Alone on Opening Day

It’s 6:50 a.m. on opening day of trout season in Pennsylvania.  The temperatures, which started below freezing, are rising with each moment.   The sun peeks over the horizon, trying to scare off the morning haze.  

A few hundred yards away, pickup trucks stream into a crowded lot as scores of men in waders hurry about, preparing to partake in their opening day traditions. 

Yet, here I am standing up to my knees in the crystal-clear waters of one of the most renowned trout fisheries in the east, the Little Lehigh.  And I have the whole stretch of water to myself.  There isn’t a soul around.


Fire on the water:  Sunlight hits the mist on the Little Lehigh

It’s a little trick I learned a few years ago, rather by accident.  This stretch of the Little Lehigh, known for big wild trout, is fly fish, catch and release only.   It’s also open year round.  And crowded throughout the year, as well.  But on “opening day,” the local fishermen opt to fish on the water that’s been closed all winter, the stretch above the bridge by the parking lot -- ironically leaving the best fishing around untouched.

It works perfect for me.    

Any other day of the year, this hole would have three fisherman here at sunrise, and more with each hour that passes.  Yet today, I have it all to myself -- just me, the sun and the fish.

When you're alone on a river, like anytime its just you and nature, things happen, remarkable moments no one else would believe: A giant blue heron whoops past flapping its massive wings, a fish leaps chasing a hatching fly, and the morning sun sets the mist afire with a blaze.

I know this water pretty well.  It’s about ten minutes from my in-laws house in Allentown.   And every trip we make to visit, I spend mornings plying the Little Lehigh, trying to fool its notoriously stingy fish.   But I have rarely had it all to myself.

It stays mine alone for a few hours, as I float near-microscopic midges through the deep hole, pulling out a small Brown and a bigger Rainbow, and promptly putting them back.  When another fisherman finally wanders in and sets up shop across the stream from me, it’s almost time for me to go; time to get back to my wife and kids, who are almost certainly readying for lunch at my in-laws.

So I leave the hole and all its fish to the other fisherman.   Alone.   I sure hope he appreciates it.

Earrings 1, Dad 0

Earrings. Who knew such little things could cause so much trouble. And yet, they have.

In less than one week, my first born, my eldest daughter, my little girl will turn 10 years old. She wants nothing more in the world than to get her ears pierced.

Apparently, this is the age her mother got her own ears pierced, and what the two of them agreed is the allowable age for my daughter’s ears to get punctured and adorned. Here I thought we had agreed to 12, or even 18.  Rather, that’s what I wish we had agreed to.

Call me an oddball, a fashion-ignorant man in a world dominated by women (my world is, anyway). I just don’t get it.

I’m not judging. I know plenty of friends and relatives who got their baby’s ears pierced on the way home from the hospital. That’s their call, and frankly, I don’t even notice them.

But, with my little girls, I wanted them to wait.

Wait for what? Fair question.

I'd like to think my opinion is based on a general resistance to all the ways we tell our young daughters to become obsessed with their own beauty, to care about things like make-up and jewelry, and to succumb to all the pressure to be a real-life princess.

Maybe I had one too many sociology classes as an undergraduate. Maybe that darned liberal arts education made me question all the societal conventions that get forced on us from every direction, dictating our gender-specific roles, setting us on our pre-ordained paths, and molding us until we are American-Idol-watching, new-sneaker-buying, credit-card-using drones. Deep breath.

Maybe now that I’m a dad with three young daughters – and one son – I see it ever more clearly. Sure they come out a bit different – boys and girls. I never saw a 10-month-old throw a ball across a room until our boy did. But how much of the difference do we as a society force on them?

I remember the first bike we bought for our eldest. We had to choose between the black bikes with the Incredible Hulk and Spiderman on them, and the pink bikes with Barbie and Cinderella. Everything, from the moment they come out is divided into pinks and blues. Pink knit hats in the hospitals, blue swaddling clothes on the way home. Try to find green PJs for a baby. It's almost impossible. And that’s just the start. For goodness sake, even Legos are divided into boy Legos and girl Legos these days.

One of many Super Girls in our house.

