Ask and ye shall receive IV

And here we are for another installment of Ask and ye shall receive.  (See Part I, Part II, and Part III)

Wow, you people really want to know about Kate Gosselin’s hair, don’t you? I hope you’re not printing out photos and taking them with you to your next hair appointment. It’s also thrilling to see my own name being searched for as well as Chuck Bass, Edward Cullen and Oscar Mayer. (Anyone looking for them on this blog will be thoroughly disappointed. Anyone looking for me? Here I am, Internet!)

1. Zac Efron coming down stairs

This is a no Zac Efron fly zone. Move along.

2. Dips men love

Dips…how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I’ll be sharing more recipes with you soon but for now, make yourself your man a vat of this. STAT.

3. Has one had their sofa not fit in one’s door

Yes, one has had that problem and one was prepared to throw a royal tantrum if one could not get their sofa through the door. One would recommend measuring before moving in. If one’s husband decides not to and says it will be fine and it’s not, one believes it’s perfectly acceptable grounds for divorce. (One should expect to get the sofa in the divorce settlement.)

4. Playhouse for my kid

Was there anything better than playing pretend when you were a kid? Sometimes we used boxes as a house but more often than not, we draped blankets over chairs or just simply didn’t put up any roof and just got on with it. But kids these days…they want things. They want those $6000 playhouses. What happened to the old’ “Here’s a cardboard box. Go play” attitude?

If that seems too sensible mean, buy them this eco-friendly cardboard playhouse which they can paint and color on. They’ll love it and you can throw it out when they get bored of it.

Though I suppose you could move into the $6000 playhouse when you can’t make payments on your real house.

5. How to get laid in high school

Why are you looking at me?!

So when are you having kids?

I slept terribly on Sunday night. I woke up several times even though I was so very tired after staying out too late and drinking entirely too many cocktails for Scott’s 30th.

I kept having these strange dreams involving a baby crying. The first time I woke up, I sensed that Scott was awake too and we murmured to each other about the baby crying.

But it wasn’t a baby crying at all. It wasn’t a little girl screaming either (thank God, that was terrifying there for a minute). The screeching and whining continued.

We realized there were a couple of foxes just outside our window.

The noise went on for hours. I drifted in and out of sleep and when I did sleep, a baby always showed up in my dreams. It was downright creepy.

Turns out Scott was having similar dreams and we both went to work feeling slightly weirded out. (Why do so many scary movies involve a creepy little girl?)

Anyway, this whole baby-crying-thing got me thinking.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been asked if we’re having kids. People always ask “When are you having kids?” And when I shrug and say “in a few years”, they smile and move on to the next subject.

Recently, when asked, I have said, “I’m not sure if we will.”

And they always look so surprised and sad and full of follow-up questions. I’d like to think it’s because they think we’d be great parents but I think it’s more of a surprise because it’s taboo to say you don’t want children. Everyone wants to be a mother. It’s natural. It’s what we’re here for.

I’m not saying I don’t want to have children. I am just saying I don’t know if we will. This was probably not the best reply to my mother after she asked if Scott wanted a baby for his 30th birthday.

While Scott and I are not always on the same page, we’re usually in the same chapter. I knew Scott didn’t want a baby for his birthday. I knew I wouldn’t be giving him a baby for his birthday if he had wanted one.  See, same book at least.

My mom followed her birthday suggestion with the “when are you having kids?” question. My answer is I don’t know. There are no plans except the “not any time soon” plan.

But that never seems like enough for people because I am constantly met with these:

Don’t you want kids?

I always thought I did. I always pictured them in my future. But the older I get, the more I think I don’t feel that strongly about having them. I might feel differently in a couple of years.

Do you like kids?

Yes, I love them. I have been a camp counselor, a preschool assistant, an art teacher, a baby sitter, a summer nanny. I like being around children. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, I think it’s very magical watching a child play, talk, think, and experience life.

What about that ol’ biological clock? Tick tock.

I’m 26. I’m fine, thanks.

Have you ever felt those maternal feelings starting up?

I can remember one summer when I was babysitting a little boy named Dylan. When Dylan would cry and I would go into his room, I’d see him standing, holding onto the sides of the crib. When Dylan saw me, he’d reach his arms out for me.

Dylan clearly just wanted to get out of bed, but for a few seconds, he wanted me and wanted to be held by me.

