Just Be Something

It figures.

Every year I grow a winter beard.

Every year, when I decide I'm 'in the clear' and either shave it or trim it back, the weather turns miserable.  It is a snowy, slushy mess outside with a substantial wind.  Ugh.  At least the days are longer.  This may have been the mildest winter we've ever had here, but I'm still ready for it to end.

I'm looking to spring, to be able to jog the city streets again without worrying about my feet going out from under me.  I want to hit the soccer pitch again.  Hell, I NEED to hit the soccer pitch again.  At every thought of kicking a ball around again, a grown kid of 35, my ankle cries just a touch in protest.  Gets a little swollen and thobbing, gently reminding me that it was my obsession with playing again that landed me on crutches for four months.

Last night I was at a friend's indoor co-ed game, one of his teammates went to kick a ball, wrapped her ankle around her opponent's shin instead of the ball and wound up on the ground with her foot dangling uselessly to one side, the same dumbfounded look on her face that said This should be hurting.  Why isn't it hurting?  Don't worry... give yourself a little time.  It will.  A lot.

Truth be told, I worry about hurting myself seriously again.  As it stands, my right ankle will probably never be the same.  It healed well, but there are certain days that it throbs.  Sometimes I limp.  I can't move it with a full range of motion like I can the other one.  The physiotherapist insists that I give myself time, that it will come around, that there is no reason why I won't make a full recovery.  But I worry all the same.

A workmate of mine asked me if I was either crazy or going through a midlife crisis.  Why, she asked, would you risk hurting yourself again?  Is it really worth it?

It is.  I told her.  And it isn't.  Soccer, apart from a bit of recreation, the camaderie of being part of a team and the healthiness that comes from running around a lot, really serves no purpose.  And yet it was soccer that really elevated me and showed me that I could achieve something if I just dropped the idea that I can't do it.  It sounds like corny motivational-speaker drivel, the kind I constantly roll my eyes about, but there is something to it.  Kevin Smith once said about writing that he hears a lot of people wanting to be a writer.  Wanting to be an artist.  Wanting to be a filmmaker. 

Don't want to be something.  Just be something.  You don't need anyone's permission.  You don't need to conform to anyone's standards of good or bad.  Just like the contrived slogan of a popular running shoe company suggests, just do it.  You may succeed or fail, but what of it?  There’s a Russian(?) proverb that I hear once in a while when I’m playing chess that translates to Those who have never failed are those who have never tried anything.  Chess players take great stock in the notion that your failures teach you far more than your successes.  I’ve known that playing chess, but have always had trouble applying that philosophy in the real world.  I was afraid of ridicule and judgment and the knowledge that may not be able to do as well as I would have liked.

In the end, whether or not I play soccer again, I’m glad I tried.  I’m glad I had the courage to test myself, even if for something so trivial.  The confidence boost I got, knowing I could still run with guys ten years younger than me made it worthwhile.

Fuck it.  Maybe I’ll shave… it’s just a coincidence.  Spring’s coming after all.

Although… I do have a date coming up.  There aren’t too many beard-liking women out there, but those that do tend to be really passionate about it.  Maybe I’ll see how the first date goes…

-PW

If Day Turns 70

February 19th, 1942, in an inspired attempt to raise money for Victory Bonds, 3500 volunteers from the Junior Board of Trade and others rented Nazi uniforms and 'invaded' Winnipeg to give an average Canadian, well sheltered from the horrors of war, a taste of what life was like under Nazi occupation.

By all accounts, it was incredibly realistic.  Air raid sirens sounded, blank artillery shells and rifle rounds were fired in the 'battle' for Winnipeg, and volunteers in mock Nazi uniforms arrested and jailed the mayor, the premier and the lieutenant-governor.  'Troops' entered the cafeteria of a large insurance company and commandeered lunch for Nazi soldiers, kicking people out of their seats.  People's homes were looted, and people were seized and searched on the street.  Books were confiscated from the library and burned (they were headed for the incinerator anyway).  Nazi flags flew where Union Jacks once flew.  The Winnipeg Tribune was seized and renamed.  Churches and synagogues were closed.  And radios replaced their normal programming with Hitler's speeches and military music.  And proclamations were posted all over town:

Ankundigung

IT IS HEREBY PROCLAIMED THAT:

1. This territory is now a part of the Greater Reich and under the jurisdiction of Col. Erich Von Neuremburg, Gauleiter of the Fuehrer.

