Universe smiles and sneezes

(Last week's Dragons greetings. It's ironic how things later played out. But that's another tale. But on Sunday we won the game 4-3.)

My Dragons:

Sometimes the planets move into perfect alignment and the universe smiles.

This weekend Gee is heading skiing with friends of ours. The little monkey likes to ski and we've got friends who (a) have only one son who happens to be the same age as our boy who, (b) enjoys Gee's company and (c) they happen to be really, really nice people. They took him skiing with them for a couple of days during the Christmas break, they all had a great time, and so they've invited him again this weekend. It's very, very kind of them.

And, on this exact same weekend, a friend of Zed's (who came up from our old neigborhood for his birthday party) has invited him for a sleepover. We're dropping the boy off Saturday afternoon.

None of it was planned. None of it was organized. It just happened. It just clicked together. Therefore, look if you will at this equation... Geel away for the weekend + Zed away for the evening = parents at home on their own for the first time EVER!!!

An evening that will perhaps consist of a delicious restaurant meal, perhaps to be followed by an Academy Award nominated movie, and then perhaps to be followed by... well, we'll see how if goes; if nothing else, at the very least we will be able to sleep-in Sunday morning.

An all-adult, child-free evening! No looking at the clock and worrying about the babysitter, no need to concern ourselves about what the boys are doing, no need to answer the youthful question "What are we going to do today?" First! Time! Ever!

But, as so often happens, the universe, after aligning the planets perfectly, smiles, then giggles, then laughs, and then emits a guffaw of potentially teasing cruelty.

Because it was then that the sneezing began.

Last night Zed starting sniffling. And his nose started running. And he woke us up at two in the morning because he was so congested that he couldn't sleep. And today it's kleenex after kleenex after kleenex.

He is drinking lots of water and he looks pretty good. He is in good spirits as he sits and watches tv. He is close to being on the mend after a quick and moderate cold. But is our weekend of wonder and joy now shot to absolute and total craptitude? -- I guess tomorrow will tell the tale.

So, come Sunday if I'm smiling it might be for a multitude of reasons. It might be because he got healthy enough to visit his friend; it might be because my lovely wife & I had our first in-house child-free night EVER; or it may simply be in account of victory...

That's right, Dragons victory is yet again on the horizon.

This Sunday at 5:15 down at the MasterCard #3 we play the Toronto Beer Raiders. Their name suggests that they don't pay for their own drinks. When means they're cheap Scottish basterds who must be destroyed. (Of course I derive my knowledge of the Scottish people from a Kids in the Hall sketch
and if the Kids in the Hall can't be trusted, who can? It's because of KitH that I hate the Swiss and know the answer to the movie title you can't remember is "Citizen Kane! Citizen Kane!! It was CITIZEN KANE!!!"

So, a weekend of potential child-free pleasure followed by potential victory. How big will the grin on my face be at the end of the day on Sunday? -- Well, we'll see if the universe smiles or just laughs its teasing, tantalizing butt off. Time will tell.

So if I'm grinning before the game on Sunday, you'll know why. And if I'm grinning after the game, we'll all have reason to be grinning together.

Education of a Young Man

(Please enjoy the weekly hockey reminder that I send to my team. One of the guys suggested "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life". My team is brilliant.)

My Fellow Dragons:

So, last night my wife and I are watching "The Big Bang Theory" with our boys. Gee, soon to be 11, loves the show and Zed, now 8, likes it but usually laughs because we laugh and then asks "Why's that funny?"

The show is on at eight o'clock. They deal is they watch it and then head straight to bed.

Usually the show is okay, but last night's was ruder than most. A lot ruder.

The episode had the four guys and three of their lady friends heading out of town for a conference. So far so good. But when they get there, one of the character's girl friend bumps into her old boy friend, so of course the issue of penis size is alluded to; and there is a discussion that occurs because one of the guys has to sleep with his old girl friend, and she warns him that nothing is going to happen below the waist and he then replies that there's lots of fun they can have above the waist; and this then wakes up one of the other characters and he asks if the others are going to engage in "coitus".

