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."

Ho, Ho, Hum

Walking through the mall in these last days before Christmas makes me thankful that I don't care much for Santa Claus. The picture line is one more long line I don't have to wait in.

A few days ago, I almost told my first grader that Santa Claus doesn't exist. But, at the last minute, I thought better of it.

Why? Maybe because it's too early. I don't know. Maybe because I don't want him to have to be one of those kids at school who has to always keep his mouth shut about Santa and sort of feel like an outsider as other kids engage in the fantasy of it all.

That's really about it, though. Otherwise I see no use for him. We might have Santa leave a toy or two here or there -- but there's no cookie, no milk, no proclamations about how magical Santa is, etc. I'm sure St. Nicholas was an OK guy, but he couldn't have seen all this coming.

There are a thousand lectures you can give and that we've all heard about the "real meaning of Christmas." About capitalism and alienation and only-once-a-year-charity and unnecessary stress and people who start everything too early and do too much ...

Those are nothing more than cliches now -- mostly because they're true.

But Santa seems impervious to it all. Untouchable. And there's every reason why he shouldn't be.

We're talking about a holiday celebrating the birth of what billions of people believe to be the savior for humankind and for themselves personally, in whatever manner it is that faith speaks to them. It's my belief that this belief is something you take or leave. And that's all that it is and all it was ever originally expressed to be. Anything beyond that, I believe, isn't faith at all. Maybe fear. Maybe power. But not faith.

It's difficult enough to have faith in the face of life's trials. Yet, we seem to try make it harder by confusing our children with Santa Claus and his sanctimonious shit list and all his stuff that the elves make to exact Habro specification (and sometimes, even, with the same bar code you'd find in a store).

It's so much more simpler than that, this Christmas thing.

The message of Jesus is clear: "Love others as I have loved you." Look to the example of his life, and it's my belief that you will find no more perfect one.

Jesus didn't reward us with things. He rewarded us by our willingness to give up our things. Or at least our attachment to them. Not that we shouldn't have things, but that we shouldn't have to have them. He expressed this through example, both in life and death.

We are all equal. We are all loved. And all this is spoken to us through faith -- that wonderful gift we have that we feel when we quiet our minds and our souls and just listen.

So, we teach our children faith.

Our children, from the moment they are born, look to us to understand the world. When we teach them about God, what are we teaching them? Each parent must answer that as he or she is called to do. I tend to teach faith above all else.

I don't teach that I know what heaven's like. I don't teach that you pray to God that your grandmother doesn't die of cancer. You pray that she and everyone who loves has the strength and peace and comfort that's needed. That God never said you wouldn't suffer, just that you wouldn't do it alone. That you might find some meaning along the way that transforms you into someone new.

I don't teach that you get good things because you believe in Jesus. You find peace and transcendence beyond a world you perceive, a world that you try to make God fit into. What you want falls into place when you get what you need.

This is what I believe, and my beliefs don't require that anyone else do the same.

But, beliefs aside, it's apparently pretty hard if you want to avoid making a big deal out of Santa Claus.

The other day, I'm letting my 3 year old play with the Thomas the Tank Engine trains in Barnes & Noble. It's time to go home. I've never heard a child scream with such terror and anguish as I pulled him away from those trains. Those things are like cooked crack.

As I walk out the store, a lady who worked there looked at Aden and said in a chirpy voice, "Santa Claus is heeeearing thaaaat." She wasn't a bad person. She wasn't trying to be anything other than somebody trying to help me quiet my child.

But this is the essence of Santa Claus.

A supernatural being is watching us, keeping tabs on how good or bad we are, checking his list not once but twice and probably more, judging us in all his omnipotence and omnipresence, and if we aren't good enough for his liking, we don't get anything for Jesus' birthday.

And leave some food out for him. If not, it's rude. Because he's hungry. Obviously. Just look at him. Give your burnt cookie offering, and chances are you might be in Santa's good graces. Maybe a little extra candy thrown into the stocking.

This is our children's first experience with faith. This Santa Claus character.

They hear about God and Jesus and all. But Santa is their exploration into the unknown. At the end of these Christmas movies, the person is always redeemed when they decide to believe in Santa Claus.

(Even that creepy magician who murdered Frosty the Snowman -- premeditated, first-degree murder when he locked him in that greenhouse-- and was told by Santa Claus that if he didn't leave that hat alone, he wouldn't bring him any presents ever again. And all the magician had to do to make it OK was write "I'm sorry for what I did to Frosty" over and over and over. This is Santa justice).

Our children, rightfully, question the existence of Santa Claus. We tell them, "You've got to believe. If you don't believe, he won't come." Or, we ask them some cryptic question that's supposed to serve as an answer: "Do I believe in Santa? Well, do you believe in the spirit of Christmas?"

When I was a little boy, I asked my Mom how Santa came into the apartment if we didn't have a chimney. She told me he had a key. In the housing we lived in, you weren't supposed to be too suprised when people broke into your home and stole your stuff. People you knew, too.

I didn't like the idea of this Santa Claus having a key to my house. What if I wasn't good? I'd heard the threats. If somebody's sadistic enough to leave a lump of coal, what else might they be willing to do?

Santa Claus was already judging me for being good or bad. So what if I didn't get much of anything from him? Was that because I wasn't good? Was the misbehaved boy in school with the big house and all the money good because he got an Atari and I got a pair of shoes? And why should I even be compelled to compare whether an Atari is better than a pair of shoes as a gift, anyway?

What's the point?

And then we say, "It's not about what you get, it's about the spirit of it." Which is true. But Santa Claus doesn't teach this. It's confusing. He teaches us to be good and so we receive.

In fact, I'm not sure what it is he teaches. It's almost like the myth of Santa Claus is the parents' excuse to live out a fantasy of being some kind of god themselves.

At the end of it all, this Santa thing does something far more insidious to our children.

We confuse our children that it's all about Jesus, then almost neurotically have them bow at the altar of some other supernatural, pseudo-messianic character.

And when they finally learn the truth -- whether it be getting up for a drink of water and seeing mom and dad in the act of setting up the presents or our children's slow, cynical milking of the charade to make sure they still get their toys -- it teaches them that maybe they should think twice before believing in something again.

Or, for that matter, believing their parents.

The jewel of innocence is a precious thing.

The type of gift that Santa can't bring ... but sure can take away.