2. No civilians will be permitted on the streets between 9:30 p.m. and daybreak.

3. All public places are out of bounds to civilians, and not more than 8 persons can gather at one time in any place.

4. Every householder must provide billeting for 5 soldiers.

5. All organizations of a military, semi-military or fraternal nature are hereby disbanded and banned. Girl Guide, Boy Scout and similar youth organizations will remain in existence but under direction of the Gauleiter and Storm troops.

6. All owners of motor cars, trucks and buses must register same at Occupation Headquarters where they will be taken over by the Army of Occupation.

7. Each farmer must immediately report all stocks of grain and livestock and no farm produce may be sold except through the office of theKommandant of supplies in Winnipeg. He may not keep any for his own consumption but must buy it back through the Central Authority in Winnipeg.

8. All national emblems excluding the Swastika must be immediately destroyed.

9. Each inhabitant will be furnished with a ration card, and food and clothing may only be purchased on presentation of this card.

10. The following offences will result in death without trial

a) Attempting to organize resistance against the Army of Occupation

b) Entering or leaving the province without permission.

c) Failure to report all goods possessed when ordered to do so.

d) Possession of firearms.

NO ONE WILL ACT, SPEAK, OR THINK CONTRARY TO OUR DECREES

published and ordered by the Authority of (signed) Erich Von Neuremburg

Although it was publicized beforehand, some people managed to miss the warnings that this would be staged.  It was a miracle that some gun-toting vigilante didn't shoot any of the mock soldiers!  But all in all, the only two reported injuries were a sprained ankle a soldier got (soldiers used the event to practice field maneuvers) and a cut thumb a young woman received in her blacked-out apartment.

If Day was covered all over the world as a major news event, and by all accounts a resounding success.  In 24 hours, If Day raised 3 million (in 1942!) dollars and gave people a little better perspective on what life under military occupation was like.  A neat day in the history of Winnipeg!

My Weekend With the Boys #5 - The Soccer Disaster Edition

Ah yes, when I'm depressed or lonely, little Gerry comes along and reminds me that one of the cutest things little kids can possibly do is eat soup noodles.  And he does it cute, even by little kid standards.

The boys came over with usual excited fanfare, and dopey me thinking I'm going to be a hero greet them outside with only a t-shirt and gym shorts on.  And nothing else, not even a key to get back into the building.  It was a balmy -27C outside, so no worries as there was somebody else coming in as I was getting the boys.  I had it all planned out.  And if not?  I would have sat in the van staying warm with my ex and her new fiancee until someone came along to let us back in.  Awwwkwarrrd.

Gerry practically fell asleep in my arms as I was getting his winter clothes off, so I put him straight to bed... and you know what?  He slept.  All the way until 7 the next morning.  Bless his little heart, because I was bloody tired.  Nick and I do what we usually do on Friday nights:  strip to our underpants, make popcorn and play video games (yes, in that order).  He's still having trouble sleeping in his own bed, but he slept in his own room without too much of a fuss.

Saturday morning, and we were still in our underpants, watching Our Beloved Newcastle United get utterly thrashed by Tottenham, who I guess had something to prove.  Last week, England's football manager Fabio Capello resigned as coach over the John Terry Fiasco.  I, for one, am sad to see him go.  He had the highest win percentage of any England manager for a very, very long time, World Cup 2010 notwithstanding and had gone through 2011 undefeated.  Anyway, Tottenham's manager, 'arry Redknapp has been tapped as England's next skipper, and I'm sure the Spurs, who are mounting their first serious campaign as league champions in a half-century aren't too keen on seeing him go.  As much as I hated to see Newcastle get slaughtered, it was kinda sweet to hear the faithful chant their love for their coach at White Heart Lane to the tune of the Beach Boys' Sloop John B

We want you to stay!
We want you to stay!
We love you Harry Redknapp,
We want you to stay!'

Which is a lot more brotherly than Newcastle's take on the Sloop John B chorus, which is

'Get out of our club!
Get out of our club!
You fat Cockney bastard!
Get out of our club!'

The 'fat Cockney bastard' being none other than the owner, sports apparel magnate Mike Ashley.

Out of all the London teams, I only conceivably support two:  Millwall and Tottenham.  But I gotta admit, I do want to see 'Arry for England manager.  I think he'd be good.

No matter, Newcastle gets slaughtered 5-0, but I'll watch the Winnipeg Jets instead.  Nope.  They get thrashed 8-5.  Oh dear, and England plays World Cup runners-up Holland in two weeks with no manager.  Let's talk about something else.

