• Unheralded classics

    Among the likes of the wheel, the steam engine, integrated circuits, the moon landings, and the polyester cotton blend, one of humanity’s greatest (if overlooked) achievements is the Koosh Woosh.

    In the late 1980s, a small toy company made a bundle selling funny little balls made of strands of rubber. Maybe you never had one. Maybe your parents didn’t love you. We had several – think indoor snowball fights (or as close as you can get in Florida).

    Yeah, my parents have some regrets….

    Lucky for us all, the Koosh gravy train didn’t end with a funny little ball-like lump of rubber. One Christmas morning I unwrapped a funky lycra disk stretched over a springy wire frame – the Koosh Woosh. Think Frisbee, but not. Ironically, it was voted “least likely to still be around in twenty years” by its gift class. It was a rough crowd that year. Yet my Koosh Woosh has followed me everywhere since: from college dorms and apartments, to condos and our current home.

    I could lie and tell you it’s my favorite toy, but there are two problems. One, I’m not a liar; and two, you already know my old PowerBook fills that spot in my heart. On the other hand, I can’t think of another toy that’s been around so long or pops up so often. It’s THE (seemingly) omnipresent toy in the house, good for a glide across the room any time the urge to throw something (in fun not anger) strikes.

    The kids have my old Legos, but they don’t love them like I did. This may be my greatest failure as a parent.

    It’s lightweight so it doesn’t do indoor damage. Its frame is flexible, springy, and resilient; making all kinds of ricochet shots possible, while keeping it’s shape through years of abuse. And it’s soft, making it easy to catch for the little ones.

    I don’t remember why, but we spent a lot of time indoors this weekend… and it didn’t matter. Adam and I had a blast. I used my full arsenal of Frisbee shots: the line drive, the forehand, the backhand, the skip shot, the vertical bounce (a Koosh Woosh specialty), curves, come-backers, soft glides, and bank shots – all indoors – and we have a small house. Think bumper-pool, Frisbee, and (almost) no rules. The only time Adam wasn’t smiling was when he was concentrating on imitating one of daddy’s throws. It was great fun.

    When my kids get older, have kids of their own, and the subject of me comes up (there goes my runaway ego again), I hope it’s days like this they remember. We can’t always choose our legacy to our children – not the kind I’m thinking of anyway, but we can at least give it a nudge. I hope I give them enough good memories to be the kind of parent I want to be (if I don’t always succeed).

  • Saving money in the wrong places

    There are some lines I won’t cross on this blog.

    Don’t you laugh. I’ll find you.

    I’m not going to elaborate, not that it’ll be necessary. I think your imagination will fill in capably.

    I’ve decided not to save money on toilet paper anymore.

    I say that now, but just you wait. A few years from now I’ll be reposting this entry, complaining about how rough it is out there.

  • The sound of trouble

    I think paternal instinct is underrated. Mothers are given credit for “the bond” and knowing instinctually when their kids are in trouble, while fathers are relegated to second class parenthood.

    I know, I know. Fathers miss out on gestation and the birthing experience, but I’d put my ear for trouble up against any mother’s.

    Now Cheryl might say the ear is only effective when the brain maintains an active connection – but I’d rather ignore this inconvenient observation for the moment.

    I won’t try to tell you I’m an expert in child behavior but I know my kids. Their cries generally fall into a few common types. (Most of these aged into a fine whine as they got older.)

    There’s the exaggerated play cry, the cry for sympathy/attention, the tired cry, the bored cry, the hungry cry, the scared cry, the hurt cry, and the grand-daddy of them all – the panicked, terrified, I’m really hurt bad and I need someone right now cry.

    Thankfully, I’ve only heard that last one a handful of times in my life, but last night was one of them. I was enjoying a lazy Sunday evening at home after a busy week, spending a little quality time with my MacBook. I heard a crash. It didn’t raise immediate alarms. I’d need a lot more medication if the sound of stuff colliding/falling/breaking in the house raised my heart rate.

    It’s early yet, but I think my kids might be headed towards a career in demolition.

    There was a pause, a moment of quiet, that got my attention – not alarmed so much as curious. “I wonder what that was? It did sound kinda big. Is someone trying to conjure a benign explanation?”

    Maybe my instincts aren’t so good after all.

    That’s when I heard it. It was a rapid fire, panic filled, pained shriek for help… and that’s when my heart stopped. I ran into Adam’s room and found him on the floor, pinned under his dresser, crying out words faster than his breath could sustain. I threw the dresser back, tossed aside the drawers that had spilled out… and Adam popped up into my arms.

    My heart started again.

    After a good squeeze, a thorough once over, and a trip across the house for some reassurance from mommy that his skin wouldn’t fall off, everyone was ok again.

    Except… how did I miss the dresser? When Beth was born it seemed like we bolted everything to the floor, the wall, or both. Now I figure out twelve years later we missed something.

    One thing is funny – well sort of. Despite all of the evidence, Adam still won’t admit to climbing on his dresser. He explained what happened to me last night (after everyone had settled down) – and it was like something out of the Warren Commission. Should I be worried the first adjective that came to mind was cagey – and he’s still only four?