Real Men Wear Skirts, er, Kilts

Though there is some Scottish somewhere in my heritage, it has been largely eclipsed over time by Irish and Italian (mmm, stout and pasta—why am I stuck with the fattening cultural lineages?). Scottish also appears in my wife's heritage (more predominately so) along with a smattering of others.

Our son really is a mutt.

Anyway, my wife has fond memories of Scottish-themed events, like the Highland Games, from her childhood. She was thrilled to discover there was a Highland Games event this summer, conveniently located right down the street from our house.

After an unsuccessful attempt to wrangle the Doozer into a kilt ("No . . . wear . . . that!"), which had previously been worn by my wife and her mother, when they were but toddlers, we headed off to the Games. And the chance, perhaps, for the Doozer to get in touch with his heritage.

My frame of reference for Scottish culture is largely informed by pop culture, things like Trainspotting and Mike Myers comedy ("If it's not Scottish, it's crap!"), but upon arriving at the games I saw nary a heroin needle or Fat Bastard anywhere. Apparently, I'd been misinformed.

Since he wouldn't wear a kilt (and was too young for the whiskey tasting), we took the Doozer to the event's kid-friendly area. There was an activity center where kids could decorate a shield with a Scottish crest, a field where they could join a militia (and earn a shilling!), another field where they could see a bunch of Scottie dogs, or they could attempt Sean Connery's favorite pastime . . . baby golf.

Okay, so Connery probably plays regular golf.

But the piece de resistance of the kids' area had to be the activity that sounded completely absurd on paper and in reality was perhaps the most awesome thing ever.

Baby. Caber. Toss.

Yes, that's correct. Baby caber toss. And though we didn't get to see a real caber toss (apparently they just let random people out of the crowd attempt it—don't they have anybody on reserve who can actually do it? We paid for this, you know), we were afforded the glorious opportunity to watch the Doozer partake of his very first caber toss.

"Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?"

Then there were the bagpipers and drums, the fish and chips, delicious Scottish short bread. The wee bonny laddy was really in his element. And might have a serious future as a caber tosser. Is there much call for that out in the real world? Who cares, we're going to start training right away. And we're definitely going back next year.

Maybe next time he'll wear the kilt.

Action!

For this past Father's Day, my wife found a very unique gift for me on Etsy, perhaps her very favorite site in the world. She got me a set of four coasters featuring the hand-drawn visages of an assortment of film directors, made by an awesome outfit called Retrowhale. Before ordering them, she actually found herself conflicted over the varied and extensive options, in the end selecting four of my favorite filmmakers: Terry Gilliam, Noah Baumbach, Wes Anderson, and Paul Thomas Anderson. Now, these coasters could not be more perfectly suited to me as an individual, but the best part was yet to come.

In the weeks that followed, the set of coasters piqued the Doozer's curiosity. He was already fascinated by the set of coasters that lives in the coffee table drawer. And he'd been taught that his sippy cup should always be placed on one and not directly on the coffee table, a task he actually took to without too much cajoling.

A kid who uses a coaster! Huzzah! (I think it's important to mark successful moments in parenting, if nothing else to remind yourself that you aren't totally failing in the enterprise.)

Anyway, he soon began pulling out these coasters and in his latest trademark expression would inquire, "What zat?" My wife began telling him who the different portraits were of, the names of the filmmakers he held in his hand. He kept asking, she kept telling him, and now, our son can correctly identify all four of these film directors on sight, like some kind of hipster matching game.

"Wes . . . Anderson! P . . . T . . . Anderson!"

Furthermore, when asked what they do, he will reply, "Terry Gilliam . . . make movies!"

Yes, it seems we have managed to turn our son into a miniature movie geek, a film snob like his old man. Of course, he'll be quite disappointed when he discovers that there is no bonus feature-laden, director's cut, Criterion Collection edition of his beloved Dora the Explorer.

