Mark Freeman's Blog, page 2

DIBBS

I instituted a new rule in our household this past week.

DIBBS.

I know, some of you might now be wondering what kind of household do I preside over, but bear with me a moment. I was driving home after picking up my daughters from school earlier in the week. And like sisters do, or maybe just siblings in general, they were bickering on the way home. It ranged in topics, but pretty much covered anything my youngest daughter thought would get a rise out of her older sibling. I tried to stay impartial. Let them work it out amongst themselves, and learn to solve these disagreements civilly. Honestly, I was just trying to block out the the din of squabbling and listen to Matt Kearney on the CD player.

However, I was inevitably drawn into the disagreement. “Dad! I said I had to use the bathroom, and she said she’s going to use it first!” My oldest intoned from the back seat. I looked in the review mirror to confirm this was not some ruse, some prank, or attempt at punking their father. Were they really fighting over who got to use the bathroom first when they got home? Yes. Yes, they were. And they were dragging me into it. Serves me right for only having a home with one bathroom.

“Well,” I said. “Who called DIBBS?” Stunned silence momentarily followed.

I have to admit, these moments of self satisfaction that I feel while parenting makes it all worth it for me. Okay, the girls themselves – just being themselves – makes it all worthwhile, but these moments really are the icing on the cake. I know I should reserve these moments of proud parenting for graduations, honor rolls, sporting championships, and other civic honors, but, no. These are the moments I feel proudest of my parenting skills. Honestly, I don’t know if any other parent is ever as proud of themselves during these moments as me. If so, I should start a group just so we can share these awesome moments.

Anyway, the moment quickly passed, and my oldest asked, “What’s “dibbs?”".

“Well,” I said, “DIBBS is what you call when you want to stake claim to something.” Again, rapt silence and attention. “So, if you want/need the bathroom first, you call dibbs on it. If the new American Girl catalog comes in the mail, you call DIBBS, so you can read it first. If there’s only one brownie left, you call DIBBS. Well, you actually share, but you call DIBBS first, so you can get the credit for sharing. Make sense?”

Silence.

“I CALL DIBBS ON THE BATHROOM!” My oldest shouted from the backseat. “I call 2nd DIBBS!” My youngest proclaimed.

And, since the DIBBS Proclamation has been passed in our house, a new sense of order and agreement has followed. Never in my wildest dreams would I have anticipated such cooperation and acceptance. All the time and effort trying to teach communication, sharing, and reasonable compromise, and a 30 second lesson on DIBBS brings balance to the Force. Who knew? Order 66 wasn’t even this effective.

It’s left me looking forward to the retirement of car seats and front passenger seat riding. Oh, I can hardly wait to introduce the SHOTGUN Decree.

Mark’s Angry Rant

*Disclaimer: In this particular blog I make clear my feelings on politics, woman’s rights, rape, and stupid old men. My language, at times, may be colorful, possibly even harsh, and certainly not acceptable in polite company. I’m not starting a debate or dialogue with this blog, I’m just allowing myself this one rant. So, if you’re easily offended, I suggest you change the channel for the time being.*

I admit, I allude to my political leanings quite a bit, but rarely do I come out and make blanket statements on my blog or on my social media pages. It’s not what I use them for, and my mother always taught me there are three topics you should never discuss in polite company: Religion, Politics, and Sex. However, on this blog, I’m going to discuss all three of them (sorry Mom!). Today. Right now. Keep reading.

Anyone with a penis, especially and old geriatric one, should refrain from giving an opinion on what woman should do with their bodies. I’ll go one step further, if you have a penis, you shouldn’t get a say in women’s reproductive rights. You don’t get to decide what is acceptable female contraception. You shall not utter a word on abortion rights. Thou shall not produce a single syllable on what constitutes rape. Ever.

Just shut up already. No one wants to hear your thoughts on what you think “legitimate” rape is, or your thoughts on the science or divine intervention of conception. You are not a scientist, and last time I checked, no one has a direct line to God, so keep your thoughts on the matter to yourself. They’re about as helpful and enlightening as a lightning bug in a hurricane.

In other words, just because you have a dick, doesn’t mean you get to act like one. Or better yet, just keep it zipped, no one is interested.

Has anyone else noticed that this continued railing against woman’s rights and “defining rape” is being done by a bunch of dumb, old (exception Paul Ryan), men? Enough is enough.

So, let’s start with Politics. Why are we still arguing over the bodily rights for half of our population? You don’t see woman railing against men’s rights? Or, maybe they should. How about mandatory prostate screenings, exams, and internal rectal ultrasounds for every Viagra prescription? How about vasectomies for every man with a child they don’t support financially, or more importantly, emotionally. You get the picture, right? You don’t see female legislators out there pushing for laws against men’s reproductive rights? You don’t see legislation dictating men to have unnecessary or invasive procedures. So let’s stop this assault on controlling and oppressing women.

Now, Religion. For the sake of argument, lets ignore the obvious that our country was founded under the principles of religious freedom and one’s rights to worship or not worship as they see fit. In that light, my God would never intend for anyone to be raped, and worse, become pregnant from rape. However, it happens. For those dumb-old-men-politicians who are not clear on this, please see my previous blog, Talking the Talk, which should clear up how that works for you. My God also granted us Free Will, for good or ill, to decide for ourselves our path through this universe. And with that Free Will, we decide how to conduct ourselves. How to treat others, and how to live our life. So, let’s just spell it out then. If contraception, abortion, premarital sex, masturbation, or scientific facts and logic are against your religion than, by all means, don’t do or condone it. However, just because your religion doesn’t condone it, doesn’t mean you can force it on everyone else. You don’t see anyone trying to pass legislation prohibiting the consumption of pork, do you?