All of this on a friggin' show that is on at 8:00.

I'm no prude (at least, "velvet-covered vibrating spanners of tantric delight" I don't think I am), but damnit at eight o'clock I'd like to watch a comedy without having to explain why it's funny when one of the male characters smiles happily when he gets into his hotel bed with a box of kleenex beside him -- and then the joke is revealed that he is going to have a good cry while watching "Bridget Jones' Diary".

And the kicker is my wife then says to me after we've tucked the boys into bed, "Have you had a sex talk with Gee yet? Because you should. He's going to be eleven soon. Or I could do it if you'd like." This coming from my lovely wife who always says "I could do it if you'd like" when there's a dead mouse in a trap or a clogged toilet to be fixed and later tells me "Oh thank god you did it. I could have done it, but I would have thrown up."

(Which is not to say that my wife would throw up having the 'Sex Talk' with my son. I'm sure it would be a lovely and inspiring mother/son discussion. But I know when I hear "I could do it if you'd like" it really and truly means, "I could do it, but please be the man and step up to the plate on this one.")

And I don't mind the idea of having THE TALK with the boy. I've already had THE WARM-UP TALK a couple of years ago when I explained how I was previously married and divorced many years ago. So I think THE TALK will be fine.

But the thing is this: I want to explain the *logistics* of the whole thing (Tab A goes into Slot B) and all of the *emotions* that go with it and the *physical responsibilities* because of STDs, potential pregnancy and other stuff, but I really, really want to somehow convey the fact that the *whole thing is just so just so much damn fun*. And, as a distant relative once kindly pointed out, if you play your cards right sometimes you don't even have to pay the woman!

I think, what I'll do, is explain it as if it's hockey. I will use our favorite sport as an analogy for the challenges and pleasures of sex. I will try to bring my passion and fumbling understanding of the game to the forefront as I try to explain the passion and fumbling complications of sex. For instance...

This Sunday! 3:25!! Rinx 2!!! Congrats on last week's victory and ending our long dry spell. Please make sure your equipment is fine tuned and ready for use (i.e. logistics). We're going to get into it with the V's. We've played with this bunch of girls before (physical responsibilities) and they're coming off a 8-3 bruising last week so they're going to be feeling fragile and on the rebound and therefore will have to be handled with care (i.e. responsibilities and emotions). Let's treat these little girlies with respect, but give them a thorough and satisfying pounding and I'm sure we'll come out of there grinning from ear to ear (i.e. whole thing is damn fun). Oh and please remember that they're all a bunch of whiny bastards who enjoy flying to Newfoundland so they can personally harvest their own baby seal pelts and then wear handmade fur t-shirts under their hockey sweaters SO THEY MUST BE DESTROYED!!!

Ah crapdamnitccrap. I'm gonna have to work on that. Baby seals and sex rarely go well together. I'll have to find another approach. Or maybe I'll just do what my distant relative suggests and let Gee watch "Sleepless in Seattle" and "Showgirls" and then he can figure it out on his own. That still has gotta be better than having his mother explain it to him; she'd do a great job, but I'm sure Freud would have a field day with that one. Damnitcrapdamnit.

Sunday afternoon!!! Hope to see you there. And get angry over the slaughter of those seals.

Kevin.

To Box or Not to Box, That is the Purchase

My oldest boy, Gee, is going to turn 11 in a month and a half. And all he really wants for his birthday is "Futurama: The Complete Collection" box set.

And as much as I try, I am having a devil of a time justifying the purchase.

Part of it is money: at one hundred and fifty dollars, it is one incredibly expensive present. As I explained to the young avid reader, that single present would be the same as five really great hardcover books. (As a matter of fact, that was *before* I looked at the price. The books are the equivalent of $100; this boxed set is even more.)

Another part of my problem is the cost of the enjoyment: I can pvr a bunch of episodes for free and he can watch them to his heart's content. It's not as if there are a bunch of special features on the discs that he's dying to watch (Aaron Sorkin and David Fincher are unlikely to be doing commentaries on the discs), so it's not like there is any additional enjoyment coming from the box set.

