Little m Long a

Minutiae.  How much of every single day do I find myself absorbed in minutiae?  Now that’s not to be confused with manure, of which I tend to find myself intimately acquainted on a regular basis.  Rather, I find myself in the constant condition of observing and taking note of the most trivial of details.  What may seem to be totally insignificant to one may be a monumental event to another.  And now, dear reader (you know who you are) allow me to include you in some of the minutiae of my life.

This past Thursday night we did something really big.  Zoë and Z, my oldest boy, got a haircut.  Let me say that again, for in dealing with minutiae one has a tendency to glaze over and actually miss the tiny details at hand.  Zoë and Z, my oldest boy, got a haircut.  Why, you may be asking yourself, is getting a haircut such a significant event?  Read on.  I’ve got answers.

You see, Zoë and well, all my children for that matter have been late hair bloomers, essentially no hair for the first two years of their lives.  It has always amazed me how I could dress Zoë in a pink floral sun dress from Gymboree with matching pink sandals and a pink bow hot glued ever so gently to her bald little head and take her out only to hear from every other person whom we’d meet, “Oh, isn’t that cute.  Is she a girl?” or “He’s so adorable, what’s his name?”

At first it used to bother me.  Then, it would bother Zoë, which I thought was funny.  Zoë has always been very well spoken.  Even at 15 months she was articulate:  conversation articulate.  My twins, at 18 months, are just beginning to realize that the tongue is not only a portal of taste for every single object, edible or not, within a reasonable grasping distance but it can also be used to shape words and make sounds.  My youngest boy will say, “jeuw” which means he wants his juice.  Unfortunately, that is the only word in his arsenal and when he uses it for anything other than juice finds himself very disappointed, but not thirsty.

Zoë would ask me why everyone kept calling her a boy and I’d try to explain it to her but I really didn’t have a good answer.  So I told her to ask them.  It was hilarious to see the shocked looks on peoples’ faces as this tiny little girl would rebuke them saying, “My name is Zoë and I’m a girl!  Can’t you seeee the pink dress?”  Same thing happened to Z, my oldest boy.  Not the pink dress thing, the no hair thing.  He would get so frustrated at the comments, “Oh, what a lovely family.  All girls.  How seet.”  Z was quick to point out that he was a boy as well as his younger brother.  He also, for reasons unknown to me, felt the need to add, “In fact, my dad’s a boy.”

So we let their hair grow, and grow it did.  Zoë’s hair is beautiful, straight a mousy brown color and Z’s hair long, straight and golden blonde.  I know I’m probably biased here, but they both had beautiful locks.  As of late, however, they both had come to loathe their hair.  Too many rats.  A simply daily brushing could elicit tears sometimes at the very mention of “let’s brush your hair.”  They both decided together that it was time for a change.

And so it was this past Thursday night that our little clan descended upon the salon.  My wife was off work and we made a family outing of it.  After all, this was a big event.  Zoë was first, not an ounce of trepidation.  She hopped up into the chair and excitedly announced to the stylist, “I want it cut off to here,” motioning to just above her earlobe.  The stylist looked at my wife who flatly stated, “She knows what she wants.  Don’t worry.”  I never thought that it was possible to own or become a hairstyle.  Zoë did both right before my very eyes seemingly even before her hair fell to the ground.  Pert, sassy and playful in an instant.  OK, so Zoë has always been pert, sassy and playful but now she had the hair to go with it.  Her excitement radiated throughout the salon.

Z was next and he, too chose to go bold.  Remember long, straight and golden blonde?  Picture that little kid in Pete’s Dragon.  Now picture David Beckham.  Z shaved his head.  My little boy aged two years in a matter of a few minutes sitting in that chair.  It was an amazing transformation.  His response, sheer elation.  “Well, I won’t need a brush.”

Yep!  This past Thursday Zoë and Z got a haircut, a seemingly insignificant event to anyone else.  For our family, this was big, really big.  And not just so much so for the outward transformation that took place but for what I think was the most significant revelation of the evenings’ events.  Our kids are growing up right in front of our very eyes, sometimes it seems in spite of us, in spite of our efforts to hold tight to their youth.  This haircut was a statement from Zoë and Z that they are growing up and ready to start making decisions about things that affect their lives, as insignificant as that may be.