I know that if his mom had been there, he would have wanted her more. I think that must be an amazing feeling.

Doesn’t your heart nearly explode when you see children?

That depends. When I see them running wild in our parking garage or when I read “We Need to Talk About Kevin” or when they’re laying in the middle of the aisle at Tesco throwing a tantrum? No.

There are more moments when my heart does almost seize up and explode at the sight of something cute and child-related.  But I never think, “Aww, I wish it were me” or “I want one!”

But…you’re married.

I know it’s easy for people to assume first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. And certainly for us, we’ve got the first two under our belt but what if having a baby is not the next step?

I don’t want to have a child because it feels like the next thing to do. I don’t want to have a child right now because we’re married. I don’t want to have a child because I think it will help my marriage. These are all reasons other people have told me and while the child has brought so much joy to their lives, I can’t help but think…ugh.

How about getting a dog first?

I know people mean this well but a dog is not a good indicator of how I’d do as a parent. I desperately want a dog but I’m not getting a dog. Why? Let’s just get it all out on the table.

I want to go out for drinks after work. I want to sleep over at my friend’s house if I’m out too late. I want to go away and not worry about where the dog will go. I want, I want, I want. I’m allowed to be like this.

And that’s it – I’m too selfish to be able to give selflessly to something else right now.

Are you scared?

Um, yes! Don’t you know having a baby changes everything? If I have a kid, I want to know it was for the right reasons and because we both wanted the child, not because we felt we should.

I know you shouldn’t take life advice from celebrities but I read an interview with Seal about his marriage to Heidi Klum and while I have never really thought of them as the ultimate marriage model, something he said really struck a chord with me.

He said their children don’t come first. He said his wife is his top priority.

Who knows if they will last but personally, I wonder if there is a greater gift to your child than to give them parents who love each other.

I also know that having a baby changes your relationship, so…yeah, I’m scared. I don’t know too many people who got the balance right.

But if you had a kid, you would have lots to blog about.

What, you don’t like talking about biscuits and Twilight and finding cheeseburgers in your handbag? I’m sorry, Internet. This blog is going to be about me – all me, all the time- for a lot longer.

In the meantime, we’ve got foxes and that is a pretty good simulation of what a baby would be like right now. Nightmares and all.

I will always be 17 at heart

While Scott was away, I spent most of the weekend here:

With just these:

And it was amaaaaazing.

***

Can we please discuss Twilight? And why I have been able to resist the Jonas Brothers and Zac Efron but not this…this…this book series that has taken a hold of my life?

When I first heard about it, I was like, Vampires, are you for real? Yeah, right. So not interested. I don’t like fake stuff. Never read Harry Potter. Never saw Lord of the Rings. Not into wizards and half-humans and magic.

And then my friend at work convinced me to read the book so I could see the movie everyone was raving about.  At the end of it, I was in love with a vampire – that totally took me by surprise!

I took Scott to the cinema. We were with about 100 shrieking, giggling teenage girls, about fifty swooning  women, and about ten men (a mix of boyfriends, husbands and fathers) taken there against their wills.

I loved it – not as much as the book(s) but as a take on the book, the characters were exactly how I imagined them to be.  (Scott didn’t mind it either.)

(And yes,  it’s totally cheesy and ridiculous at certain points. But I like it. So there. )

I have issues with some of the storylines and I’m not quite finished with the last book yet but overall, it has provided me with some much needed entertainment on my commute and in between work and class. It’s been nice not to read something so heavy (like…um…The Economist. Which is what I usually read, Dad.)

17 was one of the best years of my life  – so far.  I loved being 17 and I may act like a teenager about Twilight. What can I say? It brings that out in me.

A warning though – human boys have lost all their charm after reading Twilight. Edward Cullen will do that to you.

I know I’m 26 and married and people think I should be into more high-brow stuff.  Oh, and not have a crush on a teenage vampire character from a book (can you honestly help yourself???)

But I know moms who love these books! Real mothers! There are websites dedicated to moms who love Twilight. And Edward drives a Volvo – a Volvo, people! How could I not fall in love?

(And yes, I know it’s written by a woman. Scott reminds me all the time when I say I love so-and-so from Grey’s Anatomy, Twilight, etc. I know they are created by women who are just as romantic and unrealistic as I am. But I still like it.)

