Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

Now, this little post may come off as snarky, but please know that it is not.

I love my family, and the topic of this post is one of the great reasons for that love.

My family, myself included, is perhaps the worst gift giving family in the world. And we don’t do it on purpose, which is what makes it so endearing to me.

I know that on several occasions I have sweated the choice of gift for my lovely bride and it has ended up something she has hated. Let me also say that we have a relationship where we can say, “Honey, I really kind of hate that gift that you sweated and cogitated over. I love you very much, but I hate that gift.” And, generally, we are okay with that.

So this year was another stellar what-were-you-thinking Christmas. Naturally, we don’t ask my family what they were thinking, we just sort of discuss it spousally.

I received from my father a “leather concealment vest.” First off, it’s a leather vest.  Second … it’s me. I put it on and my wife asked me if she could accompany me to the gay bar. Nice one. The word “concealment” in the name of the vest means that it can easily carry my 9mm Glock with up to three full magazines. Again…it’s me. I do not own a 9mm Glock, nor do I have up to three magazines, full or empty.

I’m pretty sure he purchased it off some infomercial on Fox News. He bought three: one for me, one for my legally blind brother, and one for legally blind and autistic nephew. Go Neocons! Fuck yeah!

My grandmother —Banana Grandma if you’re paying attention— gave me roll-on antiperspirant. I shit you not. It’s Avon, so I guess that’s … something. And it’s a roll-on. I didn’t even think they made that anymore. So there’s that, too.

But the best gift was for my patient and forgiving wife. My father gave her a Keurig Rotating 30 cup Storage Carousel for one of those awesome Keurig Single shot coffee makers. She looked up at me with a gleam in her eye and said, “Omen of things to come?” I looked at the boxes under the tree, turned back to her and said, “I don’t think so.”

The beauty of this is that we don’t have a Keurig single shot coffee maker. And we did not receive one for Christmas. My father thought it was a spice rack, which is also funny because my wife does not like spices, nor does she cook.

Even funnier is that he got it off her Amazon wish list…except it’s not on her Amazon wish list. Some other woman out there with the same name as my wife was oh so very close to receiving the Keurig Rotating 30 cup Storage Carousel that dancing through her Christmas Eve dreams.

Just one of the many reasons that I love my family.

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Clichés are clichés for a reason. They are truisms pointed out long ago and their observations ultimately overused. So, sorry for this one, but it’s on my mind.

This year’s holiday season has been a bit of a to do for my family this. My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer and began chemotherapy. My brother was diagnosed with a couple of tumors on his kidney. My grandmother had a mild stroke four days before Christmas.

Now, if you know me, you know I am not religious. I am a deeply spiritual guy, but organized religion as lost its luster for me in my long-ago days of Baptist beatings. I have always felt that spirituality is a personal and joyous connection with a greater power, while religion is essentially a fear-based theology used to control large numbers of people. I’m sure that pisses some of you off, but there it is.

None-the less, religion, in its many forms, have given us great things: art, music, tradition, as well as focus, self-awareness, and community.

For me the thing is the Christmas holiday season. Not the increasingly freakish and frantic consumerist masturbation that rings in the season, and now slaps its hindquarters on the exit with the after Christmas sales. That just makes me angry and, quite honestly, a little depressed.

My thing for the season is the heightened nostalgia, the family, the almost electric recentering of my self-awareness on others and their importance to my now, my then, and my future. The Christmas season, the family dynamics of that season, the traditions have all played dominant roles in forming my character and personality.

And here’s to the cliché. I just want to keep these memories close, you know. I get so crazy busy with the kids, writing, directing, performing, that some family members unfortunately just become satellites orbiting the whirlwind of deadlines that is my world. I know that’s not right. But I’m not naïve enough to think that can or will change. I just need to embrace them when I can.

Which leads me to a sad understanding of my future in the life of my boys. There will come a time, probably sooner that I might wish it, that I will become a mere satellite orbiting their world.

Now, I remember the exact moment when my father realized this inevitable demotion. And, twenty-some years later it is still clear to me, it still holds some pain and little poison, I’m sure for both us. It created a rift for quite some time.

My hope is that I can be a bit more prepared for boys’ eventual DE tethering. This season makes me think of that.

Which leads me to a sad understanding of my mother’s future in the life of my boys. There will come a time, perhaps sooner than we imagined, that she will not be here for the holidays.

Now, I know that convention states that we should not say things like that out loud. But that is magical thinking, which although beautiful, sometimes allows reality to blindside us.

I still feel the slow chipping away of family that death has made. My grandfather, Dean; my grandmother, Opal, my grandfather, Alan. I’m sure if I had any aunts or uncles that list would be longer. But those are enough deaths to feel their loss, especially this time of year.