And, lastly, Sex. If one of the people involved doesn’t want it to happen, it’s rape. There are no gray areas. There is no fine line. If one person is a minor, it’s rape. If one person is unconscious, it’s rape. If one person has any misgivings at all, it’s rape. Rape is rape, it doesn’t need any other defining terms before or after it. Rape is not something to politicize. It’s wrong no matter what side of the aisle you stand on, there’s absolutely no spinning it.

So, why are we still debating and arguing women’s rights? We shouldn’t be. Woman are perfectly capable of deciding when and with whom to have sex, what forms of contraception to use or not, and whether or not to have a child. The last thing they need is a bunch of ignorant, backwards, politicians telling them how to live and conduct their lives.

So I propose, as a population of adults and – supposedly – evolved individuals, we decide right now to never argue or debate women’s rights again. Ever. It’s done. Finished. Fineto.

Good? Excellent. Now, go vote.

Halloween in the Park.

Halloween in Hyde Park is Rockwellian.

It is one of my favorite events and times in our village. I was enthralled with our very first outing with my oldest daughter. She went as an ear of corn, still in the husk, her blonde ponytail acting as the silk sprouting out the top.

Halloween night in the village is wonderful, friendly, and so unlike my childhood experiences.

Most of my Trick or Treating memories as a child are from the late 70′s and early 80′s. At that time, in my hometown, hospitals offered free x-rays of your Halloween candy bags. Seriously. You could bring your loot down to the local hospital and they would zap it to see if there were any razor blades or needles stuck in the candy. My parents had to search through our bags at the end of the night to make sure nothing had been tampered with, or worse, homemade. Those particular goodies were tossed in the trash without question. It was a time when there was a rash of scares, poisonings, and gruesome tampering of treats. Maybe some of the stories were urban myths, or media hype, but the fear and anxiety was very much real.

During that time I was still young enough to be escorted about the neighborhood by my Mom. The kids just older than me who still trick or treated – before they were too old or cool to bother – who ventured out un-chaperoned, had to be wary of bands of even older kids marauding the neighborhood. It was a fairly common occurrence to pass a small group of kids crying and lamenting they’d been mugged and their candy stolen.

Please, don’t get me wrong, though. I loved Halloween as a kid. Both my Mom and brothers helped make my costumes. Never did my Mom pick one off the rack at the store, every single one was handmade. Make-up, paper mache, and cardboard were the mediums of choice. Many of my costumes went on to be handed down years later to cousins and friends to be reused they were so good. My favorite was a Frankenstein’s Monster with a complete paper mache head (I looked out through a small hole in the shirt of the costume). It was a great costume. Still one of my favorites.

However, my excitement was tempered by a very real expectation of the dangers of our world. By warnings not to eat any candy until my Mom and Dad sorted through it all, and gave it the “all clear.”

So, you can imagination my apprehension at my first time taking my daughter trick or treating, and my elation at finding such a friendly event and experience awaiting us. Large groups of children and adults alike walking the village, laughing, joking, and fraternizing. Streets lit by streetlights and front porch lights alike. Homes welcoming and excited to greet the children and hand out candy.

My daughters love it. I love it.

So, as I take a break from making bows, arrows, leather quivers, and belts to write this piece, I get to give back to my daughters the wonderful handmade costumes my Mom and brothers made me. Admittedly, usually my daughters don’t always choose the costumes I would most like to make – I’ve had my share of faeries, kitties (black, at least), and princesses, but at least they let me craft the costumes for them. Granted, I wouldn’t mind a Jedi, wizard, or superhero some Halloween. This year, my mother-in-law has come to my rescue and made two amazing dresses for my daughters that I never would have been able to make for them myself. It wasn’t easy to relinquish this tradition of mine, but her creations are beautiful, and my daughters love them. I see the excitement in them that I felt when I was a kid, parading my handmade costume around the neighborhood.

It’s this excitement I hope I safely harbor here in the village and for the remainder of their trick or treating Halloweens. For me, it exemplifies childhood and innocence. There’s something to this simple little tradition of walking amongst your neighbors, going door to door and greeting friends and strangers alike through the cool autumn night. Something about taking on a persona not your own, performing and pretending, and stepping outside yourself for a night. I’m not sure what it is, but there is something ethereal about it, something other worldly that our other holidays just don’t share.

Then again, maybe it’s just the candy…

The Reality of Monsters

When I was a kid, I shared a bedroom with my two older brothers. I was, am, several years younger than they are, so I had an earlier bedtime. I guess, like most boys, we weren’t the neatest of kids. Our dirty laundry piled up on the floor of our closet, where it would often over flow (read teem) fairly quickly. Usually making it impossible for us to close the door, forcing it to remain ajar. I didn’t like the dark much as a kid, and my mom would leave our bedroom door open a crack and the hallway light on, to act as my nightlight. It did a very nice job of lighting the room just enough so I could see the closet, the open closet door, and the monsters waiting within its dark confines for me.

As I got older and my roommates moved out, I was no longer scared of the dark or the occupants of my closet, but my over active imagination was ever present. I can still get my heart racing or imagine things watching me in the dark. The difference now is that I kinda like it. I enjoy being out, in the dark, at night. There’s something mysterious, magical, and…well, spooky, about it.

So it comes as no surprise that my youngest daughter has begun seeing monsters in the shadows and hiding places of her room at night. She, without question, has the bigger of the two imaginations between my daughters, and always has. Her older sibling has never been bothered much by the dark, or monsters lurking under her bed. As a matter of fact, she would prefer no nightlights and the door closed – keeping the hallway light from spilling into their room – so she could more fully enjoy their glow-in-the-dark constellations on their ceiling.

However, her little sister insists on the door being open. And even that added light and comfort does not always chase away her fears of monsters. Often enough, she’ll persuade her older sister to climb into bed with her, and we’ll find the two of them cuddling in the morning.

