Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, and whatever your beliefs are, I sincerely hope you have a very Merry Christmas. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for reading my blog, being a part of my family, and witnessing Tyler’s growth. I look forward to sharing the next 12 months of our lives with you!
Happy holidays everyone.
I don’t like being alone. It wouldn’t be far off target to say that I’m somewhat socially dependant. I’ve never been to a bar by myself. I’ve never eaten at a restaurant alone either. I have eaten at a Burger King alone once, but that was because I was driving around on my motorcycle that day, and using the drive-thru wouldn’t have been a wise decision.
I also don’t like being around people. They annoy me. Actually, that’s not entirely true. It’s more of a cop-out excuse than anything else. I’m not good at small-talk, or keeping a conversation going, or starting a conversation, or thinking of things to say or ask when a conversation stalls. I can think of a reason why I could never be friends with just about any person I interact with.
But, when I do hang out with friends, I have a fantastic time. It’s as if I’m a great friend trapped in the shell of someone who doesn’t know how to be a friend. I’m complicated.
I’m getting off topic before I’ve even established the topic. In a nutshell, I don’t like being alone. I very much prefer to be in the presence of Sarah, Tyler, and Delilah than to be home without them. There are times, though, that having Sarah and Tyler out of the house works out pretty well.
Like this past weekend.
I played video games, wrapped presents, built a two-stage shutter release switch for my camera (so I can take pictures up to ten feet away from the camera), rebuilt/reinforced our couch frame (staple guns are awesome, by the way), vaccuumed and steam-cleaned the second floor and the stairs, and cleaned the baseboards and window sils in a few rooms. If they were home, I probably would have done little more than watch football and just hang out. And then, of course, I would have been in a panic coming into this week about getting presents wrapped before Christmas. It’s bad enough that I used newspaper and duct tape on a couple presents (I ran out of scotch tape and didn’t want to use an entire roll of wrapping paper on one gift); could you imagine if Sarah and Tyler came downstairs Christmas morning to have their gifts stuffed in plastic grocery bags because I didn’t get the wrapping done?
And let me just get this out there. I’m 99% sure that there is *something* inside steam cleaners that make the water dirtier/muddier than normal. I find it difficult to believe that we live in such filth. If you’ve never steam cleaned your carpets, I implore you to do so and witness the nastiness of hairy, dirty water yourself. It’s a game changer, for sure.
When my wife and son returned from their weekend fun late Sunday afternoon, I was still in the pajamas that I wore all day Saturday, all night, then all day Sunday (don’t judge me, we’ve all been there!), and was in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. I was eager to have them home and decided my shower could wait a little longer, so that I could spend some time with my family before Tyler went to bed. And boy am I glad I did. Tyler spent some time hugging me and telling me (in babble and a few words here and there) about his weekend. We watched a few minutes of football together and, at halftime, he decided to play with Delilah.
It was hilarious. She chased Tyler around, smothering him with kisses. On the few occasions that Delilah took a rest from the action, Tyler would charge her and throw his favorite blanket over her head, perpetuating the madness and keeping Sarah and myself highly entertained. Listening to Tyler laugh, nearly nonstop, for fifteen minutes is pure bliss. Especially since he’s working on molars and hasn’t been a very happy boy lately.
Welcome home, family…
The scene: Due to a work project, I have been gone for 36 hours. I haven’t seen my family in over 48. The previous two days have been hellish, tiring, and have left me with a very sore back. I saw a dead guy, and a bunch of people in critical care and possibly dying themselves. Drained, Tired, and eager to be home, I carry my bags into the house.
Sarah: Hi honey!
Delilah: Wagging tail, patiently waiting her turn.
Tyler: DADA!!!! *wraps his arms around my legs*
All is good.
The scene: We’re all in the living room. Delilah is resting on her bed. Sarah, Tyler, and myself are playing with stacking blocks and farm animal toys. Tyler stands up, walks to Sarah, and gives her a hug. My heart melts at this random, unprovoked showing of love and affection.
“Dada,” Tyler says as he turns to face me.
“Yeah buddy?” My voice drips with enthusiasm, for I know that one of those delicious hugs is heading my way next. Tyler lifts his hand and points into the dining room.
“Out.”
*blink*
“Out?! You can’t kick me out. This is my house, not yours.”
Unfazed, Tyler repeats his simple, and ludicrous, command. “Out.”
In a happy, going-along-with-the-gag tone, I reply. “Fine, I’m outta here!” I stand up and storm from the room. Secretly (and irrationally), I’m crushed.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how he learned this. Tyler’s dear old dad, yours truly, says the same thing just about every night at the dinner table, including the pointing.
