Looking Forward to Sugar Cereal and Life

The father of my childhood friend was a genius. He never used words like saxicolous, I never saw his SAT scores or overheard a neighbor talk about his IQ, but I knew, even at the age of seven, that he was brilliant. Today, my opinion of him remains the same; the only thing that has changed is my reason for believing he was so smart.

My friend’s dad did the shopping for his family, but it was more than buying eggs. He had a rotation. Every time he went to the grocery store, he’d take one of his three sons. That son was his personal assistant and the official family cereal-chooser. When my friend told me he could choose any cereal (that he wasn’t limited to Cheerios, Cornflakes, and Rice Krispies) and that, when they were in the check-out lane, his dad would always lean down and encourage him to select any snack, I about lost it. Who was this man and did he teach courses on genius fathering?

A dad that let his son choose whatever cereal he wanted and candy — images of Butterfingers, Sweetarts, and Big League Chew electrified my being  — had to be the next Gandhi, Mother Teresa’s Uncle, or at least the long lost brother of the Ninja Turtles. He was giving and awesome  — gawesome. I knew he was the wisest of men; he got us little guys; he won over his sons (and me) with sugar cereal and gawesomeness.

Today, I still admire my friend’s dad. I look back and still conclude that he was brilliant, giving, and awesome — I won’t combine all three — but, what I realize now is that, his smarts had nothing to do with grocery stores, bubble gum, or even sugar cereal.

Starting a family and becoming a father has let me in on a secret. Because of his father, my friend had something to look forward to every month. Isn’t the magic behind traditions, holidays, birthdays, vacations, weekends, and movie releases found in the excitement that comes with looking forward? I respond with a loud, boisterous, and reassuring YES.

Some might be thinking, “big deal.” Well, I am thinking, “What a discovery!”

Want to know why last year’s birthday wasn’t nearly as exciting as your tenth birthday? I don’t know about other people, but these years, with a few exceptions where rude people remind me I’ll be turning ___ in so many months, I hardly even think about my birthday until the month before, or of my birthday. Unlike my worry-free younger years, life distracts me until it’s basically too late. I know this isn’t the case for everyone; there are plenty of individuals who still get giddy at the thought of a birthday six months away (and I applaud them) but why?

My childhood birthday was awesome because I looked forward to it. I looked forward to much more than a day; I looked forward to the the events of the day (and I knew them well). Birthdays in my family included, but were not limited to, going to a dollar movie with all my sibs, ordering 5 Buck Pizza and buying generic grape, orange, and root beer soda; it included a cake or lemon meringue pie (for me) with candles on top, and usually some small, but ever so exciting, toy. It may not sound that great to some but it was heaven on earth to me; I loved birthdays. If my next birthday followed my childhood birthday agenda to a tee, I would be thrilled.

So what does it all mean?

The idea for this post came after Rinda and I had a great conversation about easy ways to make life wonderful. We concluded that starting and maintaining family traditions was key. Rinda’s family is pro when it comes to getting excited about traditions. The amazing thing is, their traditions are simple but make things so much more enjoyable. For example, whenever they go to the beach they always order “the best” calamari from the same dumpy old bar; when they go to Disneyland, they can’t leave without eating “the best” sour cherries and churros in the world; they get more excited about the food than the rides. Brilliant.

Rinda and I want Claire’s life to be simple but ever so exciting. How can we help make that a reality? We have challenged ourselves to start and maintain a simple family tradition for every month of the year. These traditions will be planned, marked on the calendar, and spoken of regularly. As the years go by, more traditions can join the table.

This last Christmas was incredible for many reasons. My whole family (with the exception of Christian, that jerk) was present, we had a schedule of events and we did them! Most exciting — and I promise I will post about all of this in detail — were the returning traditions: our annual Home Alone movie watching Marathon (1 and 2 back to back with Little Nero’s Pizza, throwback Pepsi, and ice cream sundaes), our Christmas Eve Twas the Night Before Christmas gift exchange, and the Christmas Eve cracker and cheese fest.

See what I mean? Simple things to look forward to = an exciting life to live.

Traditions can start today. You can call making a new, homemade Christmas ornament each year a tradition even if Great, Great, Great, Grandfather Merle, from the Highlands of Scotland, never did it. I give the world my permission to do so.

Start traditions. Start living. Find ways to look forward to life.

What are some of your simple or not-so simple traditions? What do you look forward to? Please share in the COMMENTS!

