Today With My Blood Pressure ...

I'm so pissed ...really steamed ... and I blame it all on Labor Day! That was the weekend when it all came to a head and I was "put in my place," or so that's how it was related to a family friend who likes to gossip. The holiday will never be the same again!!

Let me give you some background. Every year since I was a small child, my family has always hosted a major picnic/cookout on Labor Day or sometimes the day before. Once my parents were gone, my oldest brother took over the tradition, but the last few years we have held the gathering at my sister's place because she has the most space and good street parking. It's just family and close friends but the number of attendees is close to 30. This year, we were all sitting down at tables and in lawn chairs and on sundry "perches" when I noticed my sister's daughter ... my 14-year-old niece talking loudly on her cell phone. I admit I have a thing about cell phones and how they bring out the rudeness in people ... it's really a pet peeve I need to work on. Anyway, I casually walked over to where she was sitting and asked her nicely to put her phone away and enjoy the day with the rest of us.

"In a minute," she replied and turned her head away from me to continue talking.

I walked around to her other side and said quite firmly. "Now!" She grinned, playfully flipped me off, and went right on with her conversation.

With a good head of steam, I sat my food down on a nearby table and placed my hand lightly over her phone. "Seriously ... you're gonna act like that. Can't you call them back in an hour and at least act like you're happy to see these people and carry on a few real conversations?" She looked at me with these big, uncomprehending eyes. "Hell, ask whoever you're talking to to come over and join the party. The brauts are great!"

My niece made apologies to her phone buddy, made some comment about "adults," and pocketed her cell. I returned to my seat and mouthed a "thank you" in her direction. The heated look she gave me ... had it been a corporeal thing ... would have incinerated me on the spot.

Just as I was raising a forkful of colorful pasta salad to my mouth, my sister appeared and nicely asked me if I could help her with something in the kitchen. The fact that she asked "nicely" should have been my first warning sign. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON ... DANGER!!

We had barely entered the kitchen and closed the door before my sister turned on me, her face distorted like a snarling beast. "What the hell was that little 'show' all about?" she demanded. "What gives you the right to embarrass my daughter like that?!"

"Huh?" I stammered. I was genuinely perplexed.

"It's none of your damn business when my daughter uses her cell phone or texts her friends. You're her uncle, not her warden." My sister threw her hands in the air and added, "Oh, you're not a parent ... you can't understand!"

I imagined my self being slapped in the face with a leather glove. I suddenly was not in the mood for my sister's routine histrionics and superior attitude. "You know what?" I challenged. "I may not have kids, but it doesn't take a genius to recognize bad manners. You have guests and it wouldn't kill your daughter to act like she belonged to this family. She's been glued to that cell for two hours. I haven't even seen her speak to Chet's dad ... her one living grandparent who drove an hour to be here. That ought to be what you're concerned about, Sis!!"

I'd crossed a line, but it felt damn good. Just as my sister was forming her retort, the patio door slid open and my oldest brother entered the kitchen. "Jesus, you guys ... we can hear the yelling outside!"

My sister just pointed at me ... the ultimate defense and explanation all rolled into one simple gesture. "Tell him ... he's the one telling me how to raise my kids!"

"Of come on ..." I started to say, but then I noticed my brother. His posture got ramrod straight and he crossed his arms in a very judgmental manner.

"Oh, I understand what you're saying all to well. He's been riding Adam's ass for months about college. Our 'little baby brother' just thinks everything is so simple. And for him it must be, 'cause he's got ALL the answers!" I just stood there, my mouth working like a landed trout. But no words came out. I was really dumbfounded. And hurt.

Adam is my 17-year-old nephew and I love him like a son. He's just a great kid and I actually consider him a friend. But from time to time, Adam needs a little push to get him motivated. Last May, right before his junior year in high school came to a close, I attempted to engage him in a conversation about college. I didn't think I was pushing ... I just tried to get him to articulate his interests and draw him out about careers he was considering. Like I said, he's a good kid with good grades and a bright future. And to be honest, getting him out from under his father's thumb and onto a progressive college campus would NOT be the worst thing to happen. Anyway, Adam's responses were terse and noncommittal. His one thought was that he would "probably" go wherever Karrie, his current girlfriend, decided to attend.

"Is that a smart way to plan your future?" I blurted it out before my brain's sensor (or censor) had a chance to kick in.

Adam and I were sitting in the kitchen working our way through a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches I had whipped up. His father ... my older brother by nearly a decade ... was in the adjacent great room perusing the newspaper's sports section. "Ignore him, Adam," he yelled in with a surprisingly flat, emotionless tone. "He just likes to tell people what to do." I dropped the subject and turned my attention to the suddenly-unappetizing sandwich.

