For those of you who have been reading this blog with any sort of regularity, you will know I am a married father of two girls (for those of you who don't read regularly, now you know). It is me, my wife, my two girls, my dog, my cat, and the two goldfish. The dog and cat are also both female. As for the fish, I have a sinking suspicion they are also female though I'm not quite sure how to verify this. Now I'm no good at math but if my addition is right, that is 7 females (I'm counting the fish) to the 1 male in my house. This equation catapults me past the Jack Tripper and Dan Conner zone and directly to the Chief Kanisky from ‘Gimme a Break' zone for male to female ratio in a house.
This ratio has presented a certain dynamic in my house. A dynamic lined with pink flowers and sun dresses. A dynamic that has put my testosterone to the test.
I would consider myself a regular guy. I still wear t-shirts I wore in college a decade ago. Most of the time, I use the bar of soap instead of shampoo in the shower. I can blow my nose by simply pressing in one nostril and blowing as hard as I can through the open nostril. I have urinated in public, I laugh when someone farts (the louder the funnier), and ignored directions when in the car. Now that I am writing this, it is not so hard to understand why men are so disgusting...but I digress. I enjoy sports, action movies, any magazine that has an annual swimsuit issue, and television shows that involve breaking or blowing things up. I had some rough edges, to say the least.
But those once rough edges have been softened by estrogenical erosion that has been gradually wearing my manhood down like a stone on the beach. I noticed a change 9 years ago when my first daughter was born. Along with the baby talk and dirty diapers came new found emotions. Where once stood a disgusting, stereotypical man now stood a dad (covered in poop and spit-up). Any lingering ideas of attempting to maintain my manhood disappeared when my second daughter was born.
Not that I wasn't ready to give it the old college try. I have diligently worked to influence my children but to no avail. In fact, not only do they ignore me (a trait they gained from their mother) but my plan backfired on me. As my kids have been able to repel my suggestions to wipe their noses on their sleeves and lessons on how to get real distance to your spit, I have been a complete sucker for their suggestions.
I am "Grandpop" to 6 different dolls. I have allowed my room to become a school, or a doctor's office, or a house for my "grandchildren" or whatever my kids deem it to be at the time. I don't build futuristic spaceships or cities out of Lego's; I am an interior decorator for Barbie's mansion. Putting the toilet seat down has become such a habit, I do it in public restrooms too (granted it's with my foot but still). I have tea parties. I have forgone important playoff football games for Wizards of Waverly Place. I barely have a section in my own closet let alone a ‘man-cave'. I don't think pink is such a bad color and I know my kids may never care about the ‘Miracle in the Meadowlands' or Mike Schmidt.
None of this bothers me.
I have been put on this planet for my kids. Without them, I'd just be a man and a disgusting man at that. I have put most of my manly endeavors in the rearview mirror as I have embraced whatever it is my kids want me to do or need me to do, even if it is "burping" an American Girl doll. Because what they want and what they need is infinitely more important than what I want or need (unless it's a nap, then I might need 20 minutes).
I may complain from time to time, but in reality, I don't feel like any less of a man. In fact, the definition of a man in my house doesn't have to even include crotch grabs, farts, arm wrestling, and fantasy football drafts. The definition of a man in my house is one that includes tea parties, polka dot colored walls, babysitting my "grandchildren", always walking down the pinkest aisle in the toy department, cuddling, helping put on training bras, dealing with crying fits because someone's feelings were hurt, folding panties, crying at a sentimental movie (or commercial now), turning my head whenever I hear the word ‘Daddy', staying up at night to make sure a 6 year old goes to the bathroom, protecting two girls from the dangers and fright of thunderstorms and "monsters", adoring the two people who are most important to me and most importantly, making sure I remember to put the toilet seat down.

 Today, you can buy a small fry or cheeseburger on most fast food chain’s drive-thru menu with a dollar.  We have stores devoted to the dollar.  Stores with aisles filled mostly of useless items, begging for us to buy and put on a shelf somewhere in our house to collect dust.  While there are lots of things a dollar will still buy you, the value of those items don’t always match the bargain their price tag was.

This wasn’t always the case.  At one time, a dollar packed quite a value.  For me, as a kid, a $1 was priceless.  Because as a kid, $1 could buy me a comic book.

I have been a fanboy, or geek, or dork, or any other name commonly attached to comic book fans for as long as I can remember.  I’ve owned and worn Underoo’s.  I’ve made my very own Mjolnir out of a tissue box, duct tape, and a plastic sheath to a plastic toy sword.  In 5th grade I wrote a paper on Captain America for our ‘Who I Want to Be When I Grow Up’ assignment.  I could rattle off my favorite issues to each character and love a good debate on who is the “best” hero.

