Cleveland Layover

                Went down to Houston last Thursday.  It was the first time I had flown in seven years.  I've been too broke to fly anywhere for the last seven years (my son is almost 6).  I'm still too broke to fly anywhere, but fortunately I didn't have to pay for it. Airfare, hotel, transportation and food (and drinks) were all paid for by Baylor College of Medicine.  It was a crazy experience, starting from pretty much the time I got to the Providence airport.  I was stressed, because all I really knew about the trip was that I was getting flown down to meet with a bunch of high profile medical researchers.  Had I been flying down to interview for an oil rig job, or to get a job on a fishing boat or something like that, I would have been fine.  I used to work on fishing boats.  I've worked in construction off and on for nearly 20 years.  Longshoremen and rig workers are no big deal; they aren't scary.  However, high profile medical researchers are a completely different animal.  I had no idea what I would say.  I had no idea what I was going to look like standing next to the other finalists being flown in.  I tried to convince myself that it was no big deal, even if I did blow it.  "I'm getting burnt on this whole school thing anyway.  I think I just want to get a job, even if it is in software or electrical engineering instead of biomedical."  It didn't really matter what I tried to convince myself; I was stressed.

                To make matters worse, I was late to the airport.  I was rushing around trying to print off a bunch of stuff so that I would have articles to read on the plane.  It was the first time that I have ever flown with a laptop, and I didn't even know if they would let me use it.  Next time I'll just download the pdf's.  Actually, hopefully I'll have a Kindle by the next time I fly.  The girl sitting next to me had one and it looked pretty much awesome.   

                So I was stressed about meeting with a bunch of really educated dudes, and I was stressed because I was running late when I got to the Providence airport.  Apparently you aren't supposed to talk to the airline employees at the ticketing counter anymore.  Or rather, you can if you want to but they only know how to say one word: "Kiosk," as they point at the ATM-looking things in front of the counter. 

                So, I was a little confused, and extremely stressed, but I finally figured out that the employee wanted me to talk to the machine, and the machine wanted me to tell it some magic number so that I could check myself in.  I was pretty sure that I wasn't going to get anywhere by asking the employee what number the machine wanted, so I took out the printed travel confirmation that the Baylor organizer had e-mailed me, hoping it would be more helpful than the airline employee and Kiosk.  It was.  Yeah, it had all kinds of numbers for me to try.  So after I had punched in the seventh confirmation number that I could find on the piece of paper, Kiosk finally told me to talk to the airline employee.  Damn. 

                So I go back to the dude at the counter.  After trying to explain to him three times that Kiosk wasn't being very helpful, I finally just handed him the piece of paper.  Another ten minutes pass, with me watching this guy type slower than my dad while staring at the screen even more blankly than I must have been staring at Kiosk.  He finally decides, "You have already checked in, that's why it won't let you check-in," then hands me my boarding.  "Have a great flight."

                So now I'm really stressed, and really late, and I'm about to go through security.  Never a good combo.  I don't even have to say what happened next, because we all already know that I got patted down and every item in my two carry-on's checked.  Despite this rocky start, I did make the flight, with at least 2 minutes to spare.  "That's your last one," I hear over the airport speaker as I'm walking down the accordion thing.

                As soon as I sat in the seat I was fine.  All the nerves disappeared and I was a 19 year old on a Greyhound bus to Seattle again.  The flight was pretty smooth, and I had a two hour layover in Cleveland.  What are you going to do with two hours to kill in the Cleveland airport?  Beer.  I had two pints then went outside to smoke a cigarette, which meant I that I would have to go through security when I came back in, but I had 50 minutes.  So I sat outside on a bench and smoked a couple of butts and went back in to get in the security line again.  The line was long, but I had 40 minutes, no big deal.  So about 15 minutes later I get to the front of the line, hand the security lady the boarding pass that I had been given in Providence, and feel a sinking feeling as she starts shaking her head "no."  What?!  "You don't have your airline's logo on your pass.  I can't let you through."  What?! 