UNFUNNY HUSBAND MOMENT: Rinda wanted records (vinyl) for Christmas. I bought her two. To trick her on Christmas day, I also bought a calendar that looks like a record when wrapped. When she was opening it, I told her to be careful, it could break; she was thinking “this is definitely a record,” she was wrong; it was a calendar jam-packed with pictures of wolves in their natural habitat.

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I’m Giving You This Baby

When I was six-years-old, my first little brother was born (I had two older brothers and two younger sisters). Christian showed up 7 weeks premature and was placed in an incubator for ten days so his lungs could properly develop. When he finally came home healthy, I joined the ranks of boys who love the idea of their “first baby brother.” That didn’t prepare me for what happened next.

Days later.

I was holding Christian when my mother gave him to me. Let me explain. My mother turned to me and very matter-of-factly said something along the lines of, “he’s yours. It’ll be your responsibility to take care of him. I’m giving him to you, to be your little buddy.” Most readers are probably thinking, oh cute, I was thinking oh crap. Well, I probably didn’t think the word “crap,” but I perfectly recall my emotional response — I was scared. I was still little. How was I supposed to take care of someone else? Retrospectively, it reminds me of Bill Cosby’s comedy bit, where the Lord asks Noah to build a ship and stock it with two of every animal, and all Noah can respond with is “riggght.” I’m sure my mom was just being cute, encouraging her 3rd son to take an active role in the life of her 4th son, but I took it all very serious and very literal. In my mind, it was my job to provide for Christian, to protect him. Whatever I did, he did, wherever I went, he followed, and I was okay with it; I even taught him karate lessons (a great excuse to practice all the moves I learned from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). I stopped calling him my little buddy when he grew taller than me, joined the navy, got ripped, and then covered his muscles in tattoos; but I still consider him to be one of my best friends. That life experience, and my response to it, was close to home when my first child (Claire) was born.

From left to right: my friend, Jeremy “Dangerous” Warner, Christian, me.

Claire was ripening inside my wife for 286 days (5 days past her due date); and labor was 30 hours long. It could be said that she was long-a-coming. [Read full birth story here.] I was more excited to meet my daughter than I was to see Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows – Part 2. When I held Claire for the first time I didn’t know what to feel; I was happy, but she wasn’t mine yet. I had just witnessed her dramatic entrance in to the world but I didn’t feel like a dad yet. I went with her to be cleaned and it was there that it hit me — I was this  beautiful creature’s father. And she was beautiful; even though she kept sticking her tongue out (definitely my kid). As I observed them wipe her off, put her in a diaper, and then had the opportunity to wash her hair, I knew; she was mine; it was my responsibility to care for her; she was my little gal.

If I felt little as a kid, when my mom told me to care for Christian, I felt miniscule when I took the freshly cleaned Claire in to my arms. I felt like the Little Drummer Boy, anxious to present my best gift, but doubting the worth of anything I had to offer. However, feelings of inadequacy melted away as quick as diapers needed changing, baby needed comforting, and mother needed love. I took to fatherhood like crows take to rotting roadkill. I’m not saying fatherhood is easy or that I am particularly good at it, and I still find myself muttering what were You thinking sending her to me?, but all in all, I feel great (thanks largely in part to Claire’s awesome mother, Rinda).

People love to say “your life will NEVER be the same,” and they’re right (to a certain extent), but what they forget to say is, your life will never be the same and you won’t want it to be (90 percent of the time). There’s something incredible and inexplicable that happens to your life and home when a baby is a part of it; it’s worth the differences. Still, be ready for your house to smell like baby poo, no matter how often you take out the trash full of baby tacos.

I plan to write a future post that goes more in to detail about my at-home adventures with Claire (including examples of my teasing or “terrorizing,” as Rinda would call it), but for now, I’ll leave you with a photograph of Claire (it was her idea).

UNFUNNY HUSBAND MOMENT: I firmly believe that only Robert Redford and people with dark hair should grow facial hair (the 70′s was a different story). The rest of us look like schmucks. I have dirty blonde hair. My unfunny husband moment for the last 4 months: a beard. I’ve always wanted a beard and it literally cracks me up every time I look in the mirror; I look terrible in a beard. Sweet Rinda makes sure to drop little hints about how handsome I look clean-shaven, but it’s not working, this joke is too good. I promised not to shave until after Christmas (for no real reason). Maybe this fall time beard growing can become a lasting tradition. Either way, I’ll be sad when It’s gone, my funny points will go down drastically.

