Category: Parenthood
“So… what would you little maniacs like to do first?”
- Lisa
Today’s topic for young people is: How to Do a School Science-Fair Project.
I’ve had my fair share of science-fair projects, including one that involved Nair in my hair, which gave my Mom a good scare. Not all science-fair projects need to involve bodily alterations though. The most popular kind of projects are dioramas—which come from the Greek words dio, meaning “science-fair project,” and ramas, meaning “in a shoebox”—which are painfully constructed by sleep-deprived parents at 11:45pm because their kids rushed into their room, screaming, “Mommy! Daddy! I didn’t do my science-fair project and it’s due tomorrow! You have to do it for me!! DO IT FOR MEEEEEE!!!!”
So the parents muster every last molecule of Parental Love they can find (these are the molecules that repel the Strangle Your Children When They Wake You Up At Night Because They Forgot To Do Their Science-Fair Project molecules), pull themselves out of bed, and grab the nearest artifacts they can glue into a shoebox. That includes anything from cotton balls (“the clouds”) to toothpicks (“the trees”) to the cat (“George Bush”).
Once the diorama is complete, the next task is writing the report. It is always best to use a clear-front cover for your report. Teachers can’t resist clear-front covers. They drool all over them. Which is another incentive for clear-front covers: they are drool-resistant because they are made of polypropylene—which come from the Greek words poly for “many-sided,” and propylene for “proopie lane”, which really doesn’t make sense, but that’s because the Greeks were smoking crack when they invented words.
You can buy clear-front covers from Staples (motto: “We Sell Stuff Only Nerds Want”), as well as a plethora of other materials for your diorama. The more materials you have, the better off you will be. This is because a well-accessorized diorama means you’re rich; and rich people always succeed in life.
Ha ha, just kidding. A better-looking diorama isn’t actually a good thing. It makes you a target for bullies. They’ll beat you up, take your lunch money, and stick the cotton balls up your cat’s “proopie lane.” Then you’ll end up without a diorama.
But back to your report. Your report should show the steps of the Scientific Process: Purpose, Hypothesis, Procedures, Metamorphosis, Bargaining, Guilt, and finally, Acceptance. Charts and graphs can also be used to support and visualize your arguments. In fact, charts and graphs can sometimes be even more helpful, especially if you’re teacher are sick and tired from reading many reports with worst grammar and badly spelleng.
So screw your report; just include a bunch of colorful charts and graphs. You can take them right from well-established and respected news sources such as like Newsweek (motto: “We Make Serious News”) and The Onion (motto: “We Make Serious Poopie”). Just imagine how pleased your teacher will be when she sees the infographic: “What Wouldn’t We Mind Right Now?”—taken from the February 16th, 2005 issue of The Onion—and reads statistics such as: “11% – third quarter pounder; 24% – fifteen hours of sleep; 17% – container to catch vomit in.”
Armed with a realistic (and meowing) diorama and a professional (and totally plagiarized) report, you’re bound to get a good grade. But on the off-chance that, after following these time-proven techniques that I just made up a few minutes ago, you still get a bad grade, just remember that a bad grade isn’t the end of the world. You can always drop out and go back to school when you’re older. Take Kimani Maruge, an 84 year old great-grandfather in Kenya who—according to the article on Ananova.com entitled: “Octogenarian Schoolboy Faces Expulsion”—enrolled into the “infant class” at Kapkenduiywo (Greek for “to properly pronounce our name, make clicking sounds with your teeth and tongue”) Primary School.
What exactly is the “infant class”? Does that mean he was the only student not wearing a diaper? Well, at age 84, he probably was. Mr. Maruge was also apparently at the top of his class and even became the teacher’s pet, though the article doesn’t exactly specify how. My guess is he handed in a realistic diorama and a professional report with a clear-front cover.
. . .
Did you ever do a school science-fair project?
There’s a drama unfolding in front of me right now.
The scene:
In a cafe. On the table next to me are a mother and daughter. The daughter is dressed rather provocatively, with a short frilly skirt and tank top. She stands out because she is overdressed for this casual place. Most of the men walking by turn to look at her.
Act 1:
Two men walk by and also look at her. One is balding with a goatee. The other has a face full of craters.
