Tag Archives: MJ

Of Purkle Cats & Fleeting Childhood Moments

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“I see PURKLE CAT looking at me, dada!”

I must’ve read Eric Carle’s book, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? about 10,000 times when Will was little. We both knew it by heart, and Will loved to name all the animals even before I turned the page. But of all the blue horses, yellow ducks, and black sheep in the book, nothing could top the purkle cat for Will.

As I’m sure you’ve figured out, it’s a purple cat. But for some reason, Will couldn’t pronounce purple for the longest time, so he said “purkle” instead.

At first it was cute. Hell, who doesn’t love the weird toddler language all our kids seem to speak? As kids learn the first few keys to language, there’s something to be said for being able to understand them and serve as a translator for relatives who have absolutely no idea what their babble means. Whether it’s “pasketti” (spaghetti) or any of these cute kid mispronunciations, it’s a part of the journey to which nearly all of us can relate.

But Will was my first and I was more interested in the destination back then.

After the first few “purkle” cats, I was done with the cuteness. I wanted Will’s words to be said clearly and correctly, and I must’ve said “No buddy, PUR-PULL. Can you say PUR-PULL??” enough times to bring both of us to tears. And there were tears. The purkle cat became a battle in the war of bedtime story aggression — a bone of contention instead of a point of shared interest.

Eventually he got it right, and I remember celebrating. I actually ran out to tell MJ he finally said purple while declaring parental victory and silently awarding myself Literary Father of the Year. But I was confused (and more than a little pissed) at her reaction, which was one of dismay.

“Awwwww, that’s too bad,” she said. “I kind of liked purkle.”

I found Brown Bear again while looking for some books for Sam. I smiled a bit as I thumbed through it, and then I came to the purple cat. But instead of reliving (what I thought at the time was) a victorious moment of reading comprehension, I cringed. I realized I missed purkle cat, and recalled him with fond memories instead of frustration. So I took it to Will to rekindle a little nostalgia.

“Hey pal, do you remember this book?” I said with a smile. “Specifically, do you remember this guy?”

Will looked quizzically at the page with his former feline friend, and gave me a disinterested shrug.

“Oh c’mon. I read this to you every night for 18 months. And you used to get so excited when I flipped to this page and you’d shout ‘PURKLE CAT!’ over and over.”

And then he looked at me and dropped the hammer.

“Purkle?” Will said with a disdainful look. “Why would I say purkle? That’s wrong. It’s a purple cat. Purkle sounds silly.”

He’s right, purkle was silly. But it was also kind of wonderful. I’ve said before I don’t lament my kids growing up, and that’s still true. However, I do regret the times I’ve pushed that progress unnecessarily, and failed to enjoy what’s right in front of my face. I regret prematurely sending the purkle cat into the litterbox of forgotten childhood whimsy.

Sam’s words come slower and later than his older brother’s. I’d be lying if I said that hasn’t been a source of concern and consternation. But you know what? The words will come. Some will come easily and accurately, and others will result in hilarious mispronunciation.

When the latter happens, I’ll greet Sam’s purkle cats with the wisdom of hindsight and the appreciation only experience brings. After all, he has his whole life to be right and only moments, it seems, to be young.

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The Wintry Blanket of Depression

depression

“Are you OK?”

This is the dumbest question to ask her. First of all, she always say she’s fine. Always. Without fail. But the real reason it’s a terrible question is because I already know she’s not fine. I’ve known it for a couple of months. I just haven’t wanted to face it, so I accepted the falsity of fine.

Much like our region has been covered in snow since January, winter dark and dreary has blanketed her. But blanket gradually turned to noose, as icy fingers wrapped around her neck and squeezed. Depression’s choke-hold isn’t new around these parts, it’s just making an unwelcome return. A return neither of us wants to face after so many good years. A return that already feels all too endless.

I swear everything might improve if this winter would just fucking end.

It’s not just a metaphor, it’s an embodiment. A self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s being covered with 100 inches of snow — that’s eight feet of misery — in a series of storms that left no time to catch our breath, nevermind recover. One after the other, sucker punch after body blow, until energies are sapped and spirits are doused.

It’s so important to not only walk a path, but to know it’s there. To know it’s accessible when you need it.

We shoveled our steps, walkway, and driveway more times than I can count. Sometimes three or four times during the same storm. She always asked me why I kept going out to shovel, why I didn’t just wait until all the snow had fallen and then clear it. I never gave her a clear answer, but I know it’s because I wanted her to always see the path. Whenever she felt like escaping, I wanted her to be able to find a way. To see the way out at all times. So shovel I did, repeatedly and painstakingly, again and again.

