Getting to Know My Daughter

I am really enjoying getting to know my daughter.

Yeah, obvious and often thought of as obligatory.

With the exception of my daughter, I have never been with someone every single day of their life.



Seeing mine and Kari's physical, emotional, and personal qualities in our daughter is frightening and exhilarating, for both real and imagined reasons.

However, seeing her unique traits come to the surface is what I mean while writing I am enjoying getting to know my daughter.

As most of you know, there is a simple, hard to describe joy in watching our children grow up. It is more like joy mixed with contentment.

Intoxicating.

This wonderful mix of simple, contented joy influences other areas of my life. Certainly diet, spending habits, and my thoughts on all things education are put into sharp relief when I watch my daughter giggle after going down a slide.



Yeah, obvious and often thought of as obligatory...

But I am really enjoying getting to know my daughter, and myself.

I Heart Dadding

One of the reasons I adore fatherhood is because it is the definition of what Paulo Freire called praxis. Unlike the other things in life that often involve theory and practice being mutually exclusive, fatherhood lets me engage my pedagogical learnings as a professional educator and shake them into a cocktail of reality.

Oh, and lest I forget autonomy. My most frustrating times as a passion-driven teacher or artist have always involved negotiating difficulties with collaboration, bureaucracy, or politics. Thanks in large part to my goddess of a wife, I rarely have these incidents of creative blockage.

I approach my teacher-dad life as science and art. What about you?

5 Free Gifts from Colorado

It's a gift to walk where there is no pavement

When we go to Colorado, my kids have a chance to experience a few things we miss in the suburbs:

1. Mortality: When we spend time outdoors, we ultimately run into death.  It might be a fresh carcass or dried bones, however it ultimately leads to a discussion about life, death and why we exist. Perhaps a dried carcass sounds morbid and maybe there's some validity in avoiding the morbid.   However, I'm thinking that maybe it's crazier to hand a child a hunk of flesh shrink wrapped and placed on styrofoam so that he never fully comprehends our relationship with other organisms. I want my children to believe that death is real and that life matters.

2. Stars: When living in the suburbs, the sky becomes manageable, the universe tame.  The moon never moves beyond a horizon, creating the "optical illusion" of being larger than life (though I might argue that it's more of an illusion to think we can shrink the moon by framing it between two skyscrapers).  I want to see Joel and Micah gasp at the vast canvas of innumerable stars and I want to watch Brenna reach her hands out and attempt to grasp the universe with reckless abandon.  I want them to be bold and humble.  Stars play a role in this.

3. Open Space:  My kids live in a place of constant freedom.  They've turned a suburban backyard into a mud pit, a dragon fortress, a baseball field, an edible jungle and a Jedi Academy.  In Colorado, they get to run as far as they want without running into a fence, looking both ways to cross a road or questioning who the land belongs to.  Right now, it's their land.

4. Affectionate Parents: Sometimes we get into a habit of playing zone defense with the kids.  We multi-task.  We compartmentalize. And if we're not careful, it feels a little less like a relationship and more like running an efficient organization.  Then on a road trip, I'll slip my hand around Christy's side or she'll place her hand on my knee while she drives and I watch Joel or Micah take notice.  They study it silently - the gestures, the eye contact.  We don't spell it out for them, but they sense intuitively that we're in love - which might ultimately make for the greatest sense of safety they can experience.

5. Uninterrupted Play: I had the chance for 3-D, interactive, educational games without worrying about laundry or cleaning the kitchen.  My favorite Luddite App so far?  The story app allows us to collectively tell either a shared experience or an entirely fictional narrative.  I want them to internalize the message that even if there are ugly, contentious moments in cramped-up car rides, there isn't anyone I'd rather be with on my free time.  Fuck the test or the Little League win or the popularity pissing contest.  You'll always have a place here, kiddos.

Bonus Gift: At some point, I won't pay attention. I'll hurl a careless word and I'll come alongside Joel or Brenna or Micah.  I'll help pull out the shrapnel.  I'll wipe away tears.  I'll hold them tightly and I'll tell apologize.

My Daddy Can't Whip Your Daddy

"Hey Stortz, I'll get you a copy of Baseball for Dummies next year" my coach -friend jibed.  My son's last game of the season had just ended.

"Yeah, sure.  Sounds good," I sort of half-way grinned.  Like I need someone to tell me how much I don't know about sports.  My glaring gaps in all things sports cuts me out of much guy conversation.

My son had a good season this spring.  It was his first time on an organized baseball team.  He had a good season because he had good coaches and a good team.  He worked hard at practice and learned good skills.  I'm glad he likes playing sports.  I'm really glad he's pretty good at them.  But it isn't because of me.

There was a time when I liked baseball.  My second grade little league team was my first (and almost only) experience in team sports.  I really did like it for a while.  Until I realized how bad I was at it.