                So I go back over to the ticket counter where I glare at the smug little kiosk (must have friends in Providence) until an airline employee is done with the 11 year old that was apparently flying alone.  I explain everything to him and he prints me a new boarding pass, this time with the Continental Logo (which is apparently part of some elaborate anti-terrorism measures in the Cleveland airport).  So, after standing in the security line again, and getting every item in my carry-on taken out and checked again, I had exactly ten minutes left to get on the plane.  I dashed to the gate, arriving with exactly eight minutes until flight time, and the plane was gone.

I mean, obviously I was pissed, but you can't really argue with that.  So I walk over to Continental customer help desk.  I get there four minutes before my plane was even supposed to have left, and the lady tells me she can't get me the next flight to Houston is over-booked, but she can put me on stand-by for the 6:00am to Houston.  That would not work.  I was getting picked up at a hotel in Houston at 8:00 in the morning.  That, I could argue with.

                So after asking that she call a manager, and after listening to her say to the person on the other end of the phone, "Yeah.   He missed his flight because he went outside to smoke a cigarette," I started to get a little irritated.  I pointed out to the lady that she had neglected to mention a few facts, and finally after talking to a real manager I got a seat on the last flight.  I wish ol' Kiosk back in Providence could have seen me then. 

                Anyway, I had another two hours to kill in the Cleveland airport.  What are you going to do with two hours to kill in the Cleveland airport?  Beer.  This time I made the flight, but I was probably a little more drunk than I should have been considering where I was going.  I had no choice.  I was stuck in the Cleveland airport.

                Despite the late arrival, and the two hours of sleep that I got, and the hang-over, I think I did really well with all the smart dudes. I'm 1 out of 60 people in the US and abroad going for ten slots, but I have a good feeling about this one.  I should find out in the next few weeks if they are going to offer it to me.

                I am certainly not thrilled by the possibility of being broke for a few more years while I continue to study, but I was completely wowed down there.  The program was unbelievable.  The resources available were unbelievable.  The research being done was unbelievable.  The whole thing was just mind-blowing.  Freaking unbelievable.  I want the knowledge, I want the experience, and I want the job that it will lead to when I 'm done.  Now it's a waiting game.

      

  

Star Wars Day

     I took the kids to see Episode I The Phantom Menace in 3D yesterday.  As expected, the 3D was nothing special.  There's only so much that they can do with it; it wasn't originally filmed in stereo.  The 3D effects were on par with Clash of the Titans, which wasn't all that.  They basically looked like a bunch of flat cardboard cut-outs that were either nearer or farther - a lot like the cardboard cut-outs that were standing in the lobby of the theater when we walked in.  Having said all that, it was still Star Wars, so it was still awesome.  Jar Jar Binks doesn't even really bother me.  Actually, I would rather watch Jar Jar in the first movie than teen-angst Anakin in Episodes II and III any day. 

     After the show, we stopped by Target for some Star Wars Valentine's Day cards for James' school.  The whole think got me thinking.  Do we really need Valentine's Day?  I know I'm not the first person to say this.  Everyone pretty much knows Valentine's Day is just a load of crap.  I'm not sure what exactly Hallmark had to do with it, but I'm sure they must have been behind the whole thing somehow.  What are we even celebrating on Valentine's Day?  I sure as hell don't know, and I probably won't spend the 30 seconds of my life that it would take to Google it and find out.  Seriously.  I bet if I were to walk outside right now, and ask the first person I see, "what is the history of Valentine's Day?"  They wouldn't know.  Or they might take some air of knowledgeable confidence as they say, "Oh, well it's all about St. Valentino of course."  OK.  So who is St. Valentino, and what did he do, and why do we celebrate him?  I would bet my left nut they won't have any idea.  I know I certainly don't. 

     So if we can all agree that Valentine's Day is a lame holiday, then why can't we replace it with something that isn't lame?  Do LeRoy's Jeweler's , Helzberg Diamond's, and Zales really have that much pull in Washington?  I kinda doubt it.  So why can't we just do away with the whole stupid thing, and celebrate something that truly matters.  Something that is an integral part of our national heritage.   Something like Star Wars. 

