A McGuire Family Tradition is Born

One of the most magical memories from the mists of my early childhood was when my parents would take us to Manhattan the week before Christmas to see choreographer George Balanchine’s epic production of Tchaikovsky’s ballet “The Nutcracker.”

This is such a fantastic, quintessential NYC event, amidst the intimidating, yet thrillingly sophisticated backdrop of Lincoln Center on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

That time of year in Gotham is quite special, with the crisp winter chill in the air, mysterious steam belching from manholes and the streets and scenes swathed in reds and greens and twinkling lights of the holiday season. With me dressed in my dorky little 1970s-style pants suit, and sister Sue in her cute pigtails and pink dress, we were especially thrilled to be out so late on a school night.

My earliest memory of attending that production was when I was seven years old. The music was hypnotizing, the lavish production mesmerizing. I remember my parents bought us both small Nutcracker dolls, and for some time it was my most cherished possession.

I always dreamed someday that I would share my love for this ballet with my children.

Yet as an adult, my adulation for the Nutcracker slipped farther and farther from view, coming to rest as a remote blip at the edge of my bustling holiday schedule, barely noticed each year.

I gave up on enticing Anna, my love. Her casual ridicule gave way to outright abuse when she learned the price of tickets (several hundred dollars per).

I was resigned to the regret of never to share my love for this cherished memory. (I briefly approached Frankie, who not only laughed me out of his room, but repeatedly called me “Ballet Boy” and would have banned me from his football games, had he not needed a ride.)

A Final Attempt

In the early winter of 2011, I was seized by a pang of regret, when I came across an advertisement in New York magazine. The old warm memories came rushing back.

Every night, I placed that magazine, opened to the page of the ad, on the ledge in the bathroom Anna prefers.

I thought to myself, “What will be, will be.”

Low and behold, Anna, my love, surprised me with tickets to my beloved Nutcracker…well, sort of.

It was not exactly Lincoln Center, but the American Ballet Company’s version at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

It was not before Christmas, but five anti-climatic days afterwards.

It was not an evening production, but a matinee.

And it was only two tickets, for Fiona and myself, not five.

This would not be a tradition or the entire McGuire family.

I admit, I was a bit of a douche. I thanked Anna in that backhanded, “Thanks, but you know…” way. I whined. I moaned. I stamped my feet.

But Anna was right. The tickets were nearly half the cost of the $600 seats at Lincoln Center. They were great seats (third row, center aisle), much better than we would have been able to get in Manhattan. And a matinee was much more reasonable for a seven-year-old girl.

And Anna promised that if Fiona enjoyed it (she was convinced she would not) then we could discuss the more expensive Lincoln Center production for the following year.

A Magical Afternoon

I had my trepidations. What if Fiona did not embrace my passion for the Nutcracker?

The day of the show finally arrived. I dressed my best and Fiona wore a little red dress with cute little black boots and a long grey coat that was simply adorable. We arrived early for the show, so we went for a walk through Downtown Brooklyn.

Fiona wanted a snack, so we stopped for a hotdog. The street vendor said he thought Fiona was so delightful and reminded him of his daughter back home overseas, that her hotdog was free. (He charged me $5 for my dirty water dog, so I don’t know how “Free” Fiona’s hotdog really was.)

As 2pm drew close, we hustled inside and took our seats. Fiona was quite impressed to be able to peer down into the orchestra pit.

As the lights dimmed and the delicate music rose, I was instantly overcome by that old magic. But it was much different than I recalled.

It was better. It was no more than reliving the emotions and awe of my childhood. I looked over and I saw that same excitement in Fiona’s eyes, as a warm memory that would last a lifetime was born. Someday, when I was long gone and Fiona a grown woman, she would share this warm memory with her children.

I was content to settle in and enjoy the show as the magic washed over us both. Yet halfway through the first act, my heart stopped.

“Daddy, what time is it?” Fiona whispered in my ear. “How much longer until it’s over?”

I was crushed, my dream shattered.

“Honey, this is only Act I,” I told Fiona. “There’s still an intermission and an entire other act. Would you rather I take you home now? It’s OK if you want to leave.”

“Oh no, no Daddy, I love it,” Fiona said, grasping my arm tightly in her little hands. “I just wanted to know how much more is left, because I never want it to end.”

Hallelujah… Hallelujah.

And when Fiona nestled her pretty little head under my arm and said, “I love you so much Daddy,” I nearly melted out of my seat.

We both didn’t want it to end, but after another hour and half, it did. We both applauded vigorously and Fiona hugged me. When we left the theater and walked back to the car through Downtown Brooklyn, beneath the serpentine skeletal shadow of the sprawling Atlantic Rail Years Arena that was being built, we whistled together the songs we liked most and talked about the show.

“Daddy, promise me that you will take me every year, forever,” Fiona said.

You bet. And next year, it will be the week before Christmas. Lincoln Center, here we come.

“This will be our own McGuire family tradition,” Fiona decided. “Oh, Daddy, you know what would make this day more perfect than it already is?”

“What’s that little sister,” I asked. (I always called Fiona little sister.)

“A fish,” Fiona said, with a twinkle in her eye. “Can you take me to buy a fish?”

I knew she was playing me, but I didn’t care. So I took my beautiful little angel to get a new fish.

But little sister actually outfoxed herself. I was so happy with Fiona that magical late winter afternoon, I would have bought her anything she asked.

She should have asked for a pony.

Start Early, Stay Late

Brought Frankie to work again today, for the second time this week.

I didn’t even have to work in the city. This time of year the industry is slow, so my schedule is much more flexible. Frankie really wanted to head in, once again working a full day and overtime.

I did it as much for him as for me. I enjoy to see my life through Frankie’s eyes, to take the crowded ferry and the subway, to walk up a bustling Broadway from Herald Square to my offices on 37th Street. Then when the day is through, to walk down to Union Square to hit Forbidden Planet.

As the sun sailed over the city and it crept closer to quitting time, Frankie told my Admin, Christi Shingara (Best Admin Ever, by the way), that he was not ready to go home. He was willing to stay late, even all night.

“Just like your Dad, huh,” Christi said.

That is one measure of the man or woman, there reputation for hard work and willingness to put in the time necessary to succeed.

Whenever you can, be the first one in the building each morning when they unlock the doors and then the last to leave.

Too many young people starting out just do not want to put the time in to get ahead. Unless there is absolutely no room for promotion and you are just in a temporary position, put the time in, work twice as hard as the guy next to you and three times as hard as the gal next to him.

Then, when they kick you out of the office, go home and work some more.

Weekends?

Seriously.

If you don’t have work to bring home, which you should, you need another job. Ask your mother. When she met me, I was working for a magazine, editing a nightlife guide/reviewing bars and clubs several nights a week, hustling freelance gigs, AND going to night school at Columbia.

Weekends, I was tending bar either in Gravesend or down in Bay Ridge. And, I brought my laptop to the bar to do work during lulls in the night. I ate standing up and I ran myself silly.

But after work, I still had time to head down to the Wicked Monk to meet mommy and all my friends and drink and dance until the early morning, drag myself home, sleeps for a few hours and do it all over again.

In five years I was working on this seven-day schedule, I took off less than 20 days, and those included Christmas and Thanksgiving. The other holidays, I worked, including tending bar during some harrowing News Years parties (once, for a party of 200, of the other two bartenders, one was arrested and the other sent home when he showed up bombed).

Life is hard and you are meant to struggle, so struggle and scrap and fight and keep heading forward, harder when they push you back.

Success rarely happens overnight and almost never to those who sleep in, show up late, and leave early.

Unless, that is, if you are ridiculously talented. Then, you have responsibility to work even harder to fulfill the potential of your gift. But you will likely be so passionate about your work you’ll be driven.

Life is about struggle and strife. But it is easier to accept the nasty curves life throws you, if you know you tried your damnedest. Go down with your ship if you must, but do so fighting, and if it is to be, let life beat you. Never surrender.

But you know what, it gets easier, because the harder you work, the broader your shoulders will grow and the heavier the load you can carry.

The Golden Rule

Unless there is imminent danger of death or disfigurement, you children pretty much walk all over me.

Yet, I do have one rule. Consider it my Golden Rule. No, not that Golden Rule they teach you in school to treat others as you would like to be treated.

No, no, no.

This is a much more important rule. It’s about integrity and honor. It’s about steering the young ones down the right path. I consider this to be perhaps my greatest parental responsibility.

You see, all of the McGuire children learn this Golden Rule from the cradle, whispered into their tiny ears a thousand times as they drift off to sleep in my arms.

These three words are the third, fourth, and fifth words they all learned after Daddy and Mommy.

“I Hate Dallas.”

Simple.

You want to be a McGuire, you hate the Dallas Cowgirls. I don’t mean just dislike or disinterest. I mean that intense, obsessive type of hate that is bad for you. The kind that makes you want to spit on people and puncture tires just for wearing a jersey.

You don’t even have to like football. But, you sure as hell have to hate Dallas.

Sorry, but my love is conditional. You want me to love you, you hate Dallas. You want me to love you more than I love the other children, show me how you hate Dallas more than they hate Dallas.

You want to love Dallas, you get out of my home and never look back. There’s no place for your kind here. 

That goes for you too Fiona. You are the sparkle in my eye, but I’d soon as stick a stick in that eye than gaze upon you in a Dallas jersey. And, forget about me attending, let alone paying for, any wedding where you’re marrying into a Dallas clan.

America’s Team, my ass.

Why do McGuires hate Dallas so, aside from the fact we bleed New York Giants Blue?

Why do the good guys always hate the bad guys? Why does everyone hate the Nazis or the North Koreans?

To my boundless joy, Frankie signed up for the 911 Flag Football league. He’s a bit smaller and younger than most of his team and opponents, likely the youngest player in the entire 9- and 10-year-old division. But, he has great speed and good hands and a passion for the game.

Plus, he just loves that mouth guard. Won’t even take it off on the sidelines.

As a Dad, watching your kid’s pee-wee football game is unlike any other sporting experience, at least for me. Frankie played baseball, basketball, and soccer. But nothing gets me pumped when he takes to the gridiron, pacing up and down the sidelines, muttering my Hail Marys that he’ll catch a Hail Mary.

Imagine my anticipation when Frankie’s Packers faced off against the dreaded Dallas Cowgirls.

I know, I know, they’re not the real Dallas Cowgirls, but for us, it might as well be. For the McGuires, it was a big deal (well, except for Mommy). Even Grandpa waddled out on the sidelines to catch this momentous rivalry.

Did Frankie get up for the game?

Did he ever.

My boy, my first-born, had not one but two interceptions to suffocate two rallies by the Cowgirls.

Count ‘em baby, two interceptions.

Oh lordy, lordy, lordy, did I make a complete ass out of myself on the sidelines that day.

It didn’t matter. That glorious day, as a sweaty, dirty, banged up Frankie swaggered off the field with the game ball, smothered in pats and pounds from coaches, teammates, and their parents, I felt proud of my boy and happy for his success.

Frankie had learned the Golden Rule quite well.

Celebrity Buzz: Introducing the “To-Hawk”

A new hairstyle sensation is sweeping the East Coast, threatening global domination. Think traditional Faux-Hawk, equal parts proto-punk and New York funk, and sported by the ultimate Brooklyn bad boy. 

Introducing the “To-Hawk,” the new hairstyle that has preschool femme fatales everywhere drooling for pint-sized international super-stud phenom Tonio “To” McGuire.

The “To-Hawk” is the collaborative creation of celebrity cutter Anna McGuire and stylist-to-the-stars Zander Deliso, who just happen to be related to the baby box-office wonder (mommy and cousin, respectively).

“I wanted to push the envelope with this creation, so I had to reach deep down inside me, to find a creative place I didn’t even know existed,” said Zander in an interview from his exclusive South Florida compound.

“It was touch and go there,” Zander recalls of their epic marathon styling session. “I started with the Death-Hawk and toned it down into a Curly-Hawk. We then went through the Bi-Hawk, the Tri-Hawk, the Fro-Hawk, the Psychobilly, even the Shark Fin and the Lazy-Hawk. And just when I was ready to quit, had given everything I had, was physically exhausted, mentally drained, it just, well, it came to me.”

Since debuting his new ‘do’ downtown last week — Page 6 spotted him canoodling in a McDonald’s jungle gym with a pair or Swedish identical twin five-year-olds (including their au-pair) — the mini-heart-throb has gone into hiding to avoid legions of rabid fans.

“This is getting ridiculous,” said his exasperated mommy Anna. “Our home is surrounded by an army of these little biddies. Where the hell are their mothers? Don’t these little tramps have bedtimes?”

“You know, I am starting to think the maybe it wasn’t such a good thing Tonio inherited his Dad’s devastating good looks,” Anna lamented.

It’s not just the local ladies that have their eyes on Tonio and his bold new buzz. 

“I want him back, I don’t care what it takes, what I have to do, even if I make a fool of myself, even if it means I wreck my career,” wailed Miranda Cosgrove. Last week, Cosgrove abruptly canceled production for the upcoming season of her hit show when she walked in on Tonio and her iCarly co-star Jennette “Sam” McCurdy in a compromising situation.

“They were innocently playing with Play-Doh, my ass,” Cosgrove tweeted last week. “He had his grubby little fingers on her lumps alright, and they sure as hell weren’t blue, green, or red.”

To-Hawk spotting is the new paparazzi-pastime. “Forget Paris, forget Brangelina, forget Miley, GaGa, and Lilo,” purred Perez Hilton. “Bring me that delicious little To-Hawk on a platter and I’ll make it more than worth your while.”

Shudder.

Hilton isn’t the only media maven setting his sights on the little lothario.    
     
“It has been long-standing policy at TMZ that we don’t pay for sources,” said TMZ founder Harvey Levin. “We pay for a couple of things, we pay for video, we pay for photos, which frankly everybody does, but we only offer a tip fee. But again, we don’t pay for sources … well, until now. I hate to say it, but we will pay out the nose for anything related to Tonio McGuire. I mean anything, baby pics, family video, used diapers, you name it. I want it.”

Stay tuned for more breaking news as the world waits for Tonio to re-emerge.

The Sound in the Wall

This could all be my imagination. But, I don’t think so.

Some days, there is a slightly larger than usual blue-green bird perched in a tree, across Sleepy Hollow Road.

This bird is different from the rest of the other birds, never seeming to join in all their reindeer games. While the others birds are chirp incessantly and flit about, he remains quietly, stoically, watching over Fiona.

It If birds could talk, this bird seems to have something to say to little Fiona Marie.
 
Perhaps he is saying, “Thank you.”
 
Like I said, this is all probably my imagination. This is probably not even the same bird, the one whose life Fiona saved not too long ago.

Yet, as he watches me, I feel I know this bird, or at least one just like it.   
 
It happed in the early Spring, the week following a terribly nasty storm that hammered the entire New York Tri-state area—a one-hundred year storm some called it. Trees were uprooted all over the Island, and that week there were roofers dotting the homes all along Sleepy Hollow Road.

One morning, while the children were busy eating, there came a faint scratching, barely discernable. I thought nothing of it, as birds frequently congregated in the gutter alongside the roof right outside the kitchen window.
 
Yet, the next couple of days, the scratching persisted and intensified.
 
Saturday morning, like most Spring Saturday mornings before it, I took Fiona Marie down to the park to ride her bicycle with her cousin Bella. They so enjoy each other’s company.
 
A few hours later, when we returned, the house was in an uproar, with Mommy perched on the couch, her lips quivering. Mommy is a woman strong of heart, yet weak of nerves, and especially nervous and deathly afraid of rodents and pests in any form. 
 
It seemed the scratching was no longer distant and emanating from the roof, but now a loud and desperate clawing coming from through one of the living room walls. There was something definitely trapped in the wall and struggling to get out.
 
We called one exterminator after the next, only to be referred to pest control specialists. They charged $500 just to come on-site, and then various fees and surcharges tacked on from there.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. With Nonno and neighbor Paulie backing me up, I started to chase the women and children from the room, who either barricaded themselves downstairs or completely left the building. 

As I was shooing everyone out, a tiny defiant little fist struck me in the belly, startling me more from surprise than from pain.

It was Fiona, her face tight and determined. 

“Daddy, whatever you do, you better not kill it, whatever it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure honey, no go downst…

POW, another shot in the belly.

An even further determined Fiona.

“Daddy, I’m not playing with you. DO NOT KILL IT. Promise me.”

What could I say to that?

“Ok sweetie, I promise you.”

There goes Plan A. Time to come up with a Plan B.

I pulled out a punch saw and cut a partial hole in the wall, planning to tape a clear plastic bag around the hole and then punch the hole out, thereby releasing the animal.
 
However, as I cut halfway through, the hole gave way and the desperate, larger than usual blue-green bird, flew out as quickly as it could. I was barely able to quickly drop the saw and grab the clear-plastic bag, just in time to capture the bird.
 
“I got it Fiona. I caught the bird for you.”
 
With half the neighbors and family gathered around outside, eager to see what beast had invaded our Sleepy Hollow home, I then held the bird until Fiona could come and release it.
 
The bird did not fly away. I merely flew to a tree, just off in this distance.

My first reaction was to kill that which threatened my family. Yet, Fiona showed me that you need not always do harm, to protect you and yours from harm.     

Besides, looking into her deep brown eyes, I really had no choice but to obey.

The Give and Take of Christmas

What do I want for Christmas?

I really want a tandem bicycle. For the first time ever, Frankie is going to ride along with me on the NYC Five-boro Bike Tour come May, so I need a tandem.

I need some new black thermals and white t-shirts, exactly the sizes and brands Mommy has found for me. Would be nice to get a new pair of ADIDAS shell tops, but Mommy doesn’t let me wears those anymore.

What do I want for Christmas?

In my mind, there were always two meanings of Christmas – the Give and the Take.

As a child growing up in Brooklyn, there was the Give, as in the true Christian spirit of the holiday, the miracle of Jesus in his manger blended with iconography of Santa Claus in this rich Victorian interpretation with its thick Dickensian tone. 

More importantly, at least at the time, there was the Take, that part of Christmas that came with the strings attached and we as children wait all year: the gift-receiving.  