I made turkey noodle soup and bread rolls from scratch for dinner and for the second supper in a row, the boys inhaled it.  I made shepherd's pie last time they were over, and Nick shocked me by devouring it.  He had thirds for Chrissakes!  And now he was wolfing down bowls of homemade soup and buns like there was no tomorrow.  I could get used to this.  I put Frankie to bed and me and Nick cuddled under a blanket and watched Kung Fu Panda.  What can I say?  He likes it, and it's a damn sight better than any of the Chipmunks movies he was obsessed with last year.

Sunday we went to my mom and dad's for supper.  My dad is having an operation to cut out some kind of nasty abscess on his bum on Thursday, but he's hanging in there.  There was a lot of tension in the house, and I could instinctively tell that dad has been drinking again.  He'd been sober for the last five months, but he's back drinking, and apparently a lot.  Probably stress from the upcoming surgery - dad does not do hospitals, doctors or surgery at all.  Trouble is, if he's back on the bottle again, I don't think he'll make it another year.  Alcohol has ravaged his body to the point where he's almost incapacitated.   Sure enough, my mom told me he's started drinking again.

'I told him,' she said to me, barely keeping her composure 'that I'm not happy.  And he asked if I wanted to leave, but where the hell am I going to go?  I'm 70 and all my friends are scattered across Canada or in England.  I don't know what to do.'  I told her if she felt that strongly about it, why doesn't she move back to England?  She said she'd been thinking a lot about it, but it'd kill dad if she left.  And yeah, I can't argue that, it probably would kill him.  I don't know what to tell her.

The ex comes to pick up the boys after another awesome visit and I head home to sleep like the dead, the way I usually do after the boys visit me.  Now as I finish off this blog post, I realize it's Valentine's Day.  It's liberating to be single on Valentine's Day.  It used to suck, but man I'm feeling good right now.  That may change the time next Valentine's Day rolls around but for right now, I feel like dancing.  I would pick the Wilson Pickett version of this song, but Warner Music isn't in a sharing mood.  No matter, Tina Turner can be my Valentine any day of the year :)

And no, the neighbour's daughter didn't wake me up this weekend at all.  I'll give it a few more weeks, but hopefully the letter I wrote had an effect.   Good night all...

- PW

Dear Neighbour Across the Back Lane...

Hi there,

You don't know me, but I live in one of the apartments across the back lane from your house.  I've never introduced myself properly, but we've smiled and nodded when we've crossed paths in the back lane.  Anyway, this isn't the purpose of this letter.

It's your daughter.  just about every weekend night since I've moved into this neighbourhood, your daughter and her friend cut through the parking lot underneath my bedroom window.  That's not the problem.  It's not my personal property, so go ahead.  My problem is that

a) it's anywhere between 2-4 in the morning
b) she is LOUD
c) she is clearly severely intoxicated

The last straw came this Saturday night when your daughter and her friend (maybe sister?) were cutting through the parking lot while they are shouting and arguing with someone on her cell.  It woke me up at about 3 in the morning.  Then I hear the sound of breaking bottles.  I look out my bedroom window to see your daughter and her friend smashing bottles against the apartment next to ours.  You may have even heard it. Yes, all that broken glass you may have noticed was from your daughter.

Then her and her friend both take down their pants and proceed to urinate right under my window, while STILL arguing loudly and being disruptive on her cell.  I opened my window and told her not to piss against my building, to which I received a torrent of obscenities and accusations that I'm a dirty old man, a peeping tom and I should mind my own business.  Probably not the smartest thing to do, I got dressed, intending on confronting them myself, but by the time I got outside, they'd presumably gone home.

This has been happening consistently since I've moved in 8 months ago.  Your daughter cannot be any more than 14 years old, and I find it really concerning she's drinking this much at such a young age.  I'm positive you aren't ignorant of it either.  At the end of our street is a clinic who can provide resources to help your daughter and yourself, should you both choose.  They are free and non-judgmental and can provide help and support.  I have personal experience living in an environment where someone may be abusing alcohol or drugs, and it can be personally shaming.  There is nothing to be ashamed about.  Alcoholism affects people of all ages and all lifestyles.  I implore you, from one parent to another, to seek help.

Of course, you could tell me this is none of my business, and you'd be right.  In which case, I'd still like your cooperation in your daughter's disruptive behaviour.  Because the next time, I may simply call the police and be done with it.

Thank you.

Your neighbour,

Prairie Wanderer.

Officially...