And it comes at you from all directions. The other day, our younger daughter’s pre-school was having a dress-up day. Kids were told to come as Princesses or Super Heroes. It sounds innocent enough, until you think about it. We were so proud when our daughter decided on her own to go as Super Girl.

It makes sense. My wife comes from a family of strong, accomplished women. (Scottish too, so watch out). We’ve raised our daughters to be strong and confident, to know their worth, and to know they can do anything. We’ve taught them that they are smart, and capable, and so much more than just beautiful. 

Maybe that’s why the earrings are sticking in my craw so bad. Maybe I see it as a setback in our battle against a society that is pushing my girls to be a certain thing, to act a certain way. Maybe.

Or maybe I just don’t want to see my little girl grow up so fast. Maybe there are all these milestones in a kid’s life, from getting on the kindergarten bus for the first time to being dropped off at college, that are going to happen and there’s no way to slow them down. Our kids are going to grow up and get bigger and will even become adults someday. It can't be stopped. 

But this one can be. This one is on us.  

I know there are older parents with older kids who may read this and say, “Dude, really, it’s just earrings.” And they are right. They are just earrings.

Besides, Wonder Woman wears earrings and she's a super hero.

And in a few days, it’s going to happen. I will keep telling myself, it’s just earrings. And hopefully, in a few weeks, I won’t even notice them.



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What's Winter Break Without Smores?

Some lessons in life just have to be learned first-hand.  Like this one: It is never a good idea to use your gas stove top to toast marshmallows.

I know, it makes so much sense when you see it on paper.  But when the request comes out of the mouth of a five-year old -- “Can we toast marshmallows on the stove?” -- it sounds so darn cute and safe, how could anyone resist.

I think this requires a backstory.  So, here goes.

When I forcibly moved my wife from Washington, D.C., to Upstate New York eight years ago to be closer to my family, she agreed upon two conditions.   First, she wanted a new kitchen in the house we chose to buy.  Second, she made me swear that each winter we would take a trip to some place warm.  Florida, possibly. 

Eight years in, I am batting .500.  Wait … that math is wrong.  Yes, we got a new kitchen.  But, in those 8 years we have never been to Florida during the depths of winter.  That means I am really batting 1 for 9, or a lowly .111.

And each February break, my beloved wife reminds me of my winter vacation futility with the simple phrase: “You promised.”

In my defense, the mid-winter trip has yet to happen for good reason.  For the first few years, work just didn’t allow it.  There were also a few pregnant years thrown in, too.  And then, well, we ran out of money.  Now, I mean, who really wants to go on vacation with four screaming kids anyway.

Let’s just say, it just hasn’t worked out like we planned. 


Not our best parenting moment, but a memorable one

And thus, we have spent each February break since we moved to Upstate New York at our home, with our children, counting the days.

This year, to make things more bearable, we decided to liven up our annual staycation with a bit of hijinks.  We decided to pitch a tent in the living room and spend the night under the … well, under the living room ceiling.  And so we did. 

The kids loved it.  They loved it even more than the few times we’ve actually been camping.

It was all fine and good until someone came up with the bright idea of toasting marshmallows on the gas stove.  I mean, nobody got burned.  So, in that sense, it was a success. 

But we had several instances where the fire extinguisher’s trigger was mere seconds from being pulled. Then there were the bits of smoldering, dripping, black marshmallow all over the stove.  And let’s not forget that the final toasted marshmallow creations tasted, in a word, like “gas.”

The consensus is that next February, once the tent is set up, we’ll have to make a small fire in the living room … or we could just go to Florida.

Two-asouraus Rex

When you take a two-year-old boy to church, you fully expect you’ll be forced to take him outside at some point to stop him from disturbing the pious masses. Most dads relish the chance. 

But the opposite is expected when you take that same child to a world-renowned honkytonk, biker bar and barbeque joint. If anything, a better guess is that you’ll have to take said child outside to protect him from the hijinks inside the bar. Clearly, nothing he could do would possibly disturb such a rowdy, boisterous and well-tattooed crowd.

And yet, today, I found myself in the vestibule of the Dinosaur Barbeque pleading with my two-year-old to stop crying so the bikers and biker-wannabes inside could enjoy their well-smoke animal parts in peace. 