However, while as a child, Christmas is all about the Take, as a man, a father, Christmas become all about the Give. With the money for Christmas now coming out of my end, I have a different appreciation for Christmas.

I now understand the Give.

And, the other day, I found what I wanted for Christmas.

Flipping through the newspaper, I came across an advertisement for “The Smile Train.” It was actually the pictures of several children suffering cleft palates, also known as a harelip, which is an abnormal fissure in the face that may form before birth.

These are children, the same age as my own, suffering these horrific facial deformities that can be corrected with a simple surgery.  

Smile Train is the world’s largest and most effective cleft charity, costing as little as $250 to give a desperate child not just a new smile, but a new life.

Clefts are a major problem in developing countries where there are millions of children who are suffering with unrepaired clefts. Most cannot eat or speak properly. Aren’t allowed to attend school or hold a job. And face very difficult lives filled with shame and isolation, pain and heartache.

The surgery costs as little as $250 and takes as little as 45 minutes.

I was deeply affected. I look upon the beautful faces of my own children and I wanted to cry for these poor innocents, suffering something so painful, so needlessly.

When we were children, Grandma instilled in us the importance of charity, as she was constantly supporting and donating to similar charities, both at home and abroad.  

I know I am not Bono. I know it really isn’t much, only $250. But, it is something. 

I will know that somewhere, out there, in that cold hard world, in addition to our own, your Mom and I will have made one more child smile.

That is what I want for Christmas.

The Black Friday Ninja

Marking the start of the traditional Christmas shopping season, Black Friday descends the day immediately following Thanksgiving Day in the US.

Literally speaking, Black Friday refers to the period when retailers, ideally, go from the red (i.e., posting a loss on the books) to the black (i.e., turning a profit).

The closest I ever came to Black Friday is those bizarre news reports, depicting herds of desperate shoppers scrambling through the Wal-Mart or Best Buy doors.

This year, Toys R Us modified its policy for Black Friday, announcing it would open its doors at midnight.

That was all Mommy had to hear. The entire day, she had an extra bounce in her step. She said she was down, even if she had to fly solo. Mommy can’t drive at night, so I offered to back her up on her mission.

I was curious to see first-hand what all this Black Friday nonsense was about. I was also worried for Mommy, because all the freaks come out at night for these things.

Besides, Frankie insisted I go to keep Mommy from crashing our ride.

As midnight neared, Mommy popped out, battle-ready, dressed in tight-fitting black, her tied back in a serious bun, her game face already on. I suggested we head down a bit early.

“There’s not going to be anyone there,” Anna shrugged me off.

Six minutes to midnight, we rolled up on Richmond Avenue. Even from a few blocks away, we could see the traffic jam.

We really had no idea what we were walking into.

The parking lot was jammed to capacity, cars competing with gaggles of shoppers converging on Toys R Us, with thousands of people on a thick bulging line that wound its way around the store and down an alley as far as the eye could see.

With no place to park, I dropped Mommy off. It was two minutes to midnight.

In a way, I felt bad for the poor girl. She was so excited, but now facing at least a two-hour wait, perhaps more, just to get in the store, the situation looked bleak.

However, in the 10 minutes it took me to park in the next lot over and race back to the line, I was amazed to receive the following text:

“I’m In.”

Huh?

Anyone who knows your Mom knows that when it comes to shopping, this woman knows no fear.

Mommy knew, rightfully so, that if she waited on that long line, there would be nothing left. After the initial onslaught, security clamped down tight at the door.

The year before, at a Wal-Mart store in Valley Stream on Long Island, a mob of rapid shoppers flooded in on Black Friday and trampled a security guard to death. This was a six-foot-five, 270-pound mountain of a man, literally stampeded to death by 2,000 people who crammed in with that first wave.

One year later, Wal-Mart Stores Inc. is embroiled in lawsuits, appealing citations and instituting companywide changes, including staying open 24 hours on Thanksgiving, and has inspired voluntary federal guidelines outlining what other retailers should do to avoid the same result.

Needless to say, Toys R Us was not taking any chances.

Now, there’s cutting a line and then there’s cutting a Black Friday line. That is no joke. Later, Mommy revealed how she did it. First, she knew waiting on line was useless. By the time she got in, all of the items worth buying would be gone.

So, she resigned herself to find a way in and started stalking the line, like a lioness shadowing a herd of gazelles, looking for the one to sink her teeth into and hold on tight.

With less than a minute to midnight, Mommy found that one friendly face that smiled back and struck up a conversation, positioning herself just right to jump into the stream when the doors flew open.

Some shrew behind Mommy even screeched: “Hey lady, you can’t just walk up and pretend to talk to someone to cut the line. We been waiting out here for hours.”

Mommy ignored her.

That’s balls.

But wait, it gets better.

When I arrived, I knew there was no way I was sneaking in without causing a full-scale riot, so I slinked around to the end of the line. These poor people. In an hour, I moved 20 feet and never did make it to the front of the store, buried way back around the block. Some entrepreneurial deli worker from a few blocks over was selling hot coffee and hot chocolates for $5 a pop.  

All the while, I was getting the play-by play on my cell from Mommy.

You see, even with the store jammed, even with severely limited supplies, somehow, someway, Mommy got her hands on a Zhu Zhu Pet Slide. For the uninitiated, these are the hottest toys of the year and anything Zhu Zhu is impossibly hard to find.

Not for your Mom.

By now, she knew she would not be leaving empty-handed, so Mommy decided enough was enough. People were screaming at each other, the aisles were clogged, and it was just a bad scene, the ugly flip-side of Christmas.

Facing an impossibly long line, snaking from the registers at the front of the store all the way to the rear, Mommy worked her way to her next victim. She somehow convinced a woman she did not know, who had already waited on the long line, to pretend they were together. Mommy chucked her item in the woman’s cart, to make it look like they were together.

Mommy then blended into the line, partially hiding herself, and, at the right moment, snatched her Zhu Zhu, paid quickly, and was about to leave when the cashier warned her: “You be careful with these,” as if indicating sinister Zhu Zhu thieves were lurking in the parking lot. 

Head held high, a bounce in her stride, grin broken wide, full of pride, your Mom, my wife, strutting her magnificent self out the door like the Black Friday Ninja she is.

My hero.

People Are Angry

A little while ago, I was driving down Richmond Avenue coming home from the store, Frankie along for the ride. We rolled up on a red light and directly to my right were two cars, with the drivers screaming bloody murder at each other.

The first driver was a screeching, swollen, red-faced, Staten Island steroid freak, veins chorded up in his neck, paws white knuckling the wheel of his Cadillac Escalade. The second driver came off like an archetypical bitter, frustrated middle-aged, mini-van Dad, with his young son in the back seat.

Now, the traffic lights down Richmond are staggered, so these two maniacs were hollering away at each other, from light to light to light. Apparently, Roid Boy was absolutely incensed that anyone would have the nerve to cut him off. Imagine that.

Mini-van Man saw things much differently.

Obviously, in their tortured minds, this was an injustice that they could not let go.

As we neared the intersection at Platinum Avenue, Mini-van Man decided he had enough. “OK tough guy, you wanna go? Get outcha car,” he said as he boldly stepped out of his mini-van.

You should have seen his face drop when Roid Boy squeezed himself out of his ride. The guy was so swollen with artificially enhanced muscles, he had no neck and lumbered along in that stiff, cardboard way muscle guys do.

Oh Nellie, Roid Boy was off his nut, beyond angry, sort of like his body was a battle field between Roid Rage and Road Rage – Roid Road Rage.

Min-van Man quickly decided he did not want his head separated from his neck that day and quickly scrambled back into his car.

He was lucky that muscle boy could only waddle. I thought Roid Boy was going to rip the bumper off, but as Mini-van Man peeled away, he had to settle for actually punching out the back window with one swipe of his paw.

Right next to the same seat where the guy’s kid was sitting.

True story.    

I drove away thinking two things.

First, how does poor Mini-van Man face down his own son and explain why he ran away after initiating the fight in the first place? No matter what, this dramatic experience will always be between them.

Secondly, I realized I have to get my family out of Staten Island.

There is a great anger in the world around you, born of deep seeded frustration.

Many people are absorbed in a siege mentality, desperately unhappy with their lives, their jobs, their marriages, their health.

It’s this unhappiness that leaves them feeling trapped, with no outlet to vent this rage.

What’s more, they are often emotionally crippled, that they cannot even identify that this inner pain is being embodied in a rage they wield on the world.

They are disconnected from their emotions, lashing out over a parking space, a bump on a sidewalk, on line in the supermarket. They generate scenarios in their mind to unleash their pent up rage, disproportionately, without even realizing they are sublimating.

Beware, because these people are all around you.

Do not let them drag you into confrontations which can become violent. You should never be drawn into confrontation unless it can’t be avoided and you need to protect you and yours, or there is a clear advantage to be gained. 

It is your awareness of emotions that drive people’s actions that gives you an advantage.

And always remember, if you are moved to violence, you strike hard, suddenly, and put the man down.

There is no such thing as fair fighting. Just ask the guy who lives life with one eye, poked out in a bar fight, or the girl who had her beautiful face slashed and now bears a scar she has to live with.

You use whatever leverage you can to protect yourselves.

Or, you run like your ass is on fire.

That Constant Pebble in Your Shoe

I owe you, my children, the debt of a son to his own father, to forever be that constant pebble in your shoe.

I can see it in the roll of your eyes, as I preach and I teach and I rant and I rave, never seeming to cave, never seeming to turn it off, so you can’t tune me out.

Least not all of the time.

Some of what I say gets through to you, becomes part of you, whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not.

In this I cannot fail, I must not fail. I am the constant pebble in your shoe, because I fear for you, of what the world can do to you, if I do not show you the way.

I do this, because I have seen so many times, through so many eyes, what happens when you don’t have that constant pebble in your shoe. 

I Had What Few I Knew Had

I had what few I knew had
Something that made most my boys sad
Something so rare down round the way
Too many of them living that real-life cliché
But not me boy, I had a Dad
And not only did I have a Dad
I had a Dad who was rarely mad
Stuck around even when I was bad
Never put his cigars out on my back
Never burned a week’s pay down the track
Never wore sleeves to hide he getting high
Never had to drag him out the local trying to drink it dry
Never had no kids by somebody else’s wife
Never went after the neighbor with a kitchen knife
Never raped me or my sweet little sister
Never came home with blisters from strippers
Never broke my arm for playing hookie
Never had to hide from the local bookie
Never gave me shiners for what someone else said
Never lost it for no reason to open mom’s head
My Dad, the man he even had himself a job
Yes sir, proud to say I had me a Dad
And the best part was, he never forgot what he had

- A Poem By Craig McGuire

Who’s Your Daddy?

The Yankees won their 27th World Series Championship this week and among the millions of fans celebrating around the world was a father and a son in Staten Island.

Even for those who do not follow the sport and just tuned in for the 2009 Major League Baseball Playoffs, it was pretty exciting stuff. 

As the season wore on, Frankie became more and more interested. For starters, this was the year the Yankees moved across 161st Street in the Bronx to their new home. I made sure to take him to the old stadium before the tore it down.

It would be the year A-Rod admitted to steroid use, a lesson in cheating Frankie took to heart.  But, it was also a message of coming clean and of redemption, as after his public, heartfelt admission, and being sidelined with an injury, A-Rod came roaring into the playoffs and was able to finally able to prove he could come through in the clutch during the post-season.

His girlfriend, Kate Hudson, apparently brought him luck, attending every game, many with StepDad Kurt Russell. Frankie agreed it would be pretty cool if Fiona marries a New York Yankee.

There was the game when Luis Castillo from the Mets dropped an pop-fly, handing the Yankees a win, which Frankie was convinced he would have easily caught.

Then, after losing eight straight to the dreaded Boston Redsox, on August 9th, Johnny Damon and Teixeira smack back-to-back dingers off Daniel Bard in the bottom of the eighth, sending the Yanks to a dramatic 5-2 victory that completed a four-game sweep of the Sox and put the Yankees on top of the AL East to stay.

Frankie’s first word may have been Daddy, but his second words were “I hate the friggin’ BoSox and I hate the friggin’ Dallas Cowboys.”

Seriously.

Then there was Derek Jeter moving past Lou Gehrig for sole possession of first place on the Yankees’ all-time hits list. Bizarrely, Jeter always seemed to strike out whenever Frankie was watching. And, unlike everyone else, Frankie never calls him by his last name.

“Daddy, why does everyone like Derek so much?” Frankie asked. “He can’t get a hit to save his life.”

But nothing was like watching the playoffs with Frankie, who is finally old enough to appreciate and follow the sport. Watching the ballgame with your boy is not like watching it with your friends.

It’s something we will always have together, a family ritual that will hopefully include Fiona and Tonio, and maybe, on rare occasions, Mommy.  

So who is Frankie’s favorite Yankee? Is it A-Rod? Captain October Jeter? The Sandman? C.C.? A.J.? Melky?  Posada? Teixeira? Pettite? Cano? Who?

“Come on. That’s easy Dad,” Frankie sniffed, like I was the rookie and he was the all-star. “Godzilla.”

Ah, yes, Hideki Matsui. His six RBIs tie a World Series record, and his .615 average with three home runs and eight RBI in the Fall Classic earn him the MVP award, the first Japanese-born player so honored.

As for our favorite moment of the season, that had to be when Andy Pettitte went 5 and 2/3 innings outpitching Pedro Martinez to win the game six and seal the Yankees’ victory. Years ago, as a pitcher for the hated BoSox, Pedro had taunted Yankee fans “Who’s Your Daddy?”

Who’s your Daddy now Pedro?  

Ah, to be a family of Yankees fans.

Welcome to My Blog

It is a cold hard world, my children.

The purpose of this blog is to guide with a firm hand the three gifts I hold most precious in this world, the only things that matter – Francis Xavier, Fiona Marie, and Tonio James.

Sooner than I would like, you will leave the protection of your beloved mother and I, to boldly strike out on your own along this desperate journey we call life.

The lessons contained herein, woven within the stories of your childhood, are designed to help you survive, to strive, to thrive. I can only show you the way. I cannot walk the path for you.

Hopefully, you gain the perspective you need to temper your judgment, to protect you and yours, to open your heart to those in need, and to triumph over your enemies, which will be many and not always easy to distinguish.

I struggled with a title for this collection, before realizing that your journey will require decisions balancing between righteousness and ruthlessness — an ancient struggle within us all.

I preach to you a pragmatic existence, as I urge you to aspire to righteousness, though not at the expense of your safety or your prosperity. You will learn for yourselves that certain situations demand a strong hand.

Will you have that strength when the time comes for you to rise?

You are all that there is of me in this world. Abandoned as a baby in a Brooklyn orphanage, my life was later saved, by the grace of god, by two young struggling school teachers who sacrificed greatly to pull me from the edge of the abyss and raise me as their own.

We have a saying, your mother and I, a family motto of sorts: Nothing Easy.

Life does not want you to succeed. Life is not meant to be fulfilling. We are not genetically engineered or predisposed towards happiness.

Life is meant to be a hard, brutal, relentless soul-raking struggle. It is only through this struggle and strife that you find your happiness, or the finality of your failure. Above all, hold your course, go down with the ship in flames, if you must. But do not yield. It is the journey that matters, not the destination.

Your lives all commenced with painful, agonizing pregnancies suffered by your dear mother, Anna Maria—violent nausea, excruciating migraines, loss of vision, sciatic nerve seizures, intense cramping, and dozens of other aversions and ailments.

Mind each other, as there will only be three of you. After Tonio James was born, the doctor warned that if your mother experienced another pregnancy, she would most likely suffer irreparable physical harm.

But what exceptional children she did deliver, each of your nearly 10 pounds, each of you strong and vibrant and unblemished.

I had but one request, insisting you were all born in Brooklyn. I knew that wherever you go, whomever you meet, everyone knows that the place of your birth symbolizes strength, struggle, triumph, and heartbreak.

Ultimately, it will be your resolve and determination along your journey that will define you, as an individual, as much as your achievements.

Aspire to inspire, my children, and remember that whoever crosses your path, be damn ready for either an embrace or to knock that motherfucker right on his face.

These are my lessons to you for Raising the Righteous and the Ruthless.

Five Unwritten Rules To Survive By

Unless you are a complete loser life left behind, from the moment you wake every morning, there are rules to be followed.

These rules vary in severity, from the Thou Shall Not Kills to the Thou Shall Lower Thy Toilet Seats. But, a rule is a rule is a rule.

You have little choice now in deciding what rules to follow, but that will change. As you grow, you gain independence, meaning you are less dependent upon your parents for sustenance and guidance.

You become the one who decides what rules you will follow and what consequences you will absorb. By the time you are a teen, our perpetual suicide watch will be winding down. Hopefully, you’ll not be running out in front of cars, jamming forks in your eyes, sticking your tongue in light sockets, generally not doing the dangerously dumbass things small children do.

Then you face a whole new set of rules, not set forth by your loving parents, but dictated by others who won’t be as sympathetic to your weeping and whining.

There are civil and criminal laws that govern our society, to protect ourselves from one another, and vary by jurisdiction. Most are common sense, but if unsure, if it requires you to look over your shoulder before you do something – DON’T DO IT.

There are religious laws, such as the 10 Commandments, which are also pretty much common sense. Just try to not Honor Thy Parents in our house and see how far that gets you.

Then there are social conventions to follow. Setting aside theft, murder, mayhem, wife-coveting, and all the obvious sins, you need to set your thresholds.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “I never had a policy; I have just tried to do my very best each and every day.” That works…for Abraham Lincoln. The man freed the slaves, keep the Union intact, lived through the deaths of his sons.
I much more prefer William Shakespeare’s take: “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.” To a point, this is a personal philosophy, but what really does it mean to “do wrong to none.” If someone falls on his ass in front of you and you laugh, is that doing wrong?

For me, and you can set your moral compass in any direction you want, I am pragmatic, and I have found there are a few really touchy subjects that are universal and to be avoided.

These are the rules I live by. If you are to broach these subjects, it is good to know that you are on unsteady ground, so you can prepare to defend yourself. But I advise you avoid them.