     Replacing Valentine's Day with Star Wars Day is the only sensible course of action.  No one knows who St Valentino is, but you show me someone who doesn't know who Luke Skywalker is, and I'll show you someone who has lived in a cave for the last 40 years.  I don't care if you are a Star Wars fan or not, you know who Princess Leia is, you know who Chewbacca is, and you damn well better know who R2-D2 is.  You don’t think I'm serious?  You think I am exagerating when I say that Star Wars is woven into the very fabric of our nation?  Well, I'm not.  Darth Vader has even been immortalized in stone at one of the top tourist destinations in our nation's capitol.  Which one?  The National Cathedral.  No shit. 

     I haven't done any background research on the subject, so I'm not sure of all the details, but this is the story as I have heard it and it's probably not too far from the truth.   However-many years ago, some Washington think-tank decided to hold a vote among Washington elementary school students as a way to get America's youth more interested in their country's heritage.  The vote was to determine who's face should be used as a new gargoyle at the National Cathedral.  Elementary school kids were asked who did they think of when they thought of evil.  Who is the visage of darkness?  Who personifies "bad" ?  It wasn't Satan, or Saddam, or the Boogey-Man, or anyone else that you may guess.  It was Vader.  And you can get off of the tour bus and go see him there today.  I don't see any stinkin' cupids on the National Cathedral.  I would say I don't see St. Valentino's statue there either, but I can't say that because I wouldn't know it if I did see him.  I wouldn't know St. Valentino if I was standing behind him in the checkout line at the grocery store.  That's kinda my whole point.

Let's make a change people.

Let's do something that matters.

Let's change February 14 to Star Wars Day.

May the Force be with you.

