Sweet Dreams, Daddy

In my last blog entry, I wrote about losing my children to Neil Diamond. I wrote of the hope we all hold out, that our kids will embrace our own passions and hobbies, giving us the chance to spend quality time with our kids while also still enjoying the things we love.

For me, things got worse before they got better in that department. But, at least for a fleeting moment, they did get better.

First, the worse. I have asked, cajoled, pleaded and demanded that she please hold off on this music until at least Veterans Day. In the past two years, I have amended that to after Halloween. I cannot, will not, go any further than that. When it hits November 1, I only drive with her when I must. There’s no room for me anyway, as the entire passenger seat is filled with holiday CDs. I tell the girls that this is not normal, and that they should feel free to ask the woman to take these CDs out at any time. They’re sitting in the back, after all, so they’re held hostage to their mother’s two-month-long Christmas-music binge.

So it’s the first Sunday in October, the sky is blue, it’s 70 degrees, and the four of us are driving home from church. I am about to put on some pop music, or NPR, and maybe even find a song that I can tell the girls about. But before I can do so, this woman (I could refer to her as “Amy” or “my wife,” but I’m embarrassed to) says to the girls, “Should we put it on, guys?” They respond immediately: “Yes!”

She slips in a CD, and I hear the jingling bells. No, please. Then I hear Tom Petty. Oh, this can’t be. It is. He launches into a song called “Christmas All Over Again,” which is fun to hear on December 15. Once. Mind you, it is October 4th at this moment, and I am hearing this song. Katie, our older girl, immediately responds: “Yes, turn that up!”

I’m not going to bother with her. She’s lost already. I turn back to Chelsea, who at age 4 is still plenty malleable. “Chelsea,” I say, “it’s not too late. There’s still time – I can save you from this madness.”

Chelsea looks at me as if I’ve just offered to take away her favorite blanket. “I want this,” she says. “I love Christmas music.”

That woman next to me is now howling, pounding the steering wheel. “You haven’t worked hard enough, honey,” she says. “You’ve got to pound it into them. Pound it in.”

Insanity. First of all, I’m not pounding anything into my children. They should come to love whatever they want – as long as it’s not this. Which brings me to my second point – it is just wrong to be playing these songs on October 4th. I can’t sit in this car. As much as I hate to say it, I’ll take Elmo, Barney and Raffi yet again over hearing a Tom Petty holiday song two weeks removed from summertime. I’ll even take the Wiggles over this.

So, with parenting angst at its height, we come to this evening. This night is special to me because my mom and her Neil Diamond records are back in her own home, and my wife and her ho-ho-ho’s are out for the night. So it’s just me and the girls. We’re reading books and drawing, while Daddy catches the Cardinals-Dodgers playoff game in between pages of our Franklin book.

At one point, Chelsea looks at the TV and notices the gorgeous cardinal logo on the visiting team’s jerseys. Katie looks up as well and starts asking how the Dodgers got their team name. As I explain that they were named for “trolley dodgers” in old Brooklyn, the girls are talking about the trolleys they’ve seen, and we’re doing some vocab work, figuring out what the verb “to dodge” means. A few minutes in, they get it.

Katie wants me to tell her some other team names, and how they got started. I tell her about the 1960s Houston Colt .45s, and how they figured out that naming themselves after a gun was a bit over-the-top, and hence the Astros. She’s interested. She wants more. I talk about the Cincinnati Red Stockings of 1869, and how they became the Reds.

Out pops a baseball history book, and Katie wants to see photos of Babe Ruth. Then she’s asking about Lou Gehrig. I show her Joe DiMaggio, and tell her that her own great-grandfather pitched against him once (true story). She’s amazed at this, and responds, “So that means we’re famous!” I tell her about Mickey Mantle, and Yogi Berra, and Reggie Jackson.

We head up to bed, and she carries this five-pound baseball book up with her. As I’m putting Chelsea to sleep, she asks who Pete Rose is. Then she brings me a photo of Joe Carter, after his World Series-winning home run of 1993, and asks why he’s lying on the field surrounded by teammates. “Is he hurt?” she asks. “No,” I say, “he’s just overcome with joy.”

Katie asks me to tell them one more baseball story before bed. I go into the 1978 one-game playoff between the Yankees and Red Sox, and we’re talking about Bucky Dent’s big home run, and Lou Piniella’s game-saving play in the sun, and she just wants more. The girl can’t get enough. “Give me details,” she says.

This is too good. Beyond good. This is heaven on earth. I want to keep going, telling them more. But it’s after nine and they have to go to sleep. I sing Chelsea a song, and she’s out cold. I kiss Katie on the forehead, and wish her sweet dreams.

She doesn’t have to wish me the same; I got my dream already tonight. Tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll be back to Neil and Tom and Bing Crosby in that car. But tonight, they were in Daddy’s zone, and they liked it. Nobody’s taking that away.