Last night, when Scott got home and I pulled myself away from the book, we were talking in the kitchen and I just blurted out, “I wish you were a vampire.”

He says “this Twilight thing” is getting out of hand.

Psssh!

I say,  love me, love my obsessions.  Now, maybe you could grow your hair out a bit and ruffle it up. And wear a grey pea coat. Sparkle, damnit! Sparkle!

The early signs of shopaholism

Thank you for all your well wishes. My allergic reaction went away and my eye is back to normal. I won’t be touching parsnips again anytime soon.

My mom recently emailed me about the passing of Hans Beck, the German inventor of Playmobil, and we reminisced about the time my sister, Lisa, and I saved up to buy the Playmobil Grande Mansion.

We made a special trip to a bigger military base in Germany to purchase the house. There was one last house left on the shelf but the box was a bit bashed up.

My mom pointed out the damaged box to the manager and asked for a discount. She mentioned I was buying the house with my own money.

The manager examined the box and then told my mom to go to the next aisle so he could negotiate with me. Looking at me and then the box and back again, he said, “How about 10% off?”

I said that would be ok.

He shook his head and said, “No, no, no. You never take the first offer. Now you say, what about 20%?”

I don’t remember how much I got off but we went back and forth for a few minutes. He shook my hand at the end and that was when I felt it for the first time. The excitement, the thrill of a bargain.

And so it began with a Playmobil doll house.

I can remember so many times when I would return home after yet another shopping trip, with a shirt or a pair of shoes, and my mom would tell me I already had so many.

I would hold them up and exclaim, “But I got them for $3!” And no one could argue with that.

My dad would shake his head and mutter, “You’ll go broke saving money.”

Not only did that Playmobil house teach me that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, it also provided hours of fun for me and my sisters. Though it usually ended quickly when I would announce that we were playing “Yankees and Southern Belles” and we were hiding Yankees in the attic and I’d insist we write down all their names and ages. And Lisa would be all, “Can’t we just play? You know, the normal way?”

They were always trying to stifle my creativity.

The Truth about Santa

During the holiday season, it’s inevitable that you will be asked at least once how you found out Santa Claus (or Father Christmas as he is better known in the UK) wasn’t real.

For those who know me, you have probably heard this story before. Or maybe you’ve even been lucky enough to have seen the home video.

When I was applying to university, I had to write an admissions essay about a moment in my life when I realized something was not what it seemed to be and how that affected me. I’m sure this story is not what the admissions board had in mind when they asked the question, but they did offer me a spot at the journalism school anyway.

———

Santa and I had reached the end of the line. It wasn’t a plate of cookies left uneaten or foot tracks (that oddly resembled the bottom of my dad’s Army boots) that did us in. It was, sadly, the art desk I never got.

It was 1987 and when all the other five-year-old girls were asking for pink Big Wheels and Jem and the Holograms figurines, I was wishing for an art lap desk. It rested perfectly on my chubby little thighs and it was just big enough for a coloring book. It had a little cup holder and cubby for exactly six crayons and two pencils. I would be able to take it anywhere since it conveniently came with a pop out handle.

My sister, Amanda, received the coveted art desk for her seventh birthday in October.  I was filled with envy every time she pulled it over her lap while we were on a car trip or just watching “Family Ties.” I had to have it.

This brought up one problem. I had already mailed Santa my list in August and because Christmas was only two months away, I quickly scribbled a memo to him. I was sure he would have an extra art desk or two in his sack. I just needed to make sure he saved one for me.

I had notified Santa late in the season so I wanted to make it as easy as possible for him to bring me that desk. When my parents began to ask what I wanted for Christmas, I told them everything else that was on my list so I would be sure to even out the load.

When Christmas morning finally came, my sisters and I raced down the stairs to dive into the presents under the tree. I anxiously ran around the room picking up all the gifts with my name on them and stacking them against the couch. My dad filmed Lisa taking her first ride on her Big Wheel and my mom was busy watching Amanda testing out her multi-colored Cyndi Lauper wig.

I studied the different-sized boxes closely and decided to work my way up to the biggest box. After a couple of minutes, I had torn through all but one present. I had a nice collection of Barbies, my own Cyndi Lauper wig and a Strawberry Shortcake sleeping bag. I even got a pair of tights from Blitzen and underwear from Rudolph. I was sure my lap desk was coming up.