The Principal's Office

     I had to go to a parent teacher conference yesterday.  James is in kindergarten and they send home report cards three times a year.  After each report card the teacher sends home a little note summoning the parents in for a discussion of progress.  Report cards went home last week, and we had our meeting yesterday.
     I felt like I was in third grade getting called into the principal's office.  I think I have heard that line in a comedy routine, but it is so true that it bears repeating.  Trish's dad came over to watch the kids, and Trish and I went in to talk to the teacher.  When we got there, we had to go into the receptionist's office.  The plumpish lady with hair of some strange hue that had to be the work of Clairol, not genes, looked down her nose at us and told us to "sit on the bench and wait," in a tone of voice that made it quite clear that she was disgusted by the effort that she had to expend talking to us.  She was exactly like the receptionist at my elementary school, which was a little surprising because my elementary school was 30 years ago and 750 miles away.  Is there an academy somewhere that trains these people?  Francis P. Stuffenpuff's Academy of Haughtiness and Condescension?
     So there we sat on a colossal wooden bench, awaiting our fate.  For a minute, I couldn't think about anything other than that time in 4th grade that I got sent to the office because I wouldn't stop calling my math teacher Mrs. Fig-Newton.  It was supposed to be just Newton, no Fig.  She didn't think it was very funny.  Come to think of it, I don't think it's very funny either, but at the time it was hilarious.  The sound of high heels echoing down a long hallway with acoustic tile ceilings snapped me from my flashback and we were told that we could follow her to the kindergarten room.
     In the kindergarten room, we were directed to sit in some tiny little chairs at a tiny little table.  Those uncomfortable little chairs are exactly where Trish and I sat for the next ten minutes while Mrs. So-and-so talked at us.  The teacher's name has been to changed to protect her identity, any resemblance to any real Mrs. So-and-so is purely coincidental.  We quickly gave up on trying to shift her monologue to a conversation.    She showed us this thing that she was doing and that thing she was doing with the children.
After about ten minutes she finally got to where she was actually talking about James.  "He is doing much better, but I still need to remind him to focus on his work sometimes."
     I'm thinking to myself, "Lady, he's five and you're a kindergarten teacher.  If you aren't reminding him to focus on his work occasionally, then you probably aren't doing your job.  And after the last ten minutes, I can see why he is having trouble focusing.  I'm having trouble focusing on your droning voice too."  It's probably good that Trish was there or that last bit might have made it from my head to my mouth.
"As you can see on the report-card," she continued, "we rate them with an E for emerging, a D for developing, or an A for awareness."
     "Because A, B, and C were so clearly too confusing," I thought.
     "James did very well on his capital letter recognition.  For his lower-case letters I gave him an E."
And that's where the thought burst from my head to my tongue.  Fortunately, I did manage to slap a diplomacy filter on it just in time.  Again, good thing Trish was there.  "See, that confuses me a little, because I know that James knows his letters, big and small.  I know that there are a lot of things that James hasn't mastered yet, but he knows his letters."   I know he knows his letters because I hung every letter in the alphabet, large and small, on his ceiling about a year ago and we practiced them every night until he could tell me what they were without even thinking about it.  Not only does he know his letters forwards and backwards, but so does Ava.  They have both known them for about ten months.  "So this tells me that the problem isn't with him knowing his letters, it's with him showing you that he knows his letters."
     The look she gave me not only showed her annoyance with having her monolgue interupted, it also seemed to say, "You poor ignorant fool.  How could you possibly know how to evaluate a child's knowledge?"  But that isn't what she said.  What she said was, "Sometimes young children may know one or two letters one day and then not know them the next day.  That is part of their learning process."
     "No shit.  Thanks for clueing me in."  Managed to keep that one inside.  What actually came out after going through the old diplomacy filter was, "I realize that, but I can assure you James knows his letters."
     "Well let me show you the evaluation sheet, from when I tested him."  After some shuffling through a bulging manilla folder, she produced a sheet with James' name on it.  She looked a little surprised as she read her own handwriting which clearly stated that James had gotten every letter, big and small.  "I am so sorry, that was a mistake.  I will talk to the principle tomorrow to get that changed in our system."  Then she went on to explain how they had changed the evaluation format this year, which obviously explained her mistake.
     Look, I know I'm being a little tough on this Lady.  I know that she is probably spread way too thin.  I know that if I were in her shoes, I would probably be devoting most of my time to the kids at the bottom, which would exclude James because from what I can gather he is somewhere near the middle of the pack right now.  Unfortunately, I get the impression that she may be the type who just focuses on the ones at the top who need her attention the least, which also excludes James.  I know that she is probably working for peanuts.  I have never really understood how you can justify paying a lawyer, doctor, or indian chief so much, but the ones who are charged with preparing our next generation of lawyers, doctors, and indian chiefs earn so little.  Ultimately she can only do so much in a school system that asks her to teach a full day curriculum in a half day.  I realize that part of my venom towards her is just because I'm pissed at myself for not finding or making enough time at home to ensure that James is number 1 in his class.  Ultimately, I place the burden of seeing to it that my children are educated on my wife and I, not Mrs. So-and-so.  However, it would be nice if my kids got a little extra direction at school in addition to what we give them at home.  At the end of the day, Mrs. So-and-so and a school system that thinks a good way to save some money is by cutting kindergarten to a half day will only serve to motivate me to finish strong on my own schooling.  The difference between and A and a B for me, could end up being the difference between a job that will get my kids out of the Cranston, Rhode Island public school system, and a job that won't.
     I guess that's the whole Catch-22.  The more time I devote to my school, the less time I can devote to James' learning.  But, less time devoted to my studies may end up meaning more time in a crappier school for him and his sister.  How do you measure the future against the present?

Gurgling Night Light Tradition

One of my earliest memories is of my father's fish tank.  I don't really remember the fish, but the glow of the aquarium lights and the gurgling of the filter are as clear in my mind as if they were here today.  I don't even know how old I was when that memory was formed.  I must have been pretty young because that tank was in the living room of our little ranch-style house on Stanford Dr, and we moved out of that house when I was five years old.  I have loved fish tanks ever since.

