Candid Candor

Marianne sent me the picture above with the following caption:
"Reporting live from the Christopher household, I'm Lilian C."

Today, she sent me the following e-mail:
"How can such a tiny human being produce this much shit!?!? Female, too!"

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Blair-ball

Blair Taffan Christopher is named after Blair Ian Mackenzie. The latter of the two was my best friend for many years as a child between the ages of ten and twenty years old. He was killed in a tragic car accident in 1991 and my life was altered forever. Blair Mackenzie was a genuine person who bullied no-one and tried to see the best in everyone. Moreover, he was an exceptionally talented athlete, particularly in baseball. I remember many a summer afternoon at the sidelines of his organized team watching him play. On one occasion when he was in left field a long, high, fly ball came his way. He ran towards it to make the catch but unexpectedly slowed as he approached the target. From my vantage point, there was nothing visible that might have caused this behaviour. Just then, while still running, he reached down and scooped up a small bird into his glove that had been flailing in the grass. He then proceeded to make the catch with his bare hand and throw it in for a double-play. He promptly called time-out and walked the bird over to the side. It had a broken wing and Blair admitted that when he spied it in the grass, he was worried he might run over it so he had thought it best just to scoop it up during the play. I never saw that bird again but I think it was taken to a veterinary hospital where I'm hoping it received due care. I reiterate, Blair Taffan Christopher is named after Blair Ian Mackenzie.

I don't know if it was just coincidence then when about a year ago, I took Milo and Blair out to the nearby park to play a little baseball, and Blair proved incredibly talented. They are both shut-ins and engage very little sporting activity. We had not touched a baseball since before they were too young for it to matter. I was amazed at the skill both of them demonstrated in catching, hitting, and fielding. They certainly didn't get that talent from me or their mother!

In time, Blair decided that he wanted to join an organized team, and after much funding ado I got him registered with the strangely named Gordon Head Evening Optimists. Some of the other kids had been playing for a year already but I was confident that Blair was talented enough to keep up. However, the competition proved fierce and Blair was swept up in a team that pitched fast, hit hard, and played serious. Blair was not the strongest player on the team and was regularly having difficulty hitting and fielding at this level. By the third or fourth game I had become concerned that Blair was beginning to be viewed as the weak link on his team. That would surely discourage him from continuing and he was genuinely talented. He was able to hit some pretty fast pitches when we practiced at home. Nevertheless, he seemed to have stage fright when playing for his team, and he had developed a habit of waiting to be walked or waiting to be struck out, hoping the limited talent of the pitcher would afford him the former. He had not hit one pitch all season.

Finally it happened. It was his first hit, not only of the season, but ever for Blair in an organized sport. It was his first hit ever. It was his first hit EVER! I was celebratory and triumphant and crowed like a cock in the stands at his achievement. He was thrown out before he reached first base but that was of small concern to me. He had hit the ball, and hit it well. I knew he could do it.

Several games later, he had fallen back into his habit of waiting to be walked, but he swung at a lot more strikes than he had previously. Some of the pitches were genuinely 'balls' and he was making good choices. It is difficult to hit Blair's strike zone - he's tiny. He is adorable to watch in school concerts. He is always the shortest and smallest in the row by a measurable margin. His baseball team was no different. He was easily the smallest kid on the team, and the other kids looked like monsters by comparison. Even for his size, Blair is diminutive. The kid's about 40lbs soaking wet and gets nervous in high winds. One pitch came whizzing in full speed, and Blair tried to duck out of the way of the erratically aimed throw. "WHACK!" Ooooooooh! That looked like it hurt! Right in the helmet. Good thing he had that thing on! He stumbled backwards, dazed, but he didn't lose his footing. He gave his head a little shake and regained his bearings before taking his base - well earned! And I got the whole thing on video so we can revisit the fiasco for years to come. If the other Blair was watching from some netherworld, I'm sure he is just as proud as I am! Atta boy, Blair. Give 'em hell!

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Rory's Magic Underpants

The boy's almost all grown up now. He's fourteen-years-old and a good two inches taller than I am already. He plays football better than I ever did, and he seems to need me less and less. He's almost never home. But he was a baby once, and then a toddler, and a super-cute kid. Once when he was about six-years-old I had taken him into the bathroom in our little basement apartment on Tremblay Drive for a much needed bath. "Arms up!" I commanded, and he obediently lifted his arms so that I could hoist off his t-shirt in one swift motion. I then grabbed the waist of his pants and gave a tug down. He stood patiently in his undies for all clothes to be removed in just such a systemic fashion. Next, I grabbed his undies and gave a tug down, and once again he stood patiently . . . in . . . his . . . undies?! What the . . . ?
"Rory, why do you have two pairs of underpants on?"
He pulled his arms back and looked down to spy the pair crumpled up with his pants around his ankles. Then his eyes darted upwards to the pair still clinging snugly around his waist, then down again, and back up several times as he tried to make sense of the situation. Eventually, he cocked his head sideways with an expression both hesitant and suspicious, and said, "I . . . don't . . . know," as though some magic underwear gnome had secretly applied the second pair while he wasn't looking.
How does a kid get on a second pair of underpants without knowing it!? I was a little confused but laughing uncontrollably, until an image flashed across my memory that set in motion a recall that explained the entire fiasco. Rory tends to be a little clumsy when he first wakes up - not the most alert morning kid. He also has a tendency to wear his underwear to bed as pajama bottoms. I remembered having seen him yank on his pants that morning from a pile of clean clothes his mother had laid out for him the night before. In his morning haze, he had crawled out of bed in his underpants and proceeded to put on the pile of clothes before him, underwear and all, without removing the ones he had been wearing already. And he lived his day comfortably unaware of the secret second pair of magic underpants until it was time to disrobe. I wonder how many pairs he might have layered up if I had waited a few more days before giving him a bath. At least he was keeping the family jewels well padded and warm!