... I am now divorced.  Signed and sealed by Madam Justice at the courthouse.  People are asking me how I feel and in all honesty I don't feel much of anything.  As far as I'm concerned, I was divorced the day I confronted my ex about her infidelity and she looked me in the eyes and spewed the most obnoxious stream of bullshit out of her mouth to try to save her own skin, while fucking some lowlife ex-boyfriend at the same time.  I'd like to believe she wasn't the woman I married, but in truth, I don't think that woman ever existed.  She was a serial cheater who was ashamed and trying to outrun her past, and I viewed her through the eyes of a desperately lonely man who could save her soul.  She tried hard enough, I think, but the easy route has always been too hard to resist for her.  And as much as she will never admit it, me leaving her affected her more deeply than she expected and affected me more positively than she wanted.

A couple of people have offered to take me out for drinks tonight, but I don't think this is an event to celebrate.  Maybe in a day or two, but not tonight.  I'll talk to my sons before their bedtime, do the dishes, make a cup of tea and watch music videos on Youtube and then call it a night.

Tracy Chapman is one of the most prolific musicians of our generation, and this is one of my favourite songs.  It has one of the most memorable lines in any song I know:

You will do and say anything/To make your everyday life seem less mundane


I think we all do, in our own way, and the ultimate irony is that no one's life really is mundane.  It's a roller coaster of ups and downs, triumphs and tribulations, successes and setbacks, love and heartache.  It's intertwined in all of us and they are stories worth telling.  That's why I love blogs, bloggers and blogging.  Good night all

-PW

Slowly Recovering...

My weekend with the boys was underwhelming to say the least.  Don't get me wrong, I love seeing them and I love having them here and I love spending time with them, but all three of us were battling our health issues this weekend.  Poor little Gerry has a cold sore that's bothering him and a rash on the back of his legs.  I may as well slathered that kid in medicinal cream.  And Nick had a funky looking welt on his upper arm that he couldn't stop scratching.  This thing was massive, about the size of a quarter, swollen and an angry red colour.  He showed me and it did not look right.  I texted the ex, who didn't answer, and I made the decision to take Nick to the emergency room after he told me there was a kid in his class who had chicken pox.  I dropped Gerry off with Gina, the Chilean woman who lives next door to me and her daughter Carly (so named because she's an 11 year old dead ringer for the star of that show iCarly) and took Nick to emergency.

They had us in isolation because of Nick's exposure to chicken pox, and we waited for about an hour when the doctor (who was, frankly, a smarmy jackass) told me he didn't know what it was, but it was probably a reaction to something that touched his skin, and some hydro-cortisone cream would probably take care of the itching.  We went home, stopping for ice cream and horsing around in the parking lot being silly the way you can only be when you're six years old.

I picked up Gerry from Gina's and Gerry did NOT want to go.  He was playing with Carly in the living room, dancing to some pop music and squealing with laughter.  Gerry had a king-sized meltdown in the living room, and I just had to throw him over my shoulder and carry him out.

Nick's spot went away soon enough, but poor Gerry's bum was raw and red and covered with a rash.  He took it in stride, but he wasn't comfortable at all.  Nick was bummed again that Gerry was taking more of my attention again, although it wasn't as bad as the last time they were over.  Telling Nick that Gerry was only a year and a half and needed more attention wasn't very consoling.  And frankly, I wasn't feeling so hot either.  After a lazy weekend, I dropped them off, had my customary Sunday night beer at the local pub, but cut it short, feeling like dinner wasn't sitting right in my gut.

I got in, wrote a couple of emails and went to bed.  Woke up at 2:30 in a cold sweat, needing to throw up RIGHT NOW.  I ran to the can, barely making it before the fireworks began.  I'm not a graceful vomiter.  It amazes me how some people can puke almost nonchalantly and with little mess and drama.  I sweat.  I heave.  My eyes water.  I fight every single convulsion.  It seems to go on and on and on.  And it did.  By the time I cleaned up, had a few sips of water, and dared to go back to bed it was 4 am.  And then I was in the nether region of being too early to wake up and too late to really fall back asleep.  So I lay awake and stared at the ceiling, debating whether or not I should phone in sick.  Money's tight right now, and I really shouldn't, but if I'm running to the bathroom every 15 minutes in a cold sweat, they'll probably send me home anyway, and I can probably make up time down the road.

Screw it... I'm sick.  I call and leave a message.  But I didn't get back to sleep.  I wrote a lengthy piece on another, unrelated blog, watched some Youtube and Channel Awesome videos and sat in the tub reading, too bored to laze around the apartment, but still too blah to go out and do something.  I didn't eat at all yesterday, and nerved myself to have a can of soup this morning with no ill effects.

