Sir Paul and I

It is always a celebration of sorts when the kids come home. Right now they are all living in the downtown core of The Big Smoke within 5 kilometers or so of each other. One would think that after all those years of sibling rivalry they would want to put as much real estate between each other as possible, but that is not the case. They have actually grown closer as the years have worn on.  Two of them, I fear are becoming urban Torontonian's, not quite Queen Street hipsters, but dangerously close. Our youngest Catherine is involved in reality television and of course Toronto is the Mecca of her industry. Stephanie is happily ensconced at the Royal Ontario Museum cataloging bones and getting excited about the dusty treasures that have laid hidden in neglected drawers and cabinets around the museum. As well, for her, the Indy music scene in Toronto is all a music fan could ask for.  John, our oldest, is working for the federal government and is the only one who envisions a move out of Toronto at some point. But I am getting away from the gist of this article.

When the kids do come home, whether it is one at a time or all together, affairs at the house accelerate exponentially.   I think most parents who have had their kids move out will sympathize with this.  It is difficult when kids leave and set out on their own course of life. No longer are you there at every turn of events to lend a hand, or offer advice or even cuddle when things look gloomy. But after a while, their empty bedrooms start to look more like the makings of a fair sized TV room, or a sewing room. The cupboards take on more of a reflection of what you and your spouse normally eat, the laundry seems to know where the hamper is and strangest of all, the TV seems to be on the shows that you actually watch and not The Simpsons (unless you want to watch The Simpsons).  As difficult as it was for you when they left, the more difficult it is again when they return for a stay.  I am certainly not saying that I don't enjoy their return home, I do. It is always full of excitement, rapid-fire news and a hurricane of activity when they do. It is just sometimes, as I age, a raging hurricane is not something I can to endure for an extended period of time.

No longer is it necessary for me to make sure that there are drinking boxes in the fridge for them like when they were kids; it is now cans and bottles of craft beer that must be laid in. On second thought there are drinking boxes in the fridge and full of grape juice, albeit slightly fermented and in 4L boxes and it wouldn't surprise me for a moment if I were to walk into the living room and find them sucking on straws stuck in the boxes.

Food has taken on a major role in all of their lives and hence a return to home is always accompanied by feasts that rival any holiday meal. One of my Zen kind of things that I enjoy is making desserts; candies, pies, cakes, it doesn't matter to me as long, as it produces the right results. My wife often looks at me standing at the stove, gently stirring for minutes, which to her seems like hours and asks me how do I have the patience for such a thing.  I just chant softly, "Ommmm" and continue to stare out the window in blissful meditative stirring peace. This sometimes disturbs her.

In hand with their appreciation of good food, a special place for them is our kitchen pantry, where they know they can find all sorts of items at the bargain basement price of free.  Stephanie has come to refer to it as the "old people" pantry. She swears this is not a slight to her ageing parents, but more towards the fact that we seem to have more than one jar, bottle or can of just about everything we would need in the pantry.  She is under the impression that this is due to two things; our preparedness and the anticipation that we may run out of an item when cooking or the Costco Effect. I haven't yet told her that both were far from the truth. The real reason that we have multiple items in our pantry is that we have forgotten that we have already purchased three jars of Skippy the last time it was on sale along with all those other items and just keep stacking them up in the cabinet.

I don't want to give the impression that the kids think we are past our best before date and that we are just content settling into a routine and boring existence. We do try and keep things lively. However, I must admit that I do read the "bred, wed and dead" column of the local paper on a more regular basis. It can be un-nerving seeing familiar names and faces looking out at you.  Whereas when we were younger those faces were in the wed part, now they have moved over to the other side of the column.

During the spring the kids asked me if there was a musical act who I have not seen live and who I would like to see. I went through a list of bands or artists I would like to see before they and myself for that matter, are dead. For one reason or another certain acts were ruled out; either they weren't touring any more or were mere imitations of the former bands with only one or two original members. It was finally whittled down to two acts, one of which I figured was impossible to find tickets for. However, determined kids, a computer and a valid credit card when combined with the right incentive can solve virtually any problem. I am so glad that they have harnessed their talents for the good of society. Hence in July, my wife and I attended a Paul McCartney concert in New York State. It was without a doubt one of the finest concerts I have ever scene and quite literally, there aren't enough words to try and describe it. As I texted the kids after the concert; Sir Paul can now die happy in the knowledge that he has been seen by me in concert.  Now, does anyone out there need a few jars of Skippy? I seem to have a few extra. 

