and when your wife says that -- well let's just say I wasn't married yesterday.

"Seriously Dad, you built this?!" Not likely...

She didn't however mention that this palette was 7 feet tall at the time she suggested I pick it up.  I did manage to shove it into the back of the van on a wild tangent to my normal daily errands and didn't give it much more thought until (while sitting in the Mr. Lube line-up) a kind sales clerk mentioned "Ha! Sorry, I didn't realize you had two kids [in the back of the van] can't hardly see the second one for the giant palette in the way."

So then I get this email a couple days later with about 19 sites related to at-home-scrap-recycling-keep-your-husband-busy-projects with no other explanation than --- this was what I was thinking about.

Now and again I wish that my life was more like the movies and she would send me a message saying "this is what I was thinking about." and it might come with some sort of pseudo-sexy attachment suggesting perhaps a little romantic rendezvous was heading my way... but no.  Just links to DIY sites... as though she's saying -- hey, do it yourself.  Yes, that's what she said.

But I'm inspired.  I'm feeling handy.  I can do this.  And you know what... I think largely because of the success of Mindfire (the play) I felt a little... well... indestructable?  As though I could do anything... so -- and here's my proudest accomplishment, I turned off the internet, turned on my time lapse and you can watch the results of my efforts w/o commentary and reserve judgement for yourself. (p.s. when the composer for the music reads this and watches the movie then I expect that artist to contact me with the correct permissions and attribution rights just like when that artist contacted me before he cut my head from my blog-photos and pasted it onto unicorns frolicking near rainbows...)

In the end the project cost maybe $100 and it took three solid days working with and around my two sons.  But it was fun, and it felt good to finish it, and for the first time I was really proud of my handywork.  Like I might actually be able to build nice things too.

Things of note:

Supplies (for those interested in facsimiles)

Wood = knotty pine, cheap cheap at the local hardware mart (6" sideboards, 8" top-board and 10" runner)
Stain = Minwax Wood Stain: Classic Gray 271
8 x 2" bolts, washers, and wing-nuts
2" #8 wood screws
1 1/4" #8 wood screws
6 x corner brackets
Wood glue
1 old weathered palette from some back-alley
Grand total ~ $70


The extra cost came from the steel finishing plate added at the end, totally frivolous and extravagant but super-keen!

Final Version (three days in)

Steel plate not shown in this picture
 -- but you can see it on Instagr.am!

I can't wait to show off my next project...  It involves music and Pringles (tm).

What Bored Dad's Do

I admit, it has been a while.

I wanted this to be a weekly journal of sorts, something to read that would let my friends know how the boys and I are doing, and something to read that might give you a snicker or two at my own expense.  Come Christmas time though, I found I really had nothing more of interest to say.

Life has become routine.  The mistakes I make now are simply expressions of earlier mistakes I had hoped I would overcome.  I've fallen into a holding pattern and the system has stagnated.

And What a Glorious Stagnation.

The honeymoon is over.  If phase one of staying at home is intense passion for creating new experiences with your children, then phase two is the calm indulgence that follows.  A balance between sustaining the children and realizing that you (as an adult, and an individual) have an identity, an individuality, a purpose beyond serving others, and suddenly you find yourself indulging fancies that serve only you.

Where you used to plan your day to suit your kids, you're now planning your kids to help suit your day.  You have systems by which you are able to sequester moments to yourself to do the things that stimulate your intelligence and restore vigor to a life that has become routine.  Like a marriage, the early passion and immaturity of the early years is sedated, and allows for more distance, and more space for "self".

And like a basket full of peanuts at the pub, you convince yourself you will only eat an handful, and the next thing you know you need a second beer to wash the first basket down.  Then you find yourself battling the guilt of leaving all those shells behind.

December I joined a panel of teachers as a facilitator for an Open Online Course, and started the process of engaging education in a whole new way (for me).  This was the first peanut.  This created that desire to have another, and then another...