The next ten minutes seemed to go on forever as I sat nervously watching my family open their gifts. I wanted my last present to be seen by everyone. I had been waiting for the moment when I could pull out my very own yellow and blue desk. I was positive I would get it. I had been good all year – except for the one time I stole a piece of taffy from the Pick n’ Pay. I figured the fact that I was the only kid in my preschool who knew how to zip up their jacket made up for it.

“Cait, go ahead and open your last present,” my mom said.

I slowly slipped my fingers under the reindeer wrapping paper and gently forced the tape off. I wanted to save the wrapping that protected my dear art desk.

When I got just enough of the paper off, I peeked inside.

A burst of joy shot through me. I saw a miniature art desk picture on the box. I shrieked. I screamed in excitement.

“This is just what I wanted! Mommy! Look, this is what I asked for!”

My dad stopped talking and Lisa stopped cycling around the kitchen. Amanda steadied her wig and my mom’s jaw dropped. Her eyes darted to the video camera and back at me.

“Oh, honey, I don’t know…Santa might have just used the box.”

I didn’t hear her. This was better than meeting the height requirements at Disney World.

“He got it for me! I knew he’d get it for me!” I said, tearing off the rest of the paper. There was no time to be gentle. I had to touch it.

My mom continued to stammer about how sometimes Santa had to recycle boxes but it was just a distant sound.

I dug my hand under the flap and pulled as hard as I could. The tape ripped off and my hand met a fluffy material. My smile disappeared and my eyes filled with tears.

In complete disbelief, I said, “It’s…it’s snow pants.”

Amanda let out an evil cackle and my dad shut off the video camera. My mom sat on the floor, motionless. I slowly unfolded the sea foam green snow pants.

My bewilderment gave way to utter disappointment. I was being punished for a measly piece of taffy. I couldn’t believe in a Santa that not only hadn’t come through for me but also gave me snow pants and packed them in the art desk box. He didn’t even care that I could zipper! What kind of jolly, old St. Nick was that?

But then, his suit had buttons. Or Velcro for all I knew.

The letter U all over again

I often think about two things my first grade teacher, Ms. Riley, told me many years ago.

1. Usually your first guess is the correct answer.
2. Everyone is special in their own way.

As a white girl in my first grade class, I was in the minority. Most of my classmates were multiracial. We lived in Seoul, Korea where I was constantly stared at and commented on – from my height to my weight to the size of my nose to the color of my eyes.

Ms. Riley was African-American. She always wore bright colors and always smelled nice. I remember looking at her eyeshadow during class and wondering how she put it on. Or how she took it off, for that matter. I loved hearing about the stories of her growing up. I liked how she encouraged me to talk in class after my kindergarten teacher told me I talked too much. Ms. Riley told me I could be a writer if I wanted to be one. She told me it was okay to be different – in fact, it was much better to be different.

We learned about Martin Luther King, Jr and one of our projects was to finish his “I have a dream” line. I remember all my classmates working away on their posters, adding clouds and stars and hearts. Even back then, I was more interested in words than pictures but I couldn’t think of anything to write. I remember Ms. Riley sitting with me and telling me stories about Dr. King.

And then one day, my parents put us in the car and we drove past my elementary school. My mom and dad told me to look out the window as we drove past. Do you see something? Can you see it? And there it was – my name in print. The very first time.

Later that year we put on a play for Martin Luther King, Jr Day. Ms. Riley assigned each of us to a letter in his name. I got the letter “U”. When it was my turn, all I had to do was take a step forward and say, “U is for unique.” But that play, that moment, has stayed with me ever since.

In my final term at university, I took an African American Politics course. It was on Thursday nights from 6pm-10pm. It would complete my Political Science minor and I would be finished with my degree. I couldn’t wait.

On the last night of class, I had to write various essays on the civil rights movement. The last question was on whether or not America would ever have a black president.

I finished the exam, returned to my apartment where Scott proposed. Soon after, I moved to a different country.

Last week, I saw a black man become the next American president, four years after that essay and nearly 20 years after my first byline.

Naturally I was happy because I had voted for him, though it was not because of the color of his skin. I was thrilled to have seen, albeit from an ocean away, an incredible voter turnout for probably the most unique election there will be in my lifetime. I was excited that the international view of the US would hopefully change for the better.