Many nights, more often than not, I am beckoned to her bedside to reassure her. I say, “I am just down the hall. You have nothing to fear. I am here and will protect you . I always will,” I tell her. “There are no monsters lurking in the dark.” I say these things. Even though a very big piece of me cringes. I promise her she is safe and that there are no such thing as monsters, but even as I say it, I feel the bitterness of the lie on my tongue.

It is a lie not because I won’t do everything I can to protect her, but because there are monsters in our world. Real ones. Ones that make those of faerie tales, make believe, and my imagination seem almost Disney-esque in their villainy. They are the monsters that steal our children as they walk home from school or to the park, that intercept college students on their way back to their dorm rooms, or shoot 14 year old girls in the head for blogging about their right to attend school.

Maybe it’s a small lie in the scheme of things. An Easter Bunny or Santa Claus fib to quell my daughter’s fears in the middle of the night. But…it is a lie, none the less. One that never sits well in my heart.

What concerns me more than the lie is my own inability in keeping the promise I make. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my girls. No one I wouldn’t protect them from. No, that’s not what I fear. It is that I cannot be with her, them, every minute of every day. That is my fear. I fear the shadows for when they are alone, and I won’t be able to keep my promise. I am sure that many fathers have made similar promises to their children only to lose them to these monsters in our world. The thought has made me mistrust the night once more. Made me sleep less soundly and not trust the darkness. Maybe this is just a part of parenting, but I don’t like lying to my daughter, and I can’t abide the feeling that the monsters now have an upper hand.

It has become a scary world to me once more now that I have my own children. However, in the last week I found solace in realizing we’re not defenseless to the monsters in our world. Malala Yousafzai reminded me that the courage and strength of one child is more powerful than all the hate and evil in this world.

So, as my daughter crawls into my bed or calls me into her room to defend her from the monsters lurking in the shadows, I’ll remind her from now on that the monsters fear her more than me. That her strength and goodness is her light, her shield, her weapon against any monsters in this world.

And I’ll remind myself that it is mine too.

Talking the “Talk”.

On a recent trip home from my daughters’ horseback riding lessons, we got on the subject of puppies, pregnancy, and birth. My daughters were trying to wrap their minds around the size of litters and giving birth to so many babies. What was confusing them was whether the mother had all the babies at once or if they emerged one at a time, and if so, how did the babies know to come out in “a line”. My daughters asked if it was hard for the mom, and I explained that it’s tough to gauge pain or discomfort in animals, but it did seem like animals exhibited signs of pain while birthing their babies. The topic eventually worked it’s way to human babies and pregnancy. My oldest daughter finally asked the question, “does it hurt?”

So, being a father and not wanting to miss an opportunity I said, “Yes, excruciatingly so.” I figured, why not, right? I am prone to hyperbole, but I felt my wife and most moms I know would back me up on this one. And a little fear of horrific pain might prolong their desire to become moms in, what seems entirely too near, the future. I know, I was using my honesty to mask my own parental fears of my daughters growing up, but…so what?

The girls were quiet for a moment and then my youngest finally said, “Well, I’m not having one then!” Internally, I cheered. My oldest waited a beat and then asked, “Do we have to have a baby if we don’t want one?”

I didn’t waste much time thinking over my answer this time either. “No,” I said. “It’s your choice, sweetheart, if you want to have babies or not.” Not to politicize a conversation with my daughters, but it wasn’t hard for me to make the connection between this innocent question from my daughter, and what seems an attempt at retracting the hard fought equal rights for woman in the past few years.

“Okay, good,” she said.

At this point I was feeling pretty good about myself and the conversation. I felt I’d taken a stand for equal rights and promised to defend my daughters’ reproductive rights. I was feeling much like a bona fide father of the year candidate when I was blind sided by the next question.

“So, how do they get in there then?” she asked.

“Um, what?” I asked, very quickly fearing the turn in the conversation. She wasn’t asking what I thought she’s asking, was she? C’mon, I still have a few years yet before I have to talk to my little girl about that, don’t I?!

“Well, if I don’t want to have a baby, how do I not have one? How do they get in there?”

Damn it. I was sunk. I have to admit, I wasn’t ready for the question. I stammered, and admittedly, it wasn’t my proudest dad moment ever.

I looked in the review mirror and saw my two daughters’ small faces, button noses, and blue eyes awaiting my answer. They were looking to me, their dad, to drop some knowledge on them, and never had I been at such a loss before. Especially for them.

“Well,” I started just as we passed the last few trees before our house came into view. “MOMMY!” my girls exclaimed as they noticed their Mom’s car, revealing she’d beaten us home. I was saved, the girls had forgotten their line of interrogation and their minds had moved on to the excitement of mom being home. I had, luckily, avoided this particular topic for – hopefully – another decade or so.

But, you see, here’s the thing, I haven’t been able forget about it, though. I let them down, but almost – I feel – really let them down. You see, in that split second before seeing my wife’s car, my mind had come up with two paths to follow. Neither of which were very good options. My first thought was to bury them in science and technical terms. Put my biology degrees to good use in stonewalling having to give my daughters a real explanation for sex and pregnancy.

My other thought, and the one I nearly knee jerked into telling them, was that “when two parents love each other, they make a baby together.” Where this came from, I really don’t know, but it has really given me quite a bit of consternation since it leapt into my mind.

Why would I tell my daughters that? Well, I know why, because if I could I would line their clothes in bubble wrap, I would install airbags into the knees of their jeans, and surround their hearts in rainbows and marshmallows. But, how would that ever empower them and honestly answer my daughter’s question? It wouldn’t. It would only empower the Todd Adkins of the world. Something that I won’t abide.

However, I want them to know and believe they were created out of love. They weren’t made from it, “No,” I’ll say. “You were made with a sperm and an egg. Simple as that.” However, I will be emphatic that because their Mom and I loved each other very much, we wanted to bring them into this world.

And, since that moment, they have shown me a whole new plane of existence and love. Every day they teach me more about love than I ever would have guessed. My daughters, simply at being born and taking breaths, have given my life purpose. I will tell them that. Every word.