He was having none of it. He wanted a chocolate milk and he wanted it yesterday. That the waitress knew of his need and was working diligently to locate and mix the milk and the chocolate didn’t matter. Chocolate Milk! Chocolate Milk! Was all he could think to scream.

Is your two-year-old too rowdy for famed biker bar?
Yes.  Yes he is.

Of course, once the chocolate milk found its way to the table and the straw into his mouth, he stopped crying. And the bulky, leather-clad patrons went back to picking the meat out of their teeth with rib bones and chasing it down with pints.

That is until the boy found a more creative way to disturb all those within smelling distance of his bottom. Who ordered the number 2. Nobody did, that’s who.

And, as planned, his diaper bag was left in the car. So, it was back through the vestibule and out to the van with him, where I did a front seat diaper change. 

I felt worst for the scores of people outside waiting for a table -- our impromptu changing station within plain view of them all. I’m sure each one of them was glad when I got him cleaned up, re-diapered and back inside.

Once our food arrived, it occupied the boy for all of two minutes – which apparently is just enough time for me to scarf down a traditional combo platter.

With the boy’s fries gone, however, he was simply done with the place. He displayed his opinion by throwing gloves and socks at other customers and saying “go home” repeatedly. And, just like at church, I was forced to take him outside again to wait for the rest of the family to finish service. 

Sometimes, it might just be easier to eat at home. Take out, anyone?

Hot, Cold, Hot, Cold, Sweaty

If this January has taught us anything, it’s that snow beats mud, anyday.

This month we've seen both ridiculously cold and unseasonably hot weather.  With the cold, hot, cold, hot cycle, I finally know what my wife feels like in the car.  It’s not fun.  She’s right – it is uncomfortable.
  


Cool snow fort with tunnel entrance
that even Dad could squeeze through.
Status: Melted.

We’ve made the most of things, from a family leisure perspective, not sure when the next deep freeze or spring thaw will hit.  We’ve gone sledding, of course, and built giant snowmen, and gone ice skating – once at the downtown rink and once on a natural pond. We made a radically cool snow fort, with tunnel entrance.  And next to that, we put in the first few rows of an Igloo.   Of course, that construction took place two days before a heat wave, so all we have are the memories.

Among other lessons, I learned that building an igloo is really hard. If I needed to build one for survival, I’d be dead.  

More importantly, I’ve learned that my kids really love winter, and all the fun stuff we get to do around here for just a few months each year.  Between December and February, we expect it to be cold and to snow.  We want it to happen.

We just can’t take this warm winter weather.
 
And yes, to those shaking their heads in disbelief, it has been warm here in Syracuse.  Despite the reputation, Syracuse isn’t the coldest place on earth.  Just the snowiest.   And when it warms up for a few days, like it has done everywhere in the Northeast repeatedly this January, all our beautiful snow melts and becomes – mud.  And that makes us all realize even more how much we prefer a cold winter to a mild one.  Because mud sucks.

Think about it:  You can’t make a mud man, you can’t have a mud ball fight and you can’t go mud sledding, not without ruining your clothes.  The only time mud performs better than snow is when it comes to building shelter.  I’m certain a mud thatch hut would be easier to build than an igloo.  But we are not about to take the kids out in the yard to build a mud hut.  For one thing, while even a partial igloo can make one the envy of the neighborhood, a mud house would likely mean a visit from the code enforcement officer.

So this warm weather has us stuck inside, waiting for an Arctic blast to set us free.

We wait.  And we wait.  Today it’s January 29th, and it’s 40 degrees out.  Tomorrow, the high might break 60.  Ugh.

Nobody is happy about it here.   The only good news: Snow in the forecast.

Fish, I View

When I started this blog I promised not to write too much about fly fishing.  I promised myself, anyway.  I even joke about it in the heading of this blog, saying no one really enjoys reading about fishing.   But that’s not really true.  For one, I like to read about fly fishing.   In fact, of the three magazines that come to our house with my name on the address, two are dedicated to the pursuit of fish – Trout magazine and American Angler, the fly fishing authority.   The third is National Geographic.  I know, kind of cliché, but I like it.