He understands my reasons and yet he really wants the set. He said he'd even put some of his own money towards it.

And because of his commitment, I know my lovely wife is wavering.

But I said to her that it is a lot of money just so he can get some fancy packaging. I suggested that I try to find some used dvds of the season sets. But he isn't interested in the individual seasons.

My wife then revealed the sad reality of the situation to me: "Kevin," she said, "of course he wants the packaging. He's your son."

And as I look at my shelves and I see my yuppie Opus with his tags still attached and the Mini RC Dalek Battle Pack (with David Tennant as the Doctor) still in its original packaging, I realize that of course she is correct. If there is a little collectible monster gnawing at his heart, I created that monster and made sure it was hermetically sealed and wrapped in mylar for additional protection.

Nevertheless, I still want him to resist the packaging, to not buy something just because it's a special edition, to see the value in resisting the bells & whistles and perhaps realize the satisfaction that can be obtained in showing some self-restraint.

Y'know, all the stuff that I'm lousy at doing myself. (Stupid tempting, beautiful, fun, sparkly packaging.)

Because I would like him to be better than me.

Superman's weakness

So, the other day Gee asked me if kryptonite can be formed.

"What do you mean 'formed'?" I asked him. "Do you mean can it be shaped? Or carved?"

"Yes. Can you form it into something else?"

"Well, kryptonite isn't real. You know that, right?"

"Yes, I know. But could it be formed?"


"Well, it's a rock, but they've changed it in recent years so that it's radioactive." And as I spoke, I started to get my geek on. "It used to be only harmful to Superman and other Kryptonians, but now it's radioactive to people from Earth, too. So it's deadly."

"Okay," Gee said, ignoring but I'm certain nevertheless *dazzled* by his father's embarrassingly rich geeky insight, "but could you form it into something else?"

"I guess you could," I replied. "Like what?"

"Well, why doesn't someone just shape it into a bullet and kill Superman using a kryptonite bullet? Wouldn't a bullet kill him?"

And in my mind I'm thinking of a fanboy response: it would take two bullets, a gold kryptonite bullet to temporarily rob him of his powers, and then a green bullet to kill him. But it might take some time for the gold bullet to take effect, and in that time Superman could spot the shooter and melt the rifle with his heat vision. And it would have to be a very powerful gun because there's the chance that the gold kryptonite would slowly rob him of his invulnerability and his skin might be only slightly weakened. Superman can heal after being attacked by green kryptonite, therefore the assassin would have to ensure that it was a kill shot and make sure not to just wound him. But it probably could be done -- use two different kinds of bullets and go for the kill shot with an incredibly powerful gun.


This is all the stuff I thought.

But what I said was different.

I replied, "You can't kill Superman with a gun. He'd figure out a way to protect himself. He's Superman."

Gee reflected on my response and said "Okay."

And this is why I resisted sharing my fanboy thoughts and answered the way I did: at age ten he no longer believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. As he gets older, he loses so many of the things that are wondrous, magical and magnificent as the everyday realities of the world gather around him. That's part of growing older and there's not much I can do to protect him from it.

But he should always have Superman.

Fort of Feathers

So the boys, on their first day of summer, are enjoying a morning of quiet chaos.

Zed just came up to inform me that they've built a diving fort in the basement. "It's really cool. We put all the pillows on the floor and we're diving on them.

"Can we keep playing?" asks Zed.

I can imagine that it includes one of them being *in* the fort as the other one dives on top. Which of course could lead to bruises, nose bleeds, broken bones and all sorts of other fun stuff.

But I remember my brother and I building forts out of cushions, having pillow fights as we were bouncing up-and-down on our parents' bed like a trampoline, and (in a display of incredible stupidity and showing how completely oblivious we were to physical harm) having pencil crayons wars -- which consisted of hiding behind furniture and throwing pencil crayons at one another, the goal being to to hit the other person, because, y'know, we were geniuses.

"Go ahead," I told Zed. "Just make sure you clean up afterwards. And be careful!"

Running back downstairs, he called out, "We will!"