But mostly, I was proud to see that the American Dream does still exist. And that a first grader, all those years ago, had a dream which might actually come true some day.

New beginnings

I still think of years in school years. September to June seems like a year, not January to December. Halfway through a year is January, not June. Which I guess explains why now when June and July pass, I do get a bit antsy because I know that the year really is halfway over (or sometimes I think it’s not over soon enough). Does anyone else still think in school years or is that just me?

I remember my first day of first grade so vividly. I remember that we had a quiz of sorts to see who was advanced in math (yes, advanced in first grade). And the quiz was something like 12+17=? and 17+20=?

And I remember sitting there, so overwhelmed and unsure. I tried to imagine 12 apples and 17 oranges. And all I could come up with was a whole lot of fruit. So I think I just scribbled insanely high numbers like 75 and 100. Needless to say I was not advanced in math and that was not the only time I sat overwhelmed and unsure during a math test. There’s plenty more where that came from.

Then on my bus ride home that day, I had no idea where to get off. We had only just moved to Korea days before school started and all the houses looked the same. I told the bus monitor I didn’t know where I lived and at every stop, the bus monitor held me out the door by my bookbag and announced in a thick Korean accent and broken English, “Girl no know where she live.”

By the time the bus finally pulled up to my stop and the bus monitor started to ask if anyone knew me, I saw my mom and little sister and I burst into tears. Then I stood crying with them while we waited for my older sister to show up. A bus flew by and we could see her face pressed up against the window, frantically waving at us. Then the bus drove off the American base and out into Seoul.

(She did eventually get home. After that my parents hung a red shirt on the clothesline for the first few months so we knew exactly where to get off the bus.)

This wasn’t a wonderful way to start my school years but the good first days outweigh the bad first days.

Although the most memorable are the bad – such as eating something that dyed my teeth green the morning of my middle school orientation and sitting all through the first hour of a senior level Queer Literature class (that was the actual name of it) at college because I was too embarrassed to get up and leave when the professor welcomed everyone to the class. I was only a freshman at the time.

Probably the most exciting part of a new school year for me was all the new stuff I could buy. Pencils, folders, clothes, shoes, Trapper Keepers, etc. The list is endless. I loved nothing more than perusing the Lisa Frank products in the school supplies aisle.

Then there were the bookbag options – was I ready to let go of the traditional Jansport and move to a handbag? What about a locker organizer? Should I get a mirror like all the girls have in every teenage movie about high school? Would Bananarama’s “Cruel Summer” play in the background as we pull into the parking lot à la The Karate Kid?

Autumn is my favorite season. It reminds me of new beginnings and I can’t help but associate it with the start of the school year, even after I no longer attend school.

This time of year still fills me with excitement and nerves. Of course these days I don’t stop to think about it much and just chalk up the emotions to too much caffeine.

But after this entry, I may have to self-soothe with a pack of new pens.

Just go with it

At my brother-in-law’s wedding this weekend, I was seated next to the bride’s grandparents, Jack and Mollie. They are the sweetest couple and Mollie told me numerous times over the course of the meal that they would be celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary this summer. I found this so endearing.

Mollie also referred to me as “Francesca” numerous times. I told her I was Scott’s wife. I repeated my name several times. I pointed to Scott at the top table and she nodded and talked about the last time I saw her, which she had exactly right. I thought we were on track. Then she called me Francesca again.

I looked at Jack and he tried explaining. Mollie laughed and said, “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I can’t see you very well but I’m sure you look lovely. How is Isabelle doing?”

I looked at Jack again and then laughed. It reminded me so much of my days volunteering at an assisted living retirement community. I was 15 and I can’t remember what class it was for but we got extra credit if we volunteered in the community.

It was a pretty easy gig. I mostly worked Happy Hour in the common room. This involved serving beer (in dixie cups) and cheese curls to those who could have alcohol and fake cheese snacks and grape juice and crackers to those who couldn’t.

In training, we were told that sometimes we might find ourselves with a resident who is a bit confused and they might think we’re a family member. We were told that if they don’t seem to understand who we are, sometimes the best thing to do is just “go with it.”