“Delilah, out.”
We have a “one strike and you’re out” system when we’re eating. The moment Delilah goes scavenging under the table, we send her into the other room. Sometimes we don’t notice until we hear a slurping sound as she tries to lick a piece of cheese off the floor. Or when we try to figure out why Tyler has his hand under the table and is giggling hysterically (those two are gonna be trouble). Or, most recently, when Tyler narcs her out himself by shouting “LILAA!” (that’s my boy) when she starts nuzzling and snorting around the general vicinity of Tyler’s highchair.
Delilah is a smart dog. A damn smart – and stupid – dog, in fact. When I, or Sarah, tell her “out,” she knows that the jig is up and it’s time to get out of town so that she may live to fight another day. We really don’t even need to say the word though. Most times, I can just point to the doorway and she will make her (sulky) exit. She can sit, down, shake, and out with hand signals only. Like I said, damn smart. Although I can point OR command her out of the room, I have a tendency of doing both.
Tyler picked up on it and promptly copied me. He pointed out of the kitchen and commanded, “Lilaa” pause pause pause “OUT.”
I laughed. Sarah laughed. Laughing was a mistake.
“Lilaa” pause pause pause “OUT.”
And then a few days later…
“Dada.”
“Yeah buddy?”
“Out.”
What’s that they say about imitation and flattery? I’m not flattered.
Before the Nintendo Entertainment System blessed the world with its introduction, and completely blew me away with its advanced graphics and sounds, I spent my gaming time on the Atari 2600. Before I played the Atari, I watched people play the Atari. I watched as my big brother mastered Fast Eddie and Circus Atari. I watched as my big sister played Pitfall and Defender. Before that, I watched my parents play Kaboom.
Kaboom. A game that didn’t use the joystick. Instead, you plugged in the “paddles,” a steering wheel-like controller. The premise was simple. You were a stack of three tubs of water. Above you, a criminal dropped bombs. You steer the dial on the paddle left and right to catch the bombs. The criminal dropped ten bombs in the first round, twenty in the second, thirty in the third, and so on for ten rounds. You received one point per bomb caught in the first round, 2 each for the second, and so on up to 10 points per bomb in round ten. To make the game even more challenging, bombs were dropped faster and faster as the rounds progressed, becoming nearly blinding around the eighth round. Miss even a single bomb and you lose a barrel and go back one round.
It was my favorite game to watch. Not for the graphics nor for the premise of the game. Instead, I was hypnotized with the scoring. I don’t remember how young I was (maybe my mom will weigh in with a comment), but I would sit on the floor and try to race the scoring system. It was my goal to yell out score updates just before my parents caught the next bomb.
“1.. 2.. 3.. 4.. 5.. 6.. 7.. 8.. 9.. 10″
“12. 14. 16. 18. 20,” continuing to 50.
“53 56 59…”
You get the picture. Now that I’m a gamer myself, I realize that this had to play hell with my parents’ concentration. Of all the games my parents had (Space Invaders, Combat, Night Driver (we never owned Joust. Why would we not have Joust?)), my favorite game to “play” was called Atari Math. An equation appeared on the screen and the player had a limited amount of time – 10 to 20 seconds, if I remember correctly, depending on which setting you choose – to correctly display the answer using the joystick and the single red button.
And I loved it. Knowing that I could take two numbers and make a third by adding, subtracting, multiplying or dividing awed me. I don’t mean to brag, but I kicked ass at that game. I could even figure out remainder on the division problems. The timer was usually just an afterthought. It buzzed me a few times when a particularly difficult equation got the best of me though.
Twenty years later, plus some change, Sarah and my step-dad are playing a game (secret targets???) on the Nintendo Wii. It astounds me how much has changed. The Atari could display sixteen colors on the screen at any given time, and had a total palette of 128 colors, whereas current systems are capable of millions. Tyler will likely never know what an 8-bit or 16-bit system is. My step-dad is holding the controller like a bow, and pulling his arm back. A sensor captures every movement and displays a bow and arrow on the screen for him to aim at a target. *swish… THWAP*
“Seven,” the game voice-over announces.
Sarah steps up and takes aim, the screen mirroring even the most delicate movements of Sarah’s arm. While I reminisce about a system that had a controller with five inputs (up, down, left, right, and a button), Sarah’s motions are being tracked, wirelessly, on three different axes. *swish… THWAP*
The screen flashes to an instant replay of her near bulls-eye as the announcer shouts her score. “Nine.”
“Ninnne,” Tyler replies with enthusiasm.
My boy, I think. That’s my boy. If this doesn’t prove that he truly is his father’s son, I don’t know what does.
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