I go back into work this morning, and of course there is panic that I wasn't there yesterday.  I work as an estimator in a construction supply outfit that supplies material to most of the city's major builders.  My main area of expertise is roofing, drywall and insulation, but I'm also managing a co-worker's accounts while he is on vacation, so the other people in my office are hard-pressed to know how to cope if all of the sudden I'm not there as well.  My workmate Stan, who I've been partnered with since the day I started there almost had a fit and left because he got stuck wearing both hats yesterday.  It took me most of the day to smooth things over, but it was okay.  I find myself in a perfect state of Zen nowadays, where work was once a gigantic source of stress now barely stresses me out, even though our industry has taken an economic beating in the past year.  All I can do is shrug I guess.  I can still work a shovel, if I need to.

I feel somewhat better, but I have nothing that resembles an appetite right now.  I ate a little bit of noodles and chicken, but it feels like a swallowed a brick.  It's okay.  With the money tight I could stand to do a little Spartan living right now.  No beer for a while.  No potato chips.  No fast food.  Until I get back into fighting shape.

PW Judges Other Parents... Comes Out on Top, And Other Observations

I've taken Nick to the Children's Museum three times in his life.  It is okay.  A little underwhelming to be honest, considering they recently did a multimillion dollar overhaul to the place and it cost $10 per ticket, which considering what they have to offer is about double what it should be.  But Nick absolutely loves it there.  Almost anything else we do can't hold his attention for more than an hour, but turn him loose in the museum and he's good for four hours or more.  As far as I'm concerned, it's money well spent.  After all, the museum isn't designed for me.  Who cares if I like it?

I'm watching Nick play on one of the play structures sitting beside some wealthy suburban mom who looks and is dressing like she belongs at a wine and cheese thing rather than an outing with her kid.  I've got no eye for fashion but I'm positive her designer jeans and shirt cost more than my entire wardrobe.  She sniffs, yes, she actually sniffs and turns to me, looking me up and down in my thrift store jeans, Newcastle United jersey and Jesse Eisenberg Social Network hoodie and says "It's awfully cold in here, don't you think?"

I'm never cold.  In fact, the only time I turn the heat on in my apartment is when the boys are here.  So maybe I'm the wrong guy to ask.  I look around.  It's an old brick building, so yeah, I can see it being cold.  "Yeah, I guess so... that's why I got a sweater on."

"Oh I don't have a sweater.  You can't wear a sweater with this."  She waves a dismissive hand at her outfit.  Before I catch myself I blurt out "Why not?"  I was legitimately puzzled.

She put on a phony, condescending smile and decided to enlighten me that this wasn't the sort of outfit you wore a sweater with.

Oh I see I thought to myself, well then, just freeze lady.  What I actually say is "well, I guess they figured the kids are running around all day and would be warm, so they keep the heat down."

"Can't they think about the parents?  You know, the ones who are actually buying the tickets?"  Not a trace of humour or irony.  I am literally speechless.


I thought she was going to keep talking, but her little boy came running up to her dragging her by the arm to go see the inside of the train again.  Again, without a trace of joy or amused irony she drones at her boy, stone-jawed:

"Oh God Jeffery, not the train again... anything but the train again."

Thank God I don't have to talk to her again... thanks a lot kid.  I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  As her kid is leading her away, I glance down at her feet.

She's wearing heels.  She's actually wearing heels.  Oy.

Not ten seconds later, another little boy and her mom show up.  This one I'm going to dub Wal-Mart mom, which I feel bad about because that sounds like a trite bit of classism, but I really don't know what else to say.  She's large and wearing clothes that are way too small for her, with a belly shirt that's cut ridiculously low.  And she insisted on playing in the play structure with her child.  Her boobs fell out of her shirt twice as she was crawling through one of the tubes.  You'd think after the first time, she'd clue in to the notion that maybe she's dressed a little too inappropriately for that kind of play, but no, she goes right on, tugging and adjusting her clothes and stuffing her tits back into her shirt nonchalantly like it happens all the time.  She is constantly yelling at her boy.  I mean constantly.  I'm sure the soundtrack to this kid's life is nothing but his mother yelling at him and constantly making threats to cut off whatever little fun he's having if he doesn't start behaving, except he looks like he's behaving okay to me.

But I try not to judge.  I remember at the lowest point in my old marriage, I was under a lot of stress and pressure that I took out on Nick, even though he was doing nothing wrong.  I felt bad for the little guy and maybe the mom has way too much on her plate.