The real challenge in writing about fishing is that, for some reason, almost all the best writers in the history of the world liked to catch fish with a fly rod, and it seems each took the time to write about it.  For me, writing about fly fishing is an intimidating endeavor.

But for some reason, I feel compelled. 

The desire to do so struck at an odd time.  Over the holiday break, I was taking a moment to process the year that just past, looking at all the photos of my children taken on my phone.  Seeing my kids as they went through the seasons, growing a bit with each frame, was bittersweet – a strange, aching kind of joy that all parents know.  Precious moments, frozen in time, but gone forever.   As has been said by every adult with children in their lives, they just grow up too fast. 

Amongst the many picture of my kids, about every ten photos or so, I found a photo of a trout.  Looking at the fish as the seasons changed, that was a lot easier.   And they too, change with the season – leaner in the spring, plumper in the summer, more colorful in the fall, more sleek in the winter.  (I don't take a lot of pictures of the fish I catch, and usually only break out the camera phone for a very colorful one, or the occasional lunker).

Plump little brown caught in May.
Loved the color on this fish.

As I savored all the memories made with my kids, I thought too about all the time I spent out on a river or a local stream in the past year, seeking these fish, and when luck would have it, bringing them to the net and then releasing them.  Cold early mornings, lazy weekends, the occasional summer afternoon, moments when the pressure of work and home receded for a bit, and I was able to just be. 

Some people I know wonder why I spend so much time standing up to my waist in cold water, fiddling with invisible line and accidently pricking myself on occasion with tungsten steel hooks, only to return the fruits of my labor to the water in which I found them.   There is a simple answer, and it’s not because I need fish.  I fly fish because I love the art of catching them.

And, I do it whenever I can. Which still isn't enough. Usually, it’s squeezed around the edges of regular life – before the world wakes up, or when the wife and kids are doing something else, or the rare occasions when the lawn is mowed, everyone is content, and there are no work deadlines in sight.  I joke that someday I’m going to write a book about the great lengths people like me go to get their fishing fix.  The working title, “The Other Woman is a Trout.”

Rainbow brought to net in September

The allure of fly fishing is easy to understand.   But the true joy of the sport is almost impossible to sum up.  Maybe that’s why so many better writers than me have spilt considerable ink writing about it.  For me, though, the joy is in the supreme challenge of it all – a challenge that is ever changing.  Sun, wind, water temperature, flow, clouds, time of day, season, all are variables in constant flux.  No two days are alike, no two moments are alike.  And each one presents new challenges and potential rewards.

To catch fish with a fly, you have to do your best to understand nature.  You have to become an insect.  You have to think like a fish.  You have to observe, and learn, and change.  And when it works, and that elusive trout sips your little bug off the surface of the water and tightens your line, you get your reward:  the heart pounds, adrenalin surges, your mind celebrates, and then focuses on not snapping the leader as the fish begins to fight.   Because, getting the trout to take is often just half the battle.  Maybe two-thirds, but there is work to be done.

Beautiful Brookie, took big fall streamer

And for some reason, the very second that the fish is taken off the hook, admired, and released, your whole being wants to catch another.  It’s relaxing and addicting all at once.  It teaches patience and problem solving.  It delivers calms and demands focus, like yoga combined with chess, all on a river -- with cool gear to boot.

On good days, when everything is working, and you are thinking like a fish and acting like a bug just right, it can be beautiful.   On those days, as time ticks by, and life and responsibility beckon, you can't help but think, just one more fish.

 

It’s beautiful, too, when it doesn’t work just right.  Standing in a river, surrounded by nature, trying to solve the problem in front of you.  Frustrating, but beautiful.  And on those bad days, when nothing's working, you keep telling yourself just one more cast.  Even as time passes and your need to get back home encroaches, you can’t help but think it again and again, just one more cast.

Me, holding a 18-plus inch Rainbow.
Of course, it was dusk so you can't
see the fish. You'll have to trust me.