They include, in no particular order:

• Don’t F&%k With a Man’s Money
• Don’t F&%k With a Man’s Woman/Family
• Don’t F&%k With a Man’s Religion
• Don’t F&%k With a Man’s Politics
• Don’t F&%k With a Man’s Food

Breaking any one of these rules humiliates a man and regardless how he responds, that man is dead to you. Expect him to retaliate, not now, maybe not ever, but expect it.

If he is smart, he will make himself your best friend before he strikes. If he is not that swift, you may be lucky enough to see it coming.

But make no mistake, he will come and he will hurt you. For some things, there never is such a thing as forgiveness.

And if he gets the best of you, it’s your fault for letting your guard down.

“Little Strokes Fell Great Oaks”

The pursuit of happiness is rarely a happy pursuit.

Just when you think you are gaining a bit of ground, life wraps its tentacles around your ankles, pull you back, farther and further from your passion.

Rarely will you win major battles; more often you will survive daily skirmishes — spent, bent, and looking to vent.

Most people despair, allowing themselves to be pulled back in by the tide, abandoning their pursuit of a happiness that lies too far offshore to reach.

You may not know your meaning for being, other than to escape the traps that currently snare you. You may be miles from nowhere near where you need to be, may not even see a bleak blip on the horizon resembling your path.

But you, my children, must never accept the role of slave to the lash of life, even as its bitter teeth bite into your back. Not as long as I have any iron left in my will. And I will will my will on you.

You don’t even have to be particular good at what you chose. You can sell out, settle, swallow and wallow in mediocrity. Doing something you like is more important than doing something for which you are liked.

To get there, though, takes pluck and luck. As Benjamin Franklin wisely wrote in Poor Richard’s Almanac: “Little strokes fell great oaks.”

Persevere and chip away at your challenge, and you will wear it down.

You don’t realize when you are young how long life is and how much you can accomplish, step by step by step by step by…

True, the majority of your time may be spent laboring in mundane tasks, because you have to. We all have to. Like our family motto says: Nothing Easy.

You need to do something each week, or each day, dedicated towards your passion. If you are a writer, grab a few minutes each week to write. If you are a photographer at heart, carry a camera with you and snap shots.

Life happens. Luck doesn’t. Not for us. You want something? I mean really want it, ache for it?

Then the small steps you take towards that goal will be the shawl you draw over you for comfort in the middle of the night when anxiety and desperation strike.

Before you know it, those little steps will add up to large strides. You will be knocked down, smashed in the mouth at each turn. But, you will have momentum. You will have pride to pull yourself back up and continue to push forward.

You will not surrender your dream, even if you never do realize it.

Little strokes certainly do fell great oaks.

Use As Directed

Always Read the Packaging

Last Saturday night, I really needed to take it easy. Sunday I had my annual Bike New York, Five-Boro Bike tour (which Mommy still won’t let me take Frankie along on).

I had to do the weekly food shopping and Fiona asked to come along, so I took her. As a reward for being so good (well, sort of good, actually not really good at all, quite loud and disruptive in fact, but super cute even when she’s running around Stop & Shop like a little lunatic), I bought her a bunch of glow sticks, the kind you crack to make them glow in the dark.

Seemed like a good idea.

That evening, well after dinner, Mommy decided have a Family Karaoke Night, so all the kids dressed in funny outfits, with headbands.

On our cable system, Oxygen Channel on demand offered Karaoke and Mommy was fixated on Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” which she sang quite well, and quite loudly, with the windows wide open.

You kids, all three of you, are banging away on your toy chests, assembled as drum kits, while Mommy was perched on top of the broad leather ottoman warbling away (hollering through “Eye of the Tiger”, “I’m Too Sexy”, and “Total Eclipse of the Heart”).

Tonio is running back and forth banging on his head. Frankie is whacking Fiona. Fiona is whacking the wall. Nonno and Nonna are peaking up from downstairs in horror. And I’m just sitting their laughing.

Until …

… Tonio starts crying, rubbing his eyes. Then Fiona starts crying, rubbing her eyes, now profusely …

… as a distracted Mommy wraps up her third encore.

Fiona stopped rubbing her eyes for a moment, so I thought she was fine.

Then, Frankie happened to shut the lights for Mommy’s finale and, to my shock, not to mention Mommy’s utter panic, you three kids were glowing like screaming, bouncing, psychedelic-streaked specters.

The glow sticks were never meant to serve as drum sticks. The repeated violent banging had ruptured them, and then as you children turned them on each other, had spread the glowing goo.

Fiona was the worse, with splashes and dashes from head to toe, sprinkled in her eyes and ears and even mouth.

I carried her into the bathroom calmly, with Mommy behind me shrieking. Tonio was still running back and forth banging on his head and Frankie was just angry we had all stopped, then piggy-backed on Mommy’s anger at me.

Mommy was furious, even though the contents were non-toxic and harmless and Fiona’s eyes were easily flushed. It didn’t help that Fiona was shrieking, but not in pain, more because I was shoving her little head under the blasting faucet to appease Mommy’s wrath.

Still, we were lucky they weren’t toxic.

When you use something for a purpose it is not intended, there can be unexpected consequences, like shrieking wives and frightened glow-in-the-dark children. Even something seemingly innocent can have dire consequences.

In the event serious harm is done and you are using a product for an unintended purpose, you are liable, not the manufacturer.

And so you know, we forever after dropped Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart from the rotation.

---

Say Your Hail Marys, But Don’t Bet on the Come

Frankie had a day off from school this week, so I promised to take him into my New York office on 37^th Street, just north of Herald Square.

This was the first time I took him in for a full day and he was very well behaved. The girls, Christi and Lindsey, my admins, were so impressed with his manners and loved the long hair and rocker look, putting him to work on the shredder and other tasks.

Ivan, one of the IT consultants, set up a laptop and Frankie spent most of the day content to surf, seated next to a massive floor to ceiling window overlooking the bustling street scene below from three stories above Broadway, the empire State building looming in the background behind a fading Echo banner.

After work, as always, we grab the local R train at Herald Square down to Union Square, walk through the park, grab a couple of dirty water dogs (shush, don’t tell Mommy) and then hit Forbidden Planet, New York City’s premiere comic and alternative hobby store. Frankie loved to fall into Forbidden Planet, especially the Pokemon section upstairs.

Afterwards, we stood out on the corner of 13^th Street and Broadway in front of Cosi to grab the x17. Over the course of the next half hour, buses came and went. Every bus, it seemed, except ours.

Then, Frankie closed his eyes, bowed his head, and mumbled to himself.

“What are you up to Francis,” I asked.

“I said a Hail Mary, hopefully to get the bus to come,” he said.

And like one of those New York moments that spring upon you, not one, not two, but three x17s rolling south around Union Square came into view.

Frankie was quite pleased to have saved the day and told everyone when we got home.

It was a good thing that I took Frankie in on Thursday, for while it was cold, around 30 degrees for the trip home, the next night it was 5 degrees, with the bitter wind chill.

Huddled in front the Woolworth Building across from City Hall downtown on Broadway, I was freezing my toes off.

After a half hour passed, things were getting desperate, everyone on line muttering and cursing under their breath about the MTA.

Then I remembered Frankie and his Hail Mary from the previously night and I figured I would give it a shot.

No such luck.

The bus did come, but not for another half hour.

Praying is not about having things done, no matter how desperate the situation.

In football, the Hail Mary pass is the bomb at the end of the game. But like shivering a few Hail Mary through chattering teeth to get a bus to pass in Lower Manhattan, it rarely ever works.

But, as Frankie found, when it does work, it is really exciting.

Still, do not count on it to happen again.

Would You Follow a Friend Off the Brooklyn Bridge?

What if your friend jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, and you did follow?

Would you survive?

Never has ever been uttered a more cutting comeback to a child’s lame-ass excuse than Mom’s magic bullet rebuttal: “So if he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you follow him?”

That always seemed a sure-fire shut-down for myself and little sister Sue. Such taunts, after all, were especially daunting if you grew up in Brooklyn, not far from that ancient webbed wonder spanning the mighty murky East River.

We never even questioned the logic; never considered you could survive such a stunning leap of faith. We just assumed that should the 135-ft-plunge not do us in, we would sizzled by the toxic sludge upon impact, very Terminator-like, skewered with HIV-infected syringes, our remains hors d’oeuvres for NYC sewer alligators.

Sure, we’d been driven over that span dozens of times on family day trips. I can’t speak for little sister Sue, but not once did I make a smart-ass comment to mom that you’d really have to work at it to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. And, I was quite the smart ass.

You cannot simply stroll to the edge and swan dive into the East River spooge. If you did, you’d do a 15-foot face-plant onto an unforgiving asphalt roadway. Then, most likely, shaking off the onset of a concussion, you’d have just enough time to wipe the blood from your vision to open wide and eat the grill on a busted ‘75 Cadillac as it mowed you down like Frogger.

To actually jump off the bridge, you first need to climb up into the rafters and work your way around to a leap-off point, as Mario Manzini attempted in 1974. Dressed like a dumb-ass Elvis Presley, in handcuffs no less, Manzini’s was no Houdini, thwarted as he was unable to escape the clutches of New York’s Finest.

But again, what if your friend actually jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, and you followed. Would either of you survive?

That depends.

The first actual jumper was Robert Odlum, who made a media splash with a pre-plunge PR push, announcing publicly he would leap into the East River deep on May 19, 1885. Tipped off to Odlum’s intention, the NYPD lay in wait. So, when Odlum sent a friend ahead to cause a diversion, he cleverly leapt like a lizard, in a bright red swimsuit, one arm at his side another pointing out like Superfool.

Good thing Odlum’s friend didn’t follow him off the bridge, as he was dead within an hour from injuries sustained from an awkward landing.

Meanwhile, the most famous Brooklyn Bridge daredevil probably never even jumped. On July 23, 1886, Steven Brodie was pulled from the river by the police and arrested for “attempted suicide.”

His tale of surviving the plunge quickly made Brodie a media darling, propelling him to a successful entrepreneurial career, and a film treatment in 1933, titled The Bowery. Still, while friends swore they saw the death-defying feat, most experts maintain it was a hoax.

Didn’t matter. He has been ever immortalized with the phrase “Take a Brodie,” meaning survive a suicidal stunt. At least he didn’t try to sell anyone the Bridge.

Still, if your friend jumps off the Brooklyn Bridge and you follow, will die?

The site of hundreds of suicides, less than 10 people have actually survived the fall, including two separate incidences in 2004. (In March 2004, a 24-year-old man survived a 135-foot jump from the center of the bridge, and in August of the same year, a 16-year-old girl jumped and lived.)

NY Daily News: "Brooklyn Bridge jumper survives without scratch"

See: Brooklyn Bridge jumper survives without scratch.

Because so few have survived the fall, around the turn of the century the daredevils were supplanted by the distraught and seriously suicidal, intent on cracking their necks as they slamm into the concrete-like surface of the East River.

That is why mothers everywhere whip us into shape with this cliched threat. It makes sense.

There is a chance you can survive following a friend jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Most likely, though, you’ll die a horrible.

——————————————————————————————–

“Brooklyn Bridge, Brooklyn Bridge,

I walked to the middle, jumped over the edge,

The water was greasy, the water was brown

Like cold chop suey in Chinatown,

And I gobbled it up as I sank down…”

-William Jay Smith, “Brooklyn Bridge” (Jump Rope Song)

Nothing Like Daddy’s Little Girl

“Daddy, I have a boyfriend and his name is Mathew.”

Those words uttered by my little angel froze me where I stood, a deep dark sheen of mean pulling itself over my tightening face. I was jealous. This was my baby girl, my sweetie cakes.

I should be the only man in her life.

Ever.

She is only four years old.

I pictured this little Matthew character, this little hoodlum toying with sunshine’s heart, leaning against a Johnny pump in his tiny leather jacket, flashing his tiny temporary tattoos, on his tiny little motorcycle, lolli-pop dangling from his lips, waiting under Fiona’s window to get her to break night and go load up on candy and ice cream.

Not on my watch boyo.

Now, whenever I come home, the little minx follows me around, squeaking, “I love Matthew, Matthew, Matthew … I love Matthew, Matthew, Matthew.” She does it because she knows it gets my Irish up, like something her mother would do, just to work me into a frenzy.

Before Frankie, our first-born, was born, I wanted him so bad, it hurt. Abandoned as a runt to the New York City foster care system, god shined down on me, my life saved by the Sisters of Mercy at Angel Guardian (now know as MercyFirst), pulled back from the edge of the abyss and adopted by two young struggling school teachers who wanted nothing more than to pour their hearts into a son.

They saved me, but still, in the back of my mind, I always felt like I was alone in this world. It was very important to me to have a son. When your mother, god bless her, gave me a boy (and what a son, a strapping near-ten-pounds at birth no less), I was beyond thrilled. In some way, I thought I was finally complete.

Though, I really wasn’t, I would learn.

At the time Mommy was pregnant with Frankie, several of our friends were also expecting, but girls, not boys. Like the jack-ass that I was, I was ignorant enough to say: “I don’t make girls. My body is only built for building boys.”

As it turned out, I was more than capable of making girls, with some help from your mother, of course. And, oh, what a girl we made. When Fiona was born, well, the little angel took my breath away and I am still waiting for it to come back.

You see, Fiona Marie entirely changed my perspective and she is the most delicate and precious thing in my life.

I realize now that you don’t love one child more than another, at least I can’t. You love them differently. It’s like asking someone, what do you like better, your favorite color or your favorite food? The question doesn’t even make sense, because the two are not even comparable.

I love my sons impossibly, but for much different reasons than I love Fiona, as much for whom they are, as for how they have changed me deeply.

Which is why it is so ridiculous, even painful, to even broach the subject of thinking of Fiona with a boyfriend. Not my Fiona. Jesus Christ, I’m starting to well up like a little mary just writing this.

And, she is still only four years old. Boyfriends? Hah. I don’t have to worry about jumping out of that plane for at least, what, 20, 30 years?

I know it is a tame, harmless little pre-school crush. But I can’t even imagine what will happen when she gets older.

An amazing article came out in New York magazine recently (best magazine ever), entitled Truth and Consequences at Pregnancy High. It was the story of young mothers at an experimental program at Jane Addams High School for Academics and Careers Living Life for the Young Family Education (LYFE) center, where these women, really girls, can get an education.

When the journalist Alex Morris, also a favorite of mine, recounted how a tearful daughter revealed her pregnancy to her mom, it almost made me cry. Four years ago, those emotions would not have emerged inside me.

On the one hand, I was mortified, because my perspective has changed dramatically. These poor children having children, my heart just drops on the floor for them. That is also why I later grew enraged to read the cold, callous, disrespectful comments posted online, so quick to assign blame, so willing to slam and trash these poor girls for their poor decisions.

I dared to think of such a conversation with my daughter and how I would handle it, not that it would ever happen. But if it did, I would never close my heart to her.

I could never close my heart to her or to any young girl in such distress. Forever and ever, I will always see such circumstances through the same eyes as I see my delicate Fiona.

There is nothing like the strong, rough-and-tumble, mirror-looking-back-at-you, bond between a father and his sons.

However, as I discover day after exciting day, in so many tender, terrifying, anxious, heart-clutching ways, there really is nothing like the love and adoration of a little girl, my little girl, Daddy’s Little Girl.

For a man who thought he only wanted sons, I now have one more reason to be glad I have them.

To help me keep the wolves at bay.

Work Smarter, Not Harder

The Right Technique Makes all the Difference in the World

We recently marked a momentous day in life of Francis X. McGuire. It was the day he finally learned to ride a bike.

And though I knew he could do it, he was convinced he could not.

Late last summer, I first tried to get Frankie to learn the old-fashioned way — by running alongside, shoving him forward, barking in his ear for not following my directions.

The poor kid quickly grew discouraged, then frightened, then angry, bellowing: “You’re trying to killlllll meeeeee. You want me to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie.” Tears running down his face, he repeated this shrill chant over and over again, echoing across Willowbrook Pond at Carousel Park.

To make matters worse, despite posted signs, people continued to feed the waterfowl. So, the park was overrun with these dirty, nasty mutant birds, missing feet and eyes. The path around the pond was land-mined with thick, gooey, greenish brown bird shit that sticks to you like Gorilla Glue.

This goes on for the better part of an hour. Frankie is screaming at me. I am hollering at him. We are both slipping and sliding our way through loads of green slimy stinky bird shit. It starts to drizzle. It was just a miserable experience.

Finally, we both admitted defeat. Frankie retreated to the playground and I spent the next half hour picking stinky bird crap from the wheels and our sneakers with twigs and leaves.

This was troubling, because there is nothing I enjoy more than taking you children down to the local park to ride your bikes. At this point, though, the entire experience was a nerve-wracking exercise in preventing you three from seriously injuring yourselves.

For instance, last weekend, Fiona was so fixated on the new sneakers Mommy bought her, she couldn’t stop staring down at them…

… while she was pedaling.

She wasn’t going too fast, maybe a mile an hour. But, when she bumped up against Frankie, teetered over and gently fell to the ground, she bumped her knee, producing a little scrape.

You would have thought I threw her out a window.

“Look what you made me do Daddy,” she yelled, in her shrill voice. “It’s all your fault. Oh, no, you really did it now Daddy. You just wait until Mommy hears about this. I’m going to Mommy. I’m going to tell Nonna. I’m going to tell Grandma…”

She went on and on and on. It took her a while until she ran out of names and true to her word, everyone with whom she came into contact that weekend, down to the guy at the Tic Tac Deli, learned what a terrible Dad I was and how my negligence led to her devastating injury.

How I can’t wait for the day when you little monsters are all old enough to shed your training wheels and ride alongside me.

It would all start with Frankie.

This year, I swore, would be different.

As a regular rider on the NY Five Boro Bike Tour (now in my 12th year riding), I was visiting the tour’s web site and came across a notice that stated every spring the organization sponsored a series of bike-riding training classes for kids.

Sounded like a great idea. I could dump my seething screaming simpering nightmare off on these poor unsuspecting fools.

The more I thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. What kind of sadist would sign on for such abuse. No one likes kids that much. Not even that little balding dork on Blues Clues.

They must know something I don’t know. And, there’s nothing I hate more when someone knows something I don’t know. Turns out, they did.

