Trust

Tags

anger, family, fatherhood, life, marriage issues, Nate, parenting

Parenthood must mean being able to accept that you are a complete and total fool.  I am over qualified.

Remember my last blog, the one where I talked about my son taking a trip to Lake Geneva to meet a friend, then go watch girls they know from summer camp play in a volleyball tournament?

I forget that every teenager at one time or another is going to lie to their parent(s).  Am I wrong or am I right?  All I know is that there might have just been a time or two that I deceived my own parents when I was a teenager.

Paybacks are a… BITCH.

Late Saturday night, Nate called me to ask if he could stay overnight with his friend in Lake Geneva.  It was 9:30, late enough that I thought it best that he did not drive home in the dark, so I reminded him that I did not want to go all weekend without my car and I wanted him home early the next morning.  Bedtime came for me and I rested peacefully knowing that my son was safe.

I was roused from my sleep around 1:30 in the morning by a frantic wife, babbling about how I had made a mistake by restricting our son’s phone so he would not be able to place a call after midnight.  She yelled at me to give her the phone number for our cell carrier so she could change that.

Oh, and then she told me that Nate was calling her from a Walmart parking lot in Grinnell, Iowa, nearly 5 hours away from our home in the western Chicago suburbs.  He was calling from the Walmart manager’s phone.

She kept yelling at me as I stumbled downstairs to get my PC and check the status of his phone via our cell phone carrier’s website.  Nate was telling a fib.  He was not restricted on the weekend.  Truth was, he had ignored my admonition to take his phone charging cord with him.  His phone battery was nearly dead.

His plan was to sleep overnight in the Walmart parking lot.  He needed money.. because he actually had not saved his money as he had told us.  He needed gas because the gas tank was nearly empty.

The girl from camp lives in Grinnell, Iowa.  The things we boys do for love.

Do I need to say that I was angry?  I grabbed the keys to Miriam’s car, muttering threats that the boy would never ever drive my car again.  I also had muttered something not too kind when my wife was yelling from the top of the stairs, something I had to apologize for before I left to go find the prodigal.  It was 2 AM.

I arrived in Grinnell a little before 7 AM on Sunday.  Good thing it was a long drive because I had time to think about things, decide that being angry would only hurt me.  So I found Nate at the Walmart, knocked on the window to get his attention, asked him how he was doing and what he planned on doing.

“I’m going to church with her in a few hours, then head home.  Are you going to make me come home?”

“No, you’re here and even though I probably should, I am not going to ruin this for you.  I am going to go with you to a gas station, fill this car with gas, then give you some cash for food and in case you need more gas to get home.  We’ll talk about this when you get home.”

And that’s what I did.  I was angry, did my best to control the anger, may have even been a bit too nice to him.  We got the gas and the money, I said good bye, and turned back to Chicagoland in Miriam’s car.  I got home at 1 PM, headed up to bed, slept 2 hours.  Miriam was gone when I woke, didn’t get home until Nate got home — at 10:30 that night.

Yesterday I spent some time talking to my parents about it, then talked to Miriam.  We decided on a punishment, then had the talk with Nate last night.  No car privileges until October and future trips will be limited.

OK, looks like I call him my boy, not my young man, for a while longer.

On a positive note — he lied, but wasn’t getting into trouble.  I tried to give him credit for that when I talked to him.

Until next time….

Bye Bye Bunkie

Tags

alyssa, Nate, nostalgia

As my children grow, enter new stages of their life, little pieces of them fall away.  Most notable is my fifteen year old boy who suddenly, as if a giant pushed through a clay statue to emerge through crumbling shards, is this hulk who looks me straight in the eye.  Alyssa, my cute little redhead, lives away from me a few hours at her college in Indiana.  My kids are not little children any more.

I sold their bunk bed today.