Over the next few weeks, Adam and his indecision over college plagued me. I spent some free time going online to about 14 or 15 college Web sites within the state. I picked about half private institutions and half larger public universities to get a good mix. The list conveniently included the Alma maters of myself and each of my siblings. From all the data I found, I assembled a matrix that included projected tuition and fee amounts, admission office phone numbers and e-mails, prominent programs, school colors and mascots, and even the estimated "drive time" from my brother's house to each campus. And ... most importantly in my mind ... I included all "visitation" and "exploration" programs scheduled for the summer and early autumn months. What a great, low pressure time to check out some potential schools!, I had been thinking at the time. The majority of the colleges I had researched had one or more "Freshman Fridays" or "Openhouse Picnics" events in June and July and August. I e-mailed the matrix to Adam, his father, and my sister-in-law separately. No one ever responded with so much as a thank you. I also tried on three face-to-face occasions to engage Adam in another "thought anymore about college" discussion. Each time he just shrugged and changed the subject. By my estimation, as of Labor Day, Adam and his parents had missed close to a dozen opportunities to explore some very fine collegiate options.


Back in the present in my sister's Mediterranean kitchen, I pled my case. "I wasn't trying to push you or Adam ... I just don't want him to miss out on something. A lot of kids are already collecting recommendations from teachers and employers. A lady at work has a daughter writing entrance essays for three separate schools, and she says some of the more competitive schools start sending out first-wave acceptance letters at the end of October ... October!" My brother seemed not the slightest bit fazed by my declaration. But I was on a roll and added, "has he even filled out a single application? Or even sent away for any literature?"


"See ... there you go again," my brother bellowed, stepping away from a counter and closing the physical distance between us. "It's not YOUR concern what Adam does or doesn't do!!"


"You can't be serious ... I love that kid! I just want what's ..."


"NONE ... OF ... YOUR ... CONCERN!" While my brother punctuated each word with a poke to my shoulder, my sister closed ranks. In solidarity against me, she moved to stand just behind our older sibling, wearing a pleased little smirk on her sour face. I was out the door and on the road in minutes.


As I merged into freeway traffic, my mind shifted away from my exasperating family and settled on my good friend Terry. He and I had been best friends since the fifth grade. I was his best man at his wedding and am very proud to be godfather to his daughter. One day a few month's ago, I was at Terry's house talking with his wife, Leslie. Terry was at a neighbor's helping with a clogged drain and we were waiting until his return to order some pizza ... Terry's very particular about pizza. Anyway, as we conversed, Terry's son Ricky ... I think he's two ... waddled over and started climbing up my leg. I hoisted the little guy onto my lap where he immediately started fussing with my car keys which I had laid to the side on a table.


"Tell him no," Leslie said with a hint of a challenge.


"It's okay ... he can't hurt them."


She eyed me slyly and said, "Do you really want him messing with them? ... he chews and slobbers on everything."


"Well then, no ... not really."


"Then get his attention and tell him 'no.' Say it kind of loud and if he doesn't listen, smack his hand and tell him again."


I shot Leslie an incredulous look. "I'm not gonna smack your kid."


My statement made Leslie snort out loud. "Aaron, I didn't say break his hand ... I said gently smack his hand so he knows you're serious. He has to learn to mind when he's told to do something."


As non-confrontationally as I could, I explained to Leslie that I wasn't comfortable disciplining her children like that. She took Ricky from my lap and fixed me with an amused smile. "Listen," she playfully lectured, "we consider you part of this family, so it IS your job to help us raise Ricky and Amber to know the difference between right and wrong. We're counting on you." I remember feeling my eyes mist up a little over her heartfelt words.


Back in the present, in my car driving home, I had similar "moisture" threatening to occlude my vision. But these were tears of anger. Could my siblings really not see what I was trying to do? I pondered. How was wanting my niece to have decent manners or helping my nephew make informed decisions about going to college a "bad" thing? Was "being an uncle" just helping out from time to time and showing up at Christmas and birthdays with a nice gift? Whatever the case, I knew it was going to be quite some time before I bothered speaking to my two oldest siblings.


POINT OF RANT: Thank God friends make the best "family!"

Today On The Internet ...

I just finished doing some research on my Welsh heritage. It's really exciting to learn things about your past. We have this old book about my father's German heritage that cites his family clear back to the late 1200's ... Damn!

But I think the most interesting ... and eeriest ... things about family are what they pass on to us. Earlier, I made a blog entry about my creative side and all the forms of "creativity" that could be found on the immediate branches of my family tree. That post was all about the positive, beautiful things like art and poetry, but the double helix of my genes carries a darker side. And I think, in recent years, my siblings have thrown a genetic "switch" and come into their inheritance in full.