I visited the site and found a YouTube clip that showed how they did it, this amazing technique dubbed the “Balance First Method,” not to be confused with the “Rhythm Method”. (See below for details.)

Excited, I decided to give it a try. But first, I had to remove the pedals. Note to self: Right-Tighty-Left-Loosey only works on one pedal. After spending a half hour banging away at Frankie’s bike to remove the second pedal, yelling and huffing and puffing, even busting a wrench, Mommy meekly suggested I try the other direction.

What did she know, I snapped. Of course, I gave her a hard time, tsk-tsking her silly suggestion.

D’oh.

With the pedals finally removed, we headed down to the scene of last year’s defeat, father and son. I was focused, prepared, and determined we would not be defeated. Frankie was preoccupied with his Nintendo DS and couldn’t care less.

And, you know what? With a bit of perseverance and patience, mixed with plenty of the usual profanity, bickering, and plenty more bird shit, damn it, it actually worked. He was a bit wobbly, but it worked.

Frankie was so thrilled, he was almost riding on air. He wiped out gnarly a few times, but quickly popped up and was back on his way, grinning from ear to ear.

He had convinced himself that he could not do it, screaming and crying and so angry at me. He actually surprised himself when he did it and you could see that sense of satisfaction all over his face.

He overcame his fear and pain and the stink of the bird shit and he did it.

As a reward, I promised him a hotdog and we spent the next half hour driving around Staten Island searching for a hotdog stand open on a late Sunday afternoon, which we found outside the Home Depot of Forest Avenue.

Teaching Frankie to ride his bike was not just a highpoint in his young life, but in mine as well. And, it was a reminder that while the difficulty of the challenge is relative to the experience of the person being challenged, the willingness to persevere and overcome is admirable regardless.

Life doesn’t always have to be so hard. The ability to think strategically and improve our methods of what makes the human being unique and why we are at the top of the food chain.

You children always need to find ways to work smarter, not harder. As Frankie found out, the right technique makes all the difference. If something is really hard, you need to step back and make it easier.

Well done Francis. I hope your sons and daughters make you just as proud someday.

________________________________________

Where the Learn to Ride “Balance First” Method Originated
By Rich Conroy, Bicycle Education Program Director

Bike New York’s award-winning Learn to Ride program has garnered the attention of media, bike organizations, and parents nationwide and even as far away as Russia. Bike New York can’t take credit for inventing this crash-free, low-stress method of learning to bike, though. That goes to Paco Mateus, a bike shop owner and manager in Queens, New York.

After coming to the United States from Colombia as a teenager in the early 1970s, Paco parlayed his mechanical skills into a career in a neighborhood bike shop. He was an outstanding mechanic who enjoyed riding the finest bicycles through beautiful areas, his favorite being the Delaware Water Gap. In 2000, I got my professional start in the world of cycling as a part-time sales person and mechanic at Queens Bicycles in Rego Park, and I learned a lot from Paco. Queens Bicycles hardly ever sold training wheels, because Paco would tell customers a special method he used with his nieces and nephews.

A few years later, as the founding manager of Bike New York’s nascent Bicycle Education Program, I received a call from a frustrated parent asking if we had any programs to teach her teenage daughter how to ride. At that moment, I remembered all the times Paco had described his “no pedals” method of teaching kids to master balancing first, and I told the parent that we would schedule something soon. She attended that first event, and her daughter learned to ride a bike that day.

I don’t think Paco ever imagined the impact he would have. Thousands of kids and adults from New York and New Jersey have learned to ride bikes at scores of the events we now know as “Learn to Ride.” Hundreds of PE teachers, Parks and Recreation professionals, and volunteers have been trained to use Paco’s “balance first” method to run their own programs. Sadly, Paco died late last year after a long battle with cancer. I’m confident, though, that his cycling legacy will continue to grow as many more cyclists learn to ride using the easy method he eagerly shared.

Have a System, Avoid the Random

As a young boy, it bothered me whenever flipping coins and I called heads if tails came up and vice versa.

As a result, I made a decision early on to always call heads. I figured that if I play the odds, being right 50% of the time was better than leaving it up to chance. I reasoned that if I left it up to random occurrence, I could be right 90% of the time, but most likely I would only be right 10%.

Why take such a chance?

Whenever you can, try to develop your own system. Your grandfather and I came up with an interesting system.

Mommy loves the New York Lotto scratch-off games, as you know. Whenever Grandpa, or Pop as you call him, would drop by the house, he would slip me $40 and tell me to get two of the $20 tickets, for the $500,000,000 Extravaganza.

Whatever I won, I was supposed to use to purchase additional tickets, of the same type, unless it was less than $20.

There was a catch, though. I could not buy tickets from the same store. Once I won in one store, I’d have to move down the block.

On some nights, where I was too tired and just went to the local Tic-Tac Deli twice in a row, we always lost. In other instances, where we won a few hundred dollars, your mother would scream at me and force me not to buy so many tickets and take the cash. Again, we lost.

Whenever we broke the system, we always lost immediately. We have yet to win the big prize, but we had some epic runs so far, up to 10 different stores on three occasions.

I don’t know if someday we’ll every win, especially if Mommy keeps making me break the system. You have to be in it to win it, as they say. And, it helps to keep you sane if you have a system.

But, don’t let your system play you, such as playing the same numbers, because the one day you miss playing, that’s when they come out. Then you’ll hate yourself the rest of your life.
Then again, winning the lottery brings with it a whole different set of issues for some people (See: “Top 10 Lottery Horror Stories.”)

I’d like to note I never scratch the tickets. Only Mommy does. So you have her to thank for gambling away your college tuition and my retirement savings.

Then again, we may just win.

Own Up When You Are Wrong

Frankie awoke in pain, or so the little faker said.

He limped into our bedroom, dragging his left leg behind him, whimpering. It was 7am, about an hour before he was due at school.

Suspicious? I think so.

I was merciless in my condescension, insisting Frankie was less than truthful and should just tough it out, stop whining about his wittle boo-boo.

“What do you think we’re raising here son?” I barked. “We’re raising men. That’s what. Get over yourself and get dressed for school.”

The more terrible I was, the more miserable he became, sulking and whining.

Ultimately, with Mommy clinging to me, I relented and threw my hands up. She allowed Frankie to stay home, just because of some little pimple/skin rash thingie on the back of his leg.

Whah. Whah. Whah. Boo Hoo.

My position was, it is a tough world out there kids. You can’t decide to take a day off when you want for every little bump and bruise. Sick days aren’t for wasting on being sick.

I was livid, letting the lolly-gagger lie around all day, play his Nintendo DS and be pampered by Mommy and Nonna, while the rest of the world was out there living up to their commitments.

Not my son.

Not on my watch.

And, of course, like she does every time any of the kids get even the hint of a sniffle, Mommy scooped up Frankie and hustled him over to Dr. B., to once again toss away another $25 in co-pays overreacting.

Now, one thing about Frankie was, he never lied to us. He may have been a bit wild and loud and unfocused and disrespectful at times. But my son, so far, was not a liar. I should have remembered.

Still, a man, even a little man, should not be laying around when there’s a day’s work to be done, especially not for a little rash.

Sure enough, Dr. B. was able to easily tell what was wrong with Frankie.

It wasn’t a little bump or a bruise, nor was it a simple little pimple.

It was a spider bite.

My reaction to learning the source of Frankie's discomfort.

Crap.

My mouth dropped, utterly mortified, when Mommy called me at work to tell me that our first-born had been viciously attacked in his sleep by a spider, which left a sizable bite, two parallel lumps on the back of his leg.

“Are you happy now?”

Double crap.

This type of bite indicated some small dose of poison was delivered into the wound and Dr. B. said it should certainly be very, very painful; a pain which would probably linger for several days, among various other side effects. He provided an anti-biotic ointment to apply three times a day.

Super crap.

I felt absolutely awful, having been so hard on him. In my weak defense, I am ridiculously lax with you children in almost all areas. However, in matters related to your education, I am consistently stern.

I know what a cold hard world exists waiting just up the road for you children. You have to be prepared for when I am gone and cannot protect and care for you. I have to make sure you are ready.

Frankie was privileged to be accepted into the Sage Program at his public elementary school, the program for gifted children. I was committed to motivating him and ensuring he succeeded and didn’t blow this opportunity.

Enough with the excuses. I was wrong. It was time to own up.

I knew the moment Dr. B. indicated it was a spider bite, Frankie was burning to get home to set me straight. I know, as his father, I am a big influence in his life.

The little man wanted his due, vindication for the injustice he suffered at my hands.

I could have brushed him off. But then what lesson was I teaching him?

It wasn’t necessary for me reinforce my ego by telling Frankie I was tough on him for his own good.

I was wrong.

I remember how I felt when I was young and I caught my parents out. They rarely gave me satisfaction. Rather, they’d just say, “Well, that smack was for something else you did we didn’t catch you on.”

In all honesty, it was oh so true. I was a little sneaky bastard that usually had one hand in your wallet.

But I didn’t want Frankie to feel like that. So, when he got home, I didn’t try to cover my tracks and say I was just acting that way for his own good.

I sat Frankie down, hugged him, gave him my hand to shake and apologized. I didn’t make any excuses, just owned up to my mistake and asked or his forgiveness.

Oh nelly, did he lay into me, less than I would have, but I saw the twinkle in his eye and knew he’d gotten his satisfaction.

It’s important to be fair and not hide behind lame excuses when you are wrong. It’s a sign of strong character when you can own up to your mistakes and not whimper about circumstances or intentions.

Don’t drag things out. When you know you are wrong, the quicker you own up to it, the less painful the aftermath will be.

More importantly, you will be perceived as someone of integrity. People usually will not come out and pay you the compliment, but they will treat you differently and defer to you, because you demonstrated character and can be trusted.

You see, by owning up, you go from being wrong to being in the right.

And you know what, Frankie didn’t come home right way from the doctor’s office. The tough little fucker soldiered on to school to finish out the day, parading his vicious bite mark before his amazed classmates, shrugging off the oohs and aahs like a champ.

Now that’s my boy.

Gravity and Other Lessons We Learn the Hard Way

It was a long day in the middle of a long week when by some miracle, I was able to grab a few moments and collapse into the weak-spring embrace of our couch.

Not 15 seconds into a power nap, I was abruptly awoken by hi-pitched screaming erupting from the back of the house.

I feared the worst.

As a parent, you learn to discern the meaning behind screaming. While Mommy is much better at interpreting cries, even I sensed the fear and dread that crept into the pitch and rapid cadence.

However, there are some shaggy-haired eight-year-olds who do not have sense but to cry wolf for every frightening situation – from the neighborhood molester creeping in his window to a baby spider crawling up his leg.

In a panic, the entire house converged on the boys’ room. I rolled off the couch stumbling in a fog, only to crash into Mommy sprinting out of the kitchen like her ass was on fire, as Nonna jostled Nonno aside hustling up the stairs on top of each other.

We all ran into each other, forming a knot of cursing, shouting, flailing arms and legs, bottlenecking our way down the hallway and up to the doorway. I yielded and eased back to let the traffic subside.

A moment later, as I entered the room, ever-panic stricken Mommy was clutching a bawling two-year-old Tonio. Everyone was crying uncontrollably, pelting me with exasperations difficult to understand in two languages.

Apparently, attempting to climb out of his crib, little tubby Tonio toppled out, executing a flawless face-plant onto theunforgiving polished oak floor, with thunderous crash.

The soft cherry-red mark on his face would soon blossom into a full-bloom shiner, though luckily he had not lost consciousness, was lucid and not vomiting.

Frankie finally wound down his wailing and Mommy’s panicking subsided following a reassuring call from Doctor B to calm her down.

And, it helped I let her smack me a few times, a couple more than usual. That always makes Mommy feel better.

Tonio cried and he cried and he cried, but those were tears to quell fears more than yelps of pain. (Later, Tonio would sleep with us, with terrified mommy waking him every two hours.)

Fast-forward to last night. The little dare-devil attempted yet another death-defying feat of foolishness, but this time perched atop the railing to his playpen in the living room. I gently barked at him, “No, no, little dumb-ass, you do Boo-Boo.”

The word “Boo-Boo” probably got Mommy’s spidey sense tingling, as she sprung out from nowhere, startling the crap out of me, to catch him at the last moment, screaming at me for not lunging to latch onto the little Lee Majors.

I shrugged. “Little man is never going to learn like that,” I warned. “Some lessons he has to figure out on his own.”

A few hours later, same scenario, same approach. “I am telling you, you little dumb-ass, you do Boo-Boo.” I then pointed to my head and smacked the floor. “Bad, bad, Boo-Boo.”

Teetering on the edge, no Bat Lady to swoop down and save him, realizing I was not running to his rescue and would let him fall, I actually saw him think. I even think little puffs of smoke pooped out of his ears.

It was the way he paused, slowly climbed down, wrapped his arms around himself, crooked his head to one side, sighed, then sat down and resumed playing with his toys.

I think the little dumb-ass actually recalled his dramatic fall from the crib and made the connection. He was soon harrumphing and whining to be taken out of the playpen.

But he didn’t attempt to climb out again.

Regardless how we, as parents, scream, stamp our feat, and wave wildly, there are some lessons that children just have to learn for themselves. That means, sometimes, a parent has to hold back.

Frankie, when we bought you your first bike, you laughed at me when I hollered at you to slow down and use the brake. Rather than risk the chance of you flying off the curb into traffic, I steered you into a controlled crash.

And you should thank me for it. Sure, you scraped up your knees, drew a bit of blood, and wailed bloody murder. Mommy sure smacked me around for that one.

But from then on, you used the brake.

Nothing looks painful for a child. It only starts to look painful when you start associating the image with a personal experience.

Ultimately, warnings do not work. Sooner or later, curiosity gets the better of you and you can’t help but stick your hand in the fire, realizing for yourself that, damn, that flame is not so pretty.

That shit is really fucking hot.

Better to be a Small Fish in a Big Pond

As parents, we had a decision to make.

Mommy and Fiona on the First Day of School

Little Fiona Marie was tested and received an invitation to enter the New York City Board of Education’s Gifted & Talented Program. This meant our precious peach was moving up from the smaller, more intimate Foresight School to the larger, much more daunting P.S. 69. Frankie is already enrolled and will be entering the fourth grade.

We were fortunate enough to see Frankie score high enough on testing to be among the first students in the fledgling G&T program.

We do not need validation on Fiona’s intelligence. She is exceptionally intelligent, can already read and embraces learning, and is a chatty cathy always looking to engage in conversation with someone, anyone, everyone she comes in contact with.

Like a little Chihuahua, she’s constantly yipping and yapping from when she pops out of bed to when she lays back down her head.

Still, several years now after the launch of the G&T, the competition was much more intense to gain access to the few coveted seats in this fast-track program.

“Today, there’s limited access to gifted and talented education in some districts. The opposite is true in other districts. We want to create universal opportunity—and dramatically increase the numbers of students testing for, and hopefully entering, gifted and talented programs.”

-          Schools Chancellor Joel I. Klein

We were very relieved to learn she was accepted, but the apprehension settled in. Delicate Fiona is not like rough-and-tumble Frankie. At four years old, she only outweighs two-year-old Tonio by two pounds.

Just the thought of throwing her into the P.S. 69 grinder was terrifying. I have to say, with the exception of the PTA, I am a big fan of P.S. 69, from the quality of the curriculum, special programs, and caliber of teachers, to the leadership of Principal Murphy. Regarding the P.S. 69 PTA, like my mother would say, if you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, do not say anything at all.

Still, capable as she is, Fiona is a bit reluctant to step out into the unknown and she herself would prefer to remain in the security of the Foresight School. She’s at the top of her class, which makes her the top of the school, so she rules.

Mommy was reluctant, but I knew we should not turn down this amazing opportunity.

Children, I have said this to you many times: The human experience should not be one of stasis. You are either getting better or getting worse. Maintaining means inactivity, marking the absence of enhanced productivity, the halted pursuit of new opportunity.

As you make your way through life, when you reach the pinnacle of anything and there is nowhere left to climb higher, look for the next mountain. And there is always a next mounting, even if it is on a new frontier.

It is the struggle to climb that tones our intellectual muscles and hones our instincts, keeping our minds and bodies on desperate alert, in ever-ready battle condition. Stop climbing, even for a brief period, and you will lose your edge. Prolong the inactivity, you may never regain peak form.

Once you lose that drive, that essential need to strive, your edge dulls. It is the battle itself that keeps us alive, not the victory.

The victory is important, for validation, but either you are on your way up or you are on your way down.

You can be the big fish in a small pond, which is nice, for awhile, until you grow bored. Or, you can make the transition, and sacrifice your status to be a small fish in a big pond.

But remember, a big fish in a small pond can only grow as much as the small pond will allow. A small fish in a big pond can grow much larger, with the room to expand and more prey to gobble.

Come September, Fiona will be enrolled in the G&T Program, to continue her climb, even if I have to drag Mommy, kicking and screaming, out of the lobby of the school.

And, I truly count my blessings to see how you, my three little fish, will grow into mighty predators.

Always Look Them in the Eye

Never Shy from the Dreaded Evil Eye

The Evil Eye, 1859, a painting by John Phillip

Nonna Maria came home from California with an unusual gift for Fiona: a small, delicate blue stone pendant with an eye in the center — an Evil Eye.

At first I wondered why Nonna would give such a gift.

I then learned, in many cultures, including among the Italians, children are often given evil-eye jewelry to protect them.

Transcending many cultures, the Evil Eye (also known as the mal occhio, invidious eye, envious eye, and other names) is the ancient superstition that a sickness can be transmitted by someone who is envious, jealous, or covetous.

It is that lingering eye, often without intention, that beckons a malicious power summoned by the sin of envy.

Whoa. Sure sounds a bit hokey, but you never know. The eye, after all, is the window to the soul.

While I doubt the dreaded mal occhio, I know enough not to trust the person whose gaze long lingers on you and yours — especially those who avoid looking you in the eyes.

You’ll know the type. You both enter the same communal space, instantly recognize him or her from the corner of your eye. Yet, when you turn to face that person, it is like you have an invisible wall around you they just can’t penetrate.

