Does He Have a Son or What? I Can't Remember.

My son has noticed a decidedly biased quality to the posts on this site - namely that they are all about his sister and not at all about him. I actually figured his teenage sensibilities would cry foul against having his business displayed in such a public way, but apparently he's been dying to see himself in print. So, I have committed the next three entries to him, in an attempt to even things out a little.

Today's post is about the unspoken casualty of the teenage years - the memory. I first started noticing it in my son when he hit thirteen. It was as if on that unluckiest of all birthdays, a time bomb went off in his brain and took out all his memory storage. Or, to use another metaphor, it was like someone clicked on a suspicious link in the Internet of his brain and downloaded a virus that wiped his hard drive. I'm talking about forgetfulness on the level of Ten-second Tom. It started with the normal lapses of memory - forgotten homework, lunches left at home, pants with no belts. Soon enough, it progressed to forgetting conversations that we'd had just moments before and forgetting school projects until the night before (or in some cases the night after) they're due. As of the night of this post, it has become impossible for the boy to remember to put another bag in the garbage can after he takes out the trash. I have seen him, after being asked to get his shoes out of the car and get his book bag out of the hallway, come back in with the shoes, step over the book bag with some difficulty, and go right back to playing games on the couch.

I'm told that this is just a part of the devastation of adolescence. That all teenagers, and especially boys, go through this absent-minded stage. However, I don't really need to do much research to track the cause. I remember (now that I've passed through those black waters) how my parents, teachers, and coaches suffered through my own debilitating adolescent forgetfulness. At night, sometimes, I am still haunted by the weight of textbooks held out at ninety degrees to remind me to bring my books to class, the hand cramps brought on by hundreds of lines written promising to do my homework, the leagues run around the football field in bare shoulder pads as a result of forgetting my practice jersey. As the irony gods would have it, I may owe most of my physical fitness to my mental infirmity.

So how mad can I really be at him? One the one hand, it's part of the age, a phase we men must all endure. On the other hand, he does get it honestly. How can I yell at him when the shouts of yesteryear still ring in my own ears? For all I know it may be genetic. The question is, when can I expect this phase to end? Also, where did I put my keys?

Monday Morning (Ok, Not Quite) Haiku

Another Monday
Off from work. With sleep I rise
In true Easter form.

Monday Morning Haiku

Easter coming soon.
Making baskets for the kids.
Want to eat candy.

Have You Seen Her?

So this is a big city I'm living in, right? Lots of beautiful women everywhere? Why then is it so difficult to find one to go out with? Apparently, out of the many women who are available in my age bracket, you first eliminate all of the ones who are scared off by a man with two kids and an ex, and the possible drama that brings. That seems to be a big chunk, in case you're wondering. Mind you, I picture this as a group of women standing in an imaginary waiting room, all eagerly waiting for news from the office staff as to whether they make the cut, and then leaving with dejected looks on their faces when they don't. And, yes, I have factored in the possibility that uber-confidence bordering on arrogance might be part of the problem.

Anyway, next, you tell the remaining group that you not only have kids, but really aren't sure you want to make any more, and a whole bunch of women 28-37 who don't have children and definitely (understandably) want them walk out. After that, you send away all of the ones who aren't Christian at all, and about half of those left exit. Of course when you advise the remaining ones that regular church attendance and some basic orthodox beliefs are expected, half of the remaining half leave as well. So now you're down to a very small group, and out of those, who knows how many you're actually attracted to and can enjoy talking with. It's a daunting task. Now, if they were actually all in one room together, it would already be difficult, but in fact they are spread across a rather large metropolitan area, kind of like looking for a needle in a proverbial haystack. No, more like looking for a particular kind of needle in a needle stack. Wow, just looking back over this makes it seem even worse than before! Wish me luck.

Monday Morning Haiku

Wake up on the beach,
Fluffy white hotel pillows.
Daytona baby!