Mockbaboy's First Haircut

Saturday was a bittersweet day for Mockbadad and Mockbamom. Our little son had his first haircut. I don't know why it was hard. Maybe it is because you feel responsible for every bruise, every cut - literally every little curly blond hair on their heads. We had a bit of a sick feeling in our guts when we took him.

As always, he took it all in stride. No tears, no fighting, no screaming - he just sat there and let it happen. Well, to be entirely accurate, he was identifying each and every character on the "Cars" barber drape they put on him.

"Daddy look! There's Nitenin' Aqueen ("Lightnin' McQueen")! There's Mater!" The lady doing the cutting - she was superb, incidentally - had to laugh. We saved every single hair, of course. I bet she's never had a customer she didn't have to clean up after.

He looked great afterwards. And after the obligatory Fy-Twuck hunt, we went to celebrate at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Don Pepe. He picked at his enchilada and rice. He devoured the fried ice cream.

Mockbaboy's First Campin' Trip

Some of my most cherished childhood memories occurred on camping trips with my dad, and later, with my dad and brother. So this weekend, the time had finally come to initiate my son into our little group with an initiation into the camping club.

We met Dad and my brother at an RV park about halfway between us both. Dad recently purchased an RV, or as Mockbaboy calls it, a "bus". We arrived late on Friday night - about 11p.m., so there was a period of adjustment before we could go to sleep. He wanted to play - with trucks, stuffed animals, with the sheet (building "a tent" is always a must), but eventually, about 1a.m., he crashed. Not for long, though. When I awoke about 5 1/2 hours later, there he was, standing in his pack-and-play, talking to Pappa. I dragged myself out of bed and we eventually headed out.

We had a great day. We'd decided to go hang out at Bass Pro Shop, always a favorite. When we arrived, there was a remote-control car race going on - the first I've ever seen. We sat in the car with the A/C running and a sleeping 2-year-old, watching the races. They were hilariously entertaining. We laughed a lot. Eventually, he woke up and we made our way inside.

Mockaboy especially loved the giant aquarium, filled with bass, white and black perch, and an impossibly large catfish. There were also entire communities of stuffed bears, mountain lions, wild goats, beavers, and other wildlife. The kid had a blast. So did we. All I actually bought was a new cell phone holster and three large bags of what I have discovered is the very best bird food for attracting red-headed woodpeckers. We ate lunch and went back to "the bus" for a nap. Dad and I got to talk for a long time. It was a much-needed time together. It's been much too long since we were able to just sit and talk like the old days.

Saturday night was considerably better. Mockaboy was asleep by about 10:45, and slept through the night - mostly. He woke up about 5 times. Three were for "more bottle". Two were to notify me, excitedly, about the "choo-choo twain" he could hear rattling and blowing its horn clearly from a nearby trestle. We got up, ate breakfast together, then left. We were home by mid-afternoon, exhausted, but satisfied. The little guy slept from about 4:00 on through the night, amazingly. This morning, on my way out, he called for me. I knew that he was probably ready to get up after sleeping so much.

"Daddy, you get me more bottle?"

"Sure, pal. Let me change your diaper first."

"Get down?"

"No, pal, Mama's still asleep. Why don't you lie down for a little while?" He wasn't happy about this.

"You want your fire truck?" My dad and brother had brought a very cool toy fire truck for him - he hadn't set it down all weekend, and had to take it to bed with him last night.

"Okay!" he said excitedly.

I put him back into bed and covered him up, with a bottle and the fire truck. He was complacent for the moment. "I love you buddy".

Hope Again in Mudville...

Baseball. America's Pastime. The boys of summer. I'm running out of cliches. I was never much of a player. I like baseball, mind you. I love to watch, that is. I was just never very good at playing. The game never held my attention very well. I just wasn't captured by baseball fever as were many of my peers.


The outfield is where they put the lousy athletes. I played outfield. I distinctly remember how boring a game seemed to me, out there, seemingly out of reach of any possible delivery by one of our 9-year-old opponents. I was a nature boy. Still am. I would examine the white clover as the honeybees harvested their nectar, watch raindrops fall through the glow of the field flood lights (it looked exactly like the stars on the bridge of the starship Enterprise - zipping past at warp speed), examine the clouds, tug at the leather thongs on my glove with my teeth. Sure enough, as the Law of Averages would dictate, there was the occasional fluke hit when the ball would meet with an unsuspecting aluminum bat and a cracking peal would rouse me from a distant daydream - "Where's the ball!?!? Where's the ball!?!?" I would either completely fail to see it or would see it too late. I carry the shame to this day. But I may yet be redeemed.