The memory of the evening I went over to disassemble that bed to take it home still is fresh in my mind.  My friends Scott and Becky had bought the bed only to find out that their son would not sleep in it.  They just wanted to get rid of the bed, offered to me for free if I would come take it apart and take it away, an offer impossible to refuse.  It was new, solid oak, and with sheets and comforter.  Alyssa was six, Nate three, and they couldn’t wait to try it out, jumping on the bed as I assembled it in their room, curly red and blonde hair bouncing as they leapt.  We bought some of those glow in the dark stars to stick on the ceiling above the bed, a comforting glow as we shut out their bedroom light.  A few years later, we separated the bed when Alyssa grew old enough to need the privacy of her own room, well on her way to becoming a little woman.

I think it is a little ironic that Alyssa’s boyfriend was the last to sleep on the bed.

I replaced Nate’s bed last December, moved his portion of the bunk bed to the garage for storage.  Alyssa still needed the bed for when she came home to visit for the Christmas to New Year’s holiday break from college.  I disassembled her bed last night, reassembled the complete bed in the garage last night, took a picture, listed it on Craigslist for a price I knew was fair.  In all honesty, I would just give it to a young couple who needs it, happy that it would bring excited joy to their children.

The email came about an hour ago.  We’re interested in purchasing your bunk bed.  Will you take $125?  Madigan was her name.  She left her phone number, so I called.  I could her the excitement in her voice, her children dancing around her as she spoke to me.  Her husband will come by this afternoon to pick it up.

Bye, bye.

Clutch Time

Tags

driving lesson, Nate, panic

What was I thinking?

I was thinking that the boy seemed confident, ready to try, ready to knock my socks off with his knack for….

Driving.

Nate is 15 years old and started driving school a week ago.  He has two months of classroom, then six weeks of behind the wheel instruction.  I take him to his classes on Saturday and Sunday.

“You want to try driving the VW on the way home today?  We can go over to the Pella drome (a wide loop with no traffic — where I taught my daughter to drive).”  Nate looked at me sideways.  I am not sure he expected me to offer to let him drive.

“Sure, dad.  Driving is easy.”  I am not sure how he knew that.

“Scared of the stick shift?”  My little VW has a six speed manual transmission.  I had some doubts about the VW being the first vehicle Nate attempts to drive.  The clutch can be intimidating and confusing to a first time driver.

“Not at all.  I can handle this.”

Nate was a bit too confident, although he always has had excellent hand to eye coordination, essential for driving stick.  Once he got the car moving, it shouldn’t be a problem.  The rest of the way to class, Nate asked me questions about gear selection and how to use the clutch.  He wasn’t really getting it, but I felt like he would get it once he tried driving.

As we got close to the Pella drome on the way home, I heard in my dome…

Nah, I will quit trying to rhyme.

Nate asked me if we really were going to stop for a driving lesson.  I assured him that we were.  We took a right turn while I explained that I wanted to take a drive around the course first just to make sure it wasn’t icy.  Can’t drive on ice your first time, I assured him.

It was icy.  The only other choice was the Dupage Technology park close by, a sparsely travelled area also with wide roads.  It’s a little more challenging, with two roundabouts in the middle.  I drove us in, found a nice long boulevard to start off on, parked, shut off the engine, removed the key, got out and switched places with Nate.  Before I let Nate take the driver’s seat, I pointed out the different pedals with an explanation of the purpose of each — clutch (for shifting gears), brake, and accelerator.  Nate took his place in the driver’s seat as I took my place in the passenger seat, buckled.

Let it be known that I was calm, cool, and not the least bit nervous.

“Looks like you need to adjust the seat.  You know how to do that?”

I told him where to find the seat adjustment handle and Nate pushed the seat BACK a few inches.  Dang.  When did the kid pass me up?  We went through how to find each gear, including reverse.  I explained that you have to depress the clutch to change gears.

“Do I keep the clutch pedal in?”

“No.  The gear won’t engage until you let the clutch out.”

“Oh.”

The kid was actually asking good questions.  He pointed to the top of the gear shift knob.

“What is the R for?”

“Reverse.”  I told him to push the clutch in, then showed him how to push the gear shift handle down and over.  Nate tried it without a problem.  “OK.  Tell me what each pedal is for again.”

“Clutch.  Brake.  Accelerator.”