As I think about it, there is a deeper reason I love fly fishing.  For me, it is about slowing the world down just a bit, stopping time and doing something pure, if only for a moment.  And, while my wife has no interest in the sport, I can’t wait until my kids are old enough to truly enjoy it too – if they choose.  If they do, and if we go fishing together, I can’t imagine what if anything will force us off the river, short of the setting sun.

But, for now, all I have to show the world from the many hours I've spent pretending to be a bug and thinking like a trout, is a few photos on my phone, scattered among the photos of my beautiful children.  And that will have to do just fine.     
  

Et tu, Legos?

I love Legos.  Correction:  I love old-school, random piece, let-your-imagination-go Legos. The new-style of heavily-engineered, piece specific, commercialized Lego packs, I could live without.

Don’t get me wrong.  I truly enjoyed building the Lego Friends Café© with my 6 year old daughter this Christmas.  It was a quality hour-plus of child parent bonding and building, including a stretch of time I spent alone cursing the microscopic plastic cutlery while she ate lunch.  When we finished, the family adored our creation, and my daughter played with it pretending to be the waitress.  And when her younger sister joined in, she moved up to the café owner, and the younger one became the waitress. 

Lego Friends Cafe - note the missing front railing and the
paultry amount of flowers in the window box.  

The whole Friends Café fun – construction to grand opening -- was a lesson in engineering, hard-work, cooperation and, apparently, growing a small business.  All with minimal creativity required (other than the imaginary play part). 

Then, of course, our 2 year-old decided to do his Godzilla impersonation. Lego people screaming.  Café parts everywhere. Total construction/play/destruction time: two and a half hours.   Eventually, we cleaned up and put all the Café pieces back in the general population Lego bin, a collection we’ve been growing for a few years. 

The next day my daughter wanted to build it again.  And we tried.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find some of the pieces.  I know they’re in there, somewhere.  Still, it was only a few days since we got the Lego Friends Café package set from Santa.  And parts have already escaped.  A year from now, I’m sure the Café will have gone the way of the Lego Cottage we got a few years ago, never to be built again due to specific missing pieces and lost directions.

And these cafes and cottages are the easy ones.  The Lego aisle at the local toy store has a whole host of ridiculously engineered, pre-fab Lego fun – many of these sets mysteriously packaged in pinks or blues.  There’s the Lego Star Wars, the Lego Ninjago, the Lego Harry Potter, the Lego City series, more Lego Friends … it goes on and on.  And all have intricate specific pieces designed to serve only a single Lego purpose.  But what happens to the Hogwarts castle after it’s built.  Do you display it somewhere?  Hopefully, some place out of reach of the children.

When did Legos become like this?  And what happened to the old Legos?  Remember them?  Back then, we used random blocks to build random structures.  We didn’t care that the house we built didn’t have a flower box, or shutters, or shingles even.  It was a house we imagined and we created.  And we certainly didn’t care that the Lego people we built didn’t have utensils.

Now, most Legos are just disassembled toy models.  Really disassembled.  And once painstakingly put together, you can’t play with them, because if you do they will break and you will lose a critical piece.   

Well, this year, I saw all this coming.  I had an inclination Santa was going to get our kids a well-engineered Lego set with great specificity and limited future creative worth.  So I also found and bought the kids a pack of 650 regular old Lego pieces, called the Lego Creative Building Kit. It has lots of colors and shapes, with a few wheels and a handful funky pieces, but all are versatile and none have any specific, pre-ordained Lego fate.

Ahh. That's more like it. Lego animals created, then caged. 

And guess what, the kids love them.   My eldest daughter has spent countless hours playing with the plain Legos – far more than the pre-designed ones.  She has built cars, houses, people.  She even built really cool animals.  Then, of course, she built a zoo to house them (sorry, PETA). 

All the kids have played with the plain old Legos far more than the Friends Café set.   And it cost about a third as much.

I’m sure the people at Legos will keep engineering, awesomely complex new designs.  And we will keep buying them.  But at least, after each is built and destroyed never to be constructed again, we will have some regular, old-school Legos to fill the void.

The Santa Debate: To Wrap or Not to Wrap?

Ah, traditions. You know, Christmas is a time for many things. And all families celebrate the holidays a little bit differently. Some of these differences are small, and some are, as the kids say, ginormous. This is a fact you become acutely aware of once you get married. 

