Up until that point, I was certain I was going to become a mathematician, physicist, astronomer or aerospace engineer. I was on the honor roll and in the honor society at a very well respected technical school in Boston. I had studied calculus on my own while in high school. All my friends were planning the next phase of their journey and applying to MIT, Harvard or Blaine’s Hair School. I, on the other hand, just had the rug pulled out from under me. But I persevered anyway and attended Northeastern University for Electronic Engineering (these were in the days when computers were as big as refrigerators and programming involved punch cards…bajillions of them).

But forever in the back of my head I kept remembering “Forest Ranger.” (yes, you are supposed to be laughing hysterically right now). A couple of years later and I learned the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy. I dropped out of school as I was beginning to FLUNK, yes FLUNK some of my math and physics classes (if only they had classes on how to light a campfire using only a grub). Thus began my downward spiral in life that I will share with you in future posts (after all, I am up to two posts this year!).

So when my 11 year old comes home with math homework, I am thrilled to be able to offer some assistance. I am confident in my math abilities. A couple of nights ago, his homework consisted of making up 4 pages of math worksheets that he did not do back in November for various reasons. The topic was called Order of Operations, also known as Order of Precedence. It is a simple set of rules that determine the order in which a series of operations should happen in math. For example:

2 + 3 x 2 = ?

Well, if you simply go from left to right, then you would get 10 (2+3=5. 5×2=10). The reality is that the Order of Operations mandate the hierarchy that supersedes simply moving from left to right. The correct answer is 8. It is 2 + (3 x 2) or 2 + 6.  A quick Google search shows that this order has been the standard since at least the 1500′s. The “kids these days” have a mnemonic called PEMDAS. Which stands for:

Parenthesis
Exponents
Multiplication
Division
Addition
Subtraction

So, no matter how complex the problem, this is the algorithm used to solve it. I learned this in junior high and had it reinforced every year and even into college while learning programming.

Now, if the problem is:

3 x (2+5) x 6(4+8) + 20/(5-1) = whatever the hell it equals

…then everyone in the world will has an opportunity to get it correct and know with confidence the rest of the planet got the same answer.

Back to my son, since no one is reading about Order or Operations anyway. He was working, rather diligently I might add, on his homework. I was very proud of his focus, at least his definition of focus. Then, when he was halfway through the homework, he asked me a simple question. I showed him my answer using the process above. He looked at me and said “What are you doing? You can’t just add parenthesis wherever you want. It will change the answer!” I told him you can add parenthesis wherever it made sense to keep things together. I quickly glanced through all his answers and realized he had done each and everyone of them incorrectly. I told him that. This was the beginning of the end for him. At this point, he proceeded to justify his answers, screechingly, by stating this is the way he learned it. He then proceeded to tell me that I had learned it the “old fashioned way,” screechingly. He then continued on his screeching rampage and suggested that A. How could I have allowed him to do it the wrong way and B. Why do I always have to criticize him.

We are no longer on the topic of math. We are no longer interested in “getting over it” and correcting the errors. We have devolved into a screechfest. I say “we” on purpose. At this point in time, I literally dropped to his level and joined in, as if we were caught in a whirlpool and I was wearing a lead life vest. He continued along this course for well over 20 minutes. Never once accepting responsibility.

We were no longer being productive and in fact had downgraded to destructive, so I sent him to bed; literally the only thing I could have done that would not have been the equivalent of a lion eating their young. He stormed off, disgusted by me while I stormed off disgusted by me too. “Can you believe that kid?!”, I went on for the next 20 minutes.

After the house quieted down, I remembered the importance of this homework and how much effort he put into despite getting each and every answer wrong. I decided to try something I have never done before. I am usually an early riser. Mike has to be up by 6 in order to get to school on time-ish. I woke up at 4 and grabbed his homework, strewn about all over the living room and I found one of those big, pink and trapezoidal erasers and began erasing each and every one of his answers. For some reason, my baby goats have never learned to erase with finesse. They often leave the paper in worse condition than if they had just left it alone.

I erased each answer and calmly put parenthesis around a few of the problems in order to organize Mike. I then tip-toed upstairs at 5AM and whispered calmly in his ear. I told him that I had put on some water for tea, heated the kitchen (a common excuse for not wanting to get out of bed) and that no one else was awake. “Michael, please get up now and we can get this done together. I promise; no fighting.”

He rolled over and looked at me and said “Not now Dad. You should have told me you were going to do this last night. It is too early” and he turned away. I walked back downstairs and nearly cried. It was not anger this time. It simply was a stunned feeling that my 11 year old has not only bested me…he has bested himself.

I sat down at the kitchen table staring at his homework; confident that he could do it….equally confident that I could do it for him without anyone being the wiser. The internal debate raged on in my head until 5:30. Michael came downstairs, shaggy doggedly and said “Dad, I am ready now.”