You’d have to walk up and smack them to break the awkwardness trance. Usually they just slink away.

Don’t be that fool.

An Evil Eye charm, like the one Nonna gave to Fiona.

Look me in the eye when you speak to me, and to others.

Be proud and look fierce, even when you are shaking inside. Project confidence, force yourself to seem secure, even though it makes you suffer.

Force the issue. Eye avoidance is evidence of insecurity and/or disdain. Always hold your head up high.

You know better. You are better.

And, when you lock in, always make them turn away first to gain the advantage and control the tone for what follows.

Just don’t be a stalking, bug-eyed freak about it.

________________________________________

WACKY ANCIENT CURES FOR THE EVIL EYE

• Olive oil dripped into water with prayer
• Wax dripped into water with prayer
• Coals or match heads dropped into water with prayer
• Passing a whole raw egg over the face, then breaking it
• Breaking an egg in a dark, shadowed place, unseen
• Breaking an egg and drawing a cross on the victim’s forehead
• Throwing an egg into the bushes or against a tree (if tree is victim)
• Placing a broken egg in dish beneath victim’s bed
• Piercing a lemon with iron nails
• Victim drinks three sips of holy water
• Victim is bathed in holy water
• Victim spits at giver of evil eye three times
• Water or spittle from inadvertent perpetrator is passed to mouth of victim
• Collection of spittle from group (anonymous donation); victim drinks spittle in holy water

Don’t Trust Scorpions and Those Cute Little Brown-eyed Bears

As children, we are fed fables, as in those clever tales, complete with moral zingers, usually staged with animals as characters.

One of my favorites was the unfortunate fable of the Scorpion and the Frog, by an unknown author, though often wrongly attributed to Aesop.

It is the story of a devious scorpion who asks an innocent frog to carry him across a river. The frog is terrified the scorpion will sting him, to which the scorpion responds he would not, as this would cause both of them to sink and drown. D’uh.

The frog agrees. Halfway across the river, the frog suddenly feels a sharp sting in his back.

“You fool!” croaked the frog, “Now we shall both die! Why on earth did you do that?”

The scorpion shrugged, “I could not help myself. It is my nature.”

Then, they both sink into the murky depths of churning river.

It is in my nature.

Think about that children as I share another fable with you. It is the story of, well, I don’t know, let me see, how about a family of bears. No, not those bears. These bears are much crazier.

We’ll call this fable: “Caring, Innocent, Well-intentioned, Devastatingly Handsome Daddy Bear Takes a Beating from Raging, Irrational Mommy Bear Because of Doesn’t-Know-Any-Better Cute Little Brown-eyed Fiona Bear.”

Title needs a bit of work. Here we go.

[DISCLAIMER: Any likeness of the characters in this fable is purely coincidental and not intentional and therefore the author should be allowed to keep his body parts.]

Once upon a time there was a happy family of talking bears who lived on magical Stupendous Island.

One day, Mommy Bear was running around like a crazed racoon with rabies, trying to get ready for a Baby Bear Shower. Mommy Bear’s cousins, Vito Bear and Maria Bear, who lived nearby in the Enchanted Bloomingdale Forest, would soon welcome a beautiful baby boy bear.

As Mommy Bear raced and ranted around the house to get ready, Daddy Bear, Frankie Bear, and Tonio Bear cowered in fear that she would turn her wrath on them. You see, Mommy Bear was usually one of the most kind, loving, and patient animals in all of Stupendous Island.

That is, unless Mommy Bear had a Bear Party for which to prepare. Mommy Bear takes Bear Parties very seriously. Then, the claws came out and all male bears had best run for cover.

After all, you don’t just roll out of bed the most beautiful bear on Stupendous Island.

Mommy Bear first dressed little Fiona Bear in the most delightful sundress, white with a pink and red floral pattern.

Fiona Bear in her pretty party dress.

“Now little Fiona Bear, sit still and whatever you do, do not get anything on your dress, or I will rip off your pretty little head and use it for a coffee mug,” Mommy Bear said with a smile.

Soon after, Frankie Bear and Tonio Bear were rummaging in the cupboard for something sweet to eat and came across some juice boxes, which Daddy Bear opened for them.

Daddy Bear soon noticed little Fiona Bear crying softly in the corner.

“What is the matter Fiona Bear?” Daddy Bear could never stand when his little princess was crying.

“Daddy Bear, I am so sad, because juice boxes are my bestest favorites in the whole world. May I have one, pretty, pretty please?”

With a roar and growl, Mommy Bear came bounding into the kitchen. “Seriously? No way Daddy Bear. She’ll ruin her party dress.”

Daddy Bear thought for a moment. Fiona Bear must realize that she had to take extra special care and would certainly never spill her juice box.

Right?

Daddy Bear had an idea.

“Relax Mommy Bear, I will split a juice box with little Fiona Bear and make sure she does not spill it.”

With a sniff, snarl, and a savage glance, Mommy Bear retreated back into her den to resume making herself the most beautiful bear on Stupendous Island for the party.

But Daddy Bear didn’t split the juice box with Fiona Bear, as he said he would. He gave her the whole thing, reasoning that Fiona Bear surely grasped the gravity of the situation and would be very careful.

That was not the case.

Daddy Bear turned away for not even 10 seconds, during which time he heard Fiona Bear not sip from the small straw on the juice box. For some mind-boggling reason, she blew fiercely into the box, as the little minx loved to do, actually exploding it and splashing her new party dress in pink juice.

Oh, nelly.

“You did it now Dad,” Frankie Bear chuckled.

Emergency. Code Red. House on fire. Break out the lifeboats. We’re going down folks.

Daddy Bear clutched the now weeping Fiona Bear to his chest, desperately shushing her, in the feeble hope Mommy Bear did not hear.

But oh she did and came bounding out of her den, so terrifying it was as if she raced towards them in cartoonish slow motion.

Shivering in fear, Daddy Bear and Fiona Bear huddled together, whimpering directly in the path of the oncoming Tsunami that was Mommy Bear.

They prepared for death.

Just when thinks looked bleak, like Batman, Nonna Bear came hard charging up the stairs, sacrificing her body by throwing it at the raging Mommy Bear, barely preventing her from mauling poor Daddy Bear.

“Save yourself, I can’t hold her back much longer,” a grim Nonna bravely uttered through gritted teeth, knowing Mommy Bear would soon break through.

Desperate, Daddy Bear scooped up Fiona Bear, removed her sundress, ran it under the water, scrubbed out the pink spots, and raced to back of the house.

As the epic battle raged in the other part of the house, every second counted. As Daddy Bear flipped the switch, he knew he was now ironing for his very life.

Suddenly, Mommy Bear broke free and charged towards Daddy. At the last second, he held up Fiona Bear’s pretty little sundress, the spots now removed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy there, see, good as new,” Daddy Bear whimpered.

“After all that, do you have anything to say for yoruself?” Mommy Bear asked.

“Uh, my bad?”

The moral of these stories, stupid frogs and dopey dads  should know better than to trust stinging scorpions and forgetful Fionas.

It is just in their nature.

Oh, and also, stay the hell away from Mommy Bears when they are getting ready for parties. Nonna Bear may not be around next time.

Mondays Should Mean More Than Fridays

When Fiona grows up, she wants to be a plastic surgeon that drives a convertible red Mercedes, which she will drive to drop all of her babies off with Mommy.

When not absorbed in his role as a top video game designer, Frankie plans to be a multi-media artist and a drummer.

Not sure yet what Tonio wants to do, except watch the WeeGoes (The Wiggles) and munch Rye Kreepies (Rice Crispies), half of which may even make it into his mouth.

It’s nice to know what you want to do.

Not many people get there.

You can tell a lot about someone by asking them what day of the week is their favorite. Chances are, almost everyone you ask, if not everyone, you ask, will respond with the same answer.

Friday.

Why Friday? Because it is the end of a long work week at a job they can’t stand, with people they abhor, requiring a horrendous commute.

Friday brings a brief furlough from the trap that their lives have become.

I would ask those people if they are doing what they set out to do, all those years ago.

Everyone is working for the weekend.

Not me.

I am sure I am in the minority, because I look forward to Monday.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My job is not ideal and I love the weekend and cherish my time, because it means time with you children.

When it is warm, we head to Bloomingdale “Sprinkler” Park or Midland Beach, or just kick it in the backyard. When it’s cold, I take you to the Staten Island “Zootie” Zoo, as we call it, sledding, museums, mass on Sundays, or the movies.

Those are magical, golden-hued days for me, which I know will soon be fleeting.

Still, in the back of my ever-racing mind, I am always mulling over this challenge or that assignment.

I don’t want my weekend to end, yet I just can’t wait to get back to work, back in front of my computer.

That’s one way to know whether or not you’re successful, I mean really successful, not just rich or famous or accomplished.

What’s your favorite day of the week?

If it’s any day but Monday, you are not where you need to be.

Every Family Needs a Theme Song

They all have them.

From the Bundy’s (“Love and Marriage”) to the Bunkers (“Those Were the Days”) to the Henricksons (“God Only Knows”), Keatons (“Without Us”), Jeffersons (“Movin’ On Up”), Drummonds (“It Takes Diff’rent Strokes”), Montanas (“Best of Both Worlds” – Miley Cyrus), and Salingers (“Closer To Free” – BoDeans).

Even the Sopranos have one (“Woke Up This Morning”).

All the great families have catchy theme songs.

The McGuire family needs a theme song.

I can think of no song more appropriate than the first song we all sang together. (Actually, sorry Tonio, you weren’t born yet and Mommy’s not much of a fan of family sing-a-longs.)

Still, this was the first song members of the McGuire family sang together, as we sped down a dark highway during a long car-ride home from a holiday celebration in the depths of winter.

That first song, now the official McGuire Family theme song (at least for the first couple of seasons), is the Social Distortion punk rock cover of the Johnny Cash classic “Ring of Fire” (1990).

The Social D version reached #25 on the Billboard Modern Rock Tracks, 27 years after the single was first recorded by Cash on March 25, 1963. Co-written by June Carter and Merle Kilgore, the song became the biggest hit of his career.

Legend has it Carter had seen the phrase, “Love is like a burning ring of fire,” underscored in a book of poetry owned by her uncle A. P. Carter. And, in the film “Walk the Line,” Carter is torn by her feelings for Cash and his alcoholism and drug abuse. “There is no way to be in that kind of hell, no way to extinguish a flame that burns, burns, burns.”

When I hear that song, I think of your mother and how deep and powerful my love is for her and how that love has grown like a raging fire that now engulfs what has become our family of five.

I also think of where we started, how far we have come, how far we have to go. We struggle and we fight and we sacrifice, together, to make our way through this world, drawing upon each other for strength.

As a family, we are our own Ring of Fire.

God help those that stand in our way.

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Lyrics for “The Ring of Fire”

Love is a burnin’ thing,
And it makes a fiery ring
Bound by wild desire –
I fell into a ring of fire.

I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire –
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher,
And it burns, burn, burns,
The ring of fir, the ring of fire.

The taste of love is sweet
When hearts like ours meet.
I fell for you like a child –
Oh, but the fire ran wild.

I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire –
I went down, down, down
And the flames went higher,
And it burns, burn, burns,
The ring of fir, the ring of fire.

I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire –
I went down, down, down,
And the flames went higher,
And it burns, burn, burns,
The ring of fir, the ring of fire.

The ring of fire (and Fade)

Stupid Mistakes, Serious Consequences

It was a cold, cozy night. Nonno and Nonna were away for the week, visiting Mommy’s brothers and their families in Florida.

You children were sleeping. I cracked a bottle of wine and your mother and I fell into each other as we worked our way through the bottle.

It was growing late, but we still had not had dinner and Mommy was a bit hungry.

So, I grabbed a frozen fried chicken dinner mommy like, tossed it in the microwave to defrost it, slapped it into the over, all in under five minutes before jumping back onto the couch.

It was one of the few times where there was peace and quiet. No one screaming. No one leaping from furniture. No one running into walls or falling down or crying incessantly.

No one to watch the stove.

“How long do those things take to cook?”

“Couple more minutes, usually.”

“You sure? Smells like something’s burning.”

“Nothings burning. It’s fine.”

“I’m just going to check.”

“OH MY GOD!!!”

When I entered the kitchen my heart dropped. Panic-stricken mommy was hopping up and down as thick fingers of evil black smoke were curling out of the sides of the closed oven door.

Suddenly sober, I immediately rushed over and shut the oven down; though that did little to stem the thickening black smoke flowing out of the sides of oven, rapidly filling the kitchen.

The smoke detector started to blare, startling us both. We quickly stumbled out of the kitchen and threw open the upstairs windows. Frankie stumbled out of his room rubbing his eyes, only to be rushed back into bed.

“Call 911. Call 911.”

We’re not calling 911. Relax. Take it easy.”

Mommy headed downstairs to open the doors and windows, while I headed back into the smoky kitchen.

I knew I had to remove the source of the kitchen fire from the oven as quickly as possible. However, by doing so, I would have to open the oven door, releasing even more smoke.

Still, though it would escalate the situation, it had to be done. So, I grabbed two potholders, held my breath and flung open the door, releasing a huge black plume of acrid smoke, now engulfing the entire kitchen.

I reached in and pulled out the rack, smeared with the black goopy remnants of the tv dinner.

In my rush, I had not placed a baking sheet down and instead put the plastic TV dinner directly on the oven rack. As a result, it had quickly melted through. Then, the intense heat started to burn the plastic.

By now the entire house was filling with smoke, though at the source, the oven was emitting much less smoke.

Mommy kept Frankie and Fiona in their rooms and covered the bottom of the doors with wet rags.

We then stood in front of the door holding blankets and waving them wildly to help the smoke dissipate, which we did for several exhausting hours.

There was a small consolation, if you could call it that. We both laughed and shuddered when we considered how much more of a calamity this would have been if Nonno and Nonna had not been in Florida.

The Home Safety Council reports that in 2006 (most recent year for which statistics are available), fire departments responded to 412,500 home fires in the United States. Residential fires and burns are the third leading cause of unintentional home injury deaths and the ninth leading cause of home injuries resulting in an emergency department visit.

Overall, the Home Safety Council estimates dangers in the home cause as many as 20,000 deaths, 7 million disabling injuries, and 20 million hospital trips in the U.S. each year.

Regardless of those statistics, more than half of those surveyed by the council say they can’t think of anything they should or would do in the coming year to make their homes safer or to prevent unintentional injuries.

What was normally a simple kitchen task, heating pre-cooked food in an oven, had suddenly and terrifyingly escalated into what could have easily been a tragedy.

Be aware that danger always exists and take care.

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The Home Safety Council – Safety Guide: The Safety Guide includes tips to help you make your entire home safe. Whether you follow a room-by-room approach to home safety or are looking to make seasonal safety improvements to your home, the Safety Guide offers step-by-step tips and photos to help.

Because an Adult Says So, Doesn’t Make it So

An interesting story crossed the wires this afternoon I’d like to share with you children:

54-year-old Brenda Bouschet, arrested for allegedly driving with three-year-old granddaughter on roof of her car.

MARATHON, Fla. (AP) — Authorities say a grandmother was arrested for driving around the parking lot of a Marathon grocery store with her 3-year-old child sitting on the roof of the car. Monroe County Sheriff’s Office deputies were called to the Publix store Tuesday and arrested a 54-year-old woman after she was driving around with her three-year-old granddaughter on the roof of her car.

The grandmother was released from jail 15 hours later. The woman said Thursday she would never let anything hurt her granddaughter. She says she was driving at “snail-speed” and holding the child’s leg. Authorities say the woman told police she was giving the child some air and letting her have fun. She faces charges of child abuse. The child is back with her mother.

I am sure 54-year-old grandmother Brenda Bouschetthe was driving around at a “snail-speed and holding the child’s leg.” And, I am also sure she thought it an exciting way to bond with her granddaughter.

Still, what a spectacularly stupid idea.

It is not just the dreadful possibility of having to explain to her own daughter that, “Aw shucks, I ran over little Wendy right outside the Wal-mart this afternoon. My bad.”

Was she not concerned about violent intervention from passing police or concerned citizens?

That’s Florida for you. Try to pull that here and most likely a crazed Staten Island soccer mom or glue-haired steroid freak will beat your ass.

I am not judging. For as Jesus taught us, he who hath no sins may cast the first stone.

One time, when Frankie was about four years old, we took him to run-down Nelly Bly Amusement Park right outside Coney Island, with John and Jodie and their daughter Gillian.

I particularly enjoyed this park, because nestled right between the rides and amusements was a stand that served ice cold beer under the red-hot Brooklyn sun.

Anna and Jodie went to get a bite to eat and hit the restroom, while John and I were taking Gillian and Frankie on rides. Finally free from Mommy’s watchful eye, I made a bee-line for the roller coaster, which didn’t seem too threatening. John had some reservations, but I convinced him to at least check it out.

We waited on line as hundreds of children swarmed around and, at the last minute, instead of getting in the cars with the kids, I had the bright idea to put them in a car together.

“Uh, guys, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” the pimple-pocked teenage ticket-taker said.

“No, what do you mean, they’ll be fine,” I slurred, bombed on ice-cold Buds.

“Alright then,” the kid said. “They yo kids man.”

But as soon as the kid locked them in, with a very flimsy chain, both Frankie and Gillian were struck by a very intense fear and started to cry.

“Come on, come on, stop crying,” I scolded, but John was already removing Gillian.

“Oh, alright, we’ll ride with you,” I relented, and we split the kids between us and rode with them.

And you know what? I’ll be damned, but when I got in it, it felt a hell of a lot faster and unstable than I thought it would be. Before the ride was even over, the kids were screaming to get off and they had to stop the ride early.

Could you imagine if we had let them go on by themselves?

Of course, the kiddies ran screaming and crying to their mommies and spilled the beans, which led to Mommy cutting me off from my ice-cold Buds, which was the real tragedy that day.

No matter how exciting it may seem and how bad you want to do something, if you sense it is wrong or dangerous, DO NOT DO IT, no matter who says it is OK.

Trust your own judgment, because you will have to live with the consequences, regardless who makes the decision.