But the snow wouldn’t stop. And then came the ice.

It hardens and crusts over, yet it’s slippery as hell. It starts at the edges and it creeps in. Slowly but inevitably. Soon the path narrows as the ice expands. You try to beat it back but more snow falls. Then the cold. Then more ice. And then the path is gone. Well, not gone. But it’s iced over and now you’re treading on glass. Slipping. Falling. Looking for a foothold that was just there yesterday, but today is no more. Suddenly, staying inside and never coming out seems much easier. Appealing, even.

And that’s when it has her.

After it’s worn her down, covered up her escape route, and made every movement a hazard that’s fraught with disaster. After it’s trapped her in one place and separated her from the outside world. That’s when it moves in for the kill.

“Hey, I can see the ground in places.”

There is always a thaw. That’s awfully tough to keep in mind when you’re frozen and hardened and tired, but it’s true. When you haven’t seen the ground in months, you start to wonder if it’s still there.  But it is. It’s there.

There is always a way to battle and to persevere. We chip away at the ice with metal spades and clear the snow with shovels. We take back what’s ours an inch at a time. The meds are mental ice melt, but that only goes so far. She has to know the sun will shine again soon, and she has to trust it will make the tundra recede. What’s good will once again be unlocked and enjoyed, the path will widen, and she’ll walk down it unimpeded.

“I’m fine,” she answers. “I’ll be fine now.”

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The Unfortunate Results of Overprotective Parenting

“Hey mom and dad, can I start walking the dog on the dirt road to do an extra chore and get a little more allowance?”

It was a perfectly reasonable question from my son, who is turning 7 in a couple of weeks. We live in a small suburban town where both my wife and I grew up. We are friendly with most of the neighbors, with one glaring exception. In order to walk the dog, he’d have to cross one quiet side street in front of our house and then walk on a dirt road with only one house on it. He’d be out of sight for a bit but still within shouting distance. In my mind it was a win-win because he’d learn the value of hard work and taking initiative, and he’d be getting some exercise to boot.

Which is why it’s ridiculously unfortunate we had to tell him no.

Why? Because as my wife pointed out, “I’m fine with it, but we can’t do it because someone will see him alone and call the cops. We’ll end up battling Child Protective Services just for letting him walk the dog by himself.”

I wanted to argue with her and tell her she was being silly, but I couldn’t. Because unfortunately, this is where we’re at when it comes to overprotective parenting in 2015.

Don’t believe me? Just ask the single working mom who was arrested for letting her 9-year-old play at a nearby park while she worked because she couldn’t afford childcare. Or Tammy Cooper, the Texas mom arrested after a neighbor told police she was neglecting her kids simply because they were outside on scooters. If you need something more recent, there’s the Maryland couple charged with “unsubstantiated child neglect” (whatever that’s supposed to mean) after doing nothing more than allowing their two children, 10 and 6, to walk home one mile from the park unsupervised.

Yet letting kids fire Uzis which results in a tragic death? Totally allowed and the parents are free from legal blame. Have fun trying to figure out that “logic.” But I digress.

As a child of the 80s/early 90s who grew up with the freedom to ride bikes around town unsupervised until the streetlights came flickering to life, I’m mystified as to where we went wrong and deviated so far off course. But then I read the online comments from said overprotective parents, and the answer is suddenly very apparent.

It’s all about fear and misinformation.

Without fail, when discussing this with other parents who disagree, I’ll see someone write “Well times have changed and the world isn’t as safe as it was back then.” Ironically, they’re not all wrong. Times have changed and the level of safety is not the same as it was in the supposed good old days. Want to know why? Because the world is a safer place in 2015.

Yes, that’s right. Statistically speaking, the data shows we are living in a much safer world than 20+ years ago.

Between 1993 and 2012, violent crime in the US declined by 48%, according to the FBI Uniform Crime Reports. Homicides fell by 51% and forcible rape was down by more than one-third. Furthermore, crimes against children specifically have declined since 2003. According to the University of New Hampshire Crimes Against Children Research Center, physical assault against children ages 2-17 was down 33%, while instances of attempted and completed rape declined by 43% between 2003-2011.

And if you want to focus on kidnappings, the Polly Klaas Foundation – a national nonprofit dedicated to the recovery of missing children – found there are only 100 stereotypical “stranger abductions” each year, in which a child is plucked off the street by an unknown person. There is a higher chance of kids being abducted by family members or acquaintances, according to the foundation’s website.