My son has taken to baseballs and bats like a fish to water. My dad was a good player, as was my wife's dad. My wife's dad's dad played in the minors in Cincinnati. Maybe it skips a generation every once in a while, I don't know. What I do know is that it gives me a joy I can not quite describe to see him connect with the ball and see the glee in his eyes. I couldn't care less if he ever plays anything - but I have to admit it is pretty cool that my son of all people, seems to like it.

So keep your chins up, poor Mudville. Casey may have a second chance yet...

Operation Fy-Twuck: Victory at Last

I may have mentioned that my son is what could be described as a fire truck maniac. Each day when I get home from work, he meets me at the door. After a much-too-brief hug, he insists that I sit with him in front of the computer and look at pictures of fire trucks. He gets progressively more excited with each picture - "Look at dat one! Dat one has uh BIG LADDER own it!!"

When we take a ride anywhere, I can't even start the car without him yelling, "You go fine fy-twuck, daddy?". If you've been reading my posts, I describe one of these trips in detail in "Wednesday Night".

When it comes to making contact, however, a scenario I like to call a Fire Truck Encounter of the Third Kind, we have been so-far unsuccessful. He loves to look. He just sort of freezes up when it comes to touching. I was determined that this weekend would be the one.

We started out slowly. We went to get coffee. I went the back way to one of our local fire houses.

"You go fine fy-twuck, daddy?"

"Yeah, buddy! There's a fire truck right there!"

"He's inside?"

"Yeah, buddy, he's inside, but do you want to go see it?"

"Go see it."

We drove slowly by the front of the station. The giant garage doors were open. One of the firemen eyed us a little suspiciously. I really couldn't blame him, of course. We looked a bit odd. I couldn't think about it. I was on a mission.

We turned around and pulled in front of the station. I hurried to get the Boss out of the back. I put him on my shoulders, and we walked around. The doors were closing. Ugh. Thwarted again. We observed our quarry through the immaculately-cleaned windows.

"We go-go?" he eventually asked.

"Yeah, buddy. We go-go".

We started back to the car, and were almost there when one of the firefighters inside the station opened the front door.

"Did he want to see the fire truck?" We are very fortunate to have just about the best and nicest fire department I've ever seen.

"Sure. I guess so. You want to see the fire truck, buddy?"

"Go see fy-twuck." His response was half-hearted. This might not be the one after all.

We went inside and got the grand tour. As always. He was typically amazed, pointing out all the details of the polished red fire engine and ambulance.

"Do you want to sit on it, buddy, so I can take your picture?"

"GO-GO, DADDY! GO-GO!"

There was no point in arguing. The decision was made. We stayed a polite amount of time, were sure to thank the firefighter over and over for the tour, and left.

We had been in the car less than a minute when my companion says, "You take picture, daddy?"

"I wanted to, pal, but you didn't want me to. Maybe next time."

"Go see fy-twuck?"

This was starting to get ridiculous. I drove the six or seven minutes to our other fire station. The firefighters at this one are a bit more stand-offish. As luck would have it, the main fire engine was outside.

"Lookadat fy-twuck!"

"I see it, bud! You wanna go look at it?"

"No".

We sat there for several minutes. I finally broke.

"We're gonna go see it". No argument from the back seat.

We got out and approached in our normal formation - he was on my shoulders. We walked slowly around the red monster as if examining a living thing and not wanting to frighten it away. Finally I made my move. I took him off my shoulders and set him on the ground.

"Okay, buddy. You stand right here while I take your picture". Something had changed. He was either too wrapped up in describing every aspect of the fire engine to me or it was just time. He allowed me several good shots before he wanted to go.

It was a proud moment. You want your child to feel comfortable when he or she is with you. Comfortable enough to explore a bit - but not too much. It is a fine line. I want him to feel precisely free enough to roam free - four or five steps away from me. Yesterday was a great day. Maybe next weekend we'll actually harpoon our own personal white whale and...dare I suggest it?...sit on a fy-twuck.