My mother gave my boys a copy of the book ‘Twas the Night before Christmas. It was the kind that you can record your voice reading the book, which she did. And when she showed me the book and we listened to it, she said that she wished we had her mother’s voice on something. It was the most self-aware moment that two of us have ever shared. It was clear to me that she was preparing for that Christmas with the empty chair. When my boys opened the present and my wife saw what it was she cried.

Now, I know these moments can and do occur every day of the year. But, for me, there is a heightened permanence to the image, because of the emotional closeness of the season. It makes the moment closer, more precious.

Those moments become ornaments that I remember to pull out each year and hang on my Christmas tree. I know they should hang throughout the year, but they don’t, mostly.

That is why this time of year becomes precious to me.

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So my son does not feel like a two year-old to us. He feels more four or five. I’m sure this comes from not living with a four or five year-old before, or a two year-old for that matter. But there is something about him — or perhaps us — that makes us expect him to act older than his years should demand.

I’m pretty sure that is a bad thing.

He’s got a pretty good vocabulary for a two year-old, at least we’ve been told. I think that creates part of the problem. Because my wife and I are always carrying on conversations with him — and he seems to discuss things with us — we assume he is cognitively following along.

Then he’ll throw food during dinner…for 7000^th time.

I’ll sit back and look utterly stunned. “Why did you do that?” I’ll say, utterly stunned.

My wife with her disappointed face will say, “We don’t throw food.”

“We don’t throw food,” I reiterate. “Do you see your mother or I throw food?” I ask perplexed.

He demurs and bats his eyelids. I shit you not, this kid.

“Look,” I say, “I would understand your seeming pathological impulse to throw food if your mother and I were continually flinging tandoori chicken or roasted broccoli everywhere, but we don’t.”

“We don’t throw food,” my wife punctuates the point.

It’s at this point I wish that my son had the wherewithal to blurt out, “I’m two!”

I’m pretty sure that would put everything into instant perspective.

When we’ve given him a time-out for …whatever his impulse of the day was, we’ll go into his room and I’ll say, “Okay, why are you in time-out?”

And he’ll tell me. “I didn’t stop when you said stop.” Or “I threw food.” Or “I kicked the dog.”

Then I’ll say, “That’s right. You kicked the dog. You know, we don’t kick dogs. Dogs are our friends and we don’t hurt friends. Dogs have been with us thousands of years. They trust us not to hurt them. They are our faithful companions and…”

“I’m two!”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure that would do the trick.

I thought briefly about teaching him to say that, “I’m two!” But then I rethought it. I don’t want him to use it later, you know.

“Son, why did you break the car axel on the curb?”

“But Dad, I’m sixteen!”

Or, “Son, why in God’s name did you decide to pee on that police officer’s car?”

“But Dad, I’m twenty-one!”

Or, “Son, why on earth do you need a 72-inch flat screen Wi-Fi television?”

“But Dad, I’m forty-two!”

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So, I got a little ink in our Sunday paper this weekend, which was kind of cool.

I got an email out of the blue from a Gazette reporter who said that she read on my blog that I was a stay-at-home dad. She was doing a story on the new census statistics about the proliferation of men who are taking on home child-care. And to be honest, the numbers she has stunned me.

In the Midwest 33.3% fathers of preschool children are noted as primary child-care providers. That’s a full third, which, even to my relatively progressive mind, seems rather high.

It’s a pretty good article. It actually caused some reflection about my position in the family and how I interact with my boys, as well as the near future and my place in it. I got some validation in the way I handle the boys. As silly as it sounds, sometimes I need that.

Here is the link if you want to read it.

http://thegazette.com/2011/12/18/number-of-stay-at-home-dads-surges-in-east-iowa/

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Every Christmas morning that I can remember I woke up to the smell of Danish Puff. Besides my kooky family and their odd shenanigans, eating and smelling Danish Puff is my favorite Christmas memory.

And, boys, I hope that I can work it so that Danish Puff is high on your list of happy Christmas memories. Even better, I would love it to be something that we make together because there is a moment of absolute chemical magic in the making of this bad boy.

You know, I didn’t make this until I was 42 years old. It took your grandmother getting cancer for me to make this one. That’s because she always told me it took two hours to make, which was only a little misinformation. I was always happy to sit back and let her do it. But this Thanksgiving (2011) to help out your grandmother I decided to make the food. And since we all were having two Thanksgiving dinners that night, I suggested we change one to a brunch. And what better to start out with than our favorite family breakfast item?

It isn’t the fasted thing to make. But the time served is certainly worth the end product. So, while I don’t normally spend much time thinking or pining about the future, I certainly see you guys in kitchen patting out the crusts for these tasty pastries.

Danish Puff

Ingredients:

Puff Base
1 cup flour
1/2 cup butter
2 tbsp water

Puff Custard
1/2 cup butter
1 cup water
1 tsp almond extract
1 cup flour
3 separate eggs, each slightly beaten

Puff Icing
3/4 cup confectioners’ sugar
some milk
some sliced almonds

Directions:

Heat oven to 350.

