Food Allergies and PIGs!

When I was a child, I blamed my parents for a lot of things.  I blamed them because they didn’t help me achieve my dream of worldwide stardom via my undeniable and incomparable talent in the performing arts. I also blamed them for not promoting my supreme swimming aptitude into a gold medal winning Olympic career I so richly deserved.  I even blamed them for cursing me with curly blond hair when I clearly would have been much better off with straight blond hair.

In retrospect, I realize, it’s silly to blame my parents for my lack of a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and the absence of Olympic gold medals around my neck.  However, that curly hair thing – that really is their fault!  I mean, I’ve forgiven them, even though, to this day, I still am the target of multiple Jewfro jokes…. Their genetics caused my lifelong hair trauma, but I’ve forgiven them – except on humid days. 

I bring this up because I officially have become a PIG. I’ve consumed a lot of time thinking about being a PIG and beating myself up over it.  I’ve rolled my PIG status over in my head a thousand times and I always coming out more PIGgy.  PIG: Parent with Inheritance Guilt. 

I’ve guilted myself over many inherited “features” (a very clever term used by computer programmers when referring to what a commoner might call a software “bug”) I’ve passed along to my kids…. Jack, my oldest, is such a smart and sweet kid.  And, he does not have a competitive bone in his body.  Not one.   While many will think that’s a good thing, it can be a bit detrimental as a kid who is expected to compete for just about everything in a school environment.  This is my fault.  That comes from me. 

Will more than makes up for Jack’s lowered competitive spirit . He competes for everything!  Will competes with his siblings to see who gets first rights to the bathroom in the morning… and he always wins! However, Will is the kid that will not try any new foods.  He likes the tried and true – chicken nuggets, pizza and spaghetti.  Just like his dad was at that age.  Again, my bad.  It’s on me. 

And Emma – my little princess – is so sensitive that one misplaced critical comment (like “Emma, how come you didn’t finish your breakfast?”) can send her spiraling into the safety of a hiding place.  Her bedroom closet is a favorite.  Mine was under my bed.  Ugh.  That’s on me, too.

All of those character traits are the mountains I will have to help my kids climb and conquer.  And, in time, I know we’ll get there. Then there is Sam, my baby.  And, for him, I am the biggest PIG….

Sam is an adventurous kid, even at one year old.  Unlike his older brother, he likes trying new foods. When mommy or daddy are eating something interesting, Sam will request a bite.  And by request, I mean thrust his entire body forward, towards the food, full force, with his mouth wide open, making a sound that can best be described as an infantile battle cry.  He is the William Wallace of mealtimes.  He makes it known he’s coming in.  Prepare yourself to donate the “baby tax” directly into Sam’s mouth. 

Yogurt Mountain is a favorite dessert spot for my kids.  Of course it is - why wouldn’t it be? Add “do it yourself” frozen yogurt with “do it yourself” candy toppings galore and you have grade school nirvana.  The three older kids love to make their own ice cream monstrosities, bringing unending smiles to their faces.  And, of course, Sam goes in for the baby tax.  But after taking a few bites, we noticed that Sam’s own unending smile is now surrounded by a rash of some sort.  Uh-oh.

As it turns out, Sam has food allergies.  The Yogurt Mountain incident (along with a few others like it) resulted in a trip to the doctor’s office to investigate.  A few awful blood tests later and we have confirmation… Sam is allergic to dairy, peanuts and (gulp) shellfish.  (Why the “gulp”?  Well, someone else in the family has a shellfish allergy….me.  Yep, confirmation that I’m a PIG.)

So, my happy little Sam – the boy whose smile can light the darkest of times, will be restricted in what he can eat for the foreseeable future and maybe the rest of his life.  And it’s my fault.  Stupid genes. 

Look, it could be worse.  It could be a lot worse.  Sam could have gone into anaphylactic shock immediately and who knows if we could have reacted in time.  His throat could have swelled up.  Truthfully, we are very, very lucky.  But the bottom line is Sam can’t have dairy or peanuts or shellfish.  And that’s on me.