But, I will also tell them, however, that love isn’t what made them or put them in their Mom’s belly. No, that takes an egg from the mom and a sperm from the dad. Happens all the time in dogs, cats, whales, and millions of other species. It doesn’t take any love at all to make a baby. There’s nothing mysterious or magical about it.

I know too many people who have more love than most, but who will never make a baby. It is not for lack of any amount of love, but because of biology that they can’t make a baby of their own. I have friends who have lost babies, but it was never because of an over abundance of love. It was, sadly, because of biology.

Babies should be born into a safe and loving place, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes they’re not made because of love, “not like you were,” I’ll say, but sometimes in apathy or even brutality. And, “That’s not okay,” I’ll say, but it is true.

I’ll tell them again because I actually got this bit right, that it will always be their choice whether to have a baby or not. Because, it is their choice.

So, I feel better now. I feel ready for the conversation, which I still hope has been delayed for a lengthy amount of time. I’m now ready to have “The Talk” with my daughters about how babies are made and where they come from. I’m still embarrassed about being ill prepared before, but at least I rallied and am ready for them now.

Which is good, at least, because I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for them to actually make any.

Geek Genes Are Recessive. Who Knew?

I’m beginning to have an understanding of what my father felt when he came home after working all day, grabbed our baseball mitts, and stepped into my room to ask if I wanted to play catch. He would usually find me on the floor of my room, in the midst of a galactic battle between good and evil, Empire and Rebellion. Action figures would range from the floor to my brother and my bunk beds, along books shelves and flying through the air with X-Wings dog-fighting Tie-Fighters.

He’d invite me out for catch, and I’d accept, putting the battles on Hoth or the forest moon of Endor on hold until coming back. We’d then spend the next while chasing balls up and down Sixth Street. I’d throw it over his head or far wide, and duck out of the way of his that were dead center at my chest. I’m sure it was a fairly frustrating experience for him. It wasn’t that I wasn’t trying, or that I didn’t care. I think like most young sons, I desperately wanted his approval, and I liked playing baseball. Still do. However, the mitt, bat, and ball didn’t call to me like Jedis, superheroes, or wizards did. Or, still do.

Unfortunately, these things were as alien to my father as, well, aliens. He couldn’t have conceived or even imagined how vast his son’s imagination was, let alone an interest in such trivial things.

And, now that I’m a father, I find myself with two young daughters who have the same view of their father as their grandfather once held. It is inconceivable (the use of that word alone, and the enjoyment I take from using it, is proof alone of my geekiness) to them why I’m drawn to such – in their eyes – silly things, and more so – why I desire to expose them to such nonsense.

My daughters are much more practical than I am or ever have been. They love horses. Tangible beasts you can ride, groom, and nurture. They love gymnastics and music. Physical and visceral things they can feel and which exercises their bodies as well as their minds. They love art and camping, bike riding and board games. They don’t see the attraction of droids or wookies, kryptonite or power lanterns, and most certainly not shape-shifting snow leopards or telepathic magical dogs.

They are the pragmatic yin to my idealistic and romantic yang.

And I love them for that. Immeasurably so. The way only a man-boy who still believes in magic, extraterrestrials, and the all-encompassing power of goodness can.

But…it does give me a bit of insight into how my Dad must have felt all those years ago when he’d chased his last errant ball down our street and fished it out from beneath a neighbor’s car. When he’d finally acquiesce and say we’re all done playing catch, and watch me run straight to my room and immerse myself into the vast world of my imagination once more. I imagine, as only a product of an over active imagination can, the sense of melancholy he felt at my lack of passion for the game he loves to this day.

Didn’t make him love me any less, but I’m sure he wished for a bit more for us to connect on.

And as my girls grow up much too quickly for my liking, I too find myself grasping for shared interests and passions.

It’s why I find myself doing cartwheels across our lawn or letting them braid my hair. Or Playing boards games long past bed time, when all I want to do is buy them bags of dice and graph paper. And as long as their passion for ponies and riding continues, there will never be too much manure for me to shovel or stalls to muck.

However, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop longing for them to get the geeky references I utter, or ask me if I could have any super power in the world what would I choose, or maybe just once look me in the eye and say, “May the Force be with you.”

I guess my only solace is in if I ever have grand kids, that maybe being a geek is a recessive condition, and I’ll have some young padawans to teach these un-pragmatic ways to.

But, then again, I’m not in any rush to venture down that path just yet.

Whatever Happened to Good Sportsmanship?

As fall approaches and the playoff race picks up, I’m reminded about playing Little League when I was a kid.  Not because any of our games or playoffs matched the spectacle of the MLB, however exciting they were to me at the time, but because of the mantra my coaches and father recited to us at every practice and game.

“It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game that matters.”

It may be dated, even a little cliché, but sometimes old school wisdom is the best kind.

As the playoffs pick up, and rivalries begin to reach their zenith of the season, I sometimes wonder what ever happened to good sportsmanship. When we were kids, no matter how competitive the games got, when the game was over there were no hard feelings between us, usually.

It always takes me by surprise, and startles me a little, when I see people rooting against a team more than rooting for one.  When did being a bad sport become the norm?  When did being a sore loser become acceptable?  When did winning at all costs replace playing the game right?

When I was a kid, I wanted to win just as badly as anyone. Believe me, losses crushed me just as much as the next guy, especially when making the last out.  If you haven’t noticed, they still sting a little.  However, I remember clearly after these Little League losses moving on. My best friend, and better ball player than me, was on my team’s archrival.  I didn’t hold a grudge in the neighborhood the next day.  All of us kids on the different teams, once the uniforms were off and the games over, went back to playing with one another.  We moved on, were still friends, and went about business as usual.

Our rivals made us better.  They pushed us to play harder and be better.  If they countered our strengths, we needed to be creative and innovative and find a different way to win.  To succeed.  As a fan, I don’t hate my team’s rival.  I treasure them, for my team is less without them.