The “Silver Booties vs. Beer” Episode

No One Ever Gets Accused of Being Thrifty

In the mail the other day came a pair of knee-high sneakers for Fiona. They were slamming, silver, shiny, and ultra-trendy.

They were also $60.

For crying out loud.

Sixty dollars.

Doesn’t anyone around here know there is a recession going on? Does double-digit unemployment mean anything?

Fiona is four years old. That’s $12.50 for each year she has been alive. Or, $6 for each of her tiny little toes. At four years old, Fiona is not even 60 pounds, nor is she even 60 inches tall. She can barely even count to 60. I don’t think she even knows 60 people or has walked a total of 60 miles in her whole life on this little skinny legs.

This extravagant purchase, in and of itself, is not so remarkable. Everyone should splurge, even spoil their children on occasion.

Unless, you consider that Fiona has more than 30 pairs of sneakers. (The picture here is actually dated.)

My, lord.

Fiona only goes to camp for a few hours a day. Where is she possibly going to wear all of these shoes, before she outgrows them?

It is not like she can even pass them down.

Girls can wear boys clothes, but Tonio does not do pink.

Again, this girl, this gift from our lord, delightful though she may be, is only four years old. Her memory bank is not even fully developed yet, to the point where she’ll remember these silver booties.

Years from now, whenever we discuss the $60 silver booties episode, it will always have the same punch line.

Me.

Daddy came home and Daddy got his Irish up like he always does, and Daddy was whining, and Daddy was pouting about money again, and Daddy was stamping his feet, and Daddy hollering to the heavens, and Daddy this, and Daddy that, all because poor innocent, put-upon Mommy scraped together a few coins to buy Fiona some sneakers she so desperately wanted.

In reality, mother and the daughter, nearly identical these days (one the shrunken, beady-eyes-behind glasses, hair-bunned version of the other), dripping in jewels, lighting their cigars with c-notes, ignoring the pleading of dear old Dad as they turn to each other, cackling:

“Stop being so cheap.”

Ouch.

I begrudge nobody. Everyone gets exactly what they want around here. I consider myself quite generous, with everyone, to a fault. Anyone will tell you that I am the first one to put money on the bar and the last one to take it off.

My opinion is that a four-year-old girl, no matter how angelic and precious, no matter how perfect the purchase, no matter how ridiculous the sale, no matter how fortunate the circumstances, does not need 30 pairs of shoes.

That is not being cheap. Even if we had unlimited wealth, which we certainly do not, such excess is inappropriate. If she truly wore all of these pairs on even a semi-regular basis, or if she were older, a teenager, an argument could be made.

I do not consider myself cheap.

I consider myself thrifty.

Or, perhaps frugal.

Children, aspire to strike the balance between being thrifty and being cheap. Enjoy your lives and use your resources, but not to the point of waste, because you will regret poor spending decisions.

And be prepared for people who will not call you thrifty. They’ll call you cheap.

Just ask your mother, as the battle over the silver booties ended as abruptly as it began, as do all such confrontations.

I complain about a frivolous purchase. Mommy calls me cheap. I become enraged.

Then, Mommy says: “Well, if you are so concerned about the spending around here, maybe we should stop buying your beer. Or, better yet, buy the no-name beer.”

Have yet to think of response to that one.

Darn

Not Everyone Will Find You Funny

I felt terrible.

The day before, poor tiny two-year-old Tonio was moping around, sad eyes as big as saucers, grunting in broken baby-English, something that sounded like, “Me Go Too. Me Go Tooooooooo.”

For crying out loud, all the little man wanted was to come to the park with his big brother and big sister. He even put his little tiny baby Nikes on. They were on the wrong feet, but still.

Tonio was too young to understand Mommy did not trust me with him alone. Sure, she let me run him to Rite Aid once, but that was only a five-minute blast to pick up a prescription.

Able to bear it no longer, I mounted a full frontal assault and I put my foot down. (Actually, I whined and wept and went upside Mommy’s head with massive guilt trip.) She finally agreed to let me escort her precious Tonio to the Staten Island Zoo, Han Solo.

It was a cool early summer afternoon. I introduced Tonio to Zoo Keeper Bob, who is a great guy and always has a smile for us. You kids love this dude.

On this particular occasion, it happened to be Pirate Day, with the Zoo folks sashaying about in full swashbuckling gear. Not exactly sure what the connection is between zoology and piracy, but hey, whatever. Y’all want to prance around like pirates, go right ahead, me mateys.

Unfortunately, aside from that disturbingly deceptive homo-erotic Captain Feather Sword (get it, Feather-Sword) on The Wiggles, Tonio really didn’t get the whole pirate thing. So when the first faux-pirate swooshed up to us with his best Staten Island Italian-teen-accented “Aarrgghhh, you want to see me treasure”, it scared the crap out of Tonio.

Seriously, it literally scared the crap out of the little shit machine. Had a wonderful time finding a spot to swap out the old stink sack.

But, the little critter recovered quickly to feed the littler critters. It warmed me to see those smiles of discovery and delight break across his face, as he shoved wheat crisps into the greedy gullets, jaws, and beaks of various animals.

We strolled past the Pony Ride and though Frankie did his first ride at 10 months, I promised Mommy: NO PONY RIDES, which was fine with Tonio.

Everything was going according to my master plan.

Then we hit the Reptile House.

Since it’s opening in 1936, the Staten Island Zoo has been synonymous with snakes. The Staten Island Zoo was the first zoo anywhere to exhibit all the 32 varieties of rattlesnake’s known to occur in the US. This Reptile House recently underwent a multi-million renovation.
Best bet: hit the Reptole House by 2:30 every Saturday and watch them feed the snakes mice. You kids get as much a kick out of that, as watching mommy squirm and squeal. Really cool.

Tonio wandered around the Reptile House for once unfettered, pleased that someone wasn’t shoving him into a stroller or plopping him in a playpen, exploring the mysterious glass cubbies, especially when I pointed out the moving snakes and lizards.

Then, a young girl, dressed as a pirate, of course, strolled up to a group of children Tonio was following, and offered to let them pet the small snake she was holding.

Tonio seemed content to watch the other children stroke the serpent. As for participating, not so much.

Of course, I nudged him along. The pirate girl was distracted with some of the other children, but patiently held the snake out for Tonio, so he could take his time and warm up to the baby snake. We were all pretty engrossed in her explanation of the snake’s eating habits.

Finally building up his nerve, with a stiff jaw and determined furrow to his brow, Tonio boldly went where no Mommy would let him go before. He gingerly reached up with his grubby little paw and…

…snatched the snake, quickly turned, and wobbled away with it waving back and forth at his side.

Gasp.

Pirate Patty quickly became frantic and ran after Tonio, with a steady stream of “No, no, no, nos” trailing behind her. Little man didn’t want to give up his prize, but we finally got it away from him. She insisted on spraying Tonio’s hand with anti-bacterial solution from a spray bottle she carried, while swearing me to secrecy. (Uh, sorry pirate lady.)

This story should have ended there. But nooooo.

I thought it was hilarious, so much so, dope that I am, I brought it up at the family Saturday night bar-b-cue. I lamented, alas, too bad I did not tape the episode, as it was a for-sure prize winner on America’s Funniest Home Videos, which we gathered to watch as a family each Sunday night.

Mommy was not amused.

In fact, Mommy flipped her lid. And, Nonno (as in Big Tonio), though his lips didn’t say it, his smoldering eyes told me exactly how he felt about his namesake’s misadventure.

Worst of all, Mommy got right on the phone with Nonna, who was in California visiting Zia Catia at the time.

I expected to hear Nonna yelling and panicking on the other end of the line. But, what I heard was even more chilling.

Silence.

Nonna is due home soon and I have to pick her up at the airport. So, children, this very well may be my last entry.

Remember me not for how I died, probably mutilated, flayed, and flambéed.

Remember me for how I lived. And, know that I loved you children dearly and always did my best.

Slow Down Cowboy, Watch Where You’re Going

This past weekend was a memorable one. Saturday morning was spent in Brooklyn, father and son down at Dyker Park playing street ball—followed by an afternoon poolside with Aunt Sue, Uncle Rich, Bailey, and Natalie.

Sunday brought with it an even sharper sun, softened by a stronger breeze. The family decamped to Zia Franca’s house on the other side of Staten Island, to enjoy her wonderful backyard, inground heated pool, and Zio Donato’s excellent grilling.

Relaxing in the pool, slightly buzzed soaking up the beer and the sun, surrounded by family, wife was cool with me, life was cool with me, I didn’t think things could not get any better.

Then they did.

Street football.

Like we did back in Brooklyn years ago, sewer-to-sewer, two-hand-touch.

This time, though, Frankie, my first born was lining up on my side. As he is only eight-years old, I also grabbed Timmy, much taller and athletic than anyone else. We faced off again Zio Mike, Mike Wreck, and John T.

Back and forth we raced, the girls sitting on the stoop cheering us on, keeping the beers cold, snapping pictures. Frankie caught some, dropped some, but overall held his own, especially on defensive, which pleasantly surprised me. “That’s my boy” I barked over and over.

Not much scoring, so after a half hour or so, when the score was 2-1 (we were winning, of course), Frankie had to take a leak, so we called time out as he raced into the house.

At this point, we all gathered for a group picture around Zio Donato’s vintage Fiat 500, a hip, undersized, hip, retro sub-compact that is actually receiving a well-deserved re-design these days. However, Zio Donato’s version was vintage and polished.

The moment right before the picture above was snapped, the front door flew open, with Frankie flying out, desperate to get back in the game, but crushing an antique vase behind the door. Smashed to bits, it was an irreplaceable, as it was gift to Zia Franca and Zio Donato from your great-grandfather.

However, I thought that Frankie, in his haste, had broken the Sworski crystal panes embedded in the door, which would have been a financial disaster. The looks on our faces in the picture above say it all.

Frankie was frightened, embarassed, and felt terrible, but despite the damage, all Zia Franca and Zio Donato cared for was to make sure Frankie was alright. They quickly waved off my apologies. They are wonderful people.

Children, when you find yourself sidetracked, interrupted from a good time, do not entirely lose sight of caution. And, especially while you are on my dime, make sure slow down and stop slamming doors.

Fiona and the Fate of Her Unfortunate Dolls

I had a bizarre conversation last night, the type of surreal encounter you can only have with a four-year old.

It unfolded quite normally. Daddy crashed on the couch catching up on the world through the lens of the lovely Liz Cho and Eyewitness News. Little Fiona ambles by, quickly ambushes Daddy with a few shots to the belly, before climbing up to sit on my chest.

Doing her darndest to crack my ribs, she bounced up till she tired out all 50 pounds of herself, spitting out these deep, rich chuckles. No idea where those laughs come from, because that deep tone does not match the tiny body.

Funny as hell to see her laugh that way, though, in a strange kind of way. Kind of like those commercials where the fat man’s voice comes out of the baby’s mouth.

Fiona settled down a bit and began to carefully explain to me the harsh realities of life in the little nursery where she kept about a dozen babies or so, all spread across little cribs and cubbies. Mommy had bought Fiona a new doll and I had questioned why she needed a baby for her already large brood.

But, as I found, she kept tabs on them all. In fact, she said softly—caressing one doll’s head, looking fondly into its little plastic beady eyes—her babies really love their mommy, or momma, or moms, or mother, or mom-lady, or momby, Fi-Fi-momma, or whatever. Apparently, each of Fiona’s babies called their momma by a different name.

But, they don’t love their Dad, she said sharply as she suddenly spun towards me and looked into my eyes.

“He died.”

They also had several other brothers or sisters I had never seen, never even knew existed. No one had ever seen them.

“They died.”

And they better not get sick.

Why?

“They’ll die.”

I can usually carry on a conversation and keep up with Liz Cho and the rest of the Eyewitness News team. But this warranted a pregnant pause.

Sorry Liz.

Cue the creepy organ music.

As we sat there talking, my eyes grew wide to learn that our seemingly normal, innocent Staten Island home was actually a house of unspeakable horror. Little did I know that just a few feet from where I lay me down to sleep, praying the lord my soul to keep, was so much suffering; the death and dying of this poor little litter of fatherless plastic dollies.

One thing was for sure. Better not get sick around Fiona.

You’ll die.

But still, she insisted she was great mom, and her babies all love her.

Sure they did. No one wants to be next. Fall out of favor with mommy dearest, and you know what?

You’ll die.

“Whoops,” she said, as she dropped her baby on its face, then laughed a deep “Heh-Heh-Heh” that I suddenly found very unsettling.

“Don’t worry, she’s ok,” Fiona added. “I drop her on her head all the time. It doesn’t bother her. She won’t cry.”

Of course she won’t cry. She knows what happens when you cry.

You die.

She was really starting to creep me out, especially because she had this innocent little smile through the whole bit.

I am not sure where this obsession came from, and I was about to drop the whole heavy death-and-dying talk on her. But, I stopped myself.

I realized, at four years old, Fiona was just mimicking what she may have heard, from television, from the people around her, from her Nintendo games, that end when all of your guys die.

She was still lucky, as she had yet to grasp the finality, the reality, the totality, of death. She doesn’t yet know how death stalks us, both obviously and subtly wending its dark way into our lives in so many ways each day.

For a four-year-old, death is still just part of a game and dolls don’t really die.

Why ruin the game now?

Row, Row, Row Your Boat, Gently…Hey, Where’d Frankie Go?

Nothing Wrong With a Healthy Fear of Water

After a late start due to cool weather, we opened the backyard pool for the summer last week and Frankie is as fearless as ever.

Leaping with abandon into the water, splashing, hooting, and hollering.

That was not always the case.

I remember a different Frankie, from not too long ago. That Frankie would not venture near the water without being bundled up in a life vest.

Mommy and I fought terribly for a time, when she threatened to take Frankie to the local YMCA for swimming lessons. I was offended she would even suggest taking my son for swimming lessons from another man.

That’s a Dad’s job.

He had a Dad.

He finally got the hang of it, but he has a healthy fear of water and, I admit, I may just be a tiny bit to blame.

A long time ago in a galaxy far away, when Frankie was barely three, I took him down to the Clove Lake. I rented a row boat, slapped a bright orange life preserver on Frankie, chucked him in the boat and row, row, rowed our boat across brownish/greenish/gookish surface of the picturesque lake.

The cool breeze and quiet rippling across the water was calming, I focused on my grunting, Frankie bouncing from side to side, looking over at the little fishies and turtles trailing the boat.

Ah, this is why I had a son. This was living.

Yelp.

Splash.

Damn.

Yes, Frankie fell in Clove Lake when he was but three years old. And don’t let him fool you, all these years later. I did not, I repeat, I did not throw him in.

He went under quick, popping back up like an orange cork, a look of terror siezing his tiny face as the boat was pulling away. I tried to leap over the side, but lost balance and actually fell directly on the edge of the boat, then tumbled in, to discover the water was chest-deep.

I grabbed Frankie and tossed the terrified tyke back in the boat.

However, now an oar was floating away in the other direction.

What a sight we were, about 20 yards from the outdoor café on the side of the lake, Frankie bawling in the boat, both of us dripping in slime, big doofus Dad, knee deep in muck, one hand pulling the boat, the other trudging through the gunk to get the oar back.

I got back into the boat and wouldn’t you know it, the sun went in and a stiff wind picked up. As I furiously rowed back to rental shack, Frankie sat there shivering and crying softly.

I felt terrible, wondering how the hell I was going to explain this to Mommy.

I finally, finally, finally, made it back to the dock, and brought the boat back. Dripping with sweat, arms like limp rags from all the rowing, I ran with Frankie under my arm like a large football.

We’d only been at the park for less than 20 minutes.

When we got back to the house, I snuck him in the side door (we were living downstairs at the time) and was racing to get him changed and back out the door…

…when mommy sprung out on us like friggin Batman.

“why are you home so soon? What did you do to my baby now?”

“No reason. Everything’s fine.”

“Oh no Mommy. Don’t listen to him. Everything is not fine.”

You could almost see the smoke seeping out of Mommy’s ears as a very dramatic Frankie spilled the beans. she rained tiny punches on my back the entire time  I dressed Frankie in fresh clothes and ran him back out the door.

Took me two more years to get him back in that boat. This time, Mommy patrolled the shoreline with baby Fiona.

I was always worried how this episode may have affected Frankie, if it had any impact at all.

Then, I realized maybe a healthy fear of water is not such a bad thing.

After all, children really do not understand what drowning is, or how easy a terrible accident can occur.

Sometimes, most times in fact, you need a fright to set you right.

That gives me an idea.

Tonio. Fiona. Let’s take a ride this weekend.

Down to the Clove Lake.

But shush, don’t tell Mommy.

Just Who Eats Those Crappy Bread and Butter Pickles Anyway?

They are always on the shelf down at the market, yet I never see anyone buy them.

I have never seen anyone eat them, never seen them at any restaurants, never saw them at a bar-b-cue.

Someone has to be eating the dreaded Bread & Butter pickles.

Someone, that is, besides little Frankie McGuire.

I’d rather suck on raw Rocky Mountain oysters. My little man, though, can’t get enough of the vile little vittles, innocently disguised as your normal, everyday dills.

One Saturday night, when I piled a bunch up on Frankie’s plate, Nonna grabbed a few in a huff, saying it was too much for his delicate stomach.

The poor thing mistakenly thought they were dill pickles. Man was she in for a surprise. Before I could warn her, she bit into one. All it took was that one nibble. Her face, all puckered up and grimacing, said it all, without saying it all: you people would eat shit if they salted it.

Needless to say, Frankie has no worries of anyone eating his bread and butter pickles when he’s not looking. If it rained for 40 days and 40 nights, we’d eat each other before we ate his pickles.

You would think that would have schooled him on the reverse effect of supply and demand.

The Law of Supply & Demand dictates that the price level will move toward the point that equalizes quantities supplied and demanded.

This means that the more demand there is, the scarcer a particular product will be, and therefore more expensive to obtain.

This also means the less the demand is for nasty-ass bread & butter pickles, the more abundant the quantity may be, at least until the product is discontinued because it sucks balls.

Frankie, though, still needs to learn how to apply these basic concepts to other aspects of his life. Like this morning, driving with Frankie, he was hollering at me that he didn’t like the new pink scented tree I hung from the rearview mirror.