Yes, my brother and I used to throw pencil crayons at each other for fun. My boys could say they're building forts out of kitchen plates or trying to trap raccoons using rancid hamburger and it would still be less dangerous than what I did when I was a kid.

"Have a good time! Don't be as stupid as I was!" should be the rallying cry for all parents.

Last Day at School

It's funny: both of the boys found the last day of school less emotional than I did.

And because they're both heading to a new school next year, I thought there would be some sadness, tension or tears.

Nope. School's out. "It's the summer!" And they ain't looking back.

As for me, I found myself getting choked up talking to their teachers.

I spoke to Zed's current teacher, Mrs. Chapman, who taught both of the boys (she also taught Gee three years earlier) and she told me that she was sad because she would have had Zed again next year because she was going to be teaching a different grade. But she was very kind and said that the new school was going to be getting two great students.

And I also spoke to the boys' former kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reiart. She also taught both of the boys but she had them for both Junior *and* Senior kindergarten. She therefore had them for four years in total. I was incredibly pleased that I had the opportunity to thank her for helping make the boys into excellent students. I told her that they're both doing exceptionally well in school and a large part of that is because of her teaching. She was kind enough to say that it was very likely that my wife and I also had a hand in the matter; true as that may be, for the first two years of their schooling, she was the person who showed them how to behave, interact and learn in a classroom. They learned and grew because of her.

In many ways teachers in our province have a great gig (summer holidays, a guaranteed job assuming they don't totally mess up, solid pension, etc.) but it's an incredible responsibility and a bad teacher is a horrible, dreadful, awful thing to behold. An uninspiring teacher can poison the well, salt the earth and rain on the parade that is a child's educational future.

But a good teacher -- worth their weight in friggin' gold.

Both of my boys have been oh so incredibly fortunate because many of their teachers had been blessed with a Midas touch.

Here's hoping their new school also has great teachers. And that the boys will continue to enjoy education, even as they're thrilled when they can leave it behind.

Describing a movie to a ten and seven year-old

The other night I took Gee to see "Avatar".

It was still playing at the fine Scotiabank Theatre here in Toronto (even though it's now out on dvd, they're still playing it!) and I wanted my son to experience it in 3-D and in a cinema.

It seemed like a Good Dad thing to do -- although he hadn't expressed a lot of interest in seeing "Avatar", I thought it was important for him to see The Biggest Movie of All Time.

(In a deep announcer's voice lecturing like in the warnings on a Viagara tv ad, you now have to imagine someone saying, "Please consult your local movie expert regarding actual statistics of the biggest movie of all time, these figures are not adjusted for inflation or the 3-D ticket surcharge, saying that it's the biggest movie of all time may cause film geeks to get angry and lecture you on ticket prices for Gone With the Wind, biggest does not mean best and all movies are relative to the period they were made.")

It was my second time seeing "Avatar" and I enjoyed it more this time out. I could just sit back and enjoy the visuals and just let if flow over me. The first time I saw it, the story bugged me and the long, extended, never seeming to end battle sequence at the film's conclusion seemed self-indulgent. But second time out, I could just enjoy the ride.

As for Gee, he told me that he liked the film, but he certainly didn't love it quite as much as I thought he would. I thought he would be blown away by the special effects and the sheer beauty of the film's images. But while he liked it, he found it too violent -- almost disturbingly so.

Nevertheless, it must have been on his mind because the next day as I was walking the two boys back from school, they asked me what *my* favorite movie was.

And I paused. And thought. And puzzled. And thought some more. And finally replied.

"That's really tough. I mean, I have a bunch of favorite movies. It's tough to pick just one."

But that of course is not much of an answer for two boys. "Okay, but if you had to pick one, what's your favorite?"

It is all in terms of absolutes when you're young. The notion of composing an entire list of great films is not quite there. The reasons why a film might be a Top 10 and why the list might shift and change depending on one's mood -- the concept is not quite there for a 7 and 10 year old. It's either the BEST or it's really not worth mentioning.

So I replied, "Probably 'Casablanca'. Sometimes 'The Matrix'. But probably 'Casablanca'."