When I was a kid, nobody wanted me on their team- the classic last pick.  And, rightfully so.  I stank something fierce.  I was an uncoordinated goof.  There was a good reason they stuck me way out in left field on that second grade team.  Baseball, basketball, football.  You name it and I've botched it.

Later, my friends coaxed me onto the 8th grade softball team at my small Catholic school.  It wasn't any better.  Strikeouts, missed throws, dropped catches.  It's painful to know that you are the worst person on the team.  It's even more painful to not know what to do about it.  I was bad.  My friends knew it and I knew it.  I figured out my suckage pretty early on, but honestly, it would have been nice if my dad would have helped me out.

This is my fear now that I'm a dad.  I fear not being able to show my kids.  I fear not being able to teach my kids.  I fear not being able to help them out.

*     *     *

I remember the playground pissing contests between the boys about their dads:

"My dad drives a monster truck that goes a hundred miles an hour!"
"My dad is over eight feet tall!"
"My dad makes a million dollars a year!"
"My dad shot three deer in one day!"
"My dad can throw a ball across two fields!"
"My dad can whip your dad!"

I wonder what my sons will say about me on the playground.
"My dad can wash the dishes better than your dad!"

I'm not a man's man. I can't teach my boys to fish or hunt. I can't teach them to ride a motorcycle.  I can't teach them to change their own oil.  I can't teach them to swing a hammer.  I can't teach them to throw a fastball or punt a football.

About all I can teach them is love and encouragement.  I hope that's enough.  God, I hope that's enough.

Calm and Endless

I am standing on the bow of a garish tourist boat called the Phi Phi Cruiser III. My mind is flush with memories and anxiety. Kaia stands in front of me, her hair alive with the wind, shines a shade of gold reserved for fairy tales. Below us on a lower deck a gang of young tanned young men bask in the ease of irresponsibility.

The ocean is calm and endless. I see such beauty in its bleak emptiness. Kaia seems a bit bored; she squints her eyes and stares forward searching for the islands I promised her. Last time I was in this spot of the earth, I was leaving Phi Phi a bit shell shocked. I am not sure why I need to go back. Not sure what I hope to see.

I spark up a conversation with a rosy red rotund woman from South Africa. She compliments Kaia on her manners and beautiful eyes. I thank her, as if I have had anything to do with either. The conversation travels to Mozambique, Madagascar and the her trip on a fifty foot catamaran leaving the Seychelles. She seems to have a difficult time deciphering our life. Usually where are you from is so much less eventful- born in Iran, raised in California, wife from Milwaukee, met in Mozambique, one daughter born in Malaysia, the other in Qatar, now living in Jakarta. 

I can't help but tell her about the Tsunami. Not sure why I do it. People seem to weave such drama about that day, and who am I kidding I enjoy it. To see their eyes light up as they place themselves in the halo of what happened to us. I guess I have never really felt as blessed as how others feel when they hear our story for the first time. They concocted tales of faith and destiny. She is silent. The wind blows. I am not sure if Kaia heard the story, if she did she doesn't say anything.

"You are doing good work," she says at the end of her thoughts. "I don't know you, but I can see it in your face and your voice, by your lovely daughter, whatever you are doing...it is good and important."

I feel loved. Here is it, on this perfect Tuesday morning, but by this complete stranger I feel loved. It feels nice. "Thank you," I say. "I am doing the best I can."

"You should write a book!"

"I am!" I cannot control the excitement in my voice. We stare at the sea in silence for a few minutes more, before I head back down to the lower deck to get Kaia out of the sun. She said that she would look up my name, so she can look for the book, but I do not see her again.

Phi Phi itself was quiet and drab. The luster and the shine left behind in nostalgia and broken memories. We ate a mediocre lunch. I walked Kaia out into the lagoon, looking at where the wave came in and thought about luck. It all sounds too dramatic even for me. I was here years ago and I am here again now with this beautiful young child, what else does this story need?

Coda: The back of the boat is crazy as Arabs and Indians who have never swam, scream jumping onto the dead reef. They are covered in clothing and head scarves. Kept a float not by any sense of buoyancy, but by artificial orange devices none of them seem to trust.

Kaia and I quietly put on our masks and fins in a corner. I jump in and ask her if she is ready. She places her mask on her tiny face and deftly makes sure there is no hair at the edges,  just like I have taught her in the pool.  She nods her head. I can tell she is scared, but before I can double check, she is in the water and swimming away from the crowd. I can see her little finger pointing at the school of fish who flock to us and our soggy pieces of bread.

We swim away from the crowd and I have never been so proud. Here is my beautiful little mermaid swimming all on her own, without a life jacket because she said it made it hard for her to swim, in the wide open ocean. She takes a few dives and bobs effortlessly at the surface.

"Look dad! There are thousands of them."