At first, the differences in our household were minor, like whether to use white mini-lights or big multi-colored lights; when to go to church (Christmas Eve or Christmas Day); and whether to eat turkey or ham for Christmas dinner.

But the real humdinger of a difference came along once the kids were born and Santa started stopping by our house each Christmas Eve. It was then I realized the Christmas-celebrating world is divided into two distinct camps: Those for whom Santa wraps the gifts he leaves behind, and those for whom he doesn’t. (Bear with me, my kids read this blog). 

To wrap or not to wrap, that is the great Christmas debate. And I am a proud to say that I was raised as a member of the no wrap club. Over time, I learned this puts me in the minority. In fact, I am sure there are some people reading this blog right now who never heard of anyone who got unwrapped gifts from Santa. Well, now you have. And we are just like you.

See.  See everyone.  Unwrapped toys. 
I rest my case. ... Mic Drop.

On Christmas morning growing up, my brothers and sisters and I would wake early and run for the tree to find toys, roller skates, and big wheels scattered around the living room in little, neat child-distinct piles.  Hopefully, not too little. Under the tree were all the wrapped gifts, from our grandparents, our aunts and uncles, and a few from our parents, which had all been accumulating there throughout the month and would be opened later in the day. But Santa’s gifts were just out there, unencumbered by wrapping paper and ready to be enjoyed. And we loved it, looking around that room at our gifts from Santa and taking in everything our siblings got, as well. Pure joy.

Now granted, I was one of eight kids, and it has been argued to me by some members of the “wrapped Santa gift” majority that maybe Santa was just too tired to wrap all the gifts for our brood. Or maybe he was just lazy in general. (Careful now!  I know what you're really saying.)

As shocking as it may be to some, there exists a whole population of families for whom Santa does not wrap his gifts. Don’t believe me. Start asking around.  You could also just look at pictures of the back of Santa’s sleigh or his bag if you need hard evidence. Notice how half the gifts are unwrapped?

Well, as it happens, my wife came from a wrapped family. And, thus, as Santa's first visit to our house neared, after our eldest child was born, our household's first real Christmas tradition clash ensued. Now, I am a reasonable person -- I like to think so, anyway. And there are many things on which there is room for compromise. The wrapped vs. unwrapped debate is not one of them. Luckily, I convinced my wife it was the better, and easier, way to go. 

So, when Santa comes by our house this Christmas Eve, he will be leaving the wrapped gifts in the sleigh. And when the kids wake up, they will find around the tree toys, dolls and cars, unwrapped and unencumbered, in a few little child-distinct piles. But hopefully, not too little.

(Let me know if you too are from the unwrapped minority.  We must stick together.)



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Roger Daltrey's Chest vs. Kanye West's Skirt

Every once in a while, something happens to remind you, beyond any reasonable doubt, that you're getting old.  It happened for me rather acutely while watching the 12/12/12 concert for Sandy relief.

Don't get me wrong. It was a phenomenal concert for a great cause, that made me proud to be a New Yorker and thankful for all I have.  But something in particular about it made me feel old.  Like, really old.

It wasn’t when all the cool, brash rockers of my formative years took the stage one-by-one looking wrinkled and worn and hobbled by time.  It wasn’t when I took a moment with each to look them up on Wikipedia, as they worked their way on stage without assistance, to see their actual ages … 67, 68, 69, 70.  And it wasn’t even when my 9-year-old daughter said, as Roger Daltrey’s shirt came unbuttoned, that he looked pretty fit for a grandpa.


Roger Daltrey strips down to Oldies but Goodies.

All those things could have made anyone of my vintage feel a bit old (and out of shape).  But it didn’t.  Seeing all of them hop, and jam, and do windmills on their guitars made me think maybe 70 is the new 40.  Which would make me like a teenager.

No.  Reality crashed the party when Kanye West took the stage and started “playing” music.  And all I heard was noise.  It hit me:  this must be the same noise my grandparents heard when the generation before mine started listening to those crazy English chaps.