Things haven’t changed.  Rivals still make us better.  The Sox bring out the best ball in the Yankees, as do the Yanks for the Sox – well, in most years anyway.  However, when one team beats the other, does the loser refuse to take the field for the next game?  No, The players pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and get back to work after a loss.  In most cases, they work harder to right the loss.  They work harder to succeed.

So, what troubles me today is this lack of good sportsmanship.  I still try to ingrain it in my girls, as my father did with me.  But, it seems there was a whole generation who missed this simple lesson.  So what we’re on opposing teams or parties.  So what your team lost.   So what my party lost.  Move on.  Don’t be a sore loser.  Shake it off and get back up.  There’s work to do.

And, the funny thing about the baseball playoffs is that every four years, they coincide with a presidential election.  So, I get a double dose of watching the decay of sportsmanship.

Being on opposing teams is okay.  Good even.

We strengthen each other with our differences and through our competing campaigns.  We don’t need to hate the other team because when the election or game is over, we’re still from the same neighborhood. Aren’t we?

Is there more at stake in an election than a baseball game?  Sure.  More reason to keeping working together and continue to succeed as a nation.

When it’s all done, no matter who wins, we still have work to do.  We can’t refuse to play the game just because we lost.  We need to dust ourselves off, take the field, and get back to work.

Frankly, there’s too much at risk if we don’t.  Our rivals make us stronger, they make us rise up and be our best.  Without each other we won’t reach our greatest potential.  By ourselves we won’t see the most innovative solutions; we can’t be our best.

Only working together, and challenging each other, will we truly succeed and be winners.

 

Being Super Human

I remember very distinctly being 14 and my Mom asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  It was the summer before I entered 9th grade and high school. I think my answer caught her a little off guard, maybe not.  My answer was simple and to the point.

“I want to be a superhero,” I said.  I was serious, and even though I was prone to my share of sarcasm at that age, there was none in that statement or sentiment.  I wanted to be super human.  To do right, fix wrongs, and save the planet.  My definition of “hero” was and is a broad one, but I desperately wanted to be a symbol of right, compassion, and justice for the world.

Maybe now it feels a little naive to me to have been so innocent back then.  However, asked the same question now in my 39th year, I’m pretty sure I’d give the same answer.

What do I want to be when I grow up?  I superhero.  Hands down, there’s nothing else I’d rather be.

My youngest daughter goes in for surgery this coming Monday.  Nothing serious, minor as far as surgeries go.  However, she’ll be anesthetized, and someone with a very sharp knife will cut open her perfect little body and remove pieces of it.  And, that frightens me.

As summer winds down, we’ve been cramming as much fun summer activities into these last few days of beautiful weather. I watched my girls doing cartwheels and eating creemees yesterday.  We laughed, joked, and we talked.  My oldest, completely unprompted, began describing the person she was planning on marrying.  Now, please be assured, this is a topic I avoid at all costs.  I want my girls to be little girls and children for as long as possible, and I never prompt or encourage them to think along these threads. Ever.  However, as she began to describe her “husband”, he began to take a familiar shape.  Her ideal suitor turns out… to be me.   And with that, a thought struck me.

This is my moment.

To my girls, right now, I am super human.  Flawed, undoubtedly, but they overlook, forgive, and maybe even ignore them. What they see is that superhero my 14 year old self wished to be.  In my girls’ minds, I can accomplish anything.  I am defender, righter of wrongs, protector of justice.

This is my moment.  All parents’ moments, really.

It won’t last, I know.  For not only are my daughters my yellow sun, but they’re also my kryptonite as well. Like this Monday, when I stand defenseless at the OR door, or when they grow just a little older and the cape falls from my shoulders and the “S” on my chest changes meanings all together to them.  I know this, believe me, I do.

But right now, for this brief moment in time, to them I am bullet proof.  As surely as I would step before a bullet for them, they believe it will ricochet off of me.

Today, to my daughters, I am super human.  Today, FOR my daughters, I AM super human.

Today, I can be that symbol of right.  Today, I must try to save the world for them.  For my powers may only last a short time, but today I can accomplish anything.

Today, every parent is a superhero in their children’s’ eyes.  We can stand as one, banding together like the Justice League or the Avengers.  We can fight and defeat the bigger foes we cannot topple individually.

All we need to do is accept the fact that to our children, we’re superheroes.  And, with that knowledge, comes the responsibility of being heroes.  No more excuses for bad behavior, procrastination, or apathy. No more excuses for inaction.

We’re heroes, damn it!  It’s time we act like ‘em.

So, in my 39th year, I finally realized I’d grown up a little.  My powers had arrived and I almost missed them, but just like the best comic book hero, they may have arrived just in the nick of time.

Grin & Barrett

Before my oldest daughter was born I came up with an idea for a set of stories about her and a stuffed bear.  Original, I know.  The bear was the first present my wife and I bought for our unborn daughter.  He was, is, amazing.  At the time, he seemed huge.  Now, he's less huge in comparison. We named him Grin.

Today Barrett turns seven.  It seems only moments ago I was holding her in my arms and reading her the first of many Grin and Barrett tales.  So, today, as my little girl is a year older, but still young enough to hold and hug, and squeeze and cuddle, I'm posting one of her stories.  I hope you like it.  For me, it reminds me that no matter how silly a story I could tell or weave, I could never create a character quite as amazing as my daughter, Barrett.

Happy birthday, my little Bear.

The Berry Patch,  A Story of Grin & Barrett

by

Mark Freeman

 

            It was a late summer morning in Boonehollow, when songbirds had already begun their symphonies, and the grass was still heavy and moist with dew, the smell of hay and lawns was heavy in the air.  The sun had yet to emerge from behind the tall pines of the Pine Wood, but the sky was a brilliant azure with small cotton ball clouds drifting lazily across it.