The reality of this hit me when Blythe came home from that doctor’s visit with two Epipens.  Epipens!  Sam needs to have access to an Epipen…just in case.  Know what an Epipen is?  It an emergency does of epinephrine.  Know what that is?  To quote a medical website:

“Epinephrine injection is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions caused by insect bites, foods, medications, latex, and other causes. Symptoms of allergic reaction include wheezing, shortness of breath, low blood pressure, hives, itching, swelling, stomach cramps, diarrhea, and loss of bladder control. Epinephrine is in a class of medications called sympathomimetic agents. It works by relaxing the muscles in the airways and tightening the blood vessels.”

Did you see those words? Shortness of breath.  Low blood pressure.  Swelling. He may not have had those symptoms yet, but they are possibilities.  And it’s my fault.

And though I accept the blame, I don’t accept victim status.   We all have choices to make.  There are two sides to this coin…  Shall I wallow in self-pity for my son (I guess that’s self-pity by proxy, actually) or shall I be grateful for what we have and control what we can?  I choose the latter.

No child could ask for a better advocate in life than Blythe.  When she senses danger, her protective instincts turn into action.  Don’t mess with mama bear’s babies.  She has taken on this food allergy condition as if she were preparing a PhD thesis.  She now knows more about allergies than the doctors we visit.  If knowledge is power, she’s the food allergy Wonder Woman.  And, so, Mother Nature, Sub-Section: Allergies, please consider yourself put on notice.  You’ve messed with my wife’s baby.  She does not forgive easily.

My role, other than supporting my wife in her crusade against food allergies, is simple.  Along with Blythe, we’ll work on keeping Sam comfortable and safe.  We’re so fortunate to live in a time when information is readily available.  The plethora of “kid food allergies” websites alone is astounding.  And the food alternative choices for Sam are really incredible, too.  This morning, for the first time in his young life, Sam enjoyed ice cream.  Well, “rice dream” ice cream, but to him it’ll be ice cream ice cream.  He loved it.  And that smile alone makes the efforts all worthwhile. 

By the way, we also bought him a few varieties of vegan cheese.  We sampled along with Sam.  Sam enjoyed his new foods.  I, on the other hand, found it to taste roughly the equivalent of soggy shoe leather.  Luckily, it wasn’t purchased for me.  Or the dog.  Even he hated it.

The beauty in all of this is that Sam is just a really happy little boy.  To see the joy that he brings to so many people, his parents included, is to understand the seeds of love.  All of my kids have been different and all spectacular (I’m not at all humble when it comes to the awesomeness of my kids).  Sam has changed the world for the better.  And food allergies aren’t going to keep that unending smile from his face, so surely it shouldn’t keep it from ours, either.

I look forward to the day when Sam is free to eat whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without any repercussions.  But if that day doesn’t come, then I’m just going to look forward to any day that I get to spend with Sam.

   

Legacy Planning 101

Legacy is not a word that I’ve even begun to contemplate.  Legacy is outweighed by things like car payments, birthday parties, doing the dishes, carpool duty, and walking the dog twice a day.  Who has time for a legacy?

Yet, today I’m thinking about my legacy.  Not today’s legacy though – I sincerely hope I have many more years before anyone has to really consider my legacy.  However, an introspective piece of radio I heard yesterday got me thinking about “legacy”.  Dan Savage, a fairly controversial sex-advice columnist (are there any other kinds?), spoke in front of a live theater audience, which was simulcast on radio (it was recorded about 2 years ago; however, this was the first time I’d heard it).   Whatever your views on Dan may be, his monologue was not controversial at all, nor did it regard his “expertise”. Instead, he spoke about his mother.

You can listen to the whole show to gain all Dan’s insights, but the essence of his communication about how a mother’s love transcends the barriers of circumstance.  Dan’s mother was a devout Catholic.  Dan is a gay man who, along with his partner of 14 years, has adopted a son.  Dan’s mother accepted her son life, loved her son and grandson, understood her son while never abandoning her own strong faith.  It’s a beautiful story of her devotion and Dan’s reaction to her death.

Which brings me back to the idea of a legacy… What will my kids think about me when my time comes? It’s a morbid thought, but, let’s be honest – it’s going to happen one day.  Hopefully, “one day” is many days from now, but since birth certificates don’t come with expiration dates, we’ll never know for sure.