I turned to my daughter, sounding like a Jackie Gleason character, and asked, “What is this junk?”  She stared at the television, purposely ignoring me so I didn’t tell her again that she was up past her bedtime.  But I didn’t care about bedtimes anymore.  I was obsessed with the infernal noise.

“Do you listen to this stuff?” I continued.  And she continued to stare.  As each noise-filled song ended, another one would begin.  I kept waiting for a song I enjoyed.  I mean,  he's had four number 1 albums and he's sold 30 million digital downloads, which I think is a lot.  He must play something I'll enjoy. 

Then I thought, maybe it was not him that was the problem.  Maybe it was me.  And that's when I decided to do something about it.

I hit mute.

At that very moment I realized exactly how old I am, or at least how old I am becoming.  Not on the outside, mind you, but on the inside.  On the outside I’m not all that old, relatively speaking.  But on the inside, I am ancient to the core.  And I’m not terribly hip, either -- although that was well established before.

So, what can I do about it?  Well, I have decided to embrace it.  It just seems like the old-person-type thing to do. 

Yes, I admit it: I like The Who better than Kanye West -- and always will.  And yes, I’m going to yell upstairs to my kids to turn that racket down when they play it, and I might even hit the ceiling with a broom.  And yes, when I have the chance, when I see an opening, when the opportunity presents itself, I’m going to hit mute.

If that makes me old, so be it.

It Ain't Christmas Till the Fluffy Guy Sings

What’s the single most celebrated Christmas decoration at our house?  

 

The tree, you might surmise.  Or maybe the stockings?  A valiant guess.   Could it be one of the two hand-carved wooden nativity sets we humbly display?  Or perhaps it’s one of the many decorative nutcrackers that have been a staple gift from Santa to the kids over the years?  (The big guy tries to mix in a few wooden, traditional toys).

 

Surely, one of those holiday standouts that we parents hold in such high regard has become the favorite of our offspring, forming a foundation for fond memories of Christmases past.  Certainly, it’s one of these titans of the holiday décor realm that causes the children to clap, parade and dance each year as it is revealed and ceremoniously displayed.  

 

But, no.

 

Based on our childrens’ collective reaction to the mix of various traditional garb and accumulated holiday tchotchke that we scatter through the house for little more than a month each year, the Christmas decoration they get most excited about is a bit less traditional, a little less wholesome, and not exactly an heirloom (yet).   It’s an oddball, really.

 

But without a doubt, their favorite is the piano-playing Singing Snowman.   Hit it.   

 

 

 

That’s right.  Each year I haul down no less than four ginormous boxes, each filled to the brim with garland, ornaments and heirloom-worthy trinkets.  These items, some meticulously wrapped, are unveiled one-by-one, with trembling anticipation and utmost care by us parents, each to be placed on the tree, or the mantle, or the coffee table or another easily visible flat surfaces.  And each year, as we partake in this annual tradition, with boxes half empty and newspaper wrappings scattered about our entire first floor, the question begins.

 

"Dad, where’s the Signing Snowman?"

 

A nervous silence falls over the room.  Then comes the sound of newspapers rustling as the children overturn the paper wrappings, dive into the boxes and scour the partly-decorated landscape.  Their voices eventually crest, in a high pitched whimper, “Where is he?”

This year, the Singing Snowman was actually missing.   He was nowhere to be found, not in any of the giant boxes, nor the accompanying bags.

 

He must've gotten lost on packing-away-Christmas-junk day last year.  But how?  Did he hide out and find his way to the basement toy repository?  Did he end up with the Easter box?  Or, did I subconsciously discard our fluffy little Liberace?  Did I bag him up “accidentally” with the yearly Christmas garbage, a collection of boxes, wrapping paper and tiny plastic harnesses used to keep dolls in their packaging, and take him to the curb?   Could I do such a thing – even subconsciously.  (Yes.  Yes I could.)

 

But, alas.  I didn’t.

 

Finally, in the attic, behind one of the box of retired décor – the one I consolidated on a particularly ambitious January day a few years ago and have refused to move since – the Signing Snowman was found.

 

Thank goodness.  Christmas can happen again.  And the children can sing, dance and parade around to a bad rendition of "Let It Snow."