Naturally, when Trish and I began having kids of our own I wanted  them to have those same memories.  When James was two, and Ava was still just a little poop-machine, I took some tax-return money and invested it in a few memories.  First, I dropped about $100 on oak plywood and molding at Home Depot and made a pretty nice cabinet stand. I put it in the kids' room then set up one of those 55 gallon starter kits from PetSmart.  In terms of aquarium equipment they pretty much suck, but they do make a great starting point.  I didn't really know anything about the myriad fish species available at the store, so I bought whatever looked cool and said "tropical semi-aggressive" on the label.  I made just about every mistake that a person can make when learning about caring for fish.  After the five weeks of death, we ended up with a few angels, a rainbow shark, a leporinus, and an African leaf fish.  Trish liked the leporinus.  She called it "the beetlejuice fish" because it looked kinda like the giant sand worms in the movie.  My favorite was the leaf fish.  It really looked like a leaf.  It even swam like a leaf would swim (if a leaf could swim).  I think the kids just liked the glow and gurgle.  It was about the coolest night light than any 2 year old has ever had.

A little over three years, and as many tax-returns later our little 55 has come a long way.  It was relocated to the living room and became an African cichlid tank 2 years ago.  We have two Red Zebras, two Kenyis, an auratus, five recently added juvenile duboisis and a 7" featherfin catfish.  We also have a juvenile Oscar as a temporary resident right now; our South American refugee.

James and I just finished a major cleaning and remodeling last night.  He helped me take everything out for the cleaning, and he helped me decide how to rebuild the rock structures afterwards.  When we finished, he sat in the Lazy-Boy with me and just stared at the fish for over an hour.  He was pretty proud of his work.  He is only five, but he knows the different personalities of the fish in the tank.  He is starting to understand the social heirarchy between the cichlids.  Both of the kids still really get into it.  Their favorites are the catfish and the juvie duboisis.  I'm just happy to see them interested in something that doesn't have pixels or take batteries.  Funds have been pretty tight for the past few years while I have been in school, but by throwing a little money at the hobby every once in a while when we have it to spare, we have something that we can enjoy and share everyday for free.  I would be willing to bet that they will remember their Dad's fish tank for the rest of their lives.

Another Dad Blog

Welcome to "The Imperfect Dad."

I know.  Just what the web, nay, dare I say the world needs most: another dad blog.  The couple billion or so other ones just weren't quite enough.

Well, it's fortunate for me that I'm not writing for the world, or the web.  I'm writing for me, for my wife, and for my kids. If anyone else who reads these posts finds something that they can relate to, or that they find humorous, or entertaining, or of any interest at all, then that is just a welcome bonus.

It is not my goal to offer any parenting advice.  Actually, I am probably one of the last people that I would go to for parenting advice.  It is simply my goal to capture a few snapshots of the world, at a given point in time, through my eyes; the eyes of a 35 year old dad.  

Like many parents, I did very little to prepare for becoming a parent, until I became a parent.  My twenties were spent working labor and service jobs, traveling, and partying.  I made a lot of great memories, but accomplished very little that has helped me provide for my young family today.  In fact, I didn't even begin to plan for college until I was 29 and my son was on his way.  As a result, the past five years have been a little bit of a struggle.  I started my freshman year of college as a 32 year old self-employed carpenter with a recently unemployed wife, a 2 year old son, and a 3 month old daughter.  Since then I have finished an AS for Engineering, and I am 3 months away from a BS for Biomedical Engineering.  We still live in a 2 bedroom apartment, we still live paycheck to paycheck, and we still cut things so close that we occasionally find a 15 day eviction notice on our door, but that will hopefully be changing soon.  

For the next three months, this blog will serve little purpose other than to capture my thoughts.  I may talk about my fish.  I may talk about the struggle to balance family, work, and school.  I may talk about the decision between job and grad school.  I really don't know what I will talk about, but I do know that I will talk about it as an imperfect dad.