A Teachable Moment for Daddy

As I have mentioned before, my daughter is learning a whole host of new tricks at day care. She knows that when she claims someone hit her, she gets the attention of any nearby adult.

This was cute at first, as she was claiming her stuffed animals were hitting her.

A few days ago, she came running over to me, claiming that the baby just kicked her. I looked over and the baby was in his crib, well out of my daughter's reach.

Aha! A teachable moment. I knew there would be several of these during my fatherhood career. What would Bill Cosby do?

My daughter's still little, so I don't want discipline here. I decided that the best tactic was to start with the difference between truth and fiction.

"Sweetie, it's important that you tell Mommy and Daddy what actually happened, you understand?"

"Uh-huh, yes."

"Did the baby actually kick you?"

"Uh-uh."

"When you talk to Mommy and Daddy, you need to tell them the truth, what actually happened. It's important. Okay?"

"OK!"

I continued trying to explain that I knew the baby did not kick her and she needs to tell the truth. When I was done, I said:

"OK. Let's go tell the baby what we talked about."

Satisfied that she understood, we walk over to the crib.

"No kicking, baby! No kicking. No kick me, baby!"

I don't think I got through.

Coping, Part 5

I think I've been clear how much I miss New York. I've even mentioned a few ways I've found to cope with the change in setting: cooking more, maintaining high standards for eating out, avoiding road rage, and so on. My previous post on this subject was a missive about how much I was looking forward to seeing the New York Yankees in person, here in Arizona.

Now a lawyer is taught to deal in ambiguities, but is also taught to write as clearly as possible. I believe my writing has been particularly clear on this point, to wit, that I've been dealing with the loss of my city as best I can and my little coping strategies, a good meal here, a walk (rather than a drive) there, makes the loss tolerable.

So it is with some credibility to say that I was looking forward to the Yankees' arrival in the Valley of the Sun for some time. I have had the tickets in my hand since March.

Last week, the Diamondbacks sent me an email, reminding me that I had bought tickets to the game. That was nice of them. I appreciated the little reminder, even though I wasn't capable of forgetting. Sunday, they sent me yet another reminder, this time including information concerning the starting pitchers. A.J. Burnett was going to start for the Yankees. Like a gentile child on December 24th, the next day couldn't arrive soon enough.

My hypochondria always leads me to believe that I will get sick the day of, or just before any day, that I am highly anticipating. I woke up yesterday morning, swallowed, and detected no sore throat. That's good! The kids and The Doctor also seemed in good health. Also good! All systems appear go for the evening!

There was no trouble during the day. The Doctor had six cases that day, but she was finished with five before 1 pm. She wouldn't be running late! By 2 pm, I could already smell the Yankees' glove oil.

I picked my daughter up from school, and even she was excited to see the Yankees! She kept mentioning them in the car. This only fed my anticipation to share the experience with her.

In retrospect, I probably should have called it a night right there.

Just as we're ready to head down to Chase Field, my son decides he would like to scream. He's tired and doesn't yet know that falling asleep is easier than crying about it.

It's OK - the car ride usually relaxes him.

My son's wailing puts the Doctor on edge, especially when it seems that my daughter is starting to get stressed out as well.

It's OK - let's just get everything into the car, maybe everyone's disposition will improve once we're on the road.

I try to get things organized and get moving. The Doctor takes this moment to again state her distaste for the Yankees.

It's OK - she doesn't have to like the Yankees. There will be more than enough Yankees fans there for me to connect with. A New Yorker is a New Yorker, regardless of where he or she may actually be located.

We barely make it a block away from the base before my son ramps up the volume and intensity. I have to pull over and let The Doctor have a moment to calm him down.

I'm trying to focus on the goal of several months of waiting. A goal that is an hour or so away. I'm trying to help The Doctor calm an upset and tired baby, as well as discipline an emotional toddler. I'm trying to keep the child supplies organized, so we can all make it to the game where the entire family can share in Dad's enthusiasm, maybe.

What I didn't notice is that, in my distracted state, when I pulled over, I hadn't put the car in park, I had just left my foot on the break. When The Doctor asked for some help with my son, the car rolled forward a few inches.

No one was hurt, but it was an inexcusable error. The Doctor had now had enough and wanted to go home.

I didn't handle this news so well. Not my finest moment.

After we all had a chance to calm down, we set out again for Chase Field. At least my daughter was still showing some enthusiasm.

Indeed, there were many, many Yankees fans in attendance. We found our seats in a section that contained row after row of navy blue. The evening was looking up.