A Light Intervention

We had an intervention of sorts here at the house at Thanksgiving. All the kids were home and it was only after serious reflection that they felt the time was right for this drastic step. Of course, it was all meant to be helpful and was only brought on by love and concern.  I didn't think anything was amiss, but apparently, the subject is always the last to be aware.  It was unanimous among the children and with my wife quietly showing support that they sat me down in the living room and surrounded me.  "Dad", the oldest began, "We don't want you to...., this is hard for all of us to say." His voice kind of petered out and then the next oldest picked up where he left off. " Dad, we know you care and you have always tried to bring light into our lives, but we just can't...." She too had trouble finishing her thought. The youngest then took a deep breath and said, "Dad.  You are not to put up the Christmas lights anymore", she blurted out before she could stop herself. "We are tired of taking bets on how many times you bounce off the ground when you fall from the ladder, tired of the Instagramed pictures of your bruised and battered body parts held up like a prized fish that you caught.  We can't let Mom take the humiliation of having our neighbours and people walking by see you hanging by your fingertips off the eavestrough or yet another December visit to the Emergency Ward. We just can't. It isn't fair on Mom, us or you".

Of course, I didn't see it in the same light. I have always viewed the hanging of Christmas lights as a delicate balance between risk and reward; a confrontation between myself and the pesky laws of physics. To me, it was a battle of man versus light, a game of one on one, mano a lighto, it was me against it.  But what I didn't see was the effect that this had on my loved ones. I guess having to deal with me shuffling along wincing with pain every time I took a step or trying to open presents with only a few working fingers, might put a hindrance on holiday celebrations. Begrudgingly, I accepted their intervention and when the time came I ceded control of my new ladder and the tangled strings of lights to my children.  If an outsider was watching through the window, they would have thought it was one of those Kumbaya moments. Everyone was holding hands, seated in a semi-circle around me with satisfied smiles on their faces, reveling in the belief that they have saved their Dad his annual bout of pain and suffering.  

In due time on a planned visit, the kids once again filled the house. This time they were aided by weeks of careful planning with a blueprint to delegate responsibilities and coordination of duties.  They consulted with all known sources of holiday ideas, gathering the best from magazines and online sites which melded with their own creative ideas. Wrapping all of this data together, they had a meticulous working theme for the house, for the tree and for the interior decorations. It wouldn't have be surprised me if they had matching outfits for all of us on Christmas morning.  

With all of this all planned out, they headed downstairs to find the boxes of the Christmas decorations. Coming back up with more boxes than I seem to remember taking down, they opened them all looking for the exterior lights.  Their faces were painted with enthusiasm as they worked together closely, singing along with Nat King Cole as he vocalized about roasting chestnuts by the open fire. The living room was soon covered by strings of red, blue and green lights as they checked all the connections and bulbs to ensure there were no faulty ones. They then bundled up and dragged the lights outside and started to work.

For once, I sat in the warmth of the house, a mug of hot chocolate in my hand and stood looking out the front window, occasionally knocking on the window to get their attention and then pointing to something that wasn't quite right.  To be honest, I knocked more than occasionally; it would seem my definition of occasional is a little more elastic than most.  However, from the look on their faces you would have thought I was knocking as much as a woodpecker on an elm tree.  I could see befuddlement crease their brows as they tried to figure out just how those light hangers worked and frustrations as they snapped in two from the cold; referring of course to the hangers and not the children.

As the sun began to set I could see what started as a display of sibling unity was devolving into a sibling rivalry so standard in most family dynamics when working together. But putting this growing frustration aside, they finished their task and tumbled into the house; noses and fingers cold, but with a satisfied look on their faces.  Eager to show off their work, we all threw on our coats and went outside. Standing out front, the lights were plugged in and the house lit up. I have to admit, they did a good job. There were no accidents, no injuries and no battle between humans and gravity. Where's the fun it that?