(With more thought it could also be 'Blazing Saddles', 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory', 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail', 'Ed Wood', 'The Big Lebowski', 'Citizen Kane', 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers', 'The Usual Suspects', 'Punch Drunk Love', 'Bull Durham', 'Singin' in the Rain', 'A Clockwork Orange', 'Fight Club' and of course 'Young Frankenstein'.

And that list would be completely different in half an hour. And none of it is carved in stone. But it's almost impossible to explain a list like that to children.)

"What's Casablanca about?" asked seven year-old Zed.

And again, I'm at a loss. How can I summarize 'Casablanca'?

"Well, it's set during a war. And this guy owns a bar, a restaurant kind of thing. And he was in love with a woman. But she disappeared. And then one night she comes back. And he had been haunted by her memory. And the story goes from there."

(Which of course isn't a great description of 'Casablanca' because it doesn't deal with the World War II setting or Rick's role in the war or Sam at the piano being asked to play it or the fact that she's married to the head of the resistance and Rick was betrayed and heartbroken and at the end he gives her up because of a hill of beans... or any of the stuff that makes the movie amazing.)

Zed, trying to make sense of my brief description and put it within his own frame of reference, asks, "Was she a ghost?"

I'm a little surprised. "No, she's not a ghost."

"Was she a vampire?"

"No, she wasn't a vampire. Why would she be a vampire?"

"Because she came back at night. And you said she haunted him."

And then it all clicked for me. I explained, "It's not important that she came back at night. She left him and then she returned. He was haunted by her memory, not because she was a ghost."

"Ohhhhh," said Zed in reply. And the conversation then moved on.

Then I realized: for my boys, with their love of monsters, aliens, Scooby-Doo and Doctor Who, each and every story is more enjoyable if it has a ghost or a vampire.

The Most Fun I've Had

The most fun I've had in a long time was when I gave a presentation to my son's class.

He's in a grade 4-5 split and the whole class was doing a unit on comic books. Everyone had to review a graphic novel and answer a whole bunch of questions about the book (what kind of reader is it targeted towards? what does the cover say about the book? can you write a different ending for the book? etc. etc.)

Because I know an embarrassing amount of stuff about comic books, I asked his teacher if it would be possible for me to do a presentation to her students. She thought it was a great idea.

And then, wanting to do something informative and yet creative, I let the ideas percolate. I stewed them over. I let it all simmer and gently boil.

Eventually I came up with a framework that I liked, mapped it out in my mind, did some research, scribbled it out on paper and eventually pulled it all together.

I had my beginning. I had my conclusion. And I even had a great title for the whole thing. Most important of all, I liked what I was going to say.

On the day of the actual presentation I had the opportunity to write on the chalkboard and highlight every point I wanted to hit. I also took in samples of comic books -- a modern comic, a copy of a comic I read when I was a kid, some graphic novels, a copy of the script for the first issue of 'The Walking Dead' and even an original page of artwork from "Sandman". Oh, and to impress the kids I took in a copy of "The Art of Bone" that was signed by Jeff Smith -- it's always important to remember who your audience is.

When doing any sort of presentation I think there is always a risk that one might rely too heavily on a script -- if there is a complete sentence written on a note in front of a lecturer, it is guaranteed that they will stumble over the words as they try to read them. It's best to know what needs to be said and then allow the words to reveal themselves.

I wanted to make sure that my presentation flowed like a gentle stream in the quiet days of spring. (Repeat that simile quietly. Say it gently. Whisper it to yourself. That's what the presentation was to be like.) I had no notes other than those words that I had written on the board. I wanted to be able to move from point to point without feeling that I was trapped by structure.

Zen and the art of speech making -- the word will fall like the water drops from a dove's wing. And, if it helps, try to imagine that everyone is wearing frilly underwear.

My son introduced me to his class saying with a cheeky smile "This is my dad, Kevin", and that I had some things to say about graphic novels.

And then I started talking.

I told the class that I was going to talk about comic books. That I had been reading them for years and years, and that while I didn't know a lot about comic books from Japan or Europe, I would try to tell them about the history of comics in North America.