Balding Goatee plants himself near the daughter and stares intently. She smiles coyly and turns away. The men walk over and even though there are no free tables, grab two extra chairs and sit near the mother and daughter.
After a few moments, Balding Goatee turns to the mother and daughter.
- Balding Goatee:
- “Where are you guys from?”
Mother and daughter exchange glances and a few words in their own language.
- Mother:
- “What?”
- Balding Goatee:
- “Where are you guys from? Are you from around here?”
- Mother:
- “We live here.”
- Balding Goatee:
- “Do you guys come here a lot?”
- Mother:
- “This is our first time here.”
Balding Goatee’s friend Crater Face shifts his chair and leans in.
- Crater Face:
- “Are you mother and daughter?”
- Mother:
- “Yes.”
- Crater Face:
- “You have a very beautiful daughter.”
The daughter turns away from the conversation.
- Mother:
- “Thank you.”
Balding Goatee tries to bring the daughter back into the conversation.
- Balding Goatee:
- “Are you in school?”
- Daughter:
- [nodding] “High school”
Balding Goatee and Crater Face turn away. Mother and daughter go back to their own conversation.
Act 2:
After a few minutes, the mother gets up and leaves. The men, seeing their chance, turn to the daughter again.
They make small talk. I don’t catch everything they say, but hear bits and pieces of it. The men ask here again where she’s from, where she lives, if she comes here often, etc.
The mother returns and sits down. She continues their conversation and the daughter turns away.
- Mother:
- “We’re from Romania.”
- Balding Goatee:
- “Ah, I knew you had to be from somewhere else, because I couldn’t recognize your language.”
- Mother:
- “And you? You are Indian?”
- Balding Goatee:
- “No, my father’s from Iraq and my mother is from Pakistan.”
Balding Goatee asks again where they’re from and if they live around here. The mother mutters something and the men don’t seem to have heard it. But they continue.
- Balding Goatee:
- “What are your names?”
The women look at each other. The mother mutters something.
- Balding Goatee:
- “What was that? What are your names?”
- Mother:
- “We don’t out names here. We don’t give names to strange men.”
The mother fixates on Balding Goatee, with a piercing stare that only a protective mother can give.
- Mother:
- “She’s underage.”
The mother and daughter get up.
- Mother:
- “Good day.”
They exit stage left. Some of the other patrons look up from their laptops and smirk, just as I do. The men are left speechless, with their mouths wide open but no words coming out.
. . .
Have you ever seen a grown man hit on a little girl?
Vinny’s eyes narrowed as he spoke.
“After I gave my daughter a great big hug, I brought in her boyfriend—well, I guess I should start calling him ‘her fiancée’ from now on.”
He took a swig of tea. The entire table was so fascinated by his tale that no one dared break the silence until he finished.
“I told him to sit down and then I said to him, ‘Son, for the next few minutes, we’re going to have a serious conversation. After that, we’ll go back to normal, to joking around and all that. But for these next few minutes, I want to say something very serious to you.’
“Then I took out two bullets. He was quiet and didn’t say a word.”
The table was equally quiet. I felt a lump in my throat but didn’t dare to clear it.
“Then I said to him, ‘Do you see these two bullets? I want you to keep this one.’ So I place one in his hands and continue holding the other one up.
“‘I want you to keep that bullet as a reminder that if you ever lay a hand on my daughter and hurt her, you will never see this second one coming.’”
Someone could have shoved a baseball into my mouth it was so wide open. I tried to speak but only a dog could hear the high-pitched whine coming out of my throat.
Vinny leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You should have seen his face. He was stone cold. I put the other bullet away and then we shook hands. He was very respectful. He’s a real nice guy and I know he would never hurt her, but just in case, I think he got the message.”
The table broke the silence. Laughter. “Heh heh, yea, I’m sure he got the message,” Doug chortled.
I smiled and nodded, knowing that I would probably do the same as a father, though deep down inside, I was sure damn glad I wasn’t the one marrying his daughter.
. . .
What would you say to your future son-in-law?
I want a baby.
No wait, that’s probably jumping too far ahead right now.
