Halloween Handyman

My brother John and I were born in the ‘60s--a relatively dad-free zone when it came to the daily tasks of childcare. I know there were men who got their hands, ahem, dirty back then, but they were (and still are all these years later) a brave few. It just didn’t happen, for a lot of reasons--social norms, masculinity paradigms, a workplace all askew--and our dad was no exception. My dad didn’t cook, clean or do bath duty, but he was what dads were supposed to be then: a playmate. Which means that many of my memories of my dad revolve around fun stuff. And no fun stuff is more connected to my dad as I reminisce than Halloween. You see, John was born on Halloween and something about the idea that his birthday would always be overshadowed by the frenzy of costumes and trick-or-treat struck my dad as fundamentally unfair. So, my dad made a big deal out of Halloween for my brother. He always had the most elaborate costume of any kid in the neighborhood (A Jawa with glowing eyes? A working robot suit? Come on!) and it was always because of my dad. He would cut and paste, brainstorm, and even sew if he had to for my brother to feel he was the center of attention. And it seemed to work. In Robert Kraus’ Daddy Long Ears’ Halloween, a bunny daddy who loves Halloween sacrifices his night for his bunny boy. Some dads are like that.

http://catalog.orion.lib.mi.us:81/ipac20/ipac.jsp?session=1252D1953E7R3.81985&profile=ori&uri=search=TL~!Daddy%20Long%20Ears%27%20Halloween%20/&term=Daddy%20Long%20Ears%27%20Halloween%20/%20Robert%20Kraus.&aspect=basic_search&menu=search&source=~!horizon

http://openlibrary.org/authors/OL18073A/Kraus_Robert

It's Elementary

For someone so fixated on school that I never left, you’d think I would vividly remember my first day of school. But, I don’t. When I realized that recently, it was a weird sensation because I remember everything. Well, everything about sentimental stuff…like the first day of school. I remember very clearly what the kindergarten room looked like--with its big windows, kid-sized bathroom stalls, cubbies, and rows of desks--but I can’t conjure up the events of the big day when I finally got to go and do the one thing I had dreamed about all my life until then. Strange. I can recall all my babies’ academic debuts. Keilana in her ponytails and denim dress waiting by the little tree out front, impatient for the time to pass. Connor not realizing that school hours are not negotiable and walking home alone when he got bored. Addison waving us off with an impatient shooing motion so she could get back to rocking the spring-based race car in the play area to its extreme range of motion while the little boy riding shotgun clung on for his life. And soon, all too soon, it will be Scarlett’s turn. We play school now and she loads her “pack pack” with all the necessities of life--binkies, crackers, a disc from her Elmo computer, and some dried PlayDoh--but nothing quite matches up to the real thing. In Robert Kraus’ Spider’s First Day At School, a little arachnid learns the ropes…and the slide…and the swings…and the…

http://www.amazon.com/Spiders-First-Day-at-School/dp/0590410911

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Kraus

Becoming

I almost didn’t recognize my own kid. As I waited at the gate in the airport terminal (back when you could do such a thing without clearance from the Pentagon), I anticipated collecting the same daughter I had sent off two months before--still a bit baby-faced and with the amorphous shape that seems to come with going from child to young adult for many people. And then she showed up, but she could have walked right by me without a glimmer of recognition firing in my brain. I sent off a girl who was not yet comfortable in her own skin, who wouldn’t let me bring the correct size to the dressing room because she wasn’t willing to wear it, a fluffy little duckling, and I got back a willowy swan with chiseled cheekbones and legs for days. She towered over me, no longer a child, and looked stunning. Not that she wasn’t beautiful before, just that she changed and matured more in those few weeks than she ever will again. My middle daughter snuck up on me the same way. One day she was still a girl with full cheeks and rounded edges, and, seemingly a day later, showed up with a slim, gazelle-like silhouette that took me by surprise. They both had that summer--the one where you finally grow into yourself and become your idea of beautiful. Lucky girls. In Robert Kraus’ Leo the Late Bloomer, a little tiger finds his own timetable. I’m still waiting for mine.

http://www.amazon.com/Leo-Late-Bloomer-Robert-Kraus/dp/006443348X

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Kraus