We swim a while as I watch her gain confidence. I think about fear and what a wasted emotion it is. I watch the others bob like orange turtles stuck in their shells. I think about the work I do.  I sum it up in one simple line, "Live fearlessly."

Later, some guy jumps off the deck. A little five foot jump, but I can see that Kaia has noticed. "You wanna jump? I'll hold your hand." Hands in her mouth, nervous, smiling devilishly, she nods.

Standing on the edge, holding hands, I say, "You don't have to you know. I know it feels scary. All I have to say is that sometimes, usually actually, when we do something that scares us, it feels really good afterwards. It is your choice. You have been brave enough for one day."

I am holding her hand and we are ten feet underwater. We kick our feet and shoot to the surface and hear a cheer from a young couple who watched us jump. "Atta girl!" The man shouts. Kaia smiles and asks if we can do it again to show mommy.

Who know, maybe the lady was right. Maybe I am doing something right.

Cross posted at Intrepid Flame

Universal through Particular

Stephen here...

James Joyce once said "in the particular contains the universal". My daughter had a particular experience recently that has made me think about and ask universal questions.

Last Wednesday, Jocelyn and I were playing in the backyard before Kari came home. Jocelyn was bouncing back and forth between her scooter, swing, drawing easel, and her empty plastic pool.

I do not remember how it happened, but next thing I knew, we are by the hose and she turns it on.

Jocelyn loved it. She was not jumping up and down, giggling and all that. But she was completely captivated with the hose and water. This is not the first time she has played with the hose and water. She does that just about every weekend.

What was different this day was her exploration and imagination appeared elevated. In the past, she would be content playing with the water coming out of the hose. On this day, however, she wanted to direct and purposefully use the water.

My heart about melted when she began watering her pacifier.

It was as if she thought that by "watering" it, more pacifiers would be produced. I'm not going to get into all the learning theory she is actively engaged in and all that. I know she was learning.

I could have sat there all day and watched her play with the water. I certainly spent hours playing in the front yard of my parents house, making dirt race tracks and using the hose to race leaves down the angle of the driveway. (I never had hot wheels tracks...was never really interested in them!)

This experience of Jocelyn playing with water for at least fifteen minutes has caused me to think...

How do I teach my 21-month old to be responsible with water and all of earth's resources?

My parents never talked to my sister and I about these topics.

I am certainly not a fan of the marketing campaign to "Go Green." In addition, I must admit that I have not treated the earth's resources in a responsible manner over the years.

I know I can just turn off the water and have us walk inside. I also get that she is only 21-months old and I am likely over analyzing things here...

But I do want to have these conversations with my daughter. But how? When? Will she judge me for being a hypocrite? How do I teach something I know NOTHING about and, to be honest, have not bothered to even think about until this week?

This post is cross posted at Rush the Iceberg.

Wild Things

The role of the writer, as I see it, is to harness the inexplicable and give shape to the unnameable. The trouble is that the act of creating images from fleeting moments of wonder is an impossible feat. Many have tried, some more successful than others, but reality is simply too grand in scope to be portrayed using petty tools such as words.

How can language ever be enough to share the feeling of riding a motorbike through the jungled roads of Phuket with your five year old daughter gripping your hands, as the tender golden soft light of the sun falls from the leaves like drops from a balmy rainstorm? Robust clouds of white and grey give chase, the wind on your faces as you whisper, "Are you okay?"  You give the accelerator a gentle pull. Coming down the hill the vast ocean sparkles and waves caress the patient earth. She takes her helmet off as you stop to admire the sea. How can these words possibly explain the confidence with which she swings her hair and carries the helmet on her wrist?

Back on the bike, you smell burning garbage and coconut rusks, the grilled shellfish and roasting chili peppers. You are aware that this very moment is being engraved onto her consciousness and shaping her dreams. The notion of risk taking has been forever altered as you check and re-check the mirrors, make sure to slow down around each turn, but you cannot ever be too careful. After all it is adventure that gives these moments their brightness, you know this, but her safety comes first. Never again will you throw caution to the wind and do things just to see if they can be done.

You think back to the freedom of youth, amazed you were able to navigate the vast loneliness of all that space. You are coming down the hill, "You know I love you right?" The wind is howling, so you whisper again into her ear. The giant red helmet nods affirmative. Men often gripe about domestication and the staleness of family, but you know that these are the moments of rebirth and second shots at childhood. You will show her the world, every inch of it, in all it's wonder. She will be there to grip you tight and nod her head in affirmation every step of the way. Not only a receptacle of your devotion, but also an active agent of love. She is your anchor, your friend, your partner in this reincarnated freedom.

You pull the accelerator once again and howl as tears pool up in your eyes. Beyond the sound of the engine and the wind you here her voice echo what you already know- the things you can never explain. 

Cross posted at Intrepid Flame