In the top of the first, a Yankee fan found his seat behind us. He had one of those raspy yells. He wasn't shy about using it. Every yell made my son, already cranky and tired, jump and wake up. It was irritating. My daughter kept fidgeting, kicking the seats, forcing the other Yankee fans to concentrate on the game to ignore her. I didn't get to do much connecting with the New Yorkers.

Yankees were three up, three down in the top of the first. It was a seven pitch side, tops. The Doctor convinced Hannah to clap for the Yankees outs, at least when my daughter's hands weren't full of hot dog.

Then the D-Backs came to the plate. A.J. Burnett gave up three home runs, five runs total. In the bottom of the first. With my cranky son, my fidgeting daughter, The Doctor (who I know doesn't want to be there) making fun of the score, the cramped seats and the irritating Yankee fan behind me, I suddenly don't want to be here either. Burnett was gone after four. We were gone after three.

Thanks very much there, fellers. So much for my little piece of the Bronx in the Valley. A team with the best record in baseball right now shouldn't be getting blown out ten to four by a team at the bottom of their division. This is especially true when I'm in the stands.

So last night, despite my expectations, didn't work out the way I'd hoped.

I could really use a good bagel right about now.

Retirement Party

Most people assume I'm the family member in the military.

I don't really mind so much, it's a little flattering that people think my abs are chiseled enough and chest broad enough so that I could be active duty. It's also possible that it could be that my legs are sufficiently toned or that I have rugged good looks in the face. It might also be my biceps. Or my air of confidence.

But I've never been in the military. I got this masculine aura completely on my own. The Doctor is the active duty military in the family.

I can forgive people to leaping to the conclusion that I'm the active duty military family member. It hasn't been that long that women were active duty in real numbers. It hasn't been that long that women were in the military period. Plus, when you look at an adonis like me, it's easy to draw the wrong conclusion.

So, like I said, I don't mind that people think I'm military. What I do mind is when I sit down for a haircut and the barber throws the shroud over my shoulders and asks, "so you're retired military?"

Jeez, am I that old? Perhaps you haven't had a good look at my chest, biceps, abs, legs, etc. Shall I oil up and flex for you?

But then I told myself to clam down. One can retire after twenty years of service. If one entered at 18, one could retire at thirty-eight. I guess I'm not that far off from retirement age around here.

I guess I am that old. I blame the kids.

Time to retire, then. I think I'll spend my days playing with toys all day care, like my daughter. I am reliably told they have dinosaurs there.

Overheard

"Who's that?"

"No, that's Ernie. That's Bert. So who's that?"

"No, that's Ernie. That's Bert. So who's that?"

"No, that's Ernie. That one is Bert. Who's this?"

"No, Ernie's over here. This one is Bert."

"No, that's Elmo..."

The Princess Diatribe

I really have to hand it to Disney. Their marketing department is the tops.

My daughter just turned two. The entirety of her vocabulary consists of nouns and the phrase "I want." The Doctor and I have been trying, with mixed success, to introduce the word "please."

She knows her ABCs, except for E and F, which during the song are substituted with H and I. Also she tends to get lost between V and W.

She knows words for colors, but has trouble identifying the colors. She thinks everything is blue, unless the object actually is blue, in which case she thinks it's red. Or yellow. Or orange. Sometimes purple.

This morning, when she put both legs through the same leg hole in her pants, she knew that she "need help please." I was so proud of my little toddler as she fell over.

She knows she will get attention if she tells a grown up that she was hit. She has claimed all of the following have hit her, in order to attract attention: her three-month-old brother, her mother, her father, her stuffed bear, her car seat, her three-month-old brother sitting five feet away secured in his own car seat, her tub toys and a door.

But there's one word that she has used correctly every time. "Princess."

I don't recall ever teaching her that word. I don't know where she learned it. She was pulling videos off the shelf one day and came across The Little Mermaid. She identified it as a princess right away and politely requested that we all sit down to watch it as a family.

Ha, ha! No, she actually pointed to it, yelled "Princess!" and grabbed me by the hand to pull me over to the DVD player so I could put it on for her.

Now, every afternoon after pre-school, she requests to see Princess. Only Princess Ariel will do. Furthermore, only the parts where Ariel is actually on the screen are acceptable. Otherwise, we are treated to a non-stop chorus of "Where'd Princess go?"

How Disney was able to find my daughter remains a mystery to me. But they got her good. Sesame Street diapers became passe as soon as she learned there were Princess diapers. She's even started to recognize Princess Belle, just from the images on the diapers. If Disney ever decides that my daughter needs a motorcycle, I'm in serious trouble.