The first thing I did was ask them about the first word on the chalk board. I asked them if they knew what the word "geocentric" meant.

(Thankfully no one knew the exact definition of the word. In hindsight, had one little brainiac given me the answer it probably would have thrown off my just-getting-started rhythm.)

I explained that the word 'geocentric' is from 'geo' meaning 'earth' (as in geography) and 'centric' had to do with being in the center. The geocentric model of the universe had Earth at the center of the universe and the sun, the moon and all the planets revolving around us. And I explained how the model became more and more complicated as more planets were discovered and their moons were discovered and how eventually the whole model broke down.

And then I told to remember all of that because I was going to come back to it later.

And then I moved on.

I therefore started a presentation about comic books without talking about comic books. I started by talking about science. And I refused to tell them why it was important but that it was important and that we would come back to it later on.

And then I really got rolling.

From Sherlock Holmes and an audience demanding that a fictional character be brought back to life, to newspaper wars and immigrants learning to read, to Superman and the arrival of caped heroes, to funny animals and horror comics, to the crackdown because all teenagers are delinquents, the arrival of Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four and Jack Kirby, and McFarlane learning from the tragedy of early creators, and the arrival of Alan Moore, and servicing the trademark versus owning the creation, and of course there was a mention of Bone.

And I watched for any shuffling of feet or roaming of eyes but I never noticed anyone being blatantly bored. I'm not suggesting that each and every one of them found it fascinating, but at no time did anyone yawn or start talking with a neighbor or try to interrupt me.

I kept it moving. I went from point to point and tried to make everything tie together.

How Arthur Conan Doyle's greatest creation out-lasted his creator and now everyone knows who Sherlock Holmes is but most have forgotten his author. And the way that Sherlock Holmes is therefore a precursor for modern comic book heroes.

How Siegel and Shuster created the greatest hero the world has ever known, inspired an entire legion of imitators and made billions of dollars for the corporation that bought their character. And the way that Siegel and Shuster's fiscal error in judgment haunts comic creators to this day.

How after World War II comics started to mature with the readers who came back from the war and millions of comics were sold of all different genres -- westerns, funny animals, romance comics. And the way that the popularity of comics became their downfall when the violence and horror of some stories caused people to use them as a scapegoat.

And it all flowed from there. Bits and pieces from early in the presentation became more important as I talked. Sometimes I would think of something like the arrival and legally enforced departure of Captain Marvel and tie it into a certain point in history and use it to illustrate the power of a corporation protecting its copyright.

Siegel and Shuster would come back to the presentation as I spoke about Todd McFarlane and Alan Moore.

And Sherlock Holmes would return as I spoke about the never-ending, on-going nature of the stories and their heroes. How writer Grant Morrison would create his own characters but also create brilliant stories with Superman and Batman because he knew those characters, like Sherlock Holmes, would outlast us all.

I spoke with a little bit of knowledge and a little bit of insight and, most important of all, with enthusiasm.

At the end of the presentation I answered their questions as best I could and one of the students was kind enough to ask why I had written on the chalk board "Why Can't Johnny ______ Superman?"

And I thanked him because I had forgotten one thing that I had wanted to discuss and it was an economic and marketing problem for the entire comic book industry: Why Can't Johnny Buy Superman? And that led to a discussion about comic book distribution and graphic novels versus comic collections and why a local variety store doesn't carry comic books anymore.

I wrapped things up. The bell rang. Some students headed for the exit. But most of them came up to look at what I had brought to class and ask me questions.

Afterward I asked the teacher what she thought of the presentation. She said that with her class they would let you know when they were bored and that when the bell rang they got out of there as quick as they could. But they had been quiet during the presentation and they stuck around to ask additional questions. She felt it had gone really well.

The highest praise I received was from Gee. We talked about the presentation and I asked him how he thought it had gone, he said that it had gone "really good" and that some of his friends had said to him that I was cool.

And I told him that it was nice that they had said that. And very quietly I smiled to myself.

After more than forty years of collecting, comics are finally cool. And at that moment, for my son, perhaps I was cool, too.

Clean up. Clean up. Everybody do your part.

