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Posts Tagged ‘coop’
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Happy Campers and a Lucky Dad
By Daddy Clay Tuesday, June 16th, 2009
My wife and I live and die by summer camps. This realization dawned on me as a prepared to drop our five-year-old off for his first day of daycamp. The building where the camp was to be held was somewhat familiar to Coop — the elementary school that his older siblings attend — but it still had to be pretty imposing to a kid who just turned five.
We stood in line for registration and he suddenly seemed so tiny, dwarfed by his backpack. I’m musing over the fact that he’s really only been outside home to a couple different places — the daycare that we helped to found near our home, and his pre-k for the past year — as we edge toward the enthusiastic lady with the clip board and the big cowboy hat.
It strikes me that I am at a moment of significant risk.
If this little boy (understandably) freaks out at the prospect of being dropped off at a semi-strange place populated by decidedly strange (looking) adults, then I am utterly screwed. Like most two-career families, ours depends completely on all the kids attending summer camp all summer for us to preserve anything remotely resembling a work schedule.
That’s why when little Coop summons his courage and walks off in the company of his new “counselor” that as wave of gratitude washes over me. It’s a little act of bravery that I’m really thankful for. I sort of hope that he is unaware of what is at stake. I hope he goes because he thinks there’s something fun going on at this camp deal. Certainly over the next few days, we are overwhelmed with stories of his various triumphs at camp, at it seems like al is well.
Our older two are also off at camp — sleepover camp, no less. This is a big step for Ri-ri, who is only 7 despite having finished the 2nd grade. Yet again she’ll be the youngest kid in the place. I unloaded her trunk in the mall parking lot where we meet the camp bus, and look over to see her struggling with her laundry bag filled with pillows and blankets. On the bus she looks so tiny sitting by herself in an otherwise empty row, that I try the awkwardest parenting trick in the book: “Anybody else here going to be in the Wren cabin? Because that’s where Ri-ri here is going to be!”
A few girls glance back, but nobody moves. Ri-ri, thankfully, is not mortified, but rather sweet. We say a sort of goodbye, and I get the hell out of the way. It becomes clear that this is a correct course of action within ten seconds. I see through the window that she is chatting with the girl in the row in front of her. Within a minute she’s moved up to sit next to her new friend.
I don’t even get to say goodbye to Bubba. He’s off like a shot. No hugs or kisses. He’s just out.
Now each morning at about eleven, I have a ritual, madly searching the hundred or so photos of campers that the camp posts daily (an amazing feature) for signs of the kids. There’s R-ri eating a ‘Smore, jumping on a trampoline, chatting with an older girl and generally looking happy.
But where’s Bubba? Finally, today, there he is having his daily check-in conversation with his counselor. He’s wearing his cool guy shades and looks happy but WHAT THE HELL IS THAT CRAWLING UP HIS LEG? Is it some huge patch of muddy gunk? Oh for the love of…is that a gigantic scab?!? It covers most of his lower body? What on earth has the child done to himself? Well, at least it looks more or less healed over.
There he is again bouncing on the “blob,” hamming it up with his cabin mates, and generally looking like he was made for the place, or vice versa.
They’re all three pretty happy campers, which makes me one lucky dad.
Boy Scares Father Half to Death, Has Birthday
By Daddy Clay Friday, May 22nd, 2009
That’s right, my youngest, my baby, is five years old today. In just a few minutes, I will bail from DadLabs World HQ and head over to the pre-school to enjoy special cupcakes with the man of the hour.
I was almost unavailable for the festivities, because the birthday boy nearly sent me into cardiac arrest this week. On Saturday morning at about 7am, Kim sat bolt upright and charged out of the room. The I heard that special tone that is reserved for when she is genuinely afraid.”
“Coop. Coop.”
She runs into the bedroom.
“Coop is gone. The lights are on in his room. I heard him call Mommy, then I heard a crash and the door slam. Now he’s gone.”
I’m groggy, running through the house, heart pounding, calling his name. Sure enough, his room is empty, he’s nowhere to be found. I check every room. Dread is rising in my chest. I contemplate the possibility of a kidnapping. Impossible.
I throw on shorts and begin circling the house shouting his name. Wider and wider circles, trying not to become panicked. On about the third pass around, I see a boy walking down the road, followed by two grown-ups. But he’s too big. My youngest couldn’t be that big.
It’s Coop, of course, crying. He has walked a block, up to the dining hall (we live on an a boarding school campus) where he was discovered by a staffer. She was returning him. I asked him why he left the house.
“It was so quiet.”
Which made no sense for a while. Then I figured it out. On the weekends, when Coop wakes up, he heads into the TV room, where his older brother (our early riser) is watching cartoons. But Bubba was on an overnight. So when Coop came out, all was quiet. He became convinced he’d been left behind (always a worry for third children), and that we’d already headed up for breakfast.
His mom picked him up (I was worried she would throw out her back), and asked him why he hadn’t come in the bedroom to find us. No answer. But that was okay.
So, Happy Birthday, Coop. And please never do that again.
Has your kid ever given you a scare like that?
What the Bristle-bot Taught Me
By Daddy Clay Friday, May 15th, 2009
Though he was tiny, limited, fragile and hastily constructed, the little bristle-bot had much to teach me.
A bristle-bot isn’t really a robot, but a cool, tiny, simple machine that’s easy to make, and its skittering motion, is so cool and organic-looking, that it really delights everybody that sees the little Frankenstein. To make one to make one requires a trip to Radio Shack, where you’ll need to buy two things — a “vibrating motor” and a 3v lithium watch battery. The motor is a tiny thing, the kind that make a cell phone vibrate — it spins a small unbalanced weight to create buzz.