The Baby Powder Incident

We've learned to fear silence. The constant chaotic din of activity from our son is reassuring. Silence equals danger. Or at least some sort of domestic disaster.

So it was a couple of months ago while I was at work. The little guy was busy, as always, running from item to item, constantly muttering to himself. My wife was busy as well, following him around in our little daily dance, trying to pick up after him. She was in the kitchen for a few moments when she heard it...the eerie lack of noise.

She went to investigate, curious and dreadful about what she might find. She called out his name. No response. Now slightly panicked, she hurried down the hallway to his room. There, smiling guiltily, in the middle of his creation, was our boy.

The baby powder had been less poured out and more caused to explode. It transformed his room into something like a talcum powder quarry. I actually had no idea a box of baby powder even contained that much powder. It was enough for the bottoms of countless babies. It was shocking.

There was no easy solution. The powder covered him, the floor, all the objects in the room...the decision: to clean the room or him first. My wife chose, quite naturally, to clean the floor first. Unfortunately, the disaster was not over. It was only moving. With powder falling constantly from his body, on his feet, and collected at the top of his diaper, the King of Chaos began to run through the house.

At some point, there were little powder footprints down the hall, in the living room - I picture an Indian guide like the ones in old Westerns, on his hands and knees, examining the evidence - "He was alone...there was a struggle...he ran this way, then came back, he was carrying something...a stuffed bear???"

Fortunately, in the madness, my wife thought to take pictures for evidence. Just another day with the little monkey we love so much.

Lubbock

I've been thinking a lot lately about Lubbock. I always say I grew up there, although I spent more time in other places, truth be told. I've heard people say that home is where your happiest memories are, and I think that may be why it is so dear to me.

We didn't have much. Mom and Dad both worked very hard. Dad was also a full-time student. Looking back now, with my own fatherhood clearly in view, I really don't know how they did it. Somehow, despite the difficulties, we were really happy. I remember a lot of laughs there.

We lived in a few different places there, but our house on 25th street was my favorite. Often, in daydreams, I am back there again. There are far too many memories for just one entry, but here are a few of my favorites...

If you grow up on the Plains, you are automatically an amateur meteorologist. You have to be. It helps that in Lubbock, you have an unobstructed view all the way to Alberta, Canada. You have some time to prepare for whatever is coming - most of the time. I grew up there in the early 1970s, after a devastating tornado in 1970 left large parts of the city in ruins. Both my parents were there for that. Their stories about that day still give me chills. You could still see evidence of the destruction in those days. But leave it to the good old pioneer spirit of those people - they just cleaned up and moved on. I distinctly remember the cheesy cartoonish tornado - it looked not unlike a disembodied elephant trunk - they would put on the corner of the TV screen when weather threatened. An outline of a tornado meant a watch. A solid tornado meant get underground. It was nothing like today, with the instantaneous real-time Doppler with "storm circulation" superimposed. It was a more innocent time...

One of the more interesting phenomena on the plains is the fabled dust storm. One in particular stands out. I remember distinctly...I was watching "The Real McCoys" on TV when they broke in to notify us. I ran outside and looked up - the sky was orange-brown and churning. To be honest it doesn't seem like it was that big a deal. I hear people talk about them from time to time, and I don't remember them being a big thing. Of course I was only 6 or 7 years old. The tumbleweeds, on the other hand, were really something. After so many years, it barely seems possible that we used to contend with them, but they were ever-present and eventually almost unnoticed...

A Southerner most of my adolescent and adult life, I have grown accustomed to the damp and cold, but snowless winters. On the Plains it was a different story. From time to time, a Canadian wind would blow what seemed like mountains of snow into the Texas Panhandle. One year, we had a good foot or two with 3 or 4 foot drifts. It was a child's paradise. Snowmen, snowballs...it was enough to satisfy me for a lifetime. My Dad and I built a superb snowman in the front yard, complete with carrot nose and charcoal briquette eyes...