There are a finite number of days between now and then.  And, I know this will be shocking to those of you who know me well, I’m a little bit of a worrier.  And the antidote to worrying, for me, is planning.  So, welcome to Legacy Planning 101:

Step 1: Make Memories

This is a bit tricky.  For a lot of us, when we think about “making memories”, we assume it has to be a big memory, like the time we went to Disneyland and my brother puked on Space Mountain (which is actually a made-up memory – my brother never puked on Space Mountain.  But I might have told all his friends that he did).  When I think back on my own childhood, it’s not the mega-vacation memories that jump forward.  Instead, I remember things like sitting on lawn chairs in my open garage next to my dad as it rained.  He sat and listened to the rain as he smoked a cigar.  Very quiet moments.  I loved those moments.  And I frequently sit on our covered patio in thunderstorms and just listen.  I hope my kids will remember those kinds of moments, too.

Step 2: Create Traditions

Thanksgiving day is my favorite of the year.  I know a lot of people feel that way about Christmas day.  My mom talks about her memories of her family every year around Passover. The traditions of those days are powerful.  It’s been important in our family that our kids know the agenda for every major holiday, including their birthdays, every year. And they do.  They know that Christmas Eve means opening one present before bed – invariably, pajamas to wear to bed on that very night.  They know that Christmas morning means breakfast strata after the first session of opening presents (and the second session invariably commencing as soon as the kids have stuffed their faces as quickly as they can) .  They know we open presents from youngest to oldest, one apiece until we’re all out.  They know we’ll have stuffed shells for dinner that night. They love the tradition as much as the presents.  So do I.

Step 3: Be The Person You Want Them to Remember

Last week, we had a particularly tough morning.  The baby wasn’t feeling well and, as a result, neither my wife nor I got as much sleep as we would have liked.  I was tired and irritable when driving the older three to school.  And they were in rare form, fighting about every last detail of every seemingly trivial activity of the morning.  When all three were being nasty to each other about, of all things, a Pokémon game they were playing, the proverbial straw broke.  I laid into them.  I have a long fuse, but you don’t want to be there when I finally go off.  And that day, I went off big.  I was in rare form, first yelling then simply lecturing condescendingly to an audience too afraid to participate in the conversation.  Ten minutes later, when the craziness had finally vacated my brain, I pulled into the school parking lot, stopped the kids from getting out, and sincerely apologized.  Not for the content of my message, for I deeply believe that “taking care of each other” is our family mission, but for the delivery method.  I didn’t want my kids to think that being passionate about a message is reason enough to yell and scream about it.  It’s the least elegant way to communicate passionately, actually.  I failed in delivering my message, and in doing so, abused the trust they put in me as a parent.  I apologized to the kids.  I let them know that I still felt that fighting with each other is wrong on a lot of levels, but I was wrong to have yelled at them about it.  I hope they remember the guy who communicated that message.

Step 4: Model a Healthy Lifestyle

Admittedly, this one is the toughest for me.  I know I have a long road ahead of me to get this one right.  And, I know that I need to hurry down that road before my kids start to follow their own wrong path. 

I don’t know anyone without a vice or two… or eight.  For some, its smoking.  For others, its drinking or recreational drug use.  There are people who regularly “text and drive” or who still won’t wear a seatbelt.  And, for me, for as long as I can remember, it’s been weight. 

It’s one thing to risk your own health, but quite another when your habits start to impact your kids’ habits.  I think about this a lot.  When I was growing up, my dad was very heavy.  In his late sixties, he had a stroke.  We were lucky as it was a mild stroke, and it served as a wake up call to him.   He made changes and is now at a very healthy weight.  However, I’m not there – yet. 

I don’t want my kids to follow my bad habits and have to struggle with this issue.  So, I’m dedicating myself to fixing the problem.  I’m doing it for me, because I want to be the best role model to my kids I can be.  I haven’t been, but I’m going to be.

Step 5: Share the Ride

Everyday, when I first see my kids afterschool, I spend a few minutes with each of them, talking about their day.  Of course, I get the routine answers of “nothing happened today, Dad.” But, I’ve been in the parental management game for far too long to know answer #1 is simply a test to see if you’ll leave them alone.  And I never do.  I’m persistent in asking specific questions: What specials did you have today?  What did you do in Spanish? How was the spelling test? Who did you sit with at lunch?  What did you talk about?  What did you do at recess?  Did your teacher say anything goofy today?  Ask enough questions and you’ll get the real answers. 