My oldest brother is the only one of the three boys in my family to have children (as far as we know, ha, ha!). Growing up he was several years our senior and I can remember the many, many times that he told my mother that she spoiled us. He claimed he had so many more rules to follow and chores to do when he was closer to our age than me and my brother combined. And at one point in his teens, I clearly recall an instance where he called her out on her style of parenting. "Why don't you punish us yourself?" he had taunted her. "You just want Dad to always be the bad guy so you don't feel guilty about spanking us. I'll never treat my kids like that ... never!!"

In her defense, my dear mother was a product ... and a victim ... of her generation. All the mothers used the "wait 'til our father gets home" end run to quiet us heathens down. It was a universal constant, like gravity. Sometimes it smacked you like gravity, too.

Anyway, about a week ago, I was over at my brother's house and asked where his youngest, Rose, was hiding. "That's it," he declared. "She's hiding. She said I didn't care enough to look for her and that her mother wasn't good enough at finding things to ever figure out where she's at." It seems that little Rose broke a table lamp while running through the house, and brother told her to "think about what you've done ... your Mom will take care of you when she gets home from shopping." My brother looked smug ... I imagine I looked like the Cheshire cat because Mr. I'll-Never-Be-Like-You was parenting just like our mother. Come to think of it, I don't think my brother had made one hard decision in his married-with-children life. He did, however' have a ball-busting wife to pick up the slack. Good for him ... he saved some other poor dude the pain.

I don't visit my sister as often as I should. She lives about 40 minutes away ... not very far, really ... but I'm afraid of her. I'm afraid that I'm going to tell her that she's turned into our father. My Dad had a temper. Something would set him off, he'd yell and fume for about two minutes, and then apologize to everyone involved and resolve the situation. Now if you compared my father's outbursts to a solar flare, then my sister's temper is like an ongoing supernova! She screams ... she invokes our ancestors and ancient totems ... she paints her face with the blood of her victims ... okay, she actually just gets really loud and manic and verbally kicks you in the 'nads for the tinniest of indiscretions. And she hated my Dad's temper. Growing up, she constantly went to my mother and said he needed anger management classes or to consider seeing his doctor about anxiety meds. She's now living in a black, BLACK kettle.

My other brother inherited my Dad's aptitudes for numbers and spatial arrangement ... he's so good at math and logic puzzles and assembling things, it's spooky. And then there's my creativity and love of books. I'm sure me and my kidless sibling picked up a few bad "habits" but nothing that borders on a mental health issue.

POINT OF RANT: Thank God for creativity and condoms!

Today In A Restaurant ...

I have a small family ... two siblings, some in-laws, a niece and a nephew. And we all have busy lives. So when we can coordinate work and sports and dish installation and such, dining out together can be a magical experience. It can also be a trip through the zebra dung, thanks to little unsupervised children.

Before your colons burn and you transfer the discomfort to your typing fingers, I love kids. They're cute, inspirational, genuine, and see the world in a way most of us have forgot. But when I choose to eat in public, I expect others who have made the choice to NOT bring their brood along and then opt to pretend to not know them.

Case in point, the salad bar. I'm restocking my plate with bland-at-best macaroni salad and a tasty little square of less-than-homemade cheesecake when I hear a small "splat" and realize that my left shoe is now decorated with a sturdy glob of mashed potatoes. Hovering there, looking not in the least bit sorry or responsible, is a probably seven-year-old girl. She's alternately eyeing me while dragging a younger boy through a spill of cookies and soft-serve ice cream dripping from a bowl in his guilty little hands. After a stern second or two, they look at each other and just walk on past, spying something else edible to destroy.

I casually deposit the spud lump under the edge of the salad bar. I know what you're thinking ... I should have picked up the mess or alerted a restaurant employee, but I was literally frothing to return to my family's table (there's seven of us) to recount my misshap. Now I get seated, take a breath to begin my tale, when a "mom and dad" or "couple without a condom" seated beside us start giving a boy of about four his marching orders to "go get your own food, and bring back some more napkins."

I'm shocked, stunned even, until I look around and notice a fair amount of young people roaming about on their own, getting plates of desserts, dropping utensils on the floor or into serving trays, and just plain getting in other people's way.

When I was young, which wasn't all that long ago, my parents did this crazy thing called "hiring a babysitter" when they wanted to go out to dinner and spend some quality time together. They also did it to spare us kids from places and events that were too adult or too boring, and, honestly, to just get away from us from time to time. And when we did go out as a family, if one of us "acted up" ... WHISK! ... we were sitting in the car with Mom or Dad relearning the basics of manners and etiquette.

Occasionally, during the current with my family, I heard a parent or two make the same threat about "one more time and we're leaving" or "do you wanna go to the car?" But apparently, one more time never came or the kid in question didn't want to visit the family sedan or minivan at this time. More likely, it was to much bother to be an effective parent.

POINT OF RANT: You don't have to leave your kids at home all the time. But as parents and supposed adults, you should know your children, their behavioral norms, and their attention spans. Don't make them any more uncomfortable than you are the rest of us! Think before you dine out.