Barrett lay awake in bed staring at her stuffed bear Grin, waiting for him to wake up.  He lay on his back, his mouth slightly agape, a bit of drool trickling from the corner.  Barrett blew lightly across his small black nose.

His lip twitched.

Bears have very agile and dexterous lips.  Almost like fingers on their mouths, they're very capable of plucking a raspberry from a bush without damaging the stalk at all, just like someone might by using her hand.  So, when his lip twitched you must understand, it was quite the twitch.

Barrett stifled a giggle and blew lightly across his nose again.

Mmmuuummmmgggggguuuummmmmrrrrppphhhhhh.  The bear groaned from deep within his sleep.  The groan was followed by a small huff and slight popping of his lips.  His nose wriggled as well.

Barrett smiled and blew once more across his nose.

Aaaaaaaaaaccccchhhhhhhhheeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!  The small bear sneezed; covering the little girl with a spray of bear sized spittle.

"UGH! Gross!"  The small girl exclaimed, followed by a fit of giggling, as she wiped her face of the bear's sneeze spray.

"G'morning," the little bear said with a yawn, stretching his two front paws up over his head.

"Ew, YUCK!" Barrett squealed again.  "Geezum Crow, Grin, what did you eat last night?  Your breath is wretched!"

"Hmmm, eat, what did I eat?" the bear pondered rolling over and leaning upon one bent foreleg.  "Well, I found an empty bag of corn chips next to your father's chair and licked the bag clean, he really isn't a very thorough eater, your father," the bear scratched his brown head trying to remember what else he had eaten on his midnight sojourn through Barrett's home.  Barrett noticed the light orange corn chip crumbs around his muzzle and forehead as he did so.

"Oh, and I finished off the cat food, almost finished off that old mouser too, but she just got away," the bear laughed with a huff, holding two of his sharp claws close together to show just how close he'd come to catching her.  He was slightly proud of his near prize.

"Oh, oh, oh and some tasty honey your mother left out from her bedtime tea, oh, and when I went outside I found the most wonderful ant hill," the bear said, patting his bulbous belly.

Barrett could see the remains of the honey along his lips as well.  The golden food dried to small hard crystals along his whiskers.

"You ate an ant hill?" Barrett asked slightly surprised, and after having a pet bear for so many years, very little surprised her anymore.

"Not the hill, the ants!  Honestly, it's amazing you humans don't starve," the bear retorted.  He had just discovered the corn chip crumbs and dust along his forehead and was now trying to reach it with his tongue. He missed several times, washing his eye balls in the process, before reaching his target.

As the bear cleaned his face Barrett climbed out of her bed and slipped her slippers on.

"You coming?" she asked walking towards the door.

"Hmm, going where?" Grin asked, momentarily using his tongue for something other than licking up crumbs.

"Breakfast," Barrett said, smiling at her small bear.

Grin attempted to leap from the small bed, but got caught up in the covers, floundering to the floor in a heap instead.  He struggled, running in circles, winding the blankets tighter about his rump as he did while trying to free himself.  Finally, he surrendered to his fate and flopped to the carpet, letting loose a mournful moan.

Barrett smiled as she walked back over to her bed and began to un-wrap her bear.  "Honestly," the small girl said with a smile, "it's amazing you bears don't starve."

"Hrmmphh," the bear huffed as he squirmed from his confining blankets and headed for the door to Barrett's room.  The little girl followed her waddling bear, giggling to herself at his slight indignation.

"What day is it?" the bear called over his shoulder as he trotted down the hallway to the kitchen, excitement helping him build momentum.

"Thursday, why?" Barrett answered.

"Is it pancake day?" the bear asked, his mouth already watering, Barrett's father made the most splendiferous pancakes.

"Nope, Sunday is pancake day," Barrett said, she too wished it was Sunday, Pancake Day was a good way to start your day.

"Oh," the bear said, the disappointment heavy in his voice, "so what's for breakfast then?"

"How can you still be hungry after everything you ate last night?" the little girl asked.

"I'm a bear," the little bear said as if that explained everything.

"I dunno, cereal, maybe some toast," Barrett offered.

"With butter?" the bear asked, excitement filling his voice once more.

"Probably," Barrett said scratching her head and trying to calm the static that was afflicting her hair this morning.

"And peanut butter?" Grin asked again, stopping in the hall and looking up towards his little girl expectantly.

"If you want," Barrett said, stepping over her bear.

"And raspberry jam?" Grin asked, quickly following after Barrett.

"Sure," Barrett answered walking into the kitchen.  Grin licked his lips.

"And Maple butter!" the bear asked excitedly.

"Whatever you want," Barrett answered with less interest.

"G'moring, Mom," Barrett said sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Morning, Sweets," her Mom said, placing a bowl of oatmeal in front of her daughter.  She patted Grin on the head in his chair beside her daughter before turning back to the refrigerator.

Grin flinched just as Barrett's mother turned away.  He still hadn't forgiven her for the stitches she'd put in his scalp.  He nudged Barrett and motioned his snout in the direction of her Mom.

"Oh, Mom, can Grin have some toast too," the little girl asked, and was quickly nudged by the bear once more.  "You bump me one more time, and I'm gunna…," the little girl whispered, shaking her fist at her bear.

"Sure, Sweets, what do you want on it," her mother asked.

Barrett raised her eyebrows and considered her bear for a moment until he looked appropriately apologetic before she answered.  "Butter, peanut butter, maple butter, and raspberry jam, I guess," Barrett said, still eyeing her furry friend who tried smiling meekly at her.

"Oh, I'm sorry, we're all out of jam sweetheart," her Mom apologized causing a small moan to escape from the disheartened bear.

"But the berry patch is right there," the bear said as he looked longingly over his shoulder.  He trudged along through the tall meadow grass behind the little girl in front of him.

"Later Grin, we'll stop on our way back," Barrett said not bothering to look back at her bear.