“OK.  Now I think we are ready.”  I hoped we were.  “Push the clutch in, hold it, and turn the key to start the car.”

That took a try or two before he got it right.  Car started, I explained the method of putting the car in first gear, then slowly letting the clutch pedal out while giving it some gas.  I was pleased to see the recognition in Nate’s eyes.  He followed my instructions by taking the car out of park, shifted daintily into first gear, then successfully negotiated the balance of clutch to gas pedal.  We were rolling.. straight.

Wow.  Not bad.

Nate had paid attention to me, shifted to second on cue.   We had gone several hundred yards without distress, now rolling along at around 25 mph.. downhill and straight towards one of the roundabouts.

I never panicked, not once, when I was teaching my daughter how to drive.  My boy changed that.  He panicked first, couldn’t figure out how to turn the wheel to drive around the roundabout.

“HIT THE BRAKE!!!”

“I AM!!!”

“THAT’S THE CLUTCH!!!”

By the time he found the brake pedal, he had driven over the curb, stopping on the grass in the middle of the roundabout.  Had he kept going, he may have driven over two more curbs, down an embankment and into a pond.  Mercifully, he popped the clutch when the car jumped the first curb or else we may have kept going.  A quick inspection revealed no damage.

“I hate to do this to you, Nate, but I should probably get the car back on the road.”

I told my son that maybe we should wait until our van was available to drive. It has automatic transmission.  When he learns to drive the van, a vehicle with less to think about while driving, we could tackle driving my car.

You know, I taught the first one to drive.  Maybe it is his mother’s turn……

Band Nerd Haven

Tags

alyssa, Drum major, Marching band, Miriam, Nate, Nerd

Marching Band LFPS (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My daughter is a marching band nerd and proud of it.  Not only that, she is the head nerd, the drum major, making her pretty dang special.  She can snap one off with the best of them and I have seen it enough to know.  Put that together with some kick butt very naturally curly red hair, you have a kick butt pretty dang special marching band head nerd.

Don’t believe me?  The girl has lots of awards, winning top honors last season for her band in all but one of their competitions.

She’s at drum major camp this week, the Smith Walbridge camp.  We drove her three and a half hours south on Sunday morning to complete registration, take her to her room in the college dorm, waited a few hours while I pried her mother away from her (Mom was much worse than daughter on the anxiety scale) and tried to keep Nate from falling asleep in the dorm room closet.

“I have never seen so many nerds gathered in one place, Alyssa.”

“I know.  Ain’t it great?  Marching band nerds are proud of their nerdiness, Dad.”  Alyssa smiled an honestly proud smile.

“There are some good looking nerds here, right Alyssa?”  Miriam had to chime in.  Alyssa nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

“Just think, drop a bomb on this place and it takes out 50% of the world’s nerd population.”

“Funny, Dad, but true.”

Alyssa is at the Smith-Walbridge camp, paid for by her marching band.  Nice.  It still cost me plenty to drive her there, but still nice.  The place is serious, with each camper selecting a series of electives that they have to take during the week along with drill classes.  Each camper is issued the camp ‘bible’ at registration, a thick volume that must be studied each evening.  Campers are subjected to tests each day and go through an evaluation at the end of the week.

Miriam was a bit testy last night.  Alyssa had not returned her text messages.

“Um, I think you ought to give her at least 24 hours of peace, dear.  Take it that she is having a good time.”

“Maybe they take away their cell phones.  That place is like the military.”

Before bed time we got a text from our daughter.  Her squad got first place honors for the day, was squad of the day.  Not only that, they had a camp dance with “lots of good looking boy nerds to dance with… DAD”.

Nice.

Sunday Night Sounds

Tags

mountain bike, Nate

I know I just posted a blog, but, well, I want to write another.

At the moment, I am still downstairs at our kitchen table with my laptop in front of me.  Behind me is the furnace, which means I can hear what is going on upstairs through the furnace vents.  Nate is upstairs in his bedroom, playing his guitar and singing.  It’s nice.  Ever hear a song by Fun called ‘Carry On’?  That’s what he just finished singing.