Luckily most of the residents at Happy Hour were lucid and seemingly happy and the extent of their confusion was best represented by a woman asking me if I was in the navy because I was wearing an Old Navy t-shirt.

Then one day I was put on room duty which meant I had to go in each room and fill water pitchers for the residents. I didn’t like that so much. If the residents came to Happy Hour at least I knew they wanted to be there. Room duty meant I was encroaching on their space and always at the wrong time.

At Happy Hour I might get an annoyed resident who thinks he should have a bigger cup of beer or a resident with high blood pressure who is adamant they should be allowed to eat more cheese curls.

On room duty, I got angry residents yelling at me to get out. I got a plastic jug thrown at me. I got residents barking at me to call their son/daughter and get them the hell out of there.

On that particular day, I was just finishing up on room duty when I saw a woman in a wheelchair. She was outside a resident’s room, crying. She waved me over and through tears, she asked, “Is that the 12:15 train to Butler?”

She was pointing at the room number 1215. I crouched down next to her and said, “No, we’re outside someone’s room. That says room number 1215.”

The woman, getting more panicked, said, “I need to get to Butler, Pennsylvania. I need to get the 12:15 train. Can you help me get to the train?”

I looked around for a nurse but couldn’t find anyone. As the woman got more hysterical, I started to get more uncomfortable. Not knowing what else to do, I took hold of the handles of her wheelchair and said, “I’ll take you to the train station.”

The woman stopped crying and started thanking me, over and over again. She kept reaching up to pat my hand. As we turned the corner and headed down the long hallway to the main entrance, she rattled off a list of people she would be seeing in Butler.

When we got to the lobby, I let go of the handles, pushed her into the room and announced we had arrived at the station. She waved wildly at me, obviously excited to be getting on a train and going home. I suddenly felt very ashamed and guilty. I didn’t know what to do so I left her there and ran down the other hallway.

That was my last day at the retirement community. I have no idea if that woman ever got to see those people in Butler, Pennsylvania again. I’m not sure if what I did was right or wrong. I was just going with it. I didn’t know what else to do.

I was thinking about this on Saturday as the wedding meal was coming to an end. Scott had just finished his Best Man speech. Everyone was clapping. Mollie, smiling brightly, turned towards me and said, “Your husband did such a good job. How is John these days?”

I smiled back, nodded at Scott and said, “John is just fine.”

Everyone wants to be Prom Queen

My sister sent me this article today. It’s entitled “School leavers want a prom just like on US television show The OC.”

Oh, The OC…it even has the power to make English teenagers wish they were California dreamin’…

The prom – along with football games, Sadie Hawkins, Homecoming Court, student council, and so much more – is something I really want my children to experience. Even if some schools do adopt proms here, I think I will still push for our future children to go to high school in the US. It just wouldn’t be the same here.

Scott was my prom date. When we arranged for him to come for prom, we also arranged for his friend, Nick, to come as well. Nick took my friend Sara to the prom. Seven years later, Nick still talks about how he got to go to a prom. Probably because Scott and him have seen “American Pie” more times than I care to admit.

We had a great time. Our night involved a fancy dinner in Georgetown, a limo ride around the monuments all lit up at night and of course, the dance itself.

It was just one of the festivities to commerate the end of high school and celebrate graduating and going on to college. Which is a big deal and really should be celebrated in a big way.

Of course with all things, people might take it a bit far. Spending more on their prom dress than you would on a wedding dress. The pressure to “go all the way” on prom night which, as far as I can tell, is really just one of those movie cliches.

The one thing that bothered me in this article:

A former primary school head teacher said, ” A friend emailed me to say that outside his local primary school on the night of the Year 6 leaving party, he’d counted four stretch Lincolns, two stretch Hummers, assorted Jags, BMWs and Mercs, all queuing to drop off buffed and puffed sprogs and sprogettes. Doesn’t it make you yearn, just a little, for a more innocent time?”

Innocent like when the kids sat in parks, drinking bottles of White Lightning and setting rubbish bins on fire?

And because Andrea asked so nicely, I have included a photo from prom.

Too bad I don’t have a scanner or you could have seen me and Scott in our Homecoming photos from the year before too. I was sporting braces and the weirdest updo ever.

10 things my dad taught me

The older I get, the more understanding I get about my parents. The more I realize they are just human. The closer I get to the age when I might want to have kids of my own, I realize how much you can screw up a kid and I have to look at my parents and think, wow, you did pretty well.