"But why can't we stop now, and on the way back," the bear said hurrying a bit to catch up to his little girl.  He stepped in the tracks she left in the high grass with her bright yellow rubber boots.

The little girl watched the vegetable garden along the edge of the meadow warily.  She had picked the long way to the Big Woods around the garden to avoid the scarecrow her dad put there.  She didn't like it.  Barrett had the suspicion it was watching her.  Even now it seemed to be following her across the meadow.  With each breeze it tried to climb down off the poles her father had stuck it on.  Her path also brought her along the backside of her dog kennels.

Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooo.  Her red malamute, Cooper, said as he watched the little girl and bear walk through the tall grass.  He stood as tall as he could trying to see over the waving blades, his tail wagging slowly behind him like a puffy flag of greeting.

"Not today, Coop," Barrett shouted back to her dog.  "You've your puppies to help take care of."  As if on queue eight small fluff balls ran along the fence in the kennel next to Cooper's.  The small puppies yipped and barked at their father while they tried to get his attention and play with them.  Ariel, their mother, lay quietly in the shade watching her pups romp about.

Finally out of sight of the berry patch, Grin turned his attention back to the little girl leading him into the Woods.

"What are we doing today anyway?" he asked sighing and letting all his disappointment fill the question.

"Exploring," Barrett said.

"Oh, great," Grin said.  He hated to do anything that made him exercise. Actually, he hated to do anything other than eating, as long as the eating didn't take too much work.

"I've been hearing some noises coming from the other side of the Big Woods.  My Dad says they're doing some logging in there, and I want to see what they're doing," she explained further entering the Woods without pausing.  A small stone wall ran along the edge of the meadow and the length of the Big Woods.  She scampered over it without missing a beat.

But Grin had already stopped listening to her once he had determined their trip for the day didn't involve brunch, lunch, a snack, or any other food.  He waddled behind the girl lifting his nose occasionally to the wind, scenting what else was in the Wood with them.  He could smell a young deer further in the forest, mice, squirrels, many different birds, including the chickadees that were currently fluttering about them.

Chick-a-dee-dee-dee they called over Grin and Barrett's heads as they walked through the Wood.

Grin found a couple of beech nuts along the way and snuffled them up, spitting out the husks almost as quickly as they entered his mouth.  Further on he found some acorns a squirrel had stashed.  Barrett, however, hadn't slowed down at all and he quickly scampered after her wishing he had pockets and trying to remember where the acorns were so he could eat them on their way back.

"You're really cramping my style," he mumbled, "and my belly," he added when the little girl didn't answer him.

Barrett was distracted by the sound of chainsaws coming from somewhere behind the Big Woods. The noise was getting louder so she new she was getting closer, but she still didn't know exactly where they were logging.  She looked up to the top of a slope and decided to climb to the top of the small rise for a better vantage point.

Grin grumbled some more when he realized they were now going up hill, but it was just a short rise and, therefore, only a short grumble.  Once they reached the top Barrett could see a small clearing forming on the far side of the Big Wood that marked the edge of Boonehollow.

There was a large tree still standing within the clearing, but all the trees around it had already been cut.  The big tree looked very old and had large branches that stretched almost as far in all directions as the newly cleared ground around it.  Barrett could hear the saws still running and could see men walking along the far edge of the clearing still cutting some trees lying on the ground.

Just then movement caught her eye.  Barrett turned and saw something small flitting through the trees down along the path they had been following before climbing up the hill.  It flew quickly, and moved like a bee, but was about the size of a robin.  Barrett took a step forward to try and get a better look, but lost the flying thing amongst the trees.

"Did you see that?" she asked looking back at Grin.

"No.  Hmmm. What?  No," the bear said looking up from a small mushroom he had been contemplating eating.  It didn't smell poisonous.  "And. really, how poisonous could it be?" he thought.

"Argh," Barrett grunted.  She looked back to the clearing and could have sworn that she saw the flying thing zoom into a small hole in the tree.  She watched for a few minutes more, but never saw anything else.

She turned and headed down the hill.

"Now the berry patch?" Grin asked, bubbling with hope at the thought.

"Yeah, now the berries, nothing else to do out here today," Barrett said, but a thought had occurred to her, one she'd want to investigate further in the near future.

"Alright!"  Grin said barreling his way down the hillside past the small girl, "Last one there's a Flatlander!"

"That's not fair!" Barrett shouted as she ran after her bear, but bear's can run very fast, especially when there's food at stake.

When Barrett had finally caught up to Grin he was sitting amongst the thickest of the raspberry bushes.  The tips of his lips and claws already stained red.

"And we still have the blueberries and blackberries yet!" he cheered when Barrett reached the berry patch panting and holding a stitch in her side from her run.  Barrett smiled at her small bear despite herself.  He did love his berries.

"Oh Barrett," the little girl's mother said as her daughter stepped into their kitchen carrying her stuffed bear under her arm.  Barrett had to carry Grin away from the berries.  He had refused to leave even when he'd been eating for twenty minutes, non-stop, and had eaten most of the berries from a whole row of blueberry bushes.

Barrett's Mom looked at her daughter who had a blue stained beard around her mouth, and blue and red stained fingers.  Her stuffed bear was in no better condition.  It looked as if the two had been wrestling in the patch amongst all the fruit.

"Yeah, Mom?" Barrett asked, wondering why her mother was looking at her that way.  "I tried to get him to stop, but you know how much bears like berries," the little girl tried to explain.

"Well, he's going straight into the wash and you're going to have to go scrub up yourself," her mother said, turning and heading towards the laundry room.  She turned the washer on and was pouring in the detergent when her daughter stepped into the room.  She had placed Grin behind her back.

"But Mom, he'll drown," the little girl intoned.

"No he won't, and it's the only way to get him clean," the girl's mother said holding out her hand for the bear.  Barrett begrudgingly handed him over, even though Grin's eyes were huge in his head, pleading for his little girl's help.