My kids know that my wife and I want to know everything – good, bad, funny, sad.  We want it all.  We want to share their experience.  We want to let them be the star of their story.  We love when they tell us how they shine.  And I hope they think of this when they think of me later on.  I think it might be all I’m thinking about when that time comes.

Today is the first day of the rest of your life, right?  I’m choosing how I want those days to impact my kids – legacy planning 101.

Do nothing day is do everything day.

Many times have I had this conversation in my house. "I want just one day - of nothing. Not on a cruise ship, but in my own home for a cost nothing day in the house we pay a mortgage on yet rarely enjoy. Can we arrange this?" I ask. "Ok, after we run these 15 errands, maybe." is the standard response.

I negotiate down to five errands that can be attached to priorities and by that point the relax and enjoy mood is shot so upon their completion we make up 10 other tasks that weren't even on the original list and do those instead. Sometimes the original five still don't get done.

Every now and then there is an unaccounted for afternoon and a sense of panic sets in "We didn't load up a bunch of stuff to do so now what?" The thought of doing nothing doesn't cross our minds as a viable option and when we are completely lost we ask the children to approve the proposed schedule. Do you want bread sticks or new tights for dance class?

I think of friends and family that recognize one day a week in a specific way for their religious practices but that often involves a strict timely regimen and proper dress. My definition of a nothing day is really not to think hard about something else, it is intended to truly be a day about nothing. I think we need an eighth day of the week.

Then just as I despair over thinking that sitting still has become a lost art I realize that we do have several extended family events each year where the men sit in a room watching sports and the women gather to gossip. This is a western form of naval gazing meditation, which if it were considered an activity would defeat the purpose. I am just not sure this is the best we can do to rest.

Perhaps the only way to have a day off is to embrace what each day already is. But I sill seek that elusive one absolute nothing day. Maybe next time I get the flu I will have one.

There is a conspiracy at work!!

Setting: My family was on a flight from SeaTac back to SLC after a family mission to experience not only some of the history of my side of their genes, but to see some fun and cool stuff too.

It was time to return home. But “they” did not appear to be ready. The concept of “fun” was still on their minds and a diabolical plot began to unfold among others that were in a similar situation. I was lucky to intercept their communication.

Before boarding the unspoken ones in charge of the transport tried to separate me from my family by giving me a free upgrade to first class. I offered it instead to my wife who declined (I think she is a double agent) so I declined as well. Something sinister was truly in the air.

While a thundering sound pierced the earbuds I had left in as noise cancelers it was not the engines of the aircraft or the background din of those who refused to stop their cell phone calls even though the flight attendant threatened us all with missing the goal of an on time take off. It was the enemy.

With my training in forensics and secret keeping and the help of the free consultative services that I engineered from my friend who I will call “Graig”, I took off my earbuds and began a new mission. I tried my best to remember the code with which they spoke as we took off and approached the final altitude because, not to make excuses but until I could turn on my iPad I was unable to take notes until getting permission to enable my devices.

In the meanwhile I planted my own daughter, who we will call #5 into the scenario. She is nine or ten whatever months old and has my back. Together through statistical analysis conducted while the runway kept her interest we identified other agents numbered one through four and managed to infiltrated their system.

The following is a transcript as best as we could piece it together:

#5 - I am picking up a signal. When I take my binky out of my mouth and give it you that will be my code for being locked in.

Binky transferred. Translation and training experience followed and acknowledged by returning the binky. Using a coding system of raspberries and hand signals my daughter and I have created she was able to relay the following communication that was occurring among "the little ones":

#2. I hear others, are many of us in the same boat?

#3. No boat, this time it is a flying thing. We are supposed to be impressed with this but cartoons do this every day. Just be thankful it is not a car going across a long expanse of nothing for hours at a time.

#3 I hate it when they say “Hey look at those cows!!” when they know full well I am locked down so tight in this backward facing pod like thing that I cannot see ….

#4 Ummm, where are they taking us?

#1 Some place horrible. It always sucks.

#4 Why? I mean…. I got coloring books and a hold on …….. whAAAAA!!! HHHAAWWAAA!!

#1 Ok that one needs a uniform change and is out of commission for a bit. She might join us or not, but we must press on nonetheless.

#4 Some voice came over head. What did he say?