The next morning I told Z that just because he got his hair cut like Beckham does not mean that he can get a tattoo like Beckham.  He nodded like he understood and ran off.  A few minutes later he came back and asked, “Did you say does or does not?”  I told him hair will always grow back but a tattoo is forever.  We’ll talk about that later—way later.

Slowly, yet surely, I am losing my mind.  Not that it has ever been considered one of my biggest assets but it is definietly eroding from me now like the shifting sands on an unstable fault line. I’m not quite sure that I’m able to pinpoint a cause although several reasons have been tendered.  1)  Years of self medication are catching up with me.  I quit smoking just over a year ago and hopped on the proverbial wagon last October.  One would think that any lingering adverse side-effects would have cleared my system by now.  (My metabolism has slowed quite a bit these past few years but I doubt seriously that is my problem.)  2)  I was dropped as a child.  Lots of fodder for a strong argument here, although my permanent medical record fails to provide unequivical proof.  3)  I was really, really bad in a previous life and am now being handed my just due.  Well, this argument is pretty ridiculous for a number of reasons namely, I do not believe in reincarnation and b) well, I just don’t believe in reincarnation.  4)  I’m getting old and my kids are incinerating what unmolested brain cells I have remaining in my dropped upon head.  This argument is more strongly rooted in reality than any of the previous ones and hence, I must now persue it as foundation to remedy to my dwindling cranial reserves.

I suppose we should start with the basic premise that 42 really isn’t that old.  It can’t be.  Look at all of the famous athletes who are past their 40′s and still have years of game in them.  There’s…Lan…no.  Uh, Mi…no.  OK.  I’m sure there’s a lot of them.  Like I said, my mind is going and I can’t call any to name right this minute.  When I get time, I’ll Google it.

So once the grill is properly heated, you’ll know the temperature is right when you can’t hold your hand over the fire longer than about four seconds, you are then going to sear the marinated steaks for about three minutes a side.  Wait.  Zoë just asked me the name of the beetle that tried to eat the kids in that Shrinking Movie, which I haven’t seen and I seem to have lost my train of thought.

Do you ever wonder what happens to all of the lost thoughts floating aroung in our heads?  I mean, do they go to live with all of the mismatched socks or end up as cut lines on an editing floor somewhere?  I would like to offer that they remain locked in our heads and are slowly released in streams of chain thoughts as we let our mind wander from random thought to random thought.  I really seem to have lost my way here.  Back to task.

I find myself making strange noises doing the simplest of tasks, like sitting in a chair or worse standing up.  My kids have actually run into the room, eyes wide open in alarm and shrieked, “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I reply.  “I was just standing up.  Was that hideous moan of desperation and anguish out loud?  Sorry.”

I used to golf…alot.  Walked all the time, some days I have even walked 36 holes…on seperate courses.  Got up the next day and did it again.  Now, I can not fathom walking a golf course and have even taken to premedicating myself with ibuprofen before the round, preparing for what is inevitably going to be an excruciating night of back spasms and leg cramps.

Back in the day, I could read a road sign from what seemed like a mile away.  Now, I’ve got a magnifying glass in my desk drawer and use it often.  My arms get tired from reading as I have to hold the book or paper farther and farther out in front of me in order to properly focus.

I suppose the stongest argument I have for the decreasing power of my intellect has to be this very blog.  My first entry was posted in March of this year.  I billed myself then as a 42 year old father of five.  Just two weeks ago, on the 10th, I celebrated my birthday…..my 42nd birthday.  I was a full four months early.  Trivial?  Maybe.  But I can see the writing on the wall and with the aid of my handy looking glass it’s telling me I had better start incorporating some ginko into my diet.

Now, I suddenly feel the need to go and count my kids.  I did say I had five, right?

It’s not very often that my wife and I get a night to ourselves.  Our Z’s keep us constantly on our toes and usually by the time we manage any significant separation we’re too tired to even think about doing something for ourselves.  I’ve heard the term date night tossed around amongst those with children.  They say it keeps the marriage and personal relationships healthy.  I believe in our situation a more appropriate term would be prison break.  After all, when we do finally manage to find time to ourselves I feel quite like a prisoner on the lam having finally tunnelled my way to freedom using nothing more than a plastic comb and a toothbrush now constantly looking over my shoulder as I’m sure the hounds have taken hold of my scent.  Always in the back of my mind I hear the taunts, ”What we have here…is failure to communicate.”