We had a friend over recently who was amused to no end by this development, but who pointed out that the Doozer will get to school someday and be way too hip for the room, his references will sail right over the heads of his fellow classmates. I'm not sure how much I care about that exactly. His ability to recognize these notable figures from my life, and to identify their occupations, is probably the most entertaining thing he's done so far in his relatively short life. And pretty much my new proudest moment as a parent.

What a nerd . . . *

*Ed. note: This last represents the sentiments of the author's wife, not the author himself, and was inserted here under duress. The author would like to point out that it was said wife who purchased the film director coasters for the author in the first place. Good day.

Growing Up is Hard to Do

Something they neglect to tell you about parenting is how, overnight, your behavior has to change. That there comes a time when you have to put childish (or are they adult?) things away. That the demands of parenting result in a forced maturation, one for which you might not be entirely prepared. Suddenly, there are rules. There are things you can't do. You have to go all Tipper Gore and censor your music choices, lest your child begin to repeat some of the inappropriate language and sexual innuendo that appears in the music you favor. You have to watch the words that come out of your own mouth, too. You have to be sober and sober-minded. Can't stay up late, or drink too much, or drive too fast (not at the same time).

So, the Doozer is starting to repeat things at random, causing me to reflect upon all that we have given up in service of parenthood. In many ways, real, true adulthood does not begin until you have progeny. And here's the thing. Now you're a role model. For the first time in your life, probably. Your kid is looking up to you (literally, in fact, physically looking up at you--until he's a teenager and hits a growth spurt and starts to look down at you--I don't want to think about that now). You have to set a good example. It all reminds me of that old public service announcement from when I was a kid, the one where the dad confronts the kid about the drugs he found and asked where he learned to do it. "You, all right! I learned it by watching you!" Followed by that ridiculous horrified expression. Don't be a drug addict, dumbass. It's not that hard.

So, in our quest to prevent the Doozer from repeating inappropriate things, we have to banish certain songs from the stereo. So long, "Rehab" and "Gold Digger." I hope to see you someday, when we meet again, introduced as friends. My wife has had to resort to yelling out, "Your socks are on fire!" when riding in the car with our son, listening to Kings of Leon's "Sex on Fire." Since she was not quite ready to give up the song entirely. This is what we've been reduced to. Why doesn't anyone prepare you for this? Because we actually need to prevent him from yelling out "This sex . . . on fire!" in the middle of a grocery store. Yes, that would happen. He will repeat something totally at random. It is impossible to predict or curtail. Which means you have to be "on" all the time. You have to get up in the morning, wearing that good role model hat and you've got to go to sleep at night wearing the same hat.

And you can't just get him to repeat stuff you want. Something funny that you think will be a riot coming out of his mouth. Then he gets all tight-lipped and looks at you with a withering stare that says, I am not your monkey. You just never know what he might pick up on. Like, "lawn mower broken." This is the refrain of the summer.

As new homeowners, with our very own lawn to mow for the first time (and a pretty big one at that), our new mower broke down and we've had to borrow other ones from relatives and pay a lawn service and, in general, not be able to keep it in the shape we'd like. And one of us, I'm not sure which, made the mistake of telling the Doozer that the lawn mower was broken. And he never misses an opportunity to remind me of that fact. "Lawn mower broken." Dolt, loser, failure, being the subtext, I'm sure of it. Who can't maintain a lawn mower? Who breaks a brand-new lawn mower?

Stop judging me! Baby jerk.

This is the onset of true adulthood. It makes you want to shout, I want my MTV! The good one, where they used to show the music videos. (Instantly dating yourself.) Now, as a parent, you're no longer a teenager or a college student or carefree twentysomething. Someone is depending on you, and worse, someone is looking up to you.

Stop it. Stop looking up to me. I can't possibly live up to your impossible expectations. Oh, you don't have any expectations. You think I'm great just like I am. You'd rather I sit on the floor, than the couch? That's it? Okay, I guess I can live with that.

You make the rules, pal. Apparently, as long as I live under his roof . . .