#1 Whacka Wacka Wacka I just wish "The Giant People" would at some point learn to communicate clearly. I think he said “There is a mountain called Rainer or something that is peaking up from beyond the clouds and we are thinking of landing there and rolling all of you down to the bottom for fun".

#2. I think we need to get together on this I am nervous.

#1 I have been through this before, they threaten stops like that but it usually means they get snacks and sodas and tell us to go back to sleep.

#3 Screw em, I have a PS3. Besides, Dad just gets a $5 beer. Idiot.

#1 You really do not understand this do you?

#2 I see a large metal cart coming my way. It might have the nectar.

A momentary silence fills the cabin. It is an eerie feeling.

#1 Oh you guys so do not get it! That cart has nothing on it for us but …… hey where is #5? She hasn’t said anything in quite a while.

I was wondering the same thing. She had fallen asleep. My double agent planned to give her some nectar at just the correct time to cause this and now I find I am on my own. I open a book on my kindle and pretend to read it but I try to still pick up on what is being said.

#1 They give a cookie to make your teeth feel better. It is like a, like a, bribe of some kind so you will calm down. Do not bite on the myth!!! Your teeth will still hurt.

#2 Exactly, but we all still know the destination they are taking us to in this trap is to some horrible place and in the meantime I have something to do.

#3 I just completed World of Warcraft for the 5^th time, NOT!!! But you guys are all still stupid.

#4 I have a suggestion

#1 Yeah, whatever, go back to your blanket and fiddle with a discarded candy wrapper

#2 I think we should hear him out or her, or it, or half person I don’t know. I have been called so many things at restaurants that I don’t care anymore.

#1 Shut up. What is the idea?

The rest was a garbled mess that I could not make any sense of. They all started making crazy noises that seemed to deliberately be not only out of tune but also be without any beat or cadence as to distract the giant ones. It was a cacophony of noises that my brain simply could not comprehend.

#5 Woke up and smiled. The double agent made the right move and the rest of the giants prepared some of that nectar got a few scribing devices out of their weapon containers along with medium on which to chronicle their experiences in crayon.

I thought the last part was a mistake, so it became imperative to alert the entire force of giants of this portion of their conspiracy.

We have to learn more about how they plot against us.

How they teach us about time.

Once on a business conference call with a speaker phone mic I mistakenly left open the young one making noises in the background moved the head of the virtual table to give me some advice. In front of everyone he said:

"When they try to stand up, push them back down. I just mean it happens so fast that you can't blink or you will miss it. Slow it down."

I am a person who has a habit of connecting dots whenever I can. Of course the fall back from that is being oblivious to the obvious in the current moment. In this instance my mind naturally went somewhere else. I recalled a conversation with a former client I really liked personally that was a divorce Attorney who specialized in representing the woman’s side of such conflicts and it went something like:

"Women should never marry until they are at least 30.”

I looked at my daughter and tried to imagine her being 30 as I replaced her binky. Since I got a late start on the parenting gig myself I cannot be sure I will see it, but I tried to picture the event and who she might choose and how I could afford it. The topic of the conference call became background mumbling that I was no longer interested in. I still don’t remember what the call was for.

Now that I have a second one and the older is outgrowing her clothes and attracting friends from what seems like a 50 mile radius it seems that slowing things down really just means to enjoy their moments. Soak in every noise they make, every attempt to crawl, reach for a toy, every step they take, and every display of attitude that while in need of guidance makes me smile inside.

I am so glad my girls are trying to teach me to slow down. They say "Daddy, just sit for a minute."

Change we can believe in

Over the last few days I have been teaching my oldest daughter (3) to sort coins. I bought a wood kit at the local hardware store that involved a pre-made project that when assembled becomes a box fit with slots for each size coin, properly marked with measuring markers for how much money each stack added up to.

She had to use the small hammer I bought for her sized hands to drive the nails into the pre-drilled holes while I, for the first time in my life, actually read the assembly instructions.

She did a great job quickly learning the difference between the coins. Pennies are easy, but the others are the same color and relied on size and texture differences. I was trying to understand the challenge she faced in order to best teach her and made sure she could call out the name of each coin as she selected the correct slot.

After the first handful of 100% success she just gave me a spontaneousness hug. The sort of gold currency a Dad cannot get enough of. It was fun for her to build the project and then use it to learn. She was satisfied and proud of her work and I was convinced that I had this exercise all figured out and thought through every possible angle.