See you in hell,
Shakes.

Paper Frogs and Sock Puppets

It's the little things in life that really matter. I know what you're thinking - Oh great! Another sappy narrative celebrating the joy that is 'children' from another self-absorbed parent that just can't help but share his delightful family anecdotes. I guess its true. Long ago my writing became an example of one of those Norman-Rockwell-type adults who do nothing but write cutesy stories about the wonders of parenting that are pleasant at first, but become stomach-turning quickly, and feel like the exploitation of children. In my defense, there are seven of them. They're hard to overlook. And I guess they have become a very large part of my identity. *Sigh*. But I still know myself, even as heavily influenced as I am by the kids.

I was sitting in a trendy coffee shop in downtown Victoria, sipping a ludicrously overpriced hot chocolate. It is not my normal modus operandi to frequent such hipster-doofus venues but it was timely. Jennifer was long gone, Marianne was yet to arrive, and Amy came and went like a housefly with attention-deficit disorder. I was in a state of maintenance. I was floating. And there I was on the patio of a sidewalk cafe.

A disturbance at the next table pulled me out of my mesmerized catatonia and my attention lulled sideways. A poor mother was suffering to keep her infant child quiet while her toddler darted off in every dangerous direction. Now, it is not my usual practice to get involved. I really didn't give a shit, but, ah, what the hell. I leaned over to the energetic child and whispered, "Pssssst... Hey Kiddo. Wanna see a paper trick?" His eyes brightened with excitement and he glanced towards his mother for the requisite permission to humour the strange man. She was in no mood to be defensive and shrugged in ambivalent compliance. I reached over to their table and equipped myself with a sugar packet. I tore open the top just slightly, and with a wink and a finger to my lips (gesturing 'ssshhhh'), I covertly poured the contents into the black decaf the smarmy debutante socialite at the adjacent table had been foolish enough to leave unattended during her visit to the lavatory. The kid giggled in gleeful and mischievous secrecy. I then flattened the paper packet and folded it into a little frog, an origami trick I had learned from a childhood activity book called Paper Capers, and which I had used as a demonstration of task-based language activities in countless TESL classes. Having started with such a small scrap of paper resulted in the tiniest little paper frog, but it still hopped when pressed just right, and the child was simply elated. I smiled at him and handed it over. He toddled off to his table and played in quiet fascination with the new toy. I noticed the baby had stopped crying, and the mother looked at me dumbfounded and incredulous. After a few moments she regained her verbal acuity and said, "Thank you. What are you - some kind of saint or something?" I chuckled at the irony. "I'll have to go with "or something"." I walked out of the cafe flattered and smiling.

When Marianne and I first started dating, we visited all of the typical array of venues that fledgling couples do. I found myself in a movie theatre waiting for the movie to start and with Marianne looking bored. Considering the charm my little frog had cast upon me via the anonymous mother, I figured I would try my hand at recreating a similar scenario with Marianne in the hope of earning some romance points. Having nothing but the paper reciept from our movie tickets handy, I gently folded it into another tiny frog and delicately placed it on my knee in the hush of the theatre to get her attention. She glanced over and giggled. It had worked, and I expected her to play with it a little before it was lost to the candy/condiment-infected floor. But Marianne collects and catalogues happy memories. Apparently their experience is an only slightly relevant precursor to their value in recall and memento. The moment was touching and with calculated immediacy, she smiled, reached over, swept her hand across my leg collecting the small frog, folded it flat and tucked it away into some sacred compartment of her purse. Done and done - efficiently acquired, catalogued, and filed for future demonstration to boyfriend-competitive girlfriends. Truly, the woman was every inch a legal secretary. I couldn't but chuckle at her organized approach to romance. At least it had charmed her too.

The third time I found myself bound to entertain with only limited resources at hand came just yesterday. Lilian was sitting in the middle of the living room floor where Marianne had been folding laundry. I sat before her and engaged her in some light baby babble. That excitement lasted only briefly before she started getting fussy, but no-one was about to watch her while I retrieved some toys or other to entertain her. Megan came in and handed me some unmatched socks she didn't know where to put. I slid one over each hand and invented Mr. and Mrs. Sock Puppet, complete with distinctive character voices and began making up some trivial dialogue between them aimed at Lily. Her face brightened and she released one of her characteristic little giggles. I proceeded with the show, and before long found that all of the kids had slowly gathered around me. Really!? It's amazing! With all of the video games, television, food, and other expensive choices surrounding them, for once, a mere sock puppet had won the entertainment of the day. I continued the show as long as I could but I was really just making up platitudes. It couldn't last forever and it didn't. Marianne scooped up the baby for some necessary ritual, the show ended, and the kids dispersed. But rest assured, equipped with only a curious child, and whatever else lies within arm's reach, there is a world of laughter to be discovered.

See you in hell,
Shakes.