January found me writing a "poem-a-day" with a group of Australians in an online forum.  A creative outlet that flexed the brain-muscle.  I invented a new style of poem called "The Sudoku" complete with a programmed spreadsheet to help calculate the poem's structure.  If you put all the words in the poem nine to a line for nine lines you get a perfectly filled sudoku square (words in place of numbers).  I learned what a Sestina was, and how to write one.  On the side I rewrote "The Velveteen Rabbit" from the viewpoint of a teacher who yearns to become real... Stay at home parents should not have time for all this!

February I was invited to write a script for a friend who has won a grant to bring "Parkour" to the stage in Calgary.  March 30th is the deadline to have a show, thankfully I'm not involved with the production of it, just creating the words behind it.  The working title is called "Have Kourage".  Meanwhile this same friend had me dress as a "Sexy" Lumberjack at a Lise Watier new product release party.  Inspired by my rekindled manhood I promptly came home, installed a window in my back-door and converted a toilet to dual flush.

Sometimes My Reality is Like Your Imagination

Now in March I'm finding I've got that dry, parched feeling you get when you've eaten too many salted nuts, and I'm looking for something to wash it all down with... and thankfully I've found the restorative properties of my boys to be sufficient refreshment.  The next event to plan is a four-year old's birthday party.

I'm so stoked.

What Bored Dad's Do.
(Yes, that's fresh roasted Kale-Chip hair)

The party is to be a blend of engaging learning activities, collaborative and cooperative, that stimulate both the kinesthetic proclivities and intellectual capacities of my young men.  The event will be accompanied by a carefully constructed script, likely performed in costume... I look back on the selfish events of the past three months and realize that, as in all things, with proper reflection and firm grounding in "who you serve" those momentary relapses to self-indulgent fantasy can worked to polish the best parts of self so that our children can enjoy days dedicated to remembering the gift they were, how ever many years ago.

Community Affairs

For those who love to read The First Folio, and would like a new spin on the Elizabethan formula, I dedicate this to you.

A quick note on how to "read" this script.

1. It has never been performed, and contains a few details I would likely change in a workshop.
2. It is written following the grammatic rules of Shakespeare's First Folio, in essence, much of the punctuation is written for actors and not for accuracy.  In layman's terms: breathe only at periods, and audibly at semi-colons in the verse.  Stress misplaced capitals and words with an additional e, and don't forget to follow the iambic pentameter.
3. As with many of the Shakespeare plays, the use of verse is to lend some importance to the characters who are speaking, and prose is used for more "common" language.
4. Unity can be read as a singular entity or can be a chorus of characters.
5. Written staging is minimal (as they are often in Shakespeare's plays) to allow for flexibility in adaptation.

Download the original file here.

Community Affairs by T.C. Andrew is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Dadvent Conspiracy

"I can do this."

That's how it starts for stay at home dads. They get a great idea, they have a wife who believes in them and at least one child who looks up at them with big glowing eyes and gives them the feeling that they are a world beater just before they fart and giggle. The kids I mean, usually not the wife.

Well, whatever. I said I was going to do the Dadvent thing, and one item on the list was to make a gingerbread house from scratch.

...And then I got this great idea. I was reading this "Do One Cool Thing with your Kids" app called Timbuktu (because you know all the coolest people you know get their ideas from cool-help books) and they posted a gingerbread recipe and I was like... woah there. This is the one.

"An amazing recipe to bake Gingerbread cookies with kids! via @TimbuktuMag"

Now hold on to your shorts (you who are lucky enough to live near either of the tropics) because this is where it gets wonderfully elaborate.

See there is this app I once used called 123D Make. (I include the details at the end 'cause it's free and like porn for geek dads... was that too crass? Sorry...)

First you draw a design, like this:


And it turns it into a 3D model that you can play around with like this:


But the best part is it lets you print off a template to build the model! Like this!


Remember what I said? "I can do this."

One 3D model design, one order of gingerbread and one wildly eclectic and adventuresome dad and we have the makings of a true sensation.

So I pulled up the recipe and I baked. And I rolled. And aside from getting the instructions backward at times, and putting it in the oven, and suddenly realizing that you can't cut gingerbread out using a template after it's been baked -- so pulling it out of the oven... I was able to start cutting, and trimming, and shaping, and then, when it was all done I knew I would soon have the COOLEST gingerbread tree ever created and my 3 year old would look up at me and realize that he has the single greatest father ever created and there would be angels dancing on my back lawn under the cover of twinkling stars... with a lute! Yes a lute, or maybe a Lyre.