The Beach

Before the month is out (summer is more than half over, I seriously can't believe it), I wanted to recount the story of our July 4 adventures. We celebrated our nation's independence by taking our first family trip to the beach. So we get the Doozer all decked out in his "baby" suit ("bathing" didn't quite take, no matter how many times we repeated it). It's more of a two-piece swimming costume, like the men wore to the shore in the olden days.

So we packed a cooler, a beach bag, a diaper bag . . . there are a lot of bags. In general. We've discovered a good rule of thumb as parents: any activity which requires leaving the house (with kid in tow) should be allotted perhaps twice as much time as you think it will take, or back when you were Doozer-less and fancy-free. No joke, the first few steps of that journey, from house to driveway to garage to car, can be pretty arduous. If not downright treacherous.

What if we have another kid? Will there be twice as many bags? Who carries them all? Do we get a butler? Do I need to drive separately, because there will be no room for me once the children and all the belongings are settled in the car?

Anyway, as we drive to the beach, I decide to unpack the centerpiece of this excursion, a newly-purchased inflatable raft-type toy in the shape of a colorful turtle. Which, as an inflatable item, needs to be inflated. So I started blowing air into it. And you'd think I'd smoked two packs a day for twenty years. (Which I haven't.) Once upon a time, I was a swimmer. I could hold my breath for at least an entire pool length. What happened? Did becoming a dad really make me this old? I have to keep resting and catching my breath. It's like running a marathon. And my life is now full of such items, toys that need to be inflated. The universe hates me.

Upon arriving at the beach, we parked and unloaded the car. And since there was so much to carry, we had to let the Doozer walk on his own. It was quite a distance from the parking lot to the actual beach, so carrying him would've made the entire operation move much more quickly, but this was not an option. So, what should be a two- to three-minute walk turns into an epic journey spanning at least 10 minutes or more. The Doozer is not only resistant to hand-holding (which didn't matter since, did I mention, our hands were full), but prone to zig-zagging (or staggering like a drunk, take your pick) and getting easily distracted, leading to meandering and frequently ending up off-course.

At last, we make it out to the beach and stake out our spot. I'm ready for a nap, but the Doozer is raring to go. After a quick lunch, we grab the "turtle boat" and head to the water's edge. It's not like we're really going swimming, so we don't find it necessary to wait the requisite half an hour before going in the water. Regardless, we do take the opportunity to explain to the Doozer that normally, one waits half an hour after eating before swimming. He replies with a blank stare. I think that means . . . he understands?

So, we get in the water and the Doozer . . . hangs back. He lets the water's edge touch his toes. He is skeptical. We try to entice him. Cajole him. No dice. We offer up the turtle boat. No interest. The Doozer starts picking up fistfuls of sand from the beach and redistributing them by dropping them into the water. He will occasionally stop and run his hands through the water, rinsing off the sand residue. This goes on for several minutes. Several long minutes. And just when we think that this is the whole day gone, that he will never agree to get in the water . . . he relents. And allows us to gingerly place him inside the turtle boat. And slowly we start moving further into the water.

"Go . . . out . . . there!" The Doozer points way across the lake. He sees sailboats. He is pointing to an area well beyond the designated markers of the swimming area. We inform him we can't go out there.

"Go . . . out . . . there!"

We take him as far as the buoy at the outer edge of the swimming area. We teach him to repeat a garbled approximation of the word buoy. I won't attempt to recreate it here, I wouldn't know how to begin to try and spell his version.

After spinning the Doozer and his turtle boat in circles several times ("Wheee!" he exclaims, the same as he does when we take the curve of an on-ramp onto the freeway--he's a little daredevil, apparently), our day at the beach ends.

But only after a lengthy, paraphernalia-laden, and wayward walk back to the car.

"Hot car!" he informs us. We know.

"Hot . . . summer . . . day!" he goes on. Quite observant. But not quite accurate. Great hot summer day, we tell him. Just the kind to spend at the beach with your peeps.

Can't wait to go back.