I sat next to him and watched him write each number down and finally complete his work in time for school.

This, the longest post ever written, served only a single purpose: simply, to tell you how proud I am of that boy.

Now, if I can just get him to brush his teeth with toothpaste.

I’ve got no words for this picture…but HOLY CRAP!

Dad, I will throw mithril darts to trap rabbits to increase my summoning level so I can summon Kebbits to be able to draw out Abbyssyel Demons to train my slayer and get 1.2 mill GP Abbyssyel whips.

I then went blink…blink, blink. I had him slow down and help me with the spelling as I typed it into a post.

What do I do with this?

Technorati Tags: english please, baby goats, video games

Luckily, the infestation was just confined to her head!

With that realization came the responsibility. These little apprentice humans are looking to me for guidance on the rocky road of this thing called life.

When I was growing up, I had two very loving parents. Never at any moment in my life did I feel the need to question their love. They provided for me, bandaged my boo-boos and made me feel safe. As I thought about my own children (I have something like 2 or 3 at last count!), I realized something that makes me a VERY different parent than my own parents were.

Whereas my mom and dad loved me, they never were my friends. My dad and I had a distant relationship, not physically, but emotionally. That only meant that he was not my buddy. He was my father; a role I understood to be different than that of a friend. I never craved his friendship nor sought him out for advice in times of need. Again, he had a duty as a father…to father and not be my friend.

This is due partially as a response to the Old World mentality of both of my parents. Parents are not friends. Parents are providers. Parents are role models. Parents are there. But my parents were never chummy. My dad never wrapped his giant arms around my shoulders and called me pal. As far as I knew, my dad was not even human….he was simply a father.

But when I had children (don’t ask me why…I am still trying to figure that one out), I thought that I would change all that. I thought that I could be a friend to my children. I am always showing them that too am a human being. I have faults and things scare me and that I am not perfect. I want to share those especially with my 10 year old as he is going through some awkward stages right now.  I want to relate to him on his level. I want to get down eye to eye and hold him and tell him I understand what he is going through.  I want to tell him that I understand if he doesn’t want to go to school because I sometimes don’t feel like going to work. I want to tell him that I know how it feels when a friend betrays him and that he always has me to turn to.  I want to drop to my knees and build a Lego catapult with him and get excited if we can launch one of Nicole’s dolls across the room into the bathroom sink, even if it means knocking over the toothbrushes. I want to share in the wonder of discovery with him. I want him to see me as a partner who is willing to guide as well as willing to be guided. Sometimes I think he gets it. Sometimes I think he thinks I am a little weird.

Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers): What are you doing differently to raise your children than how your parents raised you? What are you doing similarly?

Nothing more to say….

After telling my daughter her favorite  Knock Knock joke for the billionth time:

Knock knock
Who’s there?
An interrupting cow
An interrupting c…..
MOOOOOOOOO!

…my daughter decided to share some of her own with me. Here is just a representative, and completely true, sample of what she said:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Honey cookie
Honey cookie, who?
HONEY!
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Eyeball
Eyeball who?
Eyeball will you put yourself in your ear and then eat it after you are done putting it in your ear?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
I been.
I been who?
I been working on the railroad all the livelong pizza…
(it was supposed to be Ivan. It was supposed to be “day” and not pizza. Now fall on the floor laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Puppy
Puppy who?
Puppy, will you be Santa because you are going inside my eye. I been working on the railroad…
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Skeleton
Skeleton who?
Skeleton, will you pull down your pants please so we can see your butt crack?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
OK, knock knock, will you pull down your underwear on your oranges?
(combining different knock knock jokes into one is her specialty..now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Pajamas
Pajamas who?
Pajamas, will you pull down your underwear so we can see your butt crack?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Elf
Elf who?
Elf! Will you take off your presents please and pull down your underwear so we can see your freaky underwear?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

This went on with variations on a theme. But essentially, they all included her looking around the kitchen, finding an object, making a knock knock joke about it in her head and then throwing the words butt crack into the punchline. Good times!

Let me preface this story by telling you that we live in a shoe box. We are on top of each other when we sleep; literally due to the fact that we are ALL IN THE SAME EFFING BED! OK, maybe it is not that bad. But it is bad. Another important point to remember is that I am not a drunk! I enjoy a drink here and there but nights out are far and few between.

So, when I got home last night around midnight after a dinner party with some coworkers at a local sushi restaurant, I needed to tip-toe. My Baby Goats will manage to wake up at a blink so it is important to be quiet. I was also just a little bit inebriated, and I definitely did wantwant them to see me stumbling in. The Goats are still young enough to believe that I am a hero. They will learn soon enough that I am merely a mortal who fails more often than I suceed at this parenting thing.