To make the bot, cut the handle off of a toothbrush (the bigger the “head” the better). Trim the wires coming off of the motor to about an inch or two in length, then using athletic tape secure the motor to one end of the brush head. Make a tiny tape loop (or double sided), and secure the black wire to the negative side of the battery, then tape the battery to the brush head. Tape the red wire to the positive side of the battery, set the bot on a table and watch it dash around like a beetle.
It only took Bubba and I about five minutes to put this little guy together. He was beside himself, excited that it worked, but also immediately taken by it. It was instantly anthropomorphosed, named, cooed over. Ri-ri and Coop began begging for one.
It was, simply put, a moment to triumphant fathering.
Namely because Bubba and I had been working for weeks on a long-term reading project, one that required him to write over a dozen books and prepare a handful of “book reports.” These reports weren’t papers so much as presentations and demos for the class on a book’s subject. When the boy brought home some book on robots in popular culture, I knew we were going to make a bristle-bot as his report.
Daddy Troy gave me the idea. His kids loved it. I knew Bubba would go nuts over, his classmates would be wowed, and his teacher impressed. Super-dad stuff.
With three kids in activities, and finding time for family, social life — stopping by the the Radio Shack proved to be the toughest part. I put it off for days. Always seemed like I was always running just a few minutes too late leaving work to pick up Coop to have the time for an errand. Finally, I was out of time. The deadline for book reports approached. Now or never.
So even though I was a keynote speaker, and even though the nice organizers of the conference often bragged about how available all the speakers would be throughout the day, and even though I really wanted to talk with the SEO guy,and even though Daddy Troy was doing way more than his share, I ducked out early and headed to Radio Shack.
But once the thing was together it was all worth it.
We even found a perfectly shaped box to pack the bot in (along with component parts of a second — the idea being that he would fabricate one in front of the class). In the morning he packed off with it.
That afternoon I was itching to get the report, but Bubba was already off to practice and my wife and I had a sitter to we could go to the big DadLabs book party (a blog for another day).
The party was a success, and I came home glowing. Bubba heard us come in and chirped form his room (they still do that at 10). She asked how the presentation went, and he fessed up immediately. He’d been showing it to friends, and he had broken it, and lost the components to the second one in the process, so he couldn’t show it to the class.
About half way through his story, I had to step out of the room. I was fuming! Furious. I stood in the front room and swore under my breath. Didn’t he know!? Didn’t he know that I’d made work sacrifices! Didn’t he know that I was proud of that little thing?! Didn’t he know that I was planning on writing about the perfect and quintessential fathering moment on my blog?
Answer: no.
He’d just loved the damn thing to death.
So thanks, bristle-bot for making the ultimate sacrifice, and for reminding me that any good moment with your child is reward enough.
Why Spaghetti Fail Is Okay With This Dad
By Daddy Clay Saturday, February 28th, 2009
At this writing I’m sitting at a desk in a swank suite at the Raffaello Hotel in downtown Chicago. The Nice Couple from New York found the place for an amazing bargain price, and I’m really looking forward to an anti-freeze soaked lunch (it’s cold here) followed by an art crawl (I can’t remember the last time my wife and I went to a museum). It’s a quick getaway on the tail end a private school conference that my wife attended (gotta love frequent flier miles), but I definitely paid my dues before getting here.
Actually, I should probably admit that some secret part of me enjoys when my wife goes out of town and leaves me with the kids. Not because I like it when my wife is gone, but it does give me a chance to prove that I’m not a total parenting schlub. I can feed, clothe, and transport three kids for a couple of days without anybody getting rickets or needing intensive psychotherapy. The wife going out of town gives me a little parenting competency check-up.
I felt a little guilty taking the easy way out on Wednesday night (we ate out), I decided that I needed to go for the domestic Full Boat on Thursday night — cooking dinner, dishes, all family laundry, baths for everyone, reading.
I’m incredibly spoiled when it comes to preparing meals. My wife is an amazing home cook and “foodie.” We’re awash in cooking and food magazines that she reads avidly. We have amazing grocery stores nearby where she shops for fresh ingredients. She mixes it up and is constantly trying new things. As a result, our kids are little gourmets with wide ranging tastes with a minimum of pickiness (Ri-ri doesn’t care for pizza or chocolate — weird). They live for fresh fruit and tolerate veggies fairly well. I used to help out on the grill fairly often, but since we’ve scaled back on the red meat, I can’t even claim that as a regular contribution. The kids and I set the table, and I do the dishes.
So for my cooking night I know to keep it really simple: spag and meatballs, Caesar salad, yogurt and watermelon. Not exactly Le Cirque, but I swear I felt like I was slaving all night. I was particularly proud of the timing. The plates hit the table just as Bubba walked in from soccer practice. The praise for my meal was extravagant to the point of patronizing. Bubba was particularly effusive. I certainly appreciated the support.
But the proof was in the pudding, so to speak. All praise aside, within just a few short minutes, Bubba was asking to be excused. His meal virtually untouched. Despite having used all the same stuff that my wife does, something wasn’t quite the same. Nothing can compare with your mom’s spaghetti, I guess. My feelings weren’t too badly hurt. Coop helped me out by cleaning his plate. Which isn’t really much of a complement — the kid is a garbage disposal.
By the time the the kids were tucked in and folding was done, there would be no curling up with “The Given Day.” I was freakin’ beat. So thanks to my wife for all she does. You single parents out there have my undying admiration and respect. Cheers to Baba and Bud for taking the kids for the weekend. Now I’m off to collect my reward.