I told him I was fed up with the yellow one and anything is better than yellow (long story), even pink.

We got into a discussion about color and Frankie mentioned his disappointment that his little fearless flunkie, a.k.a. Tonio, expressed his own preference for red. He just assumed his little Frankie-Bot would fall into line and like his favorite color, blue.

Frankie was so indignant.

How dare Tonio have his own opinion?

Who did he think we was, anyway?

As the general surveying the battlefield, mildly annoyed to have to separate two of his squabbling lieutenants, I advised Frankie that it is in his best interest that Tonio prefers red and not blue, as red is the same color Fiona adores.

This way, he eliminated a rival for all things blue: from balls, balloons, and toys, to t-shirts, socks, cups, you name it.

“Ooooohhhhh, I get it,” he said.

I explained to Frankie that in this instance, the color blue was like a jar of bread & butter pickles that only he wants. If he likes blue and Fiona and Tonio both like red, Fiona will have to fend off the little maniac much more frequently than Frankie will.

You could almost see the light bulb pop as this realization dawned over his face.

It is human nature that the more popular item, the more people who desire it, the less available it will be and more costly to possess – hence the economic law of supply and demand.

As for Frankie’s affinity for all those spectacularly awful pickles, that defies all logic.

Must get it from his mother’s side.

Never Forget Mommy’s Birthday

Today marks Mommy’s birthday, the first day in the annual McGuire Family “Mommy Birthday Weekend Celebration.”

Yes, your mother gets a full birthday weekend.

She’s special.

Before we were married, she used to get a birthday week. Still, a full birthday weekend is not too bad.

For what she went through, then and now, for you three and for me, it is the least we can do for the girl. Make sure you always make your mother feel special on her birthday.

You do not want to deal with the crushing guilt of forgetting your mother’s birthday.

Trust me. I know.

Just ask poor Grandma.

Years ago, when Aunt Sue and I were shallow teenagers attending Shallow Junior High in Brooklyn, all wrapped up in ourselves, one night, we just couldn’t figure out what Grandma was so mad about.

If you knew Grandma, like we know Grandma, you would know, she does mad very well. But this performance was exceptional.

She was livid, stalking around the house, stopping suddenly to glare at us, tsk, tsk, tsking, then continuing on her prowl.

What’s her problem?

She’s been acting this way ever since we came home from school.

Think we should ask her?

N’ah.

We did not know why she was looking at us like she wanted to make the front page of the Daily News. All we knew was that she was fuming with a rage that was growing by the minute.

Then we got a call from Grandpa. (He was living on Staten Island, as those two maniacs were divorced at the time, only to get remarried several years later. A beautiful, bizarre Brooklyn love story, but for another blog.)

“So what did you get your mother for her birthday?”

It was about 7pm at night.

Those words froze me fast and I started to get a panic attack.

We had completely forgotten Grandma’s birthday.

She, who worked a full-time job as a guidance counselor at a rough NY Public School, only to come home to cook and clean for a house full of people.

She, who never took vacations, never did anything for herself, because there was always something we needed done.

She, who picked us up from baseball practice and dance that very afternoon.

She, who picked us up in her car, THAT HAD THIS GIGANTIC HALF-EATEN BIRTHDAY CAKE ON THE FRONT SEAT.

Ooooohh, that was her cake. For some reason, I thought she brought home someone else’s cake from the cafeteria at the school she worked. You know, why let it go to waste, when she could bring me something sweet.

D’oh.

Sure, all children are selfish and self-centered.

But this was an exceptional level of insensitivity.

As a parent now, I know you would have to work pretty hard to hit one closer to the bulls-eye than we did. Maybe forget to invite your mother to your wedding, or name one of your kid’s after your Dad’s new wife.

Still, we hit the ball out of the park with this one. We really hurt her feelings, which was really hard to do, because my mom is the strongest woman I know. She had to be, for us. We were not easy, especially me. She was the kind of remarkable that was straight-forward, unassuming, never looking for praise, she did for everyone and never complained. I did not notice nor appreciate her strength until many years later.

By then it was too late.

She made me the man I am today.

If there is one thing that you will truly regret, it will be hurting your Mom.

So, if there is one date you want to embedded in your internal calendar, as well as your Outlook, every calendar in your house, tattoo it on your forehead if needed, is Mommy’s brithday – August 8.

Don’t worry about me. Birthdays are for wives and children.

Besides, I’m younger than your mother (take it from me boys, always rocked them older ladies), so no need to remind her of that every year.

Picking the Right Eye to Poke

Nothing like a nice poke to the eye to start the day.

Better than the ole’ knee to the groin. Slap to the face is also pretty effective. Or, my personal favorite, the chuckling two-handed hair-pulling head-butt.

Like fresh fish during his first week in prison, every night I go to bed in fear.

Every morning, right around 6am, Fiona sneaks up on me, inflicting her special brand of sunshine. She then sits on my chest, all elbows and knees, harshly whispering three shrill words into my ear, so as not to awaken Momma Bear.

“Latte Cookies Please.”

Like a CIA agent water-boarding a suspected Al Qaeda suspect, little Miss Sweet & Vicious recites her mantra as I sleepily writhe in pain.

“Latte Cookies Please.”

“Latte Cookies Please.”

“Latte Cookies Please.”

She smiles, but with the extra-wide, intense eyes of a predator thinking how next to inflict maximum pain upon her prey.

“Alright already, Jesus Christ,” I whine as the triumphant little minx pops up, arms folded, smug look of satisfaction on her face that seems to say, “I thought so bitch. Your sorry punk ass best go gets me my Latte Cookies, fore I put my foot in yo ass.”

Defeated, I droop my way to the kitchen, a disturbingly energized Fiona following close behind, chirping away like a little bird. Only after arranging her breakfast—in quite OCD-like repetitive fashion, 15 Social Teas cookies stacked in a tower beside a bowl of warm milk, same bowl, same chipped Sponge Bob spoon—can I grovel my way out of her graces, to retreat for a few more minutes of sleep that never comes.

Fiona knew better than to try this with Momma Bear. She knew by waking Mommy, let alone poking or slapping her, she’d be pulling her head out of the wall.

The few times she tried, Mommy would spring out of the bed, banshee-batshit crazy, scaring the living crap out of anyone in striking distance, all of us scampering away in terror.

No, she knew who to come to. She knew I was an easy mark; so much so it allowed her to perfect her technique. She knew that if she quietly, methodically, pinched, poked, and prodded me, though doing it while desperately, sweetly, innocently asking for “Latte Cookies Please,” I would eventually cave.

I always caved.

Sucka.

Momma Bear always gets mad at me for being so soft on Fiona.

“Listen, have I ever said no to you?” I would ask Mommy, who already knew the answer. “Then what makes you think I have the power to say no to little, itty-bitty you?”

Manipulating a situation to your advantage requires patience to first identify the weakest point, the easiest mark, and then developing a consistent, effective plan for exploiting that point, without calling attention from stronger points of defense.

Then, you need to execute your tactics subtly, methodically, forcefully, but with control; no reason to rage.

That’s why, while the rest of the bears at Sleepy Hollow slept (except for Nonno Bear, who was always up at the crack of dawn, work or no work), Fiona always got her Latte Cookies Please, Momma Bear always got extra time to sleep, and Daddy Bear walked around for years with bags the size of bowling balls swaying beneath eyes watery from poking.

Don’t Be So Quick to Teach

Excuse me Fiona.

Are you qualified to teach that class?

This morning, I awoke to two words a parent never wants hear.

“Oh No.”

It wasn’t so much the words themselves, but the harshly hushed way Fiona uttered them on the other side of the bathroom door.

“What is that?”

“Uh, oh.”

“Tonio, shush, you’re going to wake them up.”

“Do not move.”

“Here, sit on the turlet.”

No screaming. No crying. How bad could this “Oh No” really be?

As it turned out, pretty bad.

I crept up and quickly pulled the door open to find my five-year-old giving my two-year-old potty lessons. However, they were not using the little potty we bought for just that purpose.

Lesson One in Potty Training 101: When commencing with Potty Training, first carefully remove the young student’s diaper, MAKING SURE THAT THE DIAPER IS ACTUALLY EMPTY BEFORE YOU RIP IT OFF THE YOUNG LAD.

Fiona clearly ditched class the day that lesson was being taught.

The offending diaper was on the floor, but it was not a messy number two.

No, the real problem here was that little Miss Yoda had coaxed her young Skywalker onto the bowl…

…without first wiping him.

Let’s just say there was extra cream cheese on that bagel.

“Everybody freeze.”

Hmmm, let me think. Now what would make this scene complete?

“What the…,” said Mommy, coming in right behind.

Perfect.

FULL DISCLOSURE: In their entire lives, I changed Frankie a total of three times, Fiona four times, and Tonio maybe about a dozen. So, Mommy clearly has done the heavy lifting in this department.

Still, Mommy definitely does not do doody disasters very well. She fares much better in a controlled clean-up capacity.

It helped that the poor gal was still half asleep and desperate to get back to full sleep.

We chased Fiona out, scooped up the little Crap-o-matic 5000 and dug in to clean up.

All in all, it was not even close to some of our worst crap attacks, especially those having to do with pools, churches, and long car rides.

Though, it could have gotten much worse had I not interrupted their little private turlet-tutoring session, when I did.

It is human nature to want to help someone. We all want to help. But, just because you watched Baywatch re-runs last night does not qualify you to leap into the surf to save someone at the beach the next day.

Fiona, it is admirable that you wanted to help your little bro like that, really.

But, next time, leave the potty training to the professionals and instead teach the little menace how to tie his shoes.

Introducing the Magnificent Luca and his Marvelous New-fangled Tricycle Suit

Parents usually, but not always, know better.

That does not mean parents know everything.

It is all about perspective.

Two of my nephews, Luca and Marco from California, came to visit for a month this summer. The oldest, Luca, is a rare breed, indeed. Luca has the poise and presence of someone much beyond his years and the vocal delivery of a television announcer.

Among my nephews and nieces, whom I all love dearly, I really am eager to see what Luca puts his mind to, because he is very intelligent.

And, Luca wants to be an inventor.

This summer, Luca asked me to help him with a project he was working on, for a “Tricycle Suit.”

We first worked up a schematic rendering for the contraption, which included basically affixing wheels to knee-pads with nails, and a single wheel with a handle running through the center for the hands.

We debated a bit over the design, and he conceded Gorilla glue may be a better option than nails on knees. And, we really butted heads on the name.

I insisted that it was not really a “Tri-cycle Suit” per se, more like “Man Trike” or “Body Trike.”

Luca looked at me like I was obviously an idiot.

“Tricycle Suit” it was.

With the schematic in hand, we dropped the Mommies off and headed down to Home Depot to buy the materials.

I promised his mom, Zia Catia, that it would probably only cost $25, so she gave us $50 just to be safe. (I later had to call back for permission to spend another $30.)

It turns out, inventing “Tricycle Suits” ain’t cheap.

We had a few rounds of false-starts. The expensive knee pads would not hold the Gorilla glue or the epoxy. But, after two weeks and cheaper, more porous knee pads, we were ready for our debut.

It was the last night their vacation and there was excitement in the air.

Well, actually only Luca and I were excited. The other kids were mildly interested and the mommies wanted to stay out of the heat.

I wanted to do our testing in the backyard, out of sight, because I was not sure how it would look.

However, the pavers in the backyard did not afford the smooth surface necessary for the “Tricycle Suit” to work.

It also seemed a bit strange, with these wheels strapped to his knees.

So we head to the front of the house and Luca is rolling around on the floor, trying to get his invention to work.

At that moment, my heart sank, as a rough and ready group of Staten Island street trash rumbled by on their BMXs.

Luca stood up, adjusted a helmet slipping a bit over his eyes.

He locked eyes with the pack leader. Luca was a bit uncertain, but with his head high, because he was proud of what he accomplished and ready to defend his idea.

It was the moment of truth.

And, you know what?

The other little dude had look of pure astonishment on his grimy face. They came over for a look see and another nervous moment as Luca tried unsuccessfully to get it to work.

“Well, it doesn’t do well on concrete, but you should see it on the downhill,” Luca said.

“Yeah, kinda figured that,” the little hoodlum said. “Pretty cool man.”

And just like that, they were back on their BMXs ripping down the street. Luca strode back into backyard like the conquering hero he was, a smug look of satisfaction ion his face.

Pretty friggin impressive for the little guy.

Children, when you have children, do not get in their way.

Let them flush out their own ideas, no matter how flawed you think they are.

You may not know better.

Ultimately, this “Tricycle Suit” may never go far, if go at all. But I have a feeling the Magnificent Mr. Luca Reed will not need it to get where he’s headed.

But, if by some chance it it does take off, Luca, you better take care of your old Zio Mack back in New York.

There’s Something About Fiona

Released in the summer of 1998, the Farrelly brother’s comedy “There’s Something About Mary” is a hilarious story about an adorable Cameron Diaz relentlessly pursued by a group of obsessed paramours, including Ben Stiller, Chris Elliot, Matt Dillon, and Lee Evans.

I am starting to feel a bit like I imagine Mary’s Dad did.

Everywhere that little Fiona goes, the wolves are sure to follow.

In this episode, the rascal’s name is Dillon. Sounds like some slick, slimy surfer dude out on the prowl. There sure were no Dillons back in Brooklyn where I grew up. We would have smacked the Dillon right out of him, given him a real name, like Vinny or Joey.

Dillon. Rhymes with villain.

Let’s just call him Villain.

Never saw this little Villain. That’s how it is with those little Romeos, always hiding when the Daddy comes around.

Let’s just jump to some outrageous conclusions and form some really unfair assumptions about the little Villain, shall we.

My innocent Lady Capulet met the sinister mini-Montague the first day of summer camp. I envision my fair lady skipping along, delicate flowers flowing from her hair; the diabolical Villain laying in wait to ensnare her virtue.

Wherever is there an Officer Krupke when you need one, to keep the little shark away from my delicate baby Jett-ette.

Their eyes lock across the cracked Staten Island playground, as they share a star-crossed moment, both mouths smudged from snacktime—his chocolate, hers strawberry—tiny fingers with half-chewed nails flecked with paint desperately, involuntarily reach towards each other.

They know not what draws them together, only that it is there very reason for being.

They move slowly towards each other in slow motion as the rest of the playground swarms by, and they are mere paces from each other …

…just in time for fearless big brother Frankie to bound on the scene like a bad-ass Bernardo, his little gang orbiting around him like satellites.

Sizing up the scene, an off-stage narrator (that would be me) reminds Frankie what I told him long ago, as I held his younger brother, baby Tonio, in my arms, and we three gazed down late one evening on the peacefully sleeping Fiona Marie.

“My sons, listen to what I have to say,” I spoke softly, yet sternly. “Young Francis, you will be my right arm. You Tonio James, my left. As I fade with age, you will become my speed, my strength, my stealth, in the constant running battle to keep the wolves at bay from our little lamb.”

“Huh,” Frankie said, looking at me with the look children give their crazy parents, before running off.

Tonio spit up on me, which was obviously an over-enthusiastic acceptance of his assignment.

Fast-forward to Staten Island Summer Camp 2009.

With Frankie on point, hands are thrown as the Jets swarm the Sharks and the magic between the little Villain and lady Fiona is cracked, but not broken.

The fat-ass cafeteria aide-lady breaks up the scuffle, Frankie and Villain forcibly separated, my boy dragged and tossed out to the curb.

Officer Krupke sits there smugly, just waiting from Frankie to make a misstep. Frankie leaps on the back of Tonio’s bike, eyes locked with little Villain as they ride into the morning sunset (suspend some belief here guys for poetic climactic purposes).

Frankie makes a slow slit-throat sign of revenge as they drift away.

Villain flips him the bird.

The summer is a long series of clashes, punctuated by the intermittent clandestine rendezvous.

Each time Lady Fiona leaves the house, little Villain is sure to follow, lurking behind the batting cages at Fun Station, pretending to be a pizza boy at Chuckie Cheese, taking tickets at the Staten Island Zoo.

Each timer, his plan is quickly thwarted by Frankie and Tonio.

My right hand and my left.

Villain’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. McSmellLikeAss (don’t really know what their names are, but it must be something like this), also forbid him to see our little angel.

Imagine the nerve.

At the end of summer, Fiona and Villain have their little hearts are broken when on the last day of camp, as all the songs are sung and fun is done, they realize they will never see each other ever, ever, ever again.

Never.

Ever.

You see, thank the lord they are in different zones school districts.

She comes home and no matter what I do, I cannot turn that frown upside down.

Well, not really, as my little Natalie Wood would soon forget the little Villain.

“Oh Daddy, you so crazy,” Fiona cooed. “He was just my friend. I never kissed him.”

“Well, not really,” she added with a smile.

And, a twinkle in her eye.

Oh lordy, lordy, lordy. What have I gotten myself into and what heartache lies ahead?

She’s only five years old.

Mommy and the Zhu Zhu Pets Racket

Do You Zhu Zhu?

If you don’t, you probably will soon.

I was in Midtown Manhattan recently for a business lunch, so Mommy asked me to drop by the mega Toys R Us and ask if they had any Zhu Zhu. Working my way through half a dozen clueless sales reps, I finally found one who knew Zhu Zhu.

“Oh, those things,” she said, then making a pursing sound with her lips, like a deflating balloon. “No chance. They barely make it off the truck. Them things like the new Cabbage Patch Kids, yo.” 

Thus began the Mommy’s Zhu Zhu Racket. 

Mommy first came home with Zhu Zhu a couple of weeks ago. Zhu Zhu Pets (a.k.a. Go Go Pets) are adorable, palm-sized, battery-power hamsters designed to play in the little habitrails that are modular and, of course, sold separately, batteries not included. They purr and coo as the zip around. You buy them blankets and toys. One even drives a cute little car. 

Now the hottest craze among four-year-olds, Zhu Zhu is expected to be the most popular toy of the year.

Sure, you do not get the joy of an actual pet, with all the nuzzling and nose twitching. However…

Zhu Zhu Pets don’t smell.  

Zhu Zhu Pets don’t eat.

Zhu Zhu Pets don’t crap.