Today is Father’s Day and not surprisingly, it got me thinking of my dad.

My dad has been living in a house full of women. Every male pet we had died. What does that say about it?

My dad has been in the military most of his life and grew up in a military family. He liked order and rules and many, many times, my mom would say, “They’re just little girls. They’re not soldiers.”

My dad got stationed overseas for a large part of our teenage years and thanks to my mom, my sisters and I managed to emerge child-less and drug-free. While he was gone, I met Scott and my mom would tell my dad, “They are getting serious.” And my dad would say, “Don’t worry about it. It will wither away.”

And then it didn’t wither away and my dad returned to find that a lot had changed. But my dad had also changed. He was a lot more chilled out and I was old enough to realize that he’s just a person. He doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t always say the right things. But he is here and he is trying and that’s enough. I have learned a lot from him and I know there are many more things he’s taught me, but here are ten that come to mind:

1. Value of a dollar

We used to do chores on Saturday mornings. When we were finished, my dad would do inspections and if all was up to standard, we got a $1. I think Lisa actually got 50 cents. But then if we left a light on, we lost a quarter. I left a lot of lights on. Which led to me raiding Lisa’s Peter Rabbit bank full of quarters, but that’s a story for another time.

2. Tough love

When we were younger, Lisa and I used to get into terrible fights. We would hit and punch and kick and Lisa would pinch. She would pinch so hard I’d bleed. One night at the dinner table, I must have done something because Lisa reached over and pinched me until I started bleeding. I screamed and cried. I didn’t have the nails to pinch her back. My dad, tired and annoyed, gave me a fork.

He said, “Take this fork and stab her if you want.” And I blinked back the tears, looking at the fork and then at my little sister. Lisa looked so scared. I told my dad I didn’t want to and he made us hug and make up.

I know this may sound extreme because what if I really did grab the fork and stab my little sister? I can assure you my dad wouldn’t have let that happen. But he knew I wouldn’t do it. He knew we didn’t really want to hurt each other. And that was the lesson. (I’m pretty sure I stole some more quarters from her to make up for it anyway.)

3. I’m fine the way I am

In most of our home videos, you can find my dad stuggling to put dresses on our Barbies or being forced to be Prince Charming in our plays. Once he got past the stage of finding Barbie shoes everywhere, my sisters and I were involved in sports. And not just dance classes. I think, to my dad, I was the closest to a son that he was ever going to get. I was a bit of a tomboy and wanted to wear jeans under all my dresses and I played soccer and baseball.

My dad felt a lot more comfortable with sports. He would stand on the sidelines, yelling “attack” or “defense.” And for a few years, I didn’t mind it. Then I entered into the pre-teen years and I was suddenly so self-aware and sensitive. I just couldn’t take it and asked him to stand up on a hill where if he shouted, I could barely hear. He never stood on the sidelines again and I quit playing soccer.

I became less and less of a tomboy and just as I was entering high school I was told I had to get braces. I cried and cried. Everyone else had their braces at 11-12 years old. I remember thinking I would be the only person wearing braces in high school. I felt like no one understood me. I hated the orthodontist and hated his receptionist everytime she would tell me I was going to look so pretty once they were off. That’s what everyone said – just think what you’ll look like when you get them off! I wanted to scream, what about now? what about me now?

I didn’t want my dad to think I was being a baby or that I cared so much about the way I looked. I wanted him to still think I was tough. I was torn between wanting to be the son he never had and the daughter that I really was. My mom must have filled my dad (who was in Korea) in on what was going on because I got an email from him shortly after and in the email, he said, “You already have a knockout smile” and at the time, it meant the world to me.

4. How to drive a manual car (the first time)

My dad loves driving manual. He bought Amanda a red Volkswagon rabbit convertible for her first car. The problem was she didn’t know how to drive manual. It became clear very fast that he bought it for himself. When it was my turn to learn to drive, he tried teaching me manual. We drove onto an army base and found some quiet roads. Lisa sat in the backseat, listening to her discman. I was horrible at it. And he really did try to stay patient. I drove us up to a 4-way stop and stalled just as it was my turn. I was in the middle of the intersection. Suddenly cars were coming at every direction. I pleaded with my dad to tell me how to restart. He told me to sit tight. He got out of the car and started directing traffic. I was so embarrassed as cars passed by looking at me and wondering what was going on. Lisa had ducked down in the backseat.