Nick got off the play structure and tore around the museum, doing each activity for about 5 minutes in fear that he may not get to do them all in 4 hours, and I huffed and puffed to keep up.  There's a little section where kids can play with 8' tall cranes and place building blocks around a mock city.  There Wal-Mart mom and another mom were having a very loud argument about the behaviour of their respective kids.  Nick asked me why they were fighting, to which I could only explain to him that some people don't know how to resolve disputes any other way.

At the craft table, Nick is decorating a paper cup with bits of foam, when one of the dads is having the following conversation on his phone, and I'm paraphrasing only slightly:

"This place is a fucking joke... $10 million dollars went up some guy's fucking nose... what a waste of fucking money this place is..."

This time I'm actually compelled to say something:

"Watch your language, there's kids here.  Take it outside if you're going to yell like that."

He looked up only briefly, twisted his head away from me and wandered off into a hallway. One or two moms thanked me for standing up to him.  I go back to Nick and his paper cup, when I make eye contact with one of the moms.  I do a double take and see she's still looking at me.  Wow, she is CUTE!  I make eye contact with her a few more times until she gives me an unspoken look that says, I'm flattered that you think I'm cute, and heck, I think you're kind of cute too, but I'm taken and/or not interest, so let's go our separate ways, ok?  


With a hint of a smile, of course.  Dang.  I'm supposed to be spending my day with Nick, not cadging the museum looking for dates anyway.

Nick goes back to the play structure and starts playing with a little red-haired Irish princess of a girl.  I'm so glad Nick makes friends so naturally and easy.  In most ways, we are identical but I was painfully shy as long as I can remember and Nick can integrate himself into just about any situation.  In the play structure with the little girl is the girl's hippie earth parents in identical wool sweaters and caps, literally hovering over their girl and following her everywhere she goes.

I have to admit I used to be a hoverer until I forced myself to stop.  Now I watch Nick from a distance, keeping an eye on him in case he gets too far out of line and needs some guidance, but allowing him some breathing space to do his thing.   Most parents around me now are hoverers.  Some still expect the staff to look after their kids... after all, what is that $10 for anyway?  I give Nick some freedom, but he knows I'm still there.  Actually, he's the one who wants me close.  If that were me at his age, I would be breaking my arm to get away, if that's what it took.

We wander around some more and the earth hippie parents are still joined at their kid's hip.  I keep bumping into the CUTE! mom and she gives me a cursory glance before making a point of not looking in my direction.  Wal-Mart mom is managing to simultaneously argue with another parent and yell at her child and I quietly wonder in that perfect storm of WTF what other parents think of me.  Am I one of the majority who are okay, or am I the one where the other parents look at each other and roll their eyes.  And why do I care?  It's funny, because I do care.  I shouldn't.  I know I shouldn't.

Parenting is one of the biggest, fiercest competitions around and as much as people say they're aren't in that mindset, at least a part of them is.  You want to be a good parent in the eyes of other parents.  You need to be a good parent in the eyes of other parents.  This was an eye-opener for me, because my parents were the least competitive parents I've probably ever come across.  My parents are throwbacks from a bygone era to be sure, so that's probably got a lot to do with it.  My parents never took me anywhere growing up.  They never once took me to the museum, or the carnival when it came to town, or the circus or to a sporting event.    Dad took me to two movies until I was old enough to go on my own, and that was because he was in the doghouse big time with mom.  We never, ever went on a family vacation until mom took me to England when I was 12 and we've never been on one since.  And the concept of parenting based on the judgments of others would have been alien to them.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not by any means complaining about that.  For all the experiences I missed out doing what many other families did, I more than made up for being an 8 year old with a bike and whole unstructured days to explore.  Given a choice between that and having my life micromanaged by some anal striving parent, give me free roam any day.  But it would have been nice to have my parents involved on some level. My mom rarely went out in public because she suffered from panic attacks, and my dad just didn't swing that way.  But I more or less turned out fine.  They were generally good folks with a few issues that got the better of them.  This clashes so fundamentally with my ex's parents, who have to be intimately involved in every aspect of their child's and grandchildren's lives, it borders on the suffocating.

Like a lot of things that have hung me up in the past though, I've learned to be comfortable with my parenting, and I think I'm a good dad to my boys.  Not by any means perfect, but good.  And they'll go through their phases where they hate dad because he left home, but ultimately they will understand.  And I'm fine with that.

-PW