When I listen to him, it kind of makes all of the other nonsense I experience with him seem like nothing.  It’s not, I know.  The boy and I spent quite a bit of time sniping at each other this weekend, so it’s a good thing to end it this way, listening to him sing sweetly as he plays.

He is on a bit of a high at the moment.  Caddy class started this afternoon and he got to caddie for someone as practice, earning a nice tip for his efforts.  It was a cold day, but sunny, and a good one to be outdoors on a golf course.  The course he will be caddying at is like a garden, so it’s even better for him.

And I took the time I had to myself to test my surgically repaired foot by riding my mountain bike off road, on some of my favorite single track.  Believe me, riding took a lot off of my shoulders, especially when my foot responded well to the extra effort it takes to ride.  I like.. very much.  I needed the ride as it had been a rough week at work with a lot of pressure.

Alyssa helped me pick out new glasses yesterday afternoon, then we spent the rest of the afternoon sipping coffee at Starbucks, looking at shoes, shopping for clothes, walking through my candy store (bicycles), buying golf shoes, and running errands.  I don’t get hours like that with my daughter often, so I take them when I can get them.  It makes me smile.

The clock just turned over ten PM.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Worm of Youth

Tags

Big Mac, Christmas, family, Father, fatherhood, God, Nate, parents, Saturday, Teacher, teen

The other day my 13 year old son shoved an epiphany down my throat.  Don’t laugh.  Boys are born with some kind of worm inside them that slowly eats the part of their brain that control the sense of reason, finally finishing it’s meal by the thirteenth year and belching it out as it dies a satisfied death.  Try to reason with a thirteen year old boy, explain a situation or something you have learned from life with experience, and it will be accepted with the same enthusiasm as a package of underwear on Christmas morning.  Thanks but it’s not what he wants no matter how useful, practical, or comfortable it might make him.  My son is thirteen years old and he needs to learn things his own way, on his own terms, and in his own time.

I don’t like watching Nate suffer through his teen years.  I try to help him and have tried all sorts of methods to do so – subtle hints, outright advice, demonstration, even telling stories of my own screw ups (the stories are told carefully as they can easily backfire..  After all, Dad did it, so can he).  Any time I try to make a suggestion, it is immediately met with a “oh, so it’s OK for you to eat a Big Mac after your bike rides but I can’t eat this whole box of Chocolate Chex in one sitting”.  Thirteen year old logic wants to trump all.

Boys do need to learn on their own.  That is the epiphany Nate threw down my throat.  I can tell him all I want, try to show him so many skills, but experience truly is the best teacher.

Dad, you really don’t need to tell me.

Example really is the best way for my son to learn from me.  The school of dad is best when the student doesn’t know that he is being taught.  Yeah, he was watching me eat that Big Mac and he is right, even if he is using it as a defense mechanism.  But he also watches me ride a bicycle thousands of miles a year and the discipline I demonstrate by getting up early each Saturday morning to ride is the example he sees.  The way I talk to my wife, his mother, will speak volumes when he enters the hallowed halls of matrimony.  My dedication to my job, faithfulness to God, respect for my parents, sacrifice for my friends, willingness to serve when I am needed, the time I give to him or his sister – all are what he is going to learn from.

There are boys who do listen to their father when he is trying to teach them something.  They learn skills, ask questions.  My son does want to know, but it’s best for him when it’s him taking the initiative with me, asking for advice, wanting to know.

Here is what seems odd to me — I was not like Nate when I was his age.  My dad is a doer, not a teacher, so when I wanted to know something the lesson was usually just watching my dad do whatever it was that I wanted to learn.  Of course, I also know now that dad is also a fly by the seat of your pants type, meaning that he learns as he goes.  That explains quite a bit.  So I want to teach my son what I wish my dad had taught me.

And he doesn’t want to learn like I did.  Talk about irony.

Should I get into the topic of learning by failure?  Naaaa… I’ll save that one.

 

Chocolate Chex (Photo credit: theimpulsivebuy)