I should probably get a Practice Baby first. Just to practice on, before I get the real thing. So when I goof up, I can just shake ‘im up like an Etch-A-Sketch and start over.
That way, I could experiment with different parental styles. First, I’d go with the strict traditional parental method of Tough Love.
Then I’d turn it down a notch. Maybe some Reward & Punishment with sprinkles of Spankings, mixed with a few ounces of Hugs & Kisses. I’d stop short of Spoiling Silly, of course.
But hmm. A Practice Baby probably isn’t all that realistic, is it? Probably not. It’s not like there’s a Rent-A-Baby down the street that I could visit after work.
Hmm. I could go for a pet. Yea, that’s what I’ll do. Get a pet.
If I can housebreak a dog, it’ll be a cinch to housebreak a baby, yea? Or, um, you’re giving me that look again. Okay, maybe not.
But trying to train a pet ought to give me some good practice, right? I’ll have to learn how to clean up poop, take him for walks, and teach him how to drink out of the toilet.
Wait, I don’t want him to drink out of the toilet (both the dog and the baby). I’ll have to train him how to use the toilet though (both the baby and the dog).
It’s a lot of work, I know. That’s why I need the practice.
Wouldn’t that be great? If we could all get a Practice Baby to work with before diving into the real thing? How cool would that be?
Even professional baseball players take a few practice swings before stepping up to bat. If something that relatively simple gets practice, shouldn’t something as complex as parenting require practice too?
. . .
Do you want a practice baby?
I’m currently in training. It’s for one of the toughest classes in life. It’s called Raising A Family.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be. In a way, we all are in training for this class.
Before you get any funny ideas, no, I’m not planning on settling down anytime soon. I still have many lessons to go.
Here’s the way I look at it. Everything I’m doing in my life, every trial, every tribulation, is a lesson towards being a good father and husband someday.
Say I’m dealing with an impatient, self-centered guy at work. He’s a real pain in the ass. My interactions with him could be seen as a waste of time. I don’t see it that way though. Instead, I view the experience as a learning opportunity.
This impatient, self-centered guy is like a newborn child. So dealing with him is like dealing with a baby. Looking at the situation this way not only trains me better, but also allows me to be more patient with this guy.
Plus, I sometimes imagine him in a bib with a pacifier in his mouth; that image always plants a grin to my face when he’s being especially annoying. It makes me want to reach out and pinch his cheek, “Daw, is da itty bitty baby upset again?”
Now say I’m dealing with an arrogant, self-righteous guy at work. This could be a lesson in dealing with a teenager.
So when my teenager comes home one day with tattoos and piercings and other bodily mutilations, I’ll hopefully have learned the patience and tolerance to look him in the eye, breathe a sigh, then smack him across the forehead, yelling, “What are you doing to yourself? Are you crazy?”
Nah, just kidding. I’ll hopefully have learned the patience and tolerance necessary to deal with my teenager’s rebellions and accept them.
There’s a nice layer of amusement in using child rearing techniques to deal with difficult people. Of course, some adjustments should be made. If the impatient, self-centered guy is upset about something, playing peek-a-boo with him probably won’t help.
Part of this training involves living my life consistently with the values I’d want to instill in my children. If I want to be a good role model for them, I must make sure I’m faithful to my values.
Habits that I consider bad should be stopped, lest I carry them over to my kids. So my fucking shit-awful cursing days should to a fucking close.
These lessons never stop either. Even after I have a family, I’ll still be going through these lessons daily. Maybe even tougher ones too. It’s an everlasting, never-ending education.
It’s certainly a tough class. Its lessons are harsh and sometimes unforgiving. But I believe they are truly worth it, if you want to raise a good family.
. . .
Are you in training for a family too?
Feel that? That itch in the gut of your soul? The voice that says, “If only I had…”
That’s Regret gnawing at you there.
It’s the haunting feeling that makes you look back at that one party you had to leave early because you had work the next day. Even though you were having a great time. Because you’re responsible like that.
And what was her name again? That really cute girl you were talking to? She was laughing at all your jokes and had those really adorable dimples in her cheeks. You didn’t even get her number. Of course not. You didn’t want to come off like a sleazeball. And besides, you had to leave early.