Well, that's how I saw it going in my head.

Here's the timelapse:


So I ran into a problem. There was an inescapable design flaw. The template was built for cardboard I was definitely going to be working with -- well probably better tasting cardboard but it swells when it bakes!

My heart sunk and my dreams were dashed. There would be no more NHL in 2012. And my gingerbread tree wasn't going to be a stand-alone 3D-model, and my 19 month old was going to grow up a drunken reprobate... (Sorry to all you drunken reprobates who might be reading this... I mean no offence) And my beautiful wife, in all her house-coated glory, would look at me with sad eyes, and say, "Hon, -- the garbage?"

On to Timelapse 2. Did I want my sons growing up knowing their dad was willing to give up? Did I want them to think it was okay to be beaten by a bread? Did I have enough courage to press on, and was there enough icing sugar in the pantry to fix this disaster?


I did it. It wasn't what I thought it would be. It was better. Like marriage. Like my kids. Like my first prostate exam... will be... dear God I hope.



Dadvent. Tomorrow my kids will wake up, and we will break open bags of candy and together we will systematically destroy my sculpture and make it into something better. A memory... of time spent in the same room, making meaning from something utterly meaningless.

That's a door I want them to open. That's the conspiracy.

---

The "Two Apps I Mention and Endorse but Receive Nothing Aside from a Retweet in Return From But I Endorse Them Anyway Cause I Care About You" Header

123D Make Intro by Autodesk Inc.



Timbuktu - Free stories, fun and games for parents and kids by Timbuktu Labs, Inc.

Raising Napoleon

Let's make one thing clear; I am not, nor have I ever been a particularly avid history buff, or comic book grazer.  So when my wife gave birth to Bruce Banner and Napoleon Bonaparte I had no idea what I was in for, or how much I was going to have to catch up on to make everything okay.

I love my kids.  Deeply.  Dearly.  I do.  Even the fact that they can be so easily charicaturized  (yes, that's a word, now shut-up) as two anti-heroes does not defeat my deep and dear love for these two boys.

Bruce Banner was first.

I love that in pop-culture descriptors "mild mannered" always seems to accompany these deeply broken individuals who become super-heroes struggling to maintain moral integrity while wrestling with great power.  And this defines my 3 year-old.  But where's my SHEILD manual for dealing with this catastrophe.

I often wonder, if they could pull off a number of seasons of Muppet Babies, why not Avenger-Babies? Something that I could have gained some insight from.  Seriously, other than superman, I can't think of a single hero who's back-story about who raised him, and how it was done from diapers through adolescence was inspiring, accurate, or intelligent.

Like Bruce Banner, my son was born with a genetic defect that becomes magnified later in life.  Though in his case it would seem this came from his father, my son received his "malfunction" from his mother.  The layperson might see these people for what they appear to be:  beautiful, caring, charming, inspiring, thoughtful and empathetic human beings.  People are apt to like them.  Love them even.  Because, really, they are.  But underneath lurks a green monster, and something, or someone let the monster run free in my son.

It starts with a furrow in the brow.  You see it coming but in your naivety you pass it off as just a harmless flurry of intense thought, and you wonder why his gaze has fixed itself on you.  Then, slightly off put by the fact that this boy who typically vibrates, and rambles playfully has suddenly stopped and fixed two blue eyes directly on you, you realize that those furrowed brows are hiding an increasingly disturbing emotional build-up.  For the more observant you'll see it start in the fingers, as they curl into tight little fists.  Then the muscles in the upper-arms and chest will tense up.  You won't notice it at first, but suddenly you will become aware of a low guttural growl that seems to emanate from the floor and walls, and if you're not mistaken you can actually see them flex in an out in time with the deep breathing happening in the tiny frame before you.  A neck vein starts to pulse, and the smallest hint of green appears around the fringes of his lips and ears.  Not possible you say to yourself, no child can turn himself green.  This low growl gets louder as those typically large and pouty lips draw back into a teeth-baring grimace and suddenly you see a monster before you where once a beautiful toddler was.