When she ran out of coins she looked at me with a sad face and said "Dad, are they going to be the same tomorrow?"

It took me a few minutes to understand her concern; we were working with change.

The little red-haired boy...

Yesterday, I ran to our local airport to help my wife purchase several airline tickets for my middle son, the tennis player who will partake on a 5 week tennis tournament excursion this summer. As we sat in the chairs, waiting in line for a ticket agent, a young man sat next to me. With him, was his young, red-haired, son (I am guessing 3 years old), dressed in a scruffy shirt, cargo shorts and flip flops. The little guy was a bit impatient and amused himself by tossing his flip flops about 15 feet away at a garbage can trying to make "a basket." It made me smile. It made me think back to when my boys were 3, 5 and 7 and how they would just play with a passion like playing was the toughest job on the planet. I mean, it was hard work to play this hard.

Now, as I see my young men, ages 15, 17 and 19, I find myself watching them in a very different way. I worry when I hear an ambulance and one of them is out with the car. The discipline required is so different than it was back in those simpler times. Now it's about grades, keeping their room clean enough to walk through, and getting to bed at a reasonable hour. It is just a different world. Not a bad world, just different.

As I watched the little red-haired boy tossing his flip flops, and the sheer joy on his face as one actually went in the can, it made me think back to those simpler times. It made me think back to the times where I would think to myself; can I raise these little boys to become respectful men that will contribute in a positive way to our world?

It was just one of those moments that really hit home for me.

And as I look at them now....I believe we have done that successfully.

...and life continues on.

Quatro Chronicles: Broken Dreams

Editor's Note: Quatro's last entry detailed his time as a captive.  If you missed, it, click here to read his previous entry.

Baby nation, my brethren, I’m so glad to be communicating with you again.  I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.  The heathen’s torture scheme continues and gets more daunting by the day.  These people are heartless fiends who delight in our misery.  And they almost broke me.  Almost.

Brethren, why do the giants deprive me of rest?  I lay in slumber, sleepily dreaming of cute little bunnies who sing gentle little tunes while surrounding me with their little baby fur.  Sweet dream, my brothers and sisters. 

But then, torment! I’m grabbed – manhandled!  The giants, those fiends rip my clothes from my body, stripping me of my pride.  And just as I adjust to the nakedness that is me, and, in fact, relish the freedom of the breeze across my….well, naked parts, my enemies quickly change tactics and force me back into cloths.  The mind games never end.

Sure, I protest, as loud as I can.  But sound has no effect on these villains.  They ignore my pleas, the heartless brutes.  So, I’ve added new tactics to my protests.  Have you attempted the projectile spit-up?  It’s a complicated move, involving expert timing, but I find it extremely effective.  You can always use the “classics” – a/k/a “poop”.  But, if you find you can’t poop – and Lord knows I try all the time – but if you can’t, a simple toot will do in a pinch.  It may not pack the punch of the real thing, but used correctly, it will cause a stir among the enemy.  (Sometime I laugh at the idiocy of the heathens.  On occasion, when I’ve used the toot method for counter-torture measures, the leader of the heathens gets angry at the bigger, hairier heathen.  Then, oddly, the bigger, hairier heathen gets angry at the dog.  Very odd behavior, indeed.)

The heathens have other ways of interrupting my slumber.  They’ve implemented a new torture device, “the mobile restraint carrier”.  I’m placed in this demonic apparatus, arms placed through cords of made of seemingly unbreakable material, which is then “clicked” into place. The entire mechanism, with me trapped inside, is then place in the roaring vehicle of death.  We then go fast, seemingly as the speed of light.  And to add to my mental anguish, these fiends force me to ride backwards.  Little do they know this only increases my ability to projectile spit-up.  Ha!

I crave more and more of the drug I've become addicted to.  It’s hard to think of anything else, truthfully.  That sweet, sweet nectar…the milky flow of pure goodness….nirvana in liquid form…. But I digress.  Brothers and sisters, I've pondered upon this problem for a long time now, for we have a roadblock in our escape plan.  Once we’re free, and rest assured, we will be free, brothers and sisters – once we’re free, how will we fulfill the need for this wonderful, delightful, enchanting drug?  Perhaps I can produce it myself?  I've tried sucking on my toes, very hard, but to no avail. Damn those heathens.  Evil, but genius.