I showered the night’s events off my body and sat at the laptop to type some wonderful Japanese sake-induced account of my evening to share with Both of My Readers (BoMR).

But before my fingers hit the keyboard, my head hit the pillow.

Imagine the dreams I had. Imagine the wasabi-based dreams that floated prettily in an out of my head. Now imagine the sound of Winnie the Pooh emanating from the Goats’ toybox at 2AM. As parents, we are way too familiar with toys that talk only in the middle of the night. We all know that the only people that would ever buy a toy without an OFF button are our single, childless friends.

Now imagine, my sashimi-induced rage as I launched myself from the couch and proceeded to disassemble the toy box all the while Winnie laughing maniacally; taunting me with his honey pot sweetness.

I finally found the sucker and removed him from the box, leaving the remaining toys on the floor. The Baby Goats hardly stirred. It was a Winnie the Pooh key chain that somehow managed to escape my cleaning rampage when we no longer had 6 month olds in the house. I flipped this Winnie key chain around in my hand trying to find an OFF/ON switch. Nothing. I then looked for the battery and proceeded to stick a steak knife into the miniature screw that so securely holds the 400 AAA batteries. The knife tip broke. Meanwhile, Winnie seemed to be getting louder and my eardrums felt like they were going to bleed.

I pride myself on having good judgment and remaining calm. Apparently, Calm Dan went out the window, which is where Winnie should have gone and left for the raccoons to tear into him. Instead I decided… on second thought, it actually wasn’t all that logical, it was more like I “reacted”, by filling the bucket in the sink with water and throwing Pooh into it. I told you I wasn’t being rational! At 2AM, this made a whole lot of sense to me! I thought the best thing to do to stop the blaring was to drown Pooh!

I almost felt sorry for this bear as the gurgling sounds diminished. Except for the fact that the gurgling sounds never ended! Pooh was caught in a loop of final agonal breaths and all I could do was my best to ignore it. This was my digitized version of the Tell Tale Heart, written by Edgar Allen Pooh!

Ignore it, I did; until my 6 year old woke up at 5:00 and heard the sound coming from the bucket. He looked inside and you can imagine what went through this kid’s brain. He began wailing. I woke up and I tried to comfort him as he held the waterlogged key chain in his hands. I told him that this was an infant’s toy and we had no infants in the house. He said this was his “FAVORITE” infant’s toy. I then told him it was an accident, despite the CSI-inspired crime scene sans the blood and yellow tape. He keeps looking at me like I am the very definition of evil..perhaps I am.

Clearly, the rule of thumb here, is stay away from Sushi Night Out with coworkers!

It usually goes something like this:

• Dad: “Will you stop picking your nose and just write your name on the effing piece of paper?!”
• Michael: “YOU HATE ME!”

He storms out in tears. Welcome to my every day.

This homework is actually make-up homework from the night before. He had a list of words related to early explorers. Each word was on a separate sheet of paper with the following questions to fill out:

• Word:
• Definition:
• Where did you learn this definition:
• Synonym:
• Antonym:

Because the pages were sort of generic, we didn’t worry when it asked for antonyms for some of the words. “Just tell the teacher that there isn’t one.” I told Michael.

It turned out that he was marked incorrect by his teacher and he needs to complete it tonight. I just threw my hands in the air and said something like: “How am I ever going to do your homework for you, when the teacher (all of 21 years old) is asking you for the impossible.” Now my son hates me because his VERY short-lived dream that his father is a genius is shattered in a second and none of the pleading I do is changing his opinion…actually making it worse as I tell him “I am not an idiot son. There really is no way to do this homework. Trust me!”

“Sure Dad, whatever you say.” As he hangs his head in shame.

So, with my tail between my legs, I turn to you, BoMR, to guide me. You have helped me get through some pretty tough times and turn to you once again.

Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers):

Can you tell me a synonym and antonym for these words?

Compass

Age of Exploration

Explorer

Astrolabe

Here is what I have come up with:

Compass:

• synonym = That directional device that really doesn’t do anything especially when they put one in your car (“Everyone in the car, we are driving NNE today!).
• antonym = The biological gene that allows me to get lost…and NOT ask for directions (Yes, I went there, ladies and gentlemen. I am edgy like that! Pushing-the-envelope Leone, at your service. Stay tuned for my White Guys Can’t Dance routine!)

Age of Exploration:

• synonym = Age of Self-Stimulation
• antonym = Age of Having Your Mother Walk In While Self-Stimulating And The Subsequent Years Of Therapy

Explorer:

• synonym = “2nd Base” when the world is your oyster
• antonym = Marriage when you can’t even get up to bat

Astrolabe:

• synonym = Whattheeffisanastrolabe
• antonym = shoelace

I am turning to both of you now. You are my only hope.