Who Says Computer Games Are A Waste of Time?

There's a joy and beauty to figuring things out. That's why I like games, particularly strategy games. Once one understands the mechanic of the game, that is, the essence of how to fashion a winning position over your opponent (or opponents), there's a moment where the universe simply fits, like getting the one piece you need in Tetris.

Games occupy my attention for a while, until I figure out the best way to "beat" the game. Civilization is a good game. Settlers of Catan is a great game.

Ah, but World of Warcraft.

I miss World of Warcraft. Each encounter was a new puzzle, a new game that required a new strategy. When you have to practice an encounter with nineteen other people just so you can get to the next encounter, it provided endless challenges to keep my brain occupied. I likened my experiences with that game to The Doctor's orchestra practice, in the sense be both would team up with a bunch of people all who had to time their specific roles in order to accomplish a common goal. She gave me dirty looks.

I spent entirely too much of my life with that game. The Doctor insisted I was wasting my time. In a way, my kids convinced me I was wasting my time as well.

But then I see this.

Clearly, I need to start playing WOW again, so I can keep my moose-avoidance skills current.

Coping, Part 4

A comfy robe, a pair of slippers, a song on the radio, a certain pair of handcuffs - there are little things that comfort us that we don't think about, but would miss if they were gone. I had to give one up upon moving to Phoenix and I didn't realize how much a comfort it was until it was gone.

Yankee baseball.

In New York the Yankees have their own channel, YES. When YES isn't arguing with Cablevision, their games are viewable by every New Yorker. There's a certain pleasure to getting home from work and eating dinner in time to see Rivera finish the game. It was always there, like that ringing in my ears, or Seinfeld at 7. One comes to rely on it without even noticing.

Here in the Valley, ESPN shows Yankee games from time to time, but one has to think ahead and account for a time difference. Even if I remembered to check the schedule and get home from work in enough time to see a 4 pm local time game, I wouldn't be able to devote my energy to watching until the kids were in bed, meaning that the Yankees would be in showers and on the way home before I could turn the game on.

So I catch as catch can, on weekends and occasionally when my team hits the west coast. On the whole, it's unsatisfying.

But there is one hope - inter-league play. Sure enough, when I checked the MLB schedule this winter, the Yankees would be coming to Chase Field for a three game set. I could go see them live! Catching a game in the Valley would almost make up for missing most games. Plus, unlike Philadelphia fans, Phoenix fans don't make me uncomfortable or call security on me.

Excited, I checked when the tickets would go on sale.

"The Lottery for tickets opens March 15."

Apparently, the Yankees are such a big draw in other markets, the powers that be don't want a first-come-first-served basis for tickets. Chase Field takes everyone's email address and selects people at random for the privilege of buying tickets to see the Yankees play the D-Backs, thus ensuring equality of access.

Fine. I'l roll the dice. Put me down. I'll even schedule a calendar reminder to buy tickets on March 15, first thing, in case I roll a seven.

A few weeks before the drawing, I get a phone call.

"Hi, is this Carl from the Diamondbacks, how are you today?"

"I'm OK, my daughter kept me up last night with a fever, so I'm a little tired, and they're looking for an answer on this thing from me at work in like 30 minutes and I'm hungry and I keep meaning to schedule an appointment concerning my Toyota's recall and my wife is going to give birth to our second any day now, but you aren't really interested in hearing all that, are you?"

"No, I was just being polite. I see you signed up for the lottery to buy tickets to the Diamondbacks game on June 21, 22 or 23, is that right?"

"The Yankee games, that's right."

"May I ask your interest in those particular D-Backs games?"

"I was planning on streaking in front of the largest possible audience at Chase Field," is what I didn't say. What I actually said was, "I'm a recent transplant from New York, and I was hoping to see my Yankees in person, if only once."

"I understand. You know if you bought our six-game saver package, you could select to buy tickets to one of the dates the D-Backs play the Yankees and get your tickets to that game now, instead of having to wait for the lottery. Does that sound appealing to you?"

"Well, I work full time and have kids that go to bed around the third inning, so I don't think I'll be able to actually make more than two or three games, given my constraints and a wife that only seems interested in the Phillies, who won't be on the field at that particular time."

"All right then, here's my number in case you change your mind..."

Phillies - Diamondbacks tickets were much easier to come by. But luck was with me. I'll be there on June 21st, in my robe and slippers, ready to toss one back with the team.