One of the past times I enjoyed as a kid (when girls still had cooties), was going to Golden Eagle Comics at the Fairgrounds Square Mall with my Dad.  Once a month, twice if I were lucky, my Dad would drive me to the mall to Golden Eagle.  Golden Eagle was my Holy Land.  A comic book store filled with my favorite characters and a center island of long boxes arranged in a tight square, stuffed snuggly with one dollar back issues of the classics (Amazing Spiderman, Detective Comics, World’s Finest, Fantastic Four, Invincible Iron Man).  One dollar comic books whose value far outweighed their price tag.

Friday night, after dinner, my Dad and I would jump in to his car (I jumped, I think he just got in) and ride over to the mall.  I would talk to him about issues I was going to be searching for, why I thought Batman didn’t need powers to be considered a superhero, and why Alpha Flight was awesome.  I don’t know if he cared.  I don’t know if he even knew what I was talking about.  What I did know was he listened which stoked the fire of my enthusiasm.

Getting to the mall, he would release me in to Golden Eagle to dive in to the thousands of bagged comics and back issues.  All of which cost just one dollar a piece.  My Dad would stand outside the store and wait.  The man had the patience of a sea turtle on Quaaludes.  I would glance over at him from time to time to see if he had had enough.  He never did.  Sometimes I would even call him over to the front of the store, where it met the rest of the mall, to ask his opinion on which comics I should spend my money on.  I looked for his approval.  I craved his input and felt good knowing he was close enough to call for help.

On the way home, I would go through each dollar comic I bought and go on about why it was so valuable.  Why, for costing only a dollar, it was a good deal.  I would read parts of the story to my Dad as he drove then summarize what I read.   I don’t know if he cared.  I don’t know if he even knew what I was talking about.  What I did know was he was still listening.  He always listened.  He was always engaged in what I was saying which only added to the entire experience.

Today I could go through the thousands of comics I have in boxes occupying my basement and identify the books I bought with my dad.  I could tell you about Iron Man #165, or Alpha Flight #12, Batman #408, and the Avengers #231.  I could tell you about hundreds of other books that all were collected with my Dad by my side.  Every now and again, I do pull out those issues.  I read some.  I page through others.  Sometimes I just look at the front covers but I value them all.

At the time, I valued those comic books in the dollar boxes for the reasons any pre-pubescent fanboy would value his comic books.  But looking at them today, I value them for a different reason.  Reasons stemming not from being a fanboy, or a geek, or a dork but from being a son who misses his Dad.  Each and every comic I pull from the boxes in my basement, comics I bought with a dollar as he stood in the mall waiting, are a reminder of Friday nights with my Dad. They bring back the memories and feelings that, at the time they happened, only cost me a dollar but today are priceless.

Since my Dad died, there has not been a day that has gone by when his memory hasn’t entered into my mind.  The daily memories vary.  At times it is just his face, every now and then I am fortunate to hear his voice saying my name, and sometimes I hear him laughing.

What triggers these memories is just as varied as what I remember.  They can be overt, like looking at the picture I keep of him in the sun visor in my car or fielding questions about him from my kids.  Other times, the triggers are subtle, like a simple bump in the road or watching a movie.

The other night I was watching Mel Brooks’ ‘History of the World Part 1’. I had DVR’d it some time ago but had been unable to watch it until the other night (iCarly and TVLand had taken precedent as I was left cursing myself for teaching my family how to DVR shows).  I wanted to wait until everyone was in bed because it is not a movie a 9 and 6 year old should watch and my wife would spend the time rolling her eyes, asking me when it was over, and unable to understand why the movie could make me laugh until I cry.

So the other night I waited until I saw the light go out in our bedroom then settled in to my sofa and hit ‘Play’.

Not long after Sid Caesar’s caveman discovered music, my own laughter was overshadowed by my memories.  I heard, above the parody, dialogue, and my own laughing, my Dad’s laugh.  My father loved to laugh and got more pleasure out of making other people laugh (usually at him). If you were never lucky enough to be in his company to hear it (as most of you were not), his was a laugh indescribable.  It could fill even a noisy room, was impossible to not make you smile and more than likely, you would find yourself joining him in even if you weren’t quite sure what he was laughing about.  It was a laugh that could bring him to tears given the right circumstances.  Now here I was, alone on my sofa imagining him sitting next to me, laughing at the same jokes I was laughing about.

I miss my Dad’s laugh.