Zhu Zhu Pets don’t bite.  

Zhu Zhu Pets don’t die.

Zhu Zhu Pets, though, also don’t come cheap, if you can even find them at all.

According to the Zhu Zhu website: “We do not sell direct or via our website and due to the seasonal nature of some of our Zhu Zhu Pets™ Hamsters and Playsets; they might not be readily available at all times on the retail shelf.”

Sure.

Most mornings, outside the toys R Us down Richmond Avenue, you can find a small crowd of anxious folks milling about, eying each other nervously, waiting impatiently for the store to open.

Once those automatic doors spring open, they’re off, all booking in the same direction like lemmings, making the mad dash for Zhu Zhu.

And, right in the thick of the pack is your Mom, with the sharpest elbows on Staten Island. Unlike the others, though, your Mom is smart.

She knows not to flow solo. She brings reinforcements. After all, six hands are better than two.

You see, because of the demand for Zhu Zhu, Toys R Us sets a limit on how many each customer can purchase. What they do not say, and what Mommy quickly picked up on, is that they do not specify how old each customer has to be, even if that customer is five-year-old Fiona, cute as a button. 

In the moments before the doors were opened, Mommy bent down so she could speak eye-to-eye with Frankie and Fiona.

“Get your head in the game kids, this is important,” Mommy said. “When that door opens, run like you’ve never run before and grab whatever you can. You’re kids, so hopefully they’ll not be that rough on you. But don’t count on it and no matter what, once you get your hands on something, DO NOT LET IT GO.”    

Later, loaded down with Zhu Zhu, Mommy prowls the front of the store like a lion stalking a herd of gazelles. She’s carefully sniffing out the one dopey little clerk ignorant of the one-Zhu-Zhu-per-customer policy.

Bingo. 

Minutes later, Mommy, Frankie, and Fiona come barreling in the house, arms loaded with oversized Toys R Us shopping bags brimming with Zhu Zhu.

Score.  

The rest of the day includes dividing up the spoils between the Zhu Zhu we keep and the Zhu Zhu Mommy auctions on Ebay.

You see, it’s hard to criticize Mommy for spending $100 on Zhu Zhu for you kids, when she makes back triple that on her auctions.

Mommy is no joke. You see, Mommy never went to business school, nor does she have an MBA.

She doesn’t need it.

Your Mom has the sharpest mind for business that I have ever met. Utterly ruthless and shameless in her pursuit of the deal, she instinctively knows how and when to push.

And she always gets her price.

Just remember. She may be your mother, but never get between Mommy and her deal.

Take it from me. I’m her husband and she trampled me plenty of times.

Now it’s early on a Saturday morning and Mommy and Frankie are suiting up for another run down to Toys R Us. (Poor little Fiona was left home. “She slows us down,” Mommy said.)

Best of luck Team McGuire.

Don’t Have a Madelyne Moment

Do you remember poor Madelyne Gorman Toogood?

Sure you do.

Back on Sept. 13, 2002, Madelyne was caught on store surveillance videotape repeatedly striking her four-year-old daughter in the back seat of her SUV in the parking lot of a Kohl’s department store in Mishawaka, Indiana.

“I am mortified. I am mortified by what I did to my family, what I did to my husband,” she said.

She should be. That cringe-worthy clip of Madelyne’s pig-tail-pulling shrill-shrieking slap-fest ran on every news outlet in civilization. 

Madelyne, Madelyne, Madelyne. What were you thinking? 

First checking to make sure the coast was clear, she probably wasn’t thinking that within hours she would be the poster-mom for child abuse.

I do not advocate corporal punishment. Still, like Chris Rock says, just because you should not hit someone does not mean they do not deserve to be hit.

You see, I had a near- Madelyne moment yesterday.  I felt sorry for you little critters, so I ran you down to Bloomingdale “Sprinkler” Park. I brought balloons for you to fill with water, and Tonio hit me in the head with one.

But that’s not why I have it in for the little monster.

It was a nice morning, so I kept you down at the park for hours, up until the last possible minute to get home in time for Sunday dinner. When I announced it was time to go home, the little rat started his rant.

After a harshly grunted threat, Frankie and Fiona fell into line and went to wait by the truck.

Not Tonio.

Defiantly, he crossed his pudgy little arms, pursed his lips, stuck his tongue out, and booked like his ass was on fire. Like Dog the Bounty Hunter, I ran the little runaway down.

That’s when the tantrum started, with the wiggling and the biting and the scratching and the screaming; desperate, grating, guttural screams that traveled up from his belly.

I had to physically carry off the little hurricane, the eye in a storm of condescending stares from dozens of other parents.

Tonio wasn’t done. He was just getting started.

You would think I was shoving him into a burning building, the way he fought to stay out of the truck. In my mind, I flashed back to Madelyne’s meltdown and I knew exactly what she felt that fateful day.

Driving home, Tonio wiggled out of the top harness of the car seat and as we sped down Richmond Avenue, I had to grab hold of his leg and hold it up to keep him from entirely getting loose. All the while, he was slapping and scratching Frankie and Fiona, sitting on either side of him.

Tonio only settled down when I told him that I was taking him to another park. That lasted about two blocks, before he recognized the route home, and then he was off again.

Oh, the dents my father would have put in my head for such an outburst. They didn’t have surveillance cameras back then.

I deposited Tonio with Mommy and she comforted him, talking about that mean old Daddy.  

I consoled myself to think of that day, far, far away, when we’ll probably head down to a pub for a few pints. Then walking back to the car…

…WHAAM, punch right to the back of the head.

Kick to the nuts.

Poke to the eye.

“Damn Dad, what the hell did you do that for?”

“That’s for September 13, 2009.”

It is never acceptable to strike a child in anger.

Wait until they grow up. Then strike them in revenge.

WTF Barbie?

Fiona Marie no longer wants to be a Plastic Surgeon. She seems to have found a higher calling.

Fiona wants to be French 16th Century Musketeer of the Guard. 

Just like Barbie.

Why, you may ask?

Because girls can do anything. 

I have to admit, six months ago, when the trailers for this update of the Alexander Dumas classic first started to show up, Frankie and I could not help but snicker into our hands.

After all, there are few novels that are more single-mindedly misogynistic than the Three Musketeers.

All of the women depicted in the novel are adulterers, villains, or adulterous villains.

Not in the Barbie World, where life’s fantastic, it’s so plastic. In this update, Barbie, or Corinne, is the daughter of d’Artagnan, Dumas original protagonist. Like d’Artagnan, Corinne grew up longing to become a musketeer and trained hard in the art of swordsladyship.

Corinne sets off for Paris to join the musketeers, only to have her letter of introduction laughed at by Captain Treville and the uber-masculine musketeers.

SPOILER ALERT: Barbie bursts through that glass-slippered ceiling, along the way securing the throne for a purely passive Prince Ken.  

Fiona watched most of the movie with her mouth open and nearly burst out of her skin following Barbie’s last line: “True courage is pursuing your dream, even when everyone else says it’s impossible.”

Then, she was off, bouncing and leaping and battling invisible villains, all of them male, stopping only to dare any man or boy present to tell her to calm down. Once you did, she would say, hands firmly on hips: “YOU DON’T EVER CALL A GIRL TO CALM DOWN.”

And, like some bizarre comedy routine, in the background, somewhere in the house, Frankie would chirp: “Fiona, how many times do I have to tell you, it’s TELL, not CALL. Don’t ever TELL a girl to calm down. Sheesh.”

Fiona was undeterred.

Gloria Steinem would be proud.

And let’s not forget Tonio, her trusty little unwanted sidekick.

“Yeah, and you no never call a boy a calm down.”

I had to keep pulling the pint-size Porthos off Fiona and Mommy, to let my girls share this important moment in Fiona’s feminist enlightenment.

Sure, the premise may have been a bit silly and historically implausible, but certainly no sillier than a Spongebob or Pokemon episode.

More importantly, this is 2009 and Girl Power rocks. I was even inspired and felt all girly inside. 

So, when Fiona insisted she would be Barbie Musketeer for Halloween, I was thrilled for her.

Until, that is, I ran into Mattel’s version of feminism empowerment, which apparently comes in shades of delicate pink and lavender satin with a silly frilly tiara on top.

This year’s award for “Best-Attempt-to-Shove-Male-Chauvinistic-Ideals-Down-the-Throats-of-Americ’s-Youth-in-the-Shameless-Pursuit-of-Profits” goes to the makers of the Barbie Three Musketeers Halloween costumes.

There are actually two costumes available for Barbie and the Three Musketeers (see pictures), and not a swashbuckling set among them.

First, we have Corinne, modeling the latest in subservient, passive, helpless 16th Century I-Need-a-Man-to-Come-Save-Me wear.

Ok, Ok, I understand, not every girl will want to be a sword slinger. Surely, the second costume would be more appropriate for Fiona.

Not so. Rosemonde is an equally dainty damsel, only in a luscious lavender shade.

Neither remotely resemble Musketeers.

Shame on you Mattel, for the short-sightedness.

You see, we’ll find a Musketeer costume somewhere, as well, no doubt, will millions of other moms and dads.

And, we would have been willing to pay much more than the $59.95 than is advertised for those silly princess outfits. Because, when my little girl wants something, she doesn’t stop kicking and screaming (and pouting and pulling my heart strings) until she gets it.

That’s real Girl Power for you.

It’s the “Daddy” Song, Damnit

For crying out loud.

It is a very simple song, children. It’s only five short lines.

You would think these three mighty midgets (two of them enrolled in gifted programs) would be able to get it right.

One, just once. For your dear old Dad. Sing it right, like I taught you.

From the top:

The Daddy Song (By Daddy McGuire)

Daddy’s the best
Mommy’s a mess
Hi-Ho the Cheerio
Daddy’s the best
And Mommy’s a mess
 
Simple, right?

Apparently not. No matter how many times I drill it into their mini-melons, my three dyslexic dwarfs spit it back at me backwards, changing the entire meaning:

The Mommy Song (By Three Little Ingrates)

Mommy’s the best
Daddy’s a mess
Hi-Ho the Cheerio
Mommy’s the best
And Daddy’s a mess

Just for good measure, after botching the song, Tonio usually comes stumbling over to stick his thumb in my teary eye. 

Could it possibly be that maybe, just maybe, my children love their mother more?

“No- Duh! Daddy, face it, we love Mommy more. MUCH MORE. And you smell.”

How could this happen? I was the one that took you kids to the park all the time. I was the one who worked his ass off two, sometimes three jobs, so mommy could spoil you. I was the one who did the heavy lifting, fighting the good fight, day in, day out.

I was the one who took you to mass every Sunday and brought you for snacks afterward. I was the one who played video games with you and Battleship. I was the one who let you get away with murder, well close to it. And, when Mommy walked out of the room, I was the one that gave you candy and jumped on the couch with you, even playing ball in doors.

Hello, that was me.

“You’re just a big fat smelly daddy. Mommy’s the best and you’re a mess.”

Ouch.

Come to think of it, though, I really love my Dad. But, I sure love my Mom more.

And you know what? My Dad smells too.

The Coldest Story Ever Told

Nothing is more annoying than someone who sings along to their iPod.

Unless, that someone happens to be your eight-year-old son Frankie, warbling through Kanye West’s Heartless (featuring T Pain) on his iPod, staring out the window as we drive home from basketball practice.  

I don’t even like that song, but I was mesmerized: 

In the night I hear them talk,
The coldest story ever told,
Somewhere far along this road
He lost his soul,
To a woman so Heartless
How could you be so heartless?

Before I realized I was doing it, I had turned down the car radio and was humming along to Frankie’s hum-grunt-squeak rendition, sharing a moment to which he was obviously oblivious.

And again, I can’t stand that song.

In that moment, I realized, my boy is growing up.

Soon, the connection we have will be lost, and I will be this constant dorky annoyance in his life he is forced to occasionally suffer through.

Will I have to wait until he has children of his own, for empathy to drive him back into the fold?

Already, the sharp sarcasm of adolescence is seeping into half his responses. We still play catch and wrestle and game together, but that bald mutual admiration is waning, at least on his side.

And, for the first time, my son said he did not want to be like me. The sensitive little Mary I am, I pressed him. I work hard to set a good example of the proper measures of a man.

“No, no, no, not all that stuff,” Frankie waved me off. “What I mean is, I don’t want be a doofus like you. I’m too cool for that.”

Part of me marveled at how confident and emboldened he is, if a bit naïve. The other part wants to beat his wise ass.

I am the coolest Dad possible, I remind him, even though, I guess, just by saying I’m the coolest dad possible makes me a super dork.  

My children are still small, ages eight, five, and two, so this is the first time I faced the reality of them not just growing, but growing up, of us growing apart, of them blossoming into adults that will soon step out the shadow of our tight family nucleus.

For now, though, I will hold on tight, hum along to Frankie’s backseat solos and relish our catches in the fading sunlight of his youth, for as long as I can.

Until my son moves on.

That is the coldest story ever told.

Fight Night

Every night in bed, I feel like a border guard trying to keep out a swarm of desperate little illegals. No matter how many times you deport their little asses, they seem to always slip back across and wind up right up your butt.

You would think with a king-size bed, there would be enough room to sleep a family of five. But not when three of those five sleep sideways.

Like a rat fleeing a sinking ship, soon after midnight Tonio is the first to find his way in the dark. Never pull a score a score with Tonio. Flat-footed stumbling his way along, he has yet to understand the concept of stealth, slamming doors and singing to himself, before latching onto my ear and climbing up and over my face to crawl into bed.

Sensing her baby brother just may be getting some disproportionate mommy time, Fiona soon comes flitting in. Frankie has seem to have outgrown the family huddle, but will occasionally join the mess.

Tonio’s favorite position is to sleep with his head on mommy’s butt and his feet on my head, with his arms spread out like an eagle, almost as if selfishly and subconsciously he is trying to take up as much room as his two-foot frame would allow.

Fiona simply latches onto Mommy like a barnacle on the side of a ship, left hand holding on for dear life, right hand trying to suck the nail off her thumb. 

Some nights they’ll bring their robots and dolls and toys and turn it into a bed of nails, constantly rolling from back-piercing surprise to the next.

My very favorite, though, are when they start farting at each other. Again, not just farting, but farting at each other. Who knew such large evil odors could come out of such little sweet angels. And, for some reason, the grand finale of the McGuire family fart-fest is to sit on Daddy’s head and let the really loud ones go.

Kicking them out is not an option. Like throwing little drunks out of their favorite corner bar, kicking and screaming, they always find a way to slip back in the side door.

After several years of being marginalized, literally, left to hang onto the side of the bed like I was clutching the side of a cliff, I made a discovery.

When I hear the thumpity-thump-thump of Tonio, I whip out a long, thick pillow and sleep alongside that, providing me with just enough of a border to keep the little ones at bay.

Occasionally, I still get farted on or slapped or clawed. But, for the most part, it’s too much effort for them to climb up over that pillow.

So, they just set upon Mommy.

Sorry hon. Better you than me.

Don’t Let the Creepy Guy in Your Raft

There is a limit to etiquette some simply don’t understand.

There is a wonderful spot we found a bit beyond the Delaware Water Gap, known as The Great Wolf Lodge. Part of a national chain, it is a charming rustic mountaintop resort, with the unusual amenity of a ridiculous 45,000 square-foot indoor water park.

Wooo-hooo.

Since Aunt Sue turned us on the GWL in November 2008, the McGuires have trekked monthly to Scotsrun, Pennsylvania. (Mommy just loves calling it Scrotum, PA, cracking herself up every time, no matter how many times we go.)

Our typical GWL adventure involves arriving at about noon with McDonald’s take-out in hand. Mommy scurries inside and gets preferential treatment (she heads to the concierge and frantically tells them one of you children is in desperate need of an asthma attack, which works every time. God bless her, the woman just knows how to get things done.).

After several hours of fun with the whole family, usually about 7pm or so, Tonio and Fiona are dazed and exhausted, so Mommy carts them off up to the room to shower and eat dinner, before hitting the arcade.

This leaves me alone with Frankie for an hour or so to attack the larger water slides.

This past weekend was one such occasion and Frankie and I tore up the four flights of stairs to get to the very top, which is the entrance to the River Canyon Run (see picture below).           

After a bit of a wait, brimming with excitement, just as we board the raft, this skeevy looking guy comes up behind me and tries to jump in.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, gently, but firmly, nudging him back with a look on my face like I was going to throw his monkey ass off the tower. 

“Do you mind is this guy rides with y’all?” the lifeguard asked. 

Hell’s yes I mind.

“No thanks,” I politely declined the ride-along with Mayor McCreepy. “I just want to ride with my son. Sorry pal.” 

It wasn’t just that we had spent a few long minutes waiting, which is even longer than you would think, when you are waiting for a water ride. This was a grown, disturbed looking dude, with a lazy eye, no less, who I did not know, in a tight-fitting bathing suit, looking to climb aboard a raft, with a very real chance he may roll on top of Frankie.

Who goes on group rides by themselves? In a Speedo?

On a previous GWL trip I allowed this smelly, solo-riding cheesey hips join our raft. It was a different type of ride, not so close quarters, but still it was impossibly awkward.

Why bother?

Besides, it would screw up our groove. When we do the River Canyon Run, I sprawl out at the back of the raft, while Frankie faces forward at the front, defiantly screaming in the face of terror, fists shaking in the air, as we fly down the massive blue tube, which actually goes outside the building before a powerful splashdown.

However, in order to get into position, we are doing a bit of scrambling. I’m not about to let Banana-Hammock Barry join in the fun.   
 
Not on my watch.

And, apparently, when others saw that I declined, they also declined.

But, not everyone.   

There was no line, so we made it back up quickly, just in time to see Sammy the Scoutmaster awkwardly squeeze his Speedo ass aboard a raft, packed with a family of four no less – uncomfortable looks all around.

Now, anyone who has ever ridden this ride will tell you that part of the fun is the squealing and the screaming at the top of your lungs.

This time, though, as Frankie and I approached the edge of the gaping tunnel, all we heard was silence before the splashdown.   

As you slide through life, always be polite, respectful, and courteous, to a fault, even to those who do not know any better.

However, remember, you don’t always have to let the creepy guy in your raft.