"Hold your breath, Grin!" Barrett shouted as her mother dropped the bear in the wash and shut the lid.

"Now you," her mother said and went about scrubbing the berry stains from her daughter's face and hands. Once she had finished she left the room and her daughter alone with the washing bear.  The washing machine was on the soak cycle still when Barrett opened the lid.  Grin's nose was just above the water line blowing soap bubbles.

"Gimme outta here," he said blowing more bubbles as he did so.

"Can't, Mom said to leave you in here," the little girl explained feeling badly for her bear.  "I'll be right here waiting for you, just make sure you take another deep breath."

"Barrett, you're not tampering with the wash are you?" her mother asked from down the hall.

"No, Mom," Barrett said closing the lid to the washer after giving Grin a quick pat on the head.  "Hold on, Pal!" she said as she sat down in front of the washer.  She heard a few gurgles and gulps while the machine worked through its wash and rinse cycles.  During the spin cycle she was sure she could hear Grin retching and moaning.  When the machine finally stopped, she leapt from the floor and opened the lid once more.  Grin looked like a drowned rat.  He was still dizzy from the spinning and didn't know which end was up.

"Okay, now we have to put him in the dryer," Barrett's Mom said as she walked into the room.

"Oh Mom, hasn't he been through enough?" the little girl asked, feeling terrible for her bear.

"He needs to get dried or else he'll get smelly, Barrett," her Mom said, pulling the stuffed bear from the washer.

"Okay, I'll do it," Barrett said holding her hands out for her bear.

"Next time you'll just have to make sure he doesn't get so dirty, so we don't have to put him through all this agin," Barrett's Mom said as she left the room.

"Okay," Barrett and Grin said together.

"C'mon, you're not really gunna put me in there are ya?" Grin asked sounding absolutely exhausted.

"Have to," Barrett said, placing her bear inside the dryer.  She placed a dryer sheet in the machine with him.  The bear looked to the sheet and then back to his little girl.

"She hates me, you know?" he said nodding his snout in the direction Barrett's Mom had headed.

"She does not," Barrett said.

"She does!  Remember these?" The bear said slapping his head where his yellow stitches were.

"Yeah, but you needed those," Barrett answered.

"Hrrmmpphh," the bear huffed.

"Sorry, Grin," Barrett said, closing the door and starting the machine.

"Are you still not talking to me?" Barrett asked later while lying in bed beside her fresh scented stuffed bear.

"Hrrrmmmpphh," the bear huffed.

"Well, that's something at least," the little girl said rolling over onto her side so she could look at her bear.  Grin was staring at the ceiling of her room.

"Do you think I like taking baths either?" she asked, exasperated.

"No, I suppose you don't," Grin admitted.   "But I think you're Mom has it in for me," he added, rolling over on his side as well so he could look at his little girl.

"Maybe, but listen, do you want to hear what we're going to do tomorrow?"

With a bit of excitement at the thought of all the food they might consume the bear perked up, "Sure, what do you have in mind?" the little bear asked, his mouth beginning to water.

"Remember that tree in the clearing?" Barrett began.

"Yeah," Grin answered, but then had a sudden stomach turning thought.  "Wait, does this have anything to do with eating?" he asked, the last glimmer of hope hanging onto his taste buds.

"No, why?" Barrett asked.

"No reason," the bear sighed.

And then as his little girl launched into her plans for the next day's adventures his thoughts were already upon the berry patch in the backyard and in his mind he was gently picking and eating blueberries, and raspberries, and blackberries, and bunchberries, and huckleberries.  And even as Grin fell asleep he continued dreaming of strawberries, and boysenberries, and loganberries, and his imagination began making up berries while his stomach growled long into the night.

The Wall of Rejection

I know it's hard to believe, but when I first started writing, and submitting my writing to editors and publishers, the intranets was just a twinkle in Al Gore's eye.  It was a lengthy and arduous process.  Not the writing, I loved the writing.  It came quickly, and easily. Long nights fueled by inspiration and youth.  The mailing of the writing and waiting part of the writing was a long process, though.  Costly to an extent too – snail mail being what it is and all, but it was the long delay that gnawed at me late at night.  It was the constant waiting and wondering.   Would this be the piece?  Would this be the editor?  These were the thoughts that crawled like carpenter ants along the inside of my skull.

I kept every rejection letter I ever received.  I tacked them to the wall over my desk and computer.  They equally mocked and inspired me from their place of dubious honor just above my monitor, just within view when writing.  When not focusing on the monitor and my words, my eyes would drift to the letters and they would taunt me to write more, better.  Goad me into writing something worth publishing.   I wrote my first novel beneath them.  Later on, after my wife convinced me to take them down and go in a different decorating direction, they mocked me through my mind's eye to write The Kindling of GreenFyr.

And then came the interweb and rejection is now that much faster.  You receive your responses almost within minutes of sending out a query in some cases.  Rejection has never been so efficient.

I'm feeling those ants inside my skull again as I wait to hear from festivals about our short film, The Dragon Wall.  The process now is similar to those early days of sending out my short stories and manuscripts.  Submit our film and wait several months to hear if we've made the cut.  It's easier, if not any cheaper, than snail mailing my stories.  There's a wonderful website, withoutabox.com, for submitting to festivals, that makes it a one stop shopping of sorts.  It also keeps all of your submissions' status a keystroke away, allowing me to gaze up at my wall once more, waiting to see if we've made it or not.  We should start hearing any day now and over the course of the summer, but that knowledge does not assuage the ants in my skull.  They keep crawling, slipping in and out of the sulci of my brain.

In the end, though, the result has been the same.  That website has become my new wall, lingering just out of reach, watching me, prompting me to write more, better.  I'm not sure it'll become the rejection wall of my early writing years.  I'm hoping not, but either way, it's pushing me now, which I guess, in a way, is all ready a win.