And then the yell.  Hands are down, he's bent at the waist just enough to jutt out his jaw and lean forward. And with the ferocity of fireworks in a match factory your hair is blown back by the sheer force of pure-anger that erupts from this small frame which seems to have grown thirty-sizes.  Your only defense at this point is love.  You must pray that all the love you can muster from deep within your soul will suddenly rise to the surface and like the Care-bear Countdown, calm the monster and return the boy.

I wish I was exaggerating.

There are more times in a week when I "hear" the worlds "HULK SMASH!" coming from the playroom than I care to reveal.  Moreover I had a chance this week to actually use the phrase "If you're going to be smashing your brother's head into the floor, please do it on the carpet not the hardwood."  Which brings me to Napoleon.

Here again the body-politic would see a demure child with heart-melting bright blue eyes, and a smile that you want to keep in a jar and share with the world's most down-trodden. Underneath hides a scheming, megalomaniac with a significant inferiority complex, and, as this one year old learns to speak apparently, a bad french accent.  And this time the genotype can't be blamed on mother.  Nope.  This one is all me.

No, in this child we have a combination of long-standing franco-canadian heritage mixed with a healthy dose of english pride just waiting to be told, "you can't" or "please don't" or "stop" so he can excuse his ensuing behavior with the thoughts: "they should've known better."

Napoleon truly didn't fully emerge until the words started to form.  It's not mama, but "mamon", it's never no!, but a sharp "NON", and beyond that it's mostly mumbling and gesticulating with that incredibly powerful index finger.

Now I assume that the original Napoleon didn't have any trouble drawing people into favour with him.  A man who is able to anoint himself emperor and have countless fight and die on behalf of his autocracy would have to be incredibly charming.  We've got that nailed.  The original Napoleon was reputed to be remarkably small in stature. There again-- compliments of dad.  The original Napoleon was french.  I thought we might have to have an intervention the way this child scarfs down croissants, and certainly his ability to turn his nose up at any other food lately smacks of parisian heritage, but the real coup-de-grace comes with his language development.  I thought we might have a psycopath on our hands as he started walking around pointing and shouting "pain, PAIN!" but then I remembered that's bread-- en francais.  Children have a notoriously difficult time with the sound of the letter "L" but the french got around "l'eau" and "lait" with "wine" and believe me we're getting enough of that around here too.

As I said before, our history books and comic books never tell us the true story of what it was like to raise these icons, but there are days when a little dickie-wearing, button coated, silly hatted Napoleon is lying ass up, trousers down shouting "I weel not have my pants changed!" while kicking his two stubby little legs furiously sending "le poop" around "le room".

As a father, you often win, but when you have a 19 month old look you over as if he's plotting to overthrow you within a fortnight for making him sit through another "peetiful american meal".  Then you realize that he's actually manipulated a giant green-monster into his employ; sometimes you feel like you have to sleep with one eye open.  Or both eyes.  Well, actually I'm an insomniac.

And it isn't helping that while you held him down trying once again to wrangle a pair of elastic-waist Wranglers back on he is shaking his finger at you and blurting something akin to:  "Oh, you theenk you've whon thees one papa, but watch your back, mon amie, because me and dat giant, we are going to come in da night and burn your village to da ground. Dunnut theenk we won't."

Thankfully this week the pressure is off.  While "Bruce" was throwing a fit over why I wouldn't let him put his dinner back in the fridge so he could have "Gorilla Munch" he interrupted Napoleon who was in the pantry plotting out exactly how to arrange the shelves to "make eet look like an axy-dent."  Caught, he instictively threw his hands in the air in the universal sign of "wasn't me" and got his finger caught in the door as it came off the hinges at the giant green hands of "The Hulk".

So lately the military genius has been working at slowly getting back at the reactive scientist.  "Oops" he says "deed I heet you in the mouth wit my wadder boddle? Oh je m'excuse... was that your cookie I ated... Oh my I was theenking, did'ee want that toy destroyed, was that your favoreet? please won't you forgeeve me?  You see this giant purple finger of mine, still weeping from the pain you caused eet?  Yes, I have not forgotten eidder.  Sleep well mon frere.  Sleep well..."

I am just not equipped to raise Napoleon.