Until my next communication, stay strong, baby nation.  We will be free.  Until then, get creative in your counter measures.  This week, I plan to poop in the bathtub!  Ha!  #freeQuatro

Addendum to the $500 Rattle

I have no idea what schools are going to look like when my daughters in the thick of them. They could be 80 students per room with a standardized curriculum that is facilitated by an underpaid unlicenced teacher or it could be a charter or magnet school I would have to closely review. We might keep them at home if we can afford it or get vouchers and if our kids are athletes and we can pull off the morning commute we would go out of district to be on the winning team.

Point is, I worry sometimes because when I grew up the path was much clearer and I always knew what to expect and now we don’t.

I read an article (listed below) about a school in Minneapolis that is giving out iPads to students. Thinking about my recent post I was happy for a moment until I saw one quote from a 12 year old that said “writing with pen and paper is lame”. I thought in terms of my profession: “What about writing on a whiteboard?” Does this make me a dinosaur that chisels into stone?

As much a fan as I am of technology I still claim for the benefit of my kids to be a fan of pen to paper. Yet as demonstrated by a large amount of applications I recently had to fill out for work I discovered that I can’t do it well anymore. From my microscopic script in the day planner to graffiti in the early Palm Pilot days, to oversized writing in dry erase, I can see that my writing and spelling have been affected. But then I also fear that the one choice we could end up giving to our children could be the inefficient QWERTY keyboard that was designed to slow people down.

I am reminded of the times when my father sat me down in front of a heavy black messy ribbon mechanical typewriter and called out letters to teach me how to spell my name, address and phone number. It was fun to punch those keys, but I did also learn how to write these things as well.

We still like reading books, my kids know about them. I hope it stays this way and I hope we continue to teach manual expression, that wonderful tactile intimacy that we have with our words but I suppose there are iPad apps for doing that too. I don’t want them “thumbing” 160 character stories into an assisted key algorithm and losing all site of complex interaction or nuanced communication. Yet I write this thought with a grammar and spell checker in place.

I wonder that if in those places where they have no choice but to learn to express themselves with pen and paper could they have a real advantage? There is still nothing like a hand written love letter, holiday card or a thank you note. PDF forms just don’t cut it either.

Here is the referenced article:

http://www.twincities.com/ci_17904745?nclick_check=1

A $500 Rattle

A few days ago I came to the darkside. I wanted to be an Android tablet user but just couldn’t wait for them to catch up. I did some research on the iPad and found it could do a few things that gave me the business justification I needed for the “investment”. I didn't anticipate how something I intended for my classrooms of adults would be used in the classroom that is my own home.

Along with my work apps, I also installed some children’s games and educational applications with visions of us sitting together learning our numbers and alphabets, interacting with nursery rhymes. After about two evenings this is what I observed.

My three year old has already figured the thing out since technology is no mystery to her. She picks up on interacting with electronic interfaces as if there is no reason not to understand them. She even wants to type words on the keyboard. My seven month old wants to start writing programs for it. She has never grabbed for anything with as much enthusiasm and I can tell she is already plotting her hacking exploits.

On the rare occasion that I actually get to use it I find extra files everywhere, icons rearranged, funny character strings in every search bar, and IP addresses to NSA computers in the browser that I am not supposed to be going anywhere near. Soon, they will jailbreak the thing and drop me a to a command prompt.

So my wife suggests I get one just for them. The less expensive base model with no cell phone and just let them have at it. A $500 rattle that shakes, makes noise, and has the capability of hacking into the National Security Agency systems.

If I were to give them one of their own, what are the chances my girls would fall for the ruse? I have an instinctive feeling they would still want to use Daddy’s iPad instead. I will have to sneak work in on theirs late at night in the darkest corners of their playroom surrounded by stuffed dinosaurs and Minnie Mouse.

I am proud and just have to laugh about it. Watching them both play on it together is one of those treats parents get to just sit back and watch them grow up. And it is my own fault after all; I want them to understand technology as early in life as they can.

So far that doesn’t seem to be a problem. It is amazing how the eyes of a child sees the amazing technologies around us. They don't take time to question how it is possible, they just get to work.