He must have stood there directing traffic around me for 15 minutes. By the time he got back in the car, I was crying and vowed never to drive again.

When I was learning to drive manual ten years later and on the other side of the road in a different country, I thought of this incident and after I stalled in an intersection again, I laughed. And laughed. Mostly because of nerves. But I didn’t cry and I think my instructor is forever grateful that I didn’t. I told my instructor the story later. He laughed too.

5. Wear sensible shoes (when driving)

One summer I was driving in flip flops and I got the flip flop caught under the accelerator. I crashed into the back of the neighbor’s car. Not only did I have to pay for all the damages, I also was forbidden to wear flip flops/sandals/heels while driving. Every once in awhile, my dad would walk out to the car just as I was pulling away and ask for me to show him my shoes. I started wearing sneakers on just my right foot so that I never got in trouble. My car was always filled with right shoes.

6. On boys

When I was 12, I had a big crush on one of the neighborhood boys. At school, he had asked if I was going to see the movie “Tommy Boy” and I desperately wanted to go. I asked my mom but she said no. I sat outside in the frontyard, crying. When my dad got home from work, he asked me what was wrong. I explained about the boy and the movie and how everyone would be there except me and how I would just die if I couldn’t go. My dad gave me $5 and told me to go. My crush sat next to me in the theater and he held my hand for almost the whole movie.

A few years later, my dad picked my friend and me up from school and we asked if he would drive us past my friend’s crush’s house just to see if he was home. And right as we were in front of his house, my dad laid on the horn and laughed hysterically as my friend and I screamed and hid under the seats. I didn’t tell him about my crushes after that.

7. How to efficiently pack a bag

As mentioned before in this blog, we travelled and moved around a lot. We each had our own carry-ons and we learned early on that “you pack it, you carry it.” I can (that doesn’t mean I always do) pack like the best of them. I roll my clothes. I stuff things in my shoes. I layer. Thanks to my dad, I can pack a car like I’m playing a game of Tetris.

8. About sex

People who know my dad are choking on their morning coffee right about now. The truth is, my dad did not give me the birds and the bees talk. My mom did (as did the TV, books, friends, etc). But when I was 18 and going to visit Scott for the first time by myself, my dad came into my room and sat awkwardly on my bed. He stared at his hands for a long time and then slapped his hands against his knees as if he had just come up with a great idea. He said, “Look, don’t f@#k up your life. And I mean that in every sense of the word.” And then he patted my shoulder and walked out.

9. Dream big

Both my parents encouraged my sisters and me to be whatever we wanted to be. When it came to applying for university, my dad told us, “You get in and I’ll find a way to get you there.” While most of my friends were tied to applying to state schools, I had my heart set on getting away. Boston, New York, Chicago, London. All the while, my parents said, “Keep your grades up. If you get in, we’ll talk about it.” And I got in and my dad took out a loan and moved me in.

Then he said, “Keep your grades up. If you make Dean’s list, you won’t have to pay me back.” And so I did (except one quarter…damn economics!) and then I told my parents I wanted to study abroad. And my dad said, “You get accepted and we’ll get you there.” And I did and I spent four amazing months in London.

Two years later, Scott asked my dad for his permission to marry me. And my dad said, “If you treat her as well in marriage as you have in courtship, you’ve got my blessing.” And Scott does.

10. Don’t grow up so fast

There is one thing I think about every once and awhile and when I do, I feel this guilt and sadness that I have a hard time even putting into words. Years ago – I think I was 15 – my dad was preparing to move to Korea for two years. It was a difficult time for everyone in the family. I was at that age when I wouldn’t be caught dead with my dad at the mall.

And there we were, at the mall. I can’t remember what we were doing there but my dad parked the car and was trying to talk to me about stuff, and I was so focused on getting in and out before someone saw me with my dad. As we were walking towards the doors, my dad reached for my hand and he held my hand for a second before I pulled away. I remember thinking, ohmygod, what if someone thinks we’re together? Gross!

I was too old to hold hands with my dad but now I know I was also too young to realize that moments like this – moments with my dad – would become more and more rare. I now know I should have given his hand a squeeze before letting go.