Such was the case this past Friday night when my wife and I, after months of scheming, digging and planning finally made a break for it.  We were practically running out of the door as I shouted instructions to the babysitter.  “I just changed the twins, no one has eaten and I’m sure everyone is hungry, put them to bed about 8.  Wait, put the twins to bed at 8 and let the older ones stay up til 9 or 9:15…by 11:00 at the latest!  No tv. OK maybe a movie, there’s pasta in the pantry, here’s some money for a pizza.  Gotta go.  Good luck!”

In the background five little Z’s stood looking ever so perplexed not saying a word.  I could see it in their eyes.  “Mommy and Daddy are leaving…at the same time?!  But whatever shall we do?”  I kept telling myself, “Don’t look back, don’t look back.  If you slow down you’re doomed.  Keep going man, Run! Run like the wind!”

My wife had secured tickets to the national touring play Wicked months ago.  Honestly, I wasn’t all that keen on heading out to a musical in one of the few if not only chances of freedom I would see for quite some time.  But I was going out and figured it best not to complain.  Besides, we also had dinner reservations and the very thought of dining out sans kids almost had me giddy.

I had no idea what this play was about, other than it’s about a witch and somehow tied to The Wizard of Oz.  Of course I could have picked up a newspaper or read a review but that would have required an effort on my part and also have revealed that I may have been actually more interested in the play than I really was.  The very theme of the play had me a little on edge as it was.  I mean, come on now, The Wizard of Oz?!  I grew up with that movie, loving that movie.

Every Sunday night The Wonderful World of Disney filled the screen of our little 17 inch black and white Zenith and at least once a year, twice if we got lucky, they played the Wizard of Oz.  Yes, I did say black and white.  I don’t even know if they still make a black and white television set.  And of course we had no remote control, but to what would we change the channel anyway?  We only got reception for three stations.  My mother’s brilliant idea for combating the boredom of sitting through a program you did not care to see while waiting for your show to air was to place a fish tank on the shelf above the television set.  That way, there was always something interesting to watch in the living room.  Funny thing was, it actually worked.  Those fish were mesmerizing.

Anyway, I fell deeply, madly in love with Judy Garland.  Much more so, according to my wife, than a normal heterosexual male should.  What can I say?  You never forget your first love.  Mine was Judy… and that little girl in Escape to Witch Mountain but that’s another story.  On a whole other level The Wizard of Oz instilled a value system in my life, values like good vs. evil, right vs. wrong.  Values like faith, trust, friendship and honesty reinforced year after year until they become a part of your very soul, your existence.  To alter such a story or any of it’s characters after my 42 years of indoctrination is unfathomable.

And yet, that is exactly what Winnie Holzman and Stephen Schwartz did in Wicked.  My whole belief system was turned topsy turvy.  It was apocalyptic, human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together…mass hysteria and Glenda the Good Witch is a beee–otch!  The Wicked Witch or Elphaba (L.F. Baum) is quite frankly the most kind, pure-hearted, gentle and misunderstood person in the world.  Never in my 42 years of existence would I have ever imagined myself saying or thinking such things.

This show was amazing! It didn’t hurt that Victoria Matlock, the girl playing the misunderstood Elphaba had a set of pipes that sent shivers up your spine.  The girl can flat out sing and she sold the show and the story to me.  I am a believer.

I wholeheartedly recommend that if this show comes anywhere near to where you may be, see it.  No if ands or buts—SEE THIS SHOW.  Hands down, the best play I have ever seen.  Let’s face it, any play that can alter a lifetime of ingrained beliefs in a matter of two and a half hours and have me cursing Glenda, now that’s a good play!

“….solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.”–John Adams in a letter to his wife dated July 3, 1776.  It’s just after 11:00pm and I feel it safe to say we can count another holiday as having officially passed.  So how did we fare in accordance with what Mr. Adams felt would surely be requisite observance of our nation’s independence?

So, Mr. Adams, all in all, I think we did a pretty good job in keeping with your wishes of observing our nation’s independence.