In fact, if you’re really worried about the safety of kids, you shouldn’t let them ride in a car. Or swim in a pool. Because more children die in car accidents and drownings than are kidnapped by strangers.

I used to simply shake my head at the overprotective parents of the world and go on raising my kids the way my wife and I think is best. But this incident has made me realize that’s not always possible.

We’ve moved beyond good Samaritans rescuing babies left in hot cars and scooping up toddlers who have found their way out of houses and are playing near traffic. Those kinds of things are not the problem, and are in fact expected as members of the human race. Too many kids are suffering real, terrible abuse and that must never be allowed to continue. However, the irrational fear of the way other people parent and the willingness to alert the authorities simply for disagreeing with a parenting style other than their own, is also a genuine concern.

The Maryland parents know their kids best and know they’re capable of walking to the park alone, just as I know my son can handle walking the dog by himself. But the bottom line is that no longer matters, because the way other people parent is now directly impacting my ability to raise my children how I see fit. Because if parents 300 miles from me can be charged simply for letting their kids walk to and from the park, it is not a stretch to think the same thing could happen if my son walks the dog alone.

Unfortunately, our lives could be turned instantly upside down with one phone call from someone who simply disagrees with how we parent. That’s not right, and that scares me. It should scare all of us.

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The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt Is a Role Model

unbreakable-kimmy-schmidt

The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt is a new show on Netflix. And it is freaking spectacular.

Seeing that it’s co-written by Tina Fey, I had a feeling it’d be great. But I underestimated how wonderful, funny, smart, silly, and simultaneously uplifting it would be. You see, Kimmy was part of a cult for 15 years and spent that time in an underground bunker with her sister-wives. Then one day she was freed by the authorities, and despite being completely out of touch with modern living, she joined the world.

Does she have issues and some life turbulence? Oh yeah. But remarkably, she never uses her past and what happened to her as an excuse. Instead, she moves to New York City and decides to find her own path no matter what.

I couldn’t help but think of my fundamentally awesome wife, who is her own version of unbreakable.

My wife is an amazing person. And while Kimmy climbs out of a literal hole to rejoin the world, my wife constantly has to scratch and claw her way out of the metaphorical hole of mental illness and depression. When MJ could no longer work as a bank manager due to her condition, I feared for the worst. Here was a workaholic, Type A, career-driven woman who suddenly finds herself unable to work, saddled with depression, and a baby to take care of while I was working my job.

But just like Kimmy Schmidt, MJ reinvented herself.

She didn’t have much of a plan and the odds were against her, but with persistence she did it. And just like Kimmy, she had help from a few friends (Tituss, Jacqueline, and Lillian are hysterical in the show). My wife found her way as a TERRIFIC stay-at-home mom. It’s not a role she envisioned for herself early on, but she rolled with the punches and eventually found what makes her happy.

You can continue to watch our lives unfold here on this blog, but visit Netflix to enjoy watching The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt and get inspired to reinvent yourself as well.

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If your little ones want to be similarly inspired, check out these great movies on Netflix.

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  1. Turbo
  2. Antz
  3. Mulan

For the adults, here are some of my favorite movies where characters reinvent themselves.

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  1. The Hunger Games: Catching Fire
  2. Chef
  3. Silver Linings Playbook

StreamTeamBadgeI was compensated by Netflix for writing this post. Although I did not receive monetary compensation, I received free Netflix for a year and an iPad Mini. However, as always, my opinions are 100% my own. Check out Netflix on Facebook.

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Where Parents and Serial Killers Meet

Sam had his first haircut this morning. Goodbye curly mullet locks of baby blonde cuteness, hello to him looking 10 years old in minutes.

Such is life when you have young ones. 

When the hairdresser began cutting, she turned to us and asked if we wanted to keep some of the hair. My initial reaction was to laugh, but before I could say or do anything my wife gave an enthusiastic yes. So we took it.

When we got home, MJ immediately went to the bookshelf and took out a Daddy Files book my brother put together for me as a gift. She opened it up and I was floored at what I saw.

More hair. Specifically, the hair from Will’s first haircut. And that’s when I worried we might have bypassed eccentric and crossed into creepy. 

What’s the plan with the hair and teeth we parents save? What will we do with them? What’s the end game? Because honestly, it made me feel like we had a little too much in common with some very bad people.

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