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Don’t Call Me Zeemo — The Early Days of James Alexander

My nickname growing up was Zeemo Butts. Don’t ask me why, just trust me, it was fitting.

I was a ornery little kid. I don’t mean regular kid behavior: occasionally fussy, often-time annoying, great at a tantrum or two when mom refused a second piece of toast; I mean ornery — like those stink-eyed old men who own Scottish Terriers. Each morning I’d stand eye level with my parent’s bed and wake them up by yelling “I want to eat!”

When writing down reasons she loved her children, my mother came up with this for me: I love James because, well, he’s just so ornery. That would seem a lot nicer if parents didn’t find most weird things their kids do endearing. I should know; I thought it was adorable the first time my daughter Claire barfed all over the place. She is almost 6 months old now and barf is barf.

So why am I writing about this? Let’s just say it’s an illustration. In popular films, the protagonist undergoes a change; the audience needs to witness that change for it to have any meaning. If Bill Murray wasn’t an a-hole in the beginning of Groundhog’s Day, him fixing a flat tire for some old ladies, later on in the film, would mean nothing.

Now, I am not popular or a character in a film, but I am a person with a story. In my tale, I started as an ornery kid and ended up where I am now — a soon to be 27-year-old who fancies himself far too humorous. Confession: the problem is not that I find myself funny, it’s that I find myself funny and don’t care if anyone else does. Selfish? Probably. My wife Rinda calls it alienating. I see it as a way to keep my chin up as I walk the cobble stone streets of life.

This is me then:

I’m the dapper dude on the far left (apparently I even dressed like a grumpy old man). Ornery? readers might ask. “You look perfectly normal and even stunningly handsome.” True. However, I never said I didn’t smile (this is a picture, you are supposed to smile), I said I was a grouchy kid. I like to credit my smile in this picture to the hand behind my back. Perhaps I just passed gas, cupped some of it in my right hand, and am patiently awaiting the end of the photo session so I can present it to my older brother Nate (sweatered kid on far right). Alas, that is not true, but it makes me laugh.

So how did I get from ornery little kid to me? Here comes the lesson portion of this entry. I was ornery because I chose to be. I know this for two reasons: my mom tells me so and I have a vivid memory that supports my claim.

1. I am the 3rd of 9 children. I grew up in an awesome home with plenty of teasing and sufficient horseplay. After a sibling teased me or something unfortunate happened, my mom would watch my face and see the cogs click and turn in my brain; she could tell I was deciding whether to laugh or get mad. Almost undoubtedly I chose to get angry.

and

2. I had the seemingly rare opportunity (in today’s America) to grow up a stones-throw-away from my paternal grandparents. My siblings and I loved going to their small farm, and later, double wider. Grandpa let us pick rhubarb out of his garden, grandma gave us sugar wafers, and they hosted regular family picnics — red and white, checkered-table-cloth and all. My grandparents were loving, giving, and always present at important events; they were also teasers, especially my grandma. If my grandmother cracked a joke or poked fun at me, I would scrunch up my face and scowl at her. One day, after a trip to grandmas, my mom turned to me and said, “you know James, if you don’t stop acting like such a grouch, your grandma’s not going to like you anymore.”

I’m not sure my mom understands the profound effect that statement had on me. I didn’t want to be disliked by my OWN grandma, talk about uncool. From that point on, I made a conscious effort to laugh. That being said, it still came as a surprise to my parents when their four-year-old son, who said,  “when I turn five I ain’t going to school and I ain’t going to church neither,” was reported to be the class clown in Mrs. Douse’s kindergarten class.

I guess there is a hidden comic in everyone, even if the joke teller is the only one laughing.

This is us now (of course we are with Flavor Flav at a Halloween party), and then there is baby Claire in a new hat:

UNFUNNY HUSBAND MOMENT (One of these shall be at the end of every future post): One winter day, my pregnant wife, Rinda and I were driving home from Sunday dinner with my parents. It was cold; the heater was blasting; I let a stinky one. Rinda’s desire to stay warm was stronger than her desire to air out the car; the stink prevailed. Pregnant, emotional, she sobbed, “I can’t take it anymore, I can’t take this anymore.” It was sad and the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. I stifled my laughs.

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If you choose not to continue reading my blog because my first post has two fart jokes in it, I understand; the title of my blog warned you:
You Probably Won’t either (think I’m funny).

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