There is something to be said about going back to the basics.

As an example...

While camping for an extended period of time holds no appeal for me whatsoever, I can appreciate the beauty of a single night out in a tent: fresh air, the sounds of nature, stars glittering in the night sky. Much like the sport of golf, I can see the appeal, but I just don't want to do it for an extended period of time.

Which brings me to the joys of dishwashing.

Now, I'm sure there were better and more significant moments between my mother and I when I was a teenager, but I remember our best talks -- our best casual chats, if you will -- occurring as we were doing the dishes together. For my mom and me, it was an opportunity to do something together without the outside world (girls, school, work, relationships, 'what are you going to do with your life?') getting in the way.

Maybe it's because the task is so simple and so very achievable that it allows people to work and relax at the same time. The task of finishing a stack of hideously dirty dishes can look enormous and daunting; the sense of achievement some fifteen minutes later can be immense.

The realization I had yesterday was this: my boys, now age 7 and 10, have no idea how to do the dishes.

Somehow they've managed / we've allowed them to completely dodge the dishwashing bullet.

But, when your dishwasher catches fire, all of a sudden the basics become necessities. And all of a sudden the boys get to pitch in.

It wasn't as if they jumped for joy at the chance. There was some surprise and a bit of moaning as they were told to assist in the task. And I know Gee was none too impressed as I attempted to show him how to dry a plate without touching it with his hands. And Zed was surprised to hear that once the spoon hit the floor it had to be washed again and therefore he'd have to dry it again. But the dishes got done and for me there was some pleasure in the fact that the men of the house had cleaned up the kitchen together.

I'm not saying that the boys should help do the dishes all the time. And I certainly do not mean to imply that we won't replace our old automatic dishwasher -- delivery of the new shiny machine takes place on Thursday. (And it's strange to realize that when a person says "dishwasher" we now think of a machine. The term "automatic dishwasher" is almost archaic.)

There is, however, a kind of peaceful charm and quiet smile that comes to me as I think about the boys as they muddled and stumbled as they tried to dry the dishes last night. If I didn't think it would end up with my wife never speaking to me again, I am almost tempted to make one night a week the "Human Dishwasher Night". We would give the machine a break and clean up the old-fashioned way.

I could even ask my mother if she has any dishtowels she could pass down to her grandsons.

The Hockey Scarecrow

I sometimes hang my hockey equipment outside.

And to be honest, it's not as romantic as it sounds.

I would like to say I put the equipment outside because there is a definite need to air it out, but, being a guy, I have never felt an overwhelming urge to freshen it up. I could, to be embarrassingly honest, just leave it alone and let it grow more and more disgusting and eventually cast it aside and buy knew equipment. Much in the same way that bachelors are eventually forced to buy new dishes.

More than anything the equipment gets sent outside because it's good for peace in the family. When my wife says something along the lines of "Wow, does that ever stink" it's a good idea to actually do something about it.

(It's a none too subtle hint along the lines of a co-worker saying to you "So, when did you run out of deodorant?" -- if you do nothing, you risk the other person taking action into their own hands.)

This morning, when I brought the equipment in to avoid the rain, Zed asked if it was outside to act as a scarecrow. I thought that was an interesting image -- my equipment guarding the backyard against aggressive birds and raccoons that were interested in scoring on our house -- and I should have asked Zed to elaborate. Maybe tonight I will.

Instead I explained why it was exiled to the great outdoors and asked if I had ever shown them how sweaty my socks are after I take off my skates. I thought, y'know, just from a strictly scientific point of view that they might find it fascinating to see how drenched with perspiration one can get after a game.

I explained to them that "It's interesting, but disgusting."

And with very little hesitation Gee laughed and replied "I don't like those two combinations."

Now, one would think after years of reading Robert Munsch that the idea of some truly smelly socks would make them at least a little bit curious to touch the real thing. But that is apparently not the case.

Apparently 'interesting' would be fine. 'Disgusting' would be fine. But put the two words together and my boys lose interest.

Advice vs. Care

I would never say that a woman is a better parent than a man.

