Wait A Minute ... That Baby's Cute

I've never been much of a baby guy. They've just never done it for me.

Of course, I loved my two babies when they were babies. But babies in general ... overrated. People always asked me, "Oh my God, Isn't this baby so cute?! Don't you just want to hold this baby?! Oh my God?!"

No, I can't say that I've really, truly wanted to hold someone elses baby. And that includes friends and family.

That is, until the other day.

I was walking out of the lobby at work and saw people crowded around this baby carrier sitting on top of a counter. Usually this is when I think to myself, smugly, "Oh boy, every baby has to be sooo damn cute, doesn't it?"

But something happened. Something unfamiliar.

I saw that baby in that little carrier, wiggling around, getting set to cry -- and I just wanted to hold it.

My heart melted. I stopped walking and just looked. Then it started to cry, and I wanted to hold it even more.

I wanted to hold that damn baby.

That would have made my day.

But it's kind of awkward to just go up and tell someone you don't know that you want to hold their baby, when most strangers are simply content to just peek in, make a few kooky noises, smile at the mom and then go about their business.

As I walked out the door, I tried to figure out what had just happened to me.

Why, all of a sudden, do I want to hold a random baby?

Then I realized what it was.

It had finally registered how much of a gift children are to the world.

Yes, even other people's children.

I watched that movie "Children Of Men" a few weeks ago, the one set in 2027 where a worldwide infertility pandemic has left the world childless for 18 years. In the film, we see that a world without children tears apart the fabric of humanity.

It was so stark and sobering, in fact, that I decided to ease my pensive mood by sneaking into the last 45 minutes of a satisfying, uplifting film I'd already seen: "Rocky Balboa."

Rocky doing that thing he does and doing it well took a little of the edge off, but "Children Of Men" never quite left me. Academically, I recognized that I left with a new appreciation of something I had always taken for granted -- the gift of new life.

But it wasn't until that little baby stopped me cold that I realized how much I actually felt it.

Maybe it has a little to do with the mindset my wife and I have that we don't really see having any more children than the two boys we have. It's just easier to take care of them, and we enjoy the freedom that comes as they grow more independent each day.

Maybe it was an anamoly, like hearing a song on the radio you always hated then listening to it and finding that you like it, only to realize later that you actually still do hate it.

Maybe I just like babies now.

Either way, that feeling of hope that washed over me was one that I want to feel every day of my life.

Hope not just for myself, but for humanity.

Perfection

"Come here, son. Let me tell you a secret."

"What, Daddy?"

"Look ... perfect attendance ... it's not that important."

I know, I know. I'm a horrible example to my first-grade son.

But before you call the Department of Social Services on me, consider this:

My first-born son brought home his first report card today. Straight "E's." That's apparently the grades they give in first grade in South Carolina. "E" for excellent, "S" for satisfactory and "U" for unsatisfactory. Also on the report they show the percentages and how that equates to an A-F scale.

(Which leaves me to wonder: Why do we always skip the E on the A-F scale in high school and college? And why, in first grade, out of all the letters to use as a substitute to symbolize the best performance, do we pick the one that is just barely a step up from the symbol you'll eventually use for failing?).

Looking at the percentages written on his report card, he made straight A's.

Easily. And that means "Distinguished Honor Roll."

So, yeah, I'm saying my kid is smart. Will I put the bumper sticker on my car? Let's just say I hope they don't give them out.

But a perfect attendee, he is not. If there's an award for "Perfect Attendance" to be won, he wonders why he failed to get it.

That's because he's a winner. Meaning, even if he doesn't win, he wants to win. Go watch "Little Miss Sunshine" for more on that.

I felt the need to point out to him my philosophy on perfect attendance awards because of the invitation that come home welcoming parents to come to an awards program to see their children be recognized for various awards. One of the awards is perfect attendance.

He has won every award a first-grader can win. He leads in advanced reading over every student at the school in his grade level -- and some in higher grade levels.

Ask him to subtract 24 minus 9 and you get an answer within five seconds, without paper or counting fingers, but with spacial reasoning. Ask him to sing and he understands staying in key. He can draw just about anything with a healthy mixture of creativity and context. Put a basketball in his hands in gym class and he'll dribble the full length of the court and back with his right arm behind his back.

So where does that leave the two of us, sitting at the dinner table looking over a report card?

I guess I just don't understand giving an award for something that takes little more effort than simply showing up, staying lucky enough not to get sick and hoping you don't get counted absent when you really were there.

You award perfection, and nothing less. As if we should somehow strive for perfection.

He missed two days. He was throwing up into a mixing bowl for both of those days.

"I didn't get perfect attendance because I was sick. But I wasn't really that sick."

Maybe it's my fault. Maybe it's my wife's fault. Maybe it's the dog's fault. Maybe it's genetics. But he's trying, in some way, to blame himself for not succeeding. He was very, very sick. Somehow, he thinks he shouldn't have been.

So, I tell him that perfect attendance isn't important. That when you're sick, you don't have to go to school. That when you're home, you're home -- and you don't owe anyone out there anything when you're home.

Sure, this type of award might compel children to actually have their parents take them to school because they don't want to screw up a perfect attendance certificate. But what does this teach them?

What is great about America is our desire to succeed, and it's also one of our failings. We have taught ourselves that success equates to how hard we're willing to work for the sake of working. And we've become so obsessed with achieving that success -- and the money that comes with it -- that we forget what success really is.

Win this award or that trophy or whatever. Be a winner of things. Or don't. Some of us want that, some of us don't.

Everybody's a freakin' snowflake, OK?

But whatever might drive us, we shouldn't go to school when we feel like crap.

So, I've decided to reward him for his hard work and genuine desire to make something of himself.

We will go to the Monster Jam show on Friday night and watch some Monster Trucks with some big damn tires crush shit all to hell.

And if the trucks were crushing shit in the middle of the school day, I'd keep him out of school and write him an excuse: "Please forgive my son's absence. He was sick. Of school."

Never Too Early

It probably won't be until summertime at the beach when I pass by one of those kiosks where they airbrush the T-shirts for anyone who "Luvs Trish 4Eva" or "Trashed The Seashell Resort '07!"

I got to thinking tonight: It's never too early start looking forward to your children's education -- you know, that thing they can never take away from you (but that you can't give back, either).

So, I figure I'll get a shirt made up for my 3 year old son.

"Senior Class Of 2021."

With some catchy phrase like "Droppin' It Like It's Hot In Da' Oh Two One."

That's sure to make all those '07 Seniors walking around in their T-shirts feel pretty ancient all of a sudden.

The Audacity Of Audacity

This has long been my favorite place of business -- even though I've never done business with them.




Sure they're open.

Just go through the back door.





TW's should hire another favorite of mine, the Iraqi Misinformation Minister, to debunk the rumors of the tavern's demise:

"We are not closed. I now share with you a vision: You are deceived by these infidels that are what I call 'retarded.' You will see the present when these villains are committing suicides for their lies. All is safe. They are hanging themselves as I speak to you. Their mothers are villains. Their children are villains. Their sperm are villains. And liars. Do not assist the untruths that spew from their buttocks like the endless flowing of the Euphrates. God will torment them with the shame and the burning sores. TW's is not closed. I say again, we are open."