Put first cup of flour into bowl and cut in butter. Sprinkle with 2 tbs. water and mix with fork.

Round into ball and divide in half.

Put in fridge for a while to let it stiffen for about 20 minutes.

Remove from fridge and, on ungreased cookie sheet, pat into two strips about 12″ by 3″. Place 3″ apart.

*****

Bring water to a boil and add the stick of butter.

Once it melts remove pan from heat and add almond extract.

Slowly beat in flour, stirring quickly to prevent lumping.

When smooth, add one egg at a time, beating well after each egg until smooth.*

Divide in half and spread one half evenly on each pastry base.

Bake for 1 hour. Center should still be moist and custardy.

*****

Put a little milk into the bowl with the powdered sugar and mix until smooth, but not too liquidy.

Add just a hint of almond flavoring.

Drizzle over finished puffs.

Sprinkle with sliced almonds.

*NOTE: When you add the first egg to the warm flour/water/butter mixture, it may turn your stomach. It becomes the weirdest nauseating looking alien gloop you could imagine. But keep stirring. It will turn back. It will do this with each egg you add. It’s a little bit of magic.

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I have come to understand the purpose of boyhood, especially toddler boyhood, is to discover the world, essentially, by destroying it.

I used to think the phrase “This is why we don’t have nice things” was pretty funny. Now it’s apropos and prophetic.

Our house and the things inside it, including my wife and I, are getting systematically disassembled in order to see how it (we) work. It’s kind of amazing to watch. And it’s impossible to curtail. Not that we would want to. Well, sometimes we want to. But it’s a heady line to facilitate, that line between exploration and simple destruction.

I know that the boy creature is pretty well predisposed to disassemble his world. There is some seemingly innate need to hit things, poke things, tear things, run, scream, babble incoherently and just generally cause consternation and mayhem.

But there is also a predisposed need for this man-creature to have some quiet reflection and rest. To not always be on safety patrol, to not always remove the maraca at the last second before it crashes into the dog’s skull.

I love watching the discovery. And I love those moments of tenderness, the hugs, the grabbing of the legs. I even love the sudden jumps from the side table only my unprepared lap.

It’s repetition of the negative (stop hitting the dog) and the constant need for creative redirection (let’s color on this paper instead of the refrigerator) that seem to cause the most wear and tear.

But is sure is amazing how a little smile can fill a crack and a sudden giggle can close a tear.

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Okay, I know it doesn’t help that I was tired, but come on kid. Seriously?

I know that you see me everyday and clearly get tired of me, but come on kid. Really?

I know that Mommy is your favorite right now and that, in theory, the tide will change and I will become the fave for a bit, but come on kid. When?

I came home from rehearsal today and Xena (wife) was feeding Chang (baby boy). I heard Bart (two year-old) awake in his room calling to come out. So I went in to get him out.

He refused.

That’s right. My son refused to come out and play.

Why?

Because he wanted Mommy to come and get him.

So I said, “Okay,” and left to talk to start up dinner. Then he started carping louder. I went in again.

I am not making this up.

He said, “No, no. Not you. I want Mommy.” Then he actually pushed me away and pointed toward the door saying,” You go to kitchen!”

Seriously.

Seriously?

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My oldest son has expressed his first fear. And it’s a doozy. And it’s totally beyond me.

He has, of late, not been getting to sleep easily. My wife is usually the bed-time wrangler. And she is really good and really patient at it.

But starting at the end of last week she has been in his room an hour getting him down. She’ll come back into the family room and say, I can’t be in there anymore. She’ll plunk herself down and in a few minutes we’ll hear his door open. And his sweet little voice with quietly say, “Mommy. Daddy.”

One of us will say, “You need to go bed, buddy.”

He’ll say, “Okay.”

Then it will be quiet for a while.

Then again, we’ll hear down the hall, his quiet little voice: “Mommy. Daddy.”

I’ll get up and go into his room, get him in bed. I’ll turn his star light back on and start rubbing his back. Then I’ll leave the room and close the door.

Five minutes later he has it open again. This can go on for two and a half hours or more until he finally falls asleep.

It took me five days to ask him, “Are you scared of something in here?” It makes me ashamed that it took me that long. I couldn’t even imagine him being afraid.

“Yes,” he said.

“What are you scared of, Honey?”

“The dragons.”

Honestly, this blew my mind. There are no dragons in his room, at least none that I can see.

Above his old crib we have a Balinese dragon that is said to protect children in their dreams. He loves that thing and used to want to touch it. He has never expressed a fear of it.

But, according to him, there are four red dragons that scare him when he closes his eyes. This kid is two. How can that be?

I held him and we looked around the room for the dragons and where they might live.