What did your friend tell you later? Right after you left, another guy came up to her and offered her a drink. Then she got really drunk and, during a game of Truth or Dare, was dared to kiss him. And she did.
Childish. All of that is so childish, isn’t it? You’re too mature to be playing drinking games like that. You don’t even drink that much. And besides, if she did that, she wasn’t your type anyway.
But your friend did mention that she asked about you later that evening. Where did you go, she wondered. She was looking for you. If you stayed, maybe she would have kissed you.
So what? That’s not the kind of guy you are. You’re not comfortable kissing a girl you just met at a party. You even hear that she went home with this other guy. You wouldn’t be comfortable with a girl like that
But gosh, she was sure cute, wasn’t she?
Now you’re older, wiser, and married. You have a family with a good wife and great kids. You have a secure job and contribute faithfully to your 401K. Life is comfortable; life is good.
Your company Christmas party is always a nice event. The guys from your department and you stick together for the most part, but it’s nice to unwind with some wine and laughter.
One of your coworkers introduces you to an account manager from a different branch. A female account manager. She seems very cheerful. She laughs at all of your jokes. Those are cute dimples she has.
Where’s your wife? Oh, she wasn’t able to make it this year. She’s at home with the kids. Little Jimmy has a fever and she’s looking after him.
Only in town for the weekend, she tells you. What a big city; it seems so unfriendly and cold. How nice it is to have met a nice and warm guy like you. And funny. And handsome.
You struggle with your tie. It’s feeling tighter now, isn’t it? You cough and excuse yourself to the bathroom. While you’re taking a piss, that tiny voice returns. That damn itch in your gut.
You shake it out of your head. You’re married now. You can’t take chances like that anymore. As much as you wish you could, you really can’t. You’re more responsible than that.
After you make your way back to the party, you tell your coworkers that you’re going to head home early. No, don’t leave yet, they say. Here, have one more drink with us before you leave.
Okay, fine. You agree to just one more drink. That damn itch is really bothering you and you just want to soothe it with a little bit more wine. You don’t drink that much anyway, so a little wine will go a long way.
But that itch doesn’t quite go away. The voice keeps getting louder with each glass. And oh, who’s that staring at you through the crowd? The cute account manager.
She makes her way towards you, smiling. Those are really cute dimples she has. She touches your arm as she talks. A momentary flashback to that party so long ago gone now bubbles into your mind.
It’s been haunting your dreams for so long now that it seems like, well, like you’re living in your dream right now; you’re living in THAT dream now.
Yea, that’s right. This must be a dream. Everything seems too perfect to be real. It’s as if Life is giving you a second chance. A second chance to try a path that you’ve longed to try. The itch of Regret is just too strong to be ignored now.
You offer her another glass of wine. She smiles and hands you a slip of paper. Her hotel room number is on it. She tells you to give her a fifteen-minute head start, then to meet her at her room. You watch her glide through the crowd and out of the party.
Fifteen minutes pass. You gulp down the rest of your wine. And you make your way out of the party, paper in hand.
. . .
Have you ever felt the itch of regret?
Ever notice how Newly Made Fathers have a tendency to talk about their wives’ bodily functions as normal, everyday conversation?
“You spent all night trying to find a fix to that browser bug? That’s nothing compared to what I did last night. When my wife’s vagina dilated, I had to reach in and clear her engorged uterine canal as embryonic fluid poured all over my lap.”
So let me share with you one such conversation, because misery loves company. Naturally, I’ll choose a conversation on breasts.
“Not getting much sleep lately, huh?” I asked, noticing the deep rings under the poor guy’s eyes.
“Yea. Only three hours last night. But it’s usually my wife who walks up to take care of the baby.”
“Yea? Lucky man.”
“She’s got to feed him, that’s why.”
“Ah. Lucky break for you then.”
“Yea. Though maybe in a few weeks she’ll be able to fill up some baby bottles with her breast milk so I could feed him too.”
“Wow,” I blinked. I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.
“That breast milk is amazing. You know that a mother will produce exactly the right kind of milk for her child?”
“Really?”
“Yea. Somehow, through some unspoken communication, a mother’s milk will release more antibodies if her child is sick.”
