What's the Most Wonderful Thing about Charlottes?



Oh, yes you are.

 

PS. We watch, read, and sing a lot of Winnie the Pooh stories, too.

With Great Respect, I Dissent

From looking at the pictures of Charlotte's room and crib, you might think Daphne and I just shower her with gifts, but that's not the case. Her parents have hardly purchased anything for Char. On Daphne's side of the family, Char's the first child to be born in about 20 years. There's a space about 14 years wide on my side. 

With that much time on your side, you tend to inherit a lot of toys that have been hiding in your cousins' basements and attics. Plus, many of Char's toys are leftovers from Daphne's and my own childhood. 

I'm not saying Charlotte doesn't have a gross amount of stuffed toys. If animal upholstery was money, I wouldn't be getting up for work tomorrow. I'm just pointing out that we haven't bought them for her. As odd as it might sound, Daphne and I aren't very practiced at shopping for our daughter.

So, Daphne's been surfing around trying to find popular toy ideas. Here's one she found on Amazon.

"Encourage active play and engage your child's imagination with Kid-O Bilibo. This durable, shock-resistant shell can be used as a rocking chair, helmet, shovel, water basin, and more. No matter whether your child's next adventure takes place at the beach, sledding hill, park, or your living room, Bilibo will add an extra element of fun. Bilibo was created, in collaboration with childhood development experts, to help stimulate creativity and improve hand-eye coordination in children aged two to seven."

Kid-O Bilibo Action Shots:

 

Here's the most helpful review I have read in awhile:

I think we'll pass on the Bilibo.

Hey, Neighbor

Movie Notes

The Flood of '93 thrust Des Moines into the national spotlight because the city and its surrounding suburbs did not have running water from July 11 to July 22. I had just finished my first year of teaching that July, and the flood sent me running back to Rock Valley to live with my parents until someone down here turned the faucets back on.

On the weekends, my four-year-old nephew Zachary would come to Rock Valley to stay with his "Gama" and "Papa". Often I would find myself trying to find things to entertain him. During one of the hottest Saturday mornings of that summer, I took Zach to the video store to rent a family movie.

Remember when Disney used those huge, clamshell cases to make their VHS products stand out on the store shelves, and then the other companies copied them?  Well, it looked like we weren't the only ones planning to hide indoors that day. There was only one "Disney sized" movie left on the shelf.

I showed Zach the box, and he wanted no part of My Neighbor Totoro. I can't say that I blamed him, there was't anybody in the artwork that looked like they were in The Lion King, and the movie's title was a bit off, too. No wonder it hadn't been rented. But beggars can't be choosers, so the movie went home with us. 

Once we had tucked ourselves into the cool of the basement, I pressed play on the remote and distracted Zach with previews for upcoming movie titles. By the time the movie was about to start, Zach asked, "What show is this?"

"I already told you," I picked up the case to re-read the strange title, "Ummmm, it's called My Neighbor Totoro."

"Nooooo! I don't want to watch the Toto! Stop it! Stop it!" As he yelled, he arched his little body in protest.

"Okay, okay. Jeeze, calm down! We'll find something else to watch." As I rapidly slid my hands over the couch's cushions, trying to find the remote, the opening titles for Totoro came on.

By the time I found the remote, it was too late. The peppy music had sucked Zach in. He had plopped himself directly in front of the TV, and he was pointing out the animals and insects as they were popping up from the bottom of the screen. Immediately I could tell this wasn't an American movie, and the subtitles confirmed that. Thankfully, the rest of the film was dubbed into English.

The movie's plot concerns a father and his two young daughters, Satsuki and Mei, moving into a new house near a Japanese forest. The locals warn them that their new home is haunted, but the family stays. It's a good decision, as the forest is inhabited with totoros, wilderness spirits, that take the girls on magical adventures. Sounds simple enough, but it's quite different from any other cartoon I had seen.

In his book, The Great