We were typically a one-car family. The first car I remember clearly was a burnt-sienna-colored Chevy Impala. It had a cavernous back seat and my position for most driving excursions was straddling the drive train, head wedged against the vinyl roof, an arm around each parent's headrest. Car seats were unheard of. The lone exception to the one-car rule, as I recall, was a navy blue Volkswagen beetle. I don't remember when we got it. It had a rusted out back floorboard, with a nice piece of plywood to give the illusion of safety. I clearly remember sitting in the tiny back seat watching the rocks in the concrete Lubbock streets dart past. It had an interesting feature - little turn signal sticks that were supposed to stick out to the left and right when you had your turn signal activated. Ours were broken. I always thought those were cool. Eventually we got a white Toyota Corolla station wagon as our primary car. I don't remember what happened to the bug...

My elementary school was only a few blocks from our house. Dupree elementary. Our colors were black and gold, and appropriately, our mascot was a calf. How Lubbock can you get, right? Anyway...in Lubbock, a bicycle was a legitimate form of transportation. The peculiar geography meant that with a little graphite on the axles you could maintain momentum almost indefinitely. Dad still laughs about using his denim jacket as a makeshift sail, utilizing the constant 20mph Lubbock wind to propel him down the straight, unobstructed streets without the need for using his hands to steer. Nevertheless...as a one-car family, somehow, one of my parents had to see me to school in the morning. I don't know if it was the first day of school ever, or if something had changed to make this necessary, but at some point Dad began bicycling me to school. The first attempt was difficult. I rode on the center bar of the bike, and it seemed that I was painfully aware of every single pebble in the road. The second day we were more prepared. Dad had fashioned a makeshift seat by wrapping old towels around the bar and lashing them with duct tape. This worked extremely well. For months, I think, I rode to and from school on this cushion, with my tiny feet perched on the forks of the bicycle. I remember my dad, smiling and waving on his bicycle, in a line of cars in the pick-up lane at school. He was (and is) my hero, and this didn't seem strange at all. I would run to him and he would lift me with strong arms to place me gently on the towels for our daily adventure on the way home. I remember this with more fondness than I can express...

We had a tree in our backyard - a rarity in West Texas. It was a twisted, mangled thing - a crab apple tree to be exact. I climbed it relentlessly. One time my Dad assembled an old Army surplus pup tent under it, then made a head bandage, complete with a red Magic Marker blood spot. For an afternoon, I was a WW2 soldier - wounded but still unbroken, defying my imaginary enemies from my bivouac beneath the very exotic crab apple tree. There is a picture I treasure of me, snaggle-toothed, bandaged, underneath the tree...

My saintly Mother was always teaching, always encouraging me. She would have spent our last penny on an "activity book" for my amusement. I spent so many hours at Texas Tech with her as she worked or studied, they should give me an honorary degree. Mom loved to teach. She really has a gift. She had such a gentle way with me - and still does. I remember how she would come to me as I did my homework or drew on scrap paper and check on my progress. She has always been so kind and complimentary. One day, she sat down gently next to me at the dining room table.

"Matt, do you know how to spell your name?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Show me."

She watched me as I scrawled out the letters. She made sure I could spell all three of my names - first, middle, and last. She was classically celebratory. She was big on staying occupied - a trait that has stayed with me through life. I remember trips to the University Planetarium, Natural History Museum, and just around town. Mom was always so much fun. Somehow, I always had a coloring book and crayons, despite our meager income. I fondly remember lying in my parents bed, learning how to color inside the lines with Mom. She was always so good with crayon. Subsequently, she became very accomplished with stained glass, paint, and more recently with charcoal and pencil. A true artist's soul lives within my mother to this day...

Mom was and is a professional-grade seamstress. She used one of my coloring books as an aid to create a very realistic costume of my childhood superhero, Spiderman. I would protect 25th street on my bike in full regalia...I must have been quite a sight.

Lubbock is a cold, almost unforgiving place in winter. I remember how my mother and I would sit in the mornings, shivering in our tiny car waiting for the heater to start working. If the frost was thick on the windshield, my dad would bring out a container of cold water (not hot lest it crack the glass) and pour it gently to melt the ice. Dad was a handyman genius. He taught me the proper way to wash a car in Lubbock..."wash from the bottom up, then rinse from the top down; don't wash a car and expect not to get wet"..., change a tire..."tighten lug nuts across from each other"...change an oil filter - his curses on Japanese engineering still bring a smile to my face today - and the many varied uses for duct tape and WD40...