“So telepathy is real, huh?”
“I think it’s through the child’s saliva as he’s breast feeding. That, or hormones.”
“Mmm, I see.”
“I really envy that connection that women have with their babies.”
“I once saw on TV a body harness-like contraption that a guy can strap so he’ll have fake boobs that be filled with milk, so a guy feed a baby too,” I added.
“Wow! That would be great! I would totally love something like that. I’ve had no luck trying natural breast feeding.”
“Natural… wha? You mean you… tried… breast feeding from… yourself?”
“Yup. It hurt a bit and nothing came out.”
I grimaced and rubbed my nipples. “Damn man, I’d imagine not. Men don’t have milk glands!”
“I’ve heard that sometimes guys do.”
“Daaamn. You must love your baby a lot to have tried something like that.”
“Heh. Yea. I’ve even heard that some mothers have the ability to produce even more milk if they hear their child crying. Their breasts just naturally get larger and more full of milk.”
Mmm. Larger.”
“And the funny thing is, they’ll do this even if they hear another baby crying. The story I heard talks about a mother in a supermarket who hears a baby crying in the next isle. Her breasts suddenly begin to lactate and her blouse gets all wet.”
“Whoa! She just started lactating like that? Didn’t need a, uh, squeeze or anything?”
“Nope. It just started dripping out.”
“Damn.”
“Yup. Pretty crazy stuff, huh?”
“Yea, I had no idea there was so much to breasts. Can’t say I envy women at all.”
“You may, one day, when you’re a father. A mother’s milk is pretty amazing.”
. . .
Would you want to breast-feed your baby?
Never pick a fight with the mother of a newborn. They have forearms of dense muscle.
I have a new cousin: Jessica. Born ten days ago to this date, she’s a tiny wonder wrapped in a bundle of pink cloth.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being this small before. When my aunt placed Jessica in my arms, I couldn’t help but make a comparison to a stuffed animal. It was like holding a toy, except that a baby produces many more smells.
Her miniature fingers curled around mine. The skin on her hands was peeling. Her head was soft and delicate. She was very warm.
Jessica looked up at me. For the first time in her life, she saw me.
“Hi Jessica. I’m Michael, your cousin.”
She stared at me with her large, curious eyes. Then she tilted her head back and yawned. I kept my arm carefully cradled behind her head. She moved her tiny body around to find a cozy position.
Then she fell asleep in my arms.
“Awww… Look at that. I think she likes you, Mike.”
I gently rocked my arms back and forth. She stretched and yawned again.
It was an amazing moment. A brand new life was in my arms. Earlier today, I wasn’t in the brightest of moods. But that all changed when I held Jessica. There is definitely magic in this child.
Then, I thought: “Oh uh, what if she poops on me?”
A few years ago, I held her older brother, Eric. As I held him, I suddenly felt a burning warmth accompanied by a peculiar odor. Eric looked at me like I just farted at a funeral.
Guess that shows how much Eric cares for me. Heh.
After several minutes of rocking, my forearm began to tire. I stopped rocking and Jessica woke up. She stared at me, as if to say, “Hey, what happened to the rocking? You started it, big boy. Now finish it.”
So I continued rocking. And she fell back asleep again.
And my forearm began to tire again.
My aunt pointed out that I was also tense. No big surprise there. Here was a brand new, ten-day-old life in the arms of a rather inexperienced baby-handler. There’s a terrific responsibility here.
Take, for instance, beer. It’s not like holding a beer. If you drop a beer, the worse thing you get is a splash of alcohol or an angry alcoholic.
My arm was getting tired. I’m no wimp or anything; I have to lift pens and paper every single day, just like everyone else does. But being tense while being new to the whole baby-handling thing was very humbling to my forearm.
So my mother took Jessica from me.
“Tired already, huh Mike?” my aunt said. “I guess you don’t have what it takes to be a mother.”
She rolled up her sleeve to clarify. And I swear I saw dense, rippling, striated, vein-popping, bulging muscles pulsing in her forearm. These things were massive, I tell you, massive. Truly. Massive.
I watched my mother hold Jessica. Then I made a resolution to work out more before I become a father, especially my forearms.
. . .
How strong are your forearms?