Both sexes can be great parents. To say that one is better than the other is a generalization along the lines of ‘blondes have more fun’ or ‘all blondes are stupid’.

--> and I have to wonder if the craze of “Stupid blonde jokes” that appeared years ago was the result of a bunch of pissed-off brunettes and redheads getting together and saying “Screw the not-so subliminal ‘Blondes Have More Fun’ campaign that’s been running for decades. Let’s wipe the smug smile off their collective snide faces. Veronica, you’re in charge: start with ‘how many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb?’ and move from there. Gilda, you start with the ‘computer screen and liquid paper’ joke and get your fellow reds to help."

And within ten years, no one was talking about how blondes have more fun. <--

But, when it comes to being a parent, I think women are probably better at being mothers.

Let me explain...

Try this: picture someone who is described as “fatherly”. Or imagine how the word “fatherly” is used.

Usually the word would be used in the context of “fatherly advice” which would be a father figure sitting and handing down words of wisdom much like Moses did (but probably without the big tablets coming down the mountain) ...

“Son, fight only when it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Never trump your partner’s Ace.”

“Don’t go to bed mad. If you go to bed mad, you risk waking up with that anger still lingering bitterly.”

I picture a Fred McMurray or Dick Van Patton fatherly figure giving insight and advice. He’s usually smoking a pipe and wearing slippers. He sets his newspaper down and looks pensive before he speaks. He probably won't give you a hug, but the warmth radiates from him nonetheless.

(Which makes me wonder if there are any good Father Figures on tv today. Is there anyone on tv in a fatherly role that you would want to turn to for advice? -- Charlie Sheen in “Two and a Half Men”? – Yuk! Michael C. Hall in “Dexter”? -Yipes! And look at all of the characters with Daddy issues in “Lost” – Jack, Sawyer, Kate, Ben, Locke, Hurley, Michael & Walt! Where have all the good fathers gone?!?)

But do the same thing with the word “motherly” and it’s images of caring and nurturing and acceptance.

My soon to be 10 year old son, Gee, was incredibly ill yesterday. High fever, headaches, throwing up – the whole Technicolor mess.

My wife had to head into work for the day so I stayed home with him.

And while it was my job to comfort him and help him feel better, instead I found myself giving him advice.

"Don't worry, you'll feel better soon," I said.

"We have an appointment to see the doctor at 11:45. You'll feel better after we see the doctor."

And as he was puking his stomach contents out, I was saying to him, “Don’t worry, it all has to come out. You’re doing fine.” And back to what was obviously my favourite line: "You’ll feel better soon.”

The sad thing was that over and over he kept asking me if I was mad at him. And honest to god I wasn’t. I was worried. But my concerns must have looked like anger and frustration. And again I said something fatherly like “You’ll feel better soon. You just have to get that stuff out of your system.”

His mum phoned to see how he was doing and I told her we had a doctor's appointment. I then put Gee on the phone and he cried as he was talking with mother because he just felt so horribly sick. And my wife told me that she was leaving work and she would meet us at the doctor’s office and then came back home afterwards.

Doctor saw him. It's strep throat. We get the medicine. We all come home.

Later that afternoon, after the medicine kicked in, Gee fell sound asleep in his mum’s arms. He looked secure, safe and at peace. He looked like all good boys should look in the comfort of their mother’s arms.

That night, reviewing the day’s worth of medicine, vomiting, fever and pain, my wife said to me, “The doctor once told me that sometimes the best medicine is just being held.”

As a man, as his father, I trusted that he would get better and the doctor would help us out. And I told him that. Over and over again.

But my wife wanted to be there to see it through. Not because I couldn’t do it, but she just felt that she had to be there for her own peace of mind.

And at that moment I realized that women are probably better mothers than men will ever be. I kept telling him he would feel better in the future. But she helped him feel better in the here and now.

So I better start practice getting all-wise and all-insightful and sage-like…

“Learn to win as gracefully as you learn to lose.”

“Never spit in the wind.”

“Always carry a condom. Even it is a first date.”

Because while my boys are more likely to remember their mum being there for them when they were sick, I am going to need them to remember me for my words of wisdom.