I was happy to be able to have that memory back, even if it only lasted for 92 minutes of the movie.

I watched the entire movie even though it kept me awake much later than I should have stayed awake.  It was worth every minute that passed and every joke that played on my television.  It was one of those subtle moments I so try so hard to find but only makes itself known when fate seems ready.

I kept watching that night, even as the credits rolled.

After almost 7 years of not having him next to me, I still treasure the moments that bring him back.  It doesn’t matter how or why either.  It could be an old jacket hanging in my closet that carries faint traces of his cologne on it, a Q&A about him with my girls, or a Mel Brooks’ comedy from 1981.  I welcome all the memories these moments give to me.  They keep his spirit alive, they remind me of the man he was, and every now and then, they make me laugh, until I cry.

It is every parent’s job to make their kids do things that they hate to do.  Growing up, my Mom loved to take my sister and I to Levin’s. Levin’s was a store the size of an airplane hangar devoted solely to sewing.  We were forced to the grocery store and dentist appointments.  My dad had his own lists too. Tops on his list of ‘Things Jimmy hates to do but I’m going to make him do anyway’, was fishing.

I hate fishing (almost as much as the dentist).

I find nothing redeemable about the entire endeavor.  This is not to say I am against fishing, I’m just against me having to go fishing.  This disdain I feel, I felt even at such a young age.  A disdain my father completely ignored as he assembled his tackle box with the plastic white and red bobber, his black and orange striped rod, the can of worms he made me dig up for him from the backyard and told me to get in the car.  We would go to either the chunk of concrete from a sidewalk anchored to the bank of Carsonia Lake that, to this day, I cannot figure out how or why was there or we would slide down the small embankment around the first bend  of the road at Antietam Lake to the small dirt landing to fish.

My dad would meticulously go through the process of picking the correct lure, attaching the bob, putting the worm on the hook, and casting so as to avoid the sticks and algae with my sister and I.  Actually, he spun his angling lesson with my sister; I kicked at the dirt and tried my best not to get stung by bees.  I may have also complained and whined about being there though I can neither confirm nor deny this.  You’ll have to ask my sister.

My sister and dad would fish. Rather, they would cast, then wait, then reel their line in and cast again. Over and over again. On rare occasions, one of the gilled bottom feeders lurking in the lakes found its way to their worm but for the most part, fishing with my dad might as well been called ‘standing’.  I loved to be with my dad but I really did hate to fish.

This is how ‘‘Duck Rocks’’ were born.

The name came from the first time I threw a rock into the lake and scared off a flock of Mallards. ‘‘Duck Rocks’’ are not  and were not for attacking ducks; rather they were used to keep the attention of an 8 year old boy who was being held captive at a lake by his father.  A Duck Rock can be found along the side of any lake.  Smooth and flat rocks are preferred, for maximum skipping distance. Finding the rare 15 pound rock to shot put could also be used.  Whatever the rock, you were sure to scare away the fish and definitely any unsuspecting water fowl foolish enough to wade close enough to the splash zone.

Whenever my dad assembled his fishing gear, my first question was, “Can I throw ‘‘Duck Rocks’’?” to which he answered, “Yes” every time. Fishing wasn’t so bad with ‘‘Duck Rocks’’ and as a bonus, I got to be with my dad.  The haul of fish my dad and sister caught seemed to diminish exponentially as soon as I started throwing my “Duck Rocks”.

Eventually we stopped going to the concrete slab of Carsonia Lake.  We stopped sliding down the embankment at Antietam Lake.  Lessons on proper casting techniques and finding the right rocks gave way to lessons on cutting the grass and how to change the car’s oil.

Now I’m a father and I get to make my kids do things they hate (the true circle of life).  While they are whining and pleading with me to end whatever perceived misery I am forcing them to endure, I hope when they get to be my age, they understand why I make them do it.  It’s not so much what I make my kids do or what my dad made me do; it’s that we do, and we did, it together.  I think my dad just wanted to find anything for me to do to hold my attention. Because what I didn’t understand at the time was, he wanted me next to him as much as I wanted him next to me.

I still go to Carsonia Lake but instead of rods and lures, I take my kids. We walk around the trail surrounding the lake and at least once, we stop where the concrete sidewalk slab used to be and where I stood with my dad. While we’re there, I search out the smoothest, flattest “Duck Rock” I can find and skip it across the surface of the lake or if I’m lucky enough to find the all too rare 15 pound rock, I launch that into the water. Throwing those rocks makes me think how I wouldn't mind fishing so much if I were able to stand next to my Dad when I went.