“They can’t live in your closets. Dragons have sensitive hearing and they don’t like the squeaking.”

“They can’t live under the bed. That’s where your doggy likes to go, and dragons are scared of doggies.”

It was actually kind of heart breaking.

I reminded him of his baby-dragon in the nursery, and how it was a good dragon that loved him.

I told him that dragons wouldn’t come back tonight —which, in retrospect was kind of a risk. I stayed with him for a bit and thin left again, this time leaving the door open.

Since then, we have left the door open at bed time, and that seems to have helped.

I have always been concerned about my kid breaking a bone or bashing his head. He’s all boy and likes to jump off everything. But this was really the first time that I understood how vulnerable he could be to things that are not only invisible to me, but things I don’t even know about.

And when I realized that, I’m pretty sure I got a glimpse of a dragon, too.

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While in Chicago — Arlington Heights, really — my wife and I went out for tapas. And I just cannot get enough of it.

The choice of that phrase is actually kind of funny. The first time I went for tapas was with my best friends from our theatre. We had won first the state and then regional AACT contests and were up in Kalamazoo for the nationals. We decided to go to a tapas joint —I think it was called Fandango.

Our friend — we’ll call her “Sally” — was super excited to go because of the sangria. “Sally” is one of the most continually positive people I know. And not in an obnoxious way, either, which is difficult to pull off. She is deeply nice. She’s one of my best friends. So when she gets upset, it’s unusual, so it’s kind of funny. Sorry, “Sal.”

Anyway, we had big group, and the tapas started rolling in. But “Sally” had sat herself at sort of this apex of the seating horseshoe. So all the tapas started way down on her right, or way down on her left. I think by then of the end of the evening she had three sangrias and a single stuffed mushroom. She may have also had a Serrano-wrapped shrimp.

And though she be little, she is fierce, especially when she’s hungry. The rest of us were having so much fun trying everything that we didn’t even imagine she wasn’t getting anything to eat. And she is simply too nice to mention it. But she ended up fuming a bit. It was funny, not necessarily at the time, but it’s become a bit of a running joke/button for the group.

I was one of those gorillas gorging at the top of the table. And I fell in love with tapas.

There is something so ancient, so viscerally pleasing about eating tapas that it just pulls me to it. It forces communication and conviviality. At regular restaurants when you eat “your” meal, your focus can fall into your own plate. Sometimes, your partners may not even be there.

But tapas forces you to pass food, to discuss the samplings and compare, to look each other in the eye during the course of the meal. I love that.

And the sangria doesn’t hurt.

We ate at a great tapas place in Arlington Heights: La Tasca. It was packed, which usually turns me off. I’m not a crowd guy. But they gave us time to drink lovely sangria and plan our attack. I pulled out the menu and the little memo book and began writing down our order.

Tortilla Española: Spanish omelets with good stuff
Champions relents: mushrooms stuffed with pork pine nuts and brandy
Mejillones a la mallorquina: mussels in garlic and garlic with garlic

And two things off their specials menu, which I can’t remember.
A Spanish flatbread pizza with goat cheese
Some other egg concoction

And an all-all-you-can-eat bowl of the best olives I have ever had.

It was a wonderful meal. And we will be going back. But not just for the food. I think we may try to take “Sally” and cleanse her of the mala experiencia de los tapas. Because I believe good tapas with good friends can heal just about anything.

¡Viva tapas!

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This might be a short one because I’m totally swamped. Which makes this rumination particularly precious to me.

I have always loved going to bed. There is just a womb-like comfortable warmth to it that is sort of rejuvenating. But, of late, it has also become a little magical.

Our three month-old, Chang (for the sake of the post), needs a little help falling asleep. Since I take care of the boys during the day, my wife is with them at night while I’m writing or directing. But she still has night stuff to do, like showering —thank god. So at the end of her evening with them, after Bart, our oldest, is asleep, I get to take Chang.

After the wife gets him fed, he and I plop down in bed. He settles in, like a little rabbit, nuzzling into my side. He works his binky and coos and looks up at me as I read my daily Flipbook articles on the iPod. And it doesn’t take too long before we’re just looking at each other. And it’s like my own little mug of warm milk.

There is something pleasingly anesthetic about this nightly ritual. I usually have a tough time getting to sleep. I go to bed about an hour before my wife does and often I’m not asleep until well after she’s snoring away. I just can’t turn the mind off —too bad it doesn’t translate to writing ideas.

And getting to sleep is particularly difficult when I’m under stress. But Chang and I hang out, snuggle, I hear him working the binky and cooing with my hand on his belly, gently rocking him. Then we’re looking at each other and his eyelids start to fall heavily, then they quiver. And binky falls out, but his mouth is still working away. My day just seems to slowly detach and fall away into soft fog.

Just another thing I hope to remember forever.

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