In closing, a memory about bicycles. For a time, my mother was a keypunch operator at the computer engineering school at Texas Tech. This will probably seem impossibly difficult to grasp for my own son, but once upon a time, computers were not able to be communicated with via a nice tidy keyboard. In fact, the computer I remember was more like the one on the 1960s starship Enterprise, with lots of nondescript lights and buttons without labels and such. The way a computer engineer would input information was with a series of thin cardboard sheets that had holes punched in them. Imagine "hanging chads" and you've just about got the picture. Someone had to take the program information and type it into a machine that poked holes in these cardboard slips to be fed into the monstrous, roaring computer. From time to time a typo made the card unusable, so in typical pioneer fashion, my mother and the other keypunch girls would take this garbage home. There, it got a second lease on life. Dad would cut several cards, then tape them to the forks of my bike. Magically, my bicycle was transformed into a motorcycle as the spinning spokes caused a sputter as it flicked the card fragments. I was Officer John Baker of TVs "CHiPs" most of the time, when I wasn't Spiderman.

I think of those days often, now that I am a father myself. Most of the feedback I get about Lubbock is negative. It is an acquired taste - loved by those who call it home only. To be sure, it lacks the kind of rolling, lush, green beauty most admire. To me, though, it is the town that saw my birth, and was the setting for my most formative years. The house on 25th street will always live in my memory, filled with laughter and youthful optimism. And my two companions on that journey grow larger in my estimation with each passing year. I hope and pray that I can give my son as magical and wonderful a childhood as my two young parents gave me. By all appearances they had so much less than I, but in so many ways they had so much more. They were brave in the Western way - they never gave up, and never quit. They made me who I am in every way. Someday, I hope that my own son can see me with something approaching the admiration and love I feel for them more every day.

Wednesday Night

"You want to go get some ice cream, buddy?"

Kelly had suggested it, and it sounded really good to me too. It had been a hard day. I had already sunk into our oversized armchair and kicked off my shoes.

"No", he hollered from our darkened bedroom. He was lying on his back under our covers, watching "Fraggle Rock", his mouth muffled with a bottle.

Kelly and I shared a look of disbelief. This was a new one on us.

"What???" I called out. No response.

"You don't want to go take a ride, baby?" Kelly asked. We waited for a response. None came. If this was going to happen for us, we were going to have to sweeten the deal.

"Yeah, buddy, let's go take a ride and get ice cream." I guess I thought by recapping I might gain his attention.

"You go fine fy-twuck?"

I chuckled. This kid was a fire truck fanatic. We must have looked at every single picture of a fire truck on the entire web. But it was never enough. Every time the car seat was buckled, it was the same thing. I was expected to produce, on demand, a fire truck for his entertainment. The sick thing was that I undertook this challenge without complaint. Fatherhood makes you feel simultaneously like a superhero and a super-schmuck.

"Okay, buddy. I'll try to find you a fire truck."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!!! We go faw wyde!!!" The transition from nearly asleep to full speed was shocking. In less than three minutes I was starting the car.

"You fine fy-twuck, daddy?"

"I'll try, buddy." Exactly twelve nanoseconds pass.

"You fine fy-twuck, daddy?"

"Okay, pal. I'm sure gonna try". Brief pause. I take a deep, slightly stressed-out breath. I don't have time to exhale.

"You fine fy-twuck, daddy?"

"Uh-huh," I pray I'm not lying. Kelly can't take it any more, and bursts out laughing. I start to laugh, too. Nervously.

The three miles to Dairy Queen seemed like an eternity. I tried to calm myself with the knowledge that a dipped cone and a little bit of silence awaited me at the end of this trip, if only I could grit my teeth until I could get that little red spoon, laden with ice cream, in my little buddy's mouth.

Finally we were there. His was the first served - fine with me. Then came Kelly's Blizzard - a chocolate mint something. Finally, my dipped cone. It was glorious. Sweet silence. Soft serve. Paradise. The ringing sound of new silence still in our ears, driving up the dusky, tree-lined mountain to our neighborhood, all was well. I finished the last crumbly bits of cone and looked for something to wipe my sticky hands on.

"You fine fy-twuck, daddy?", a sticky ice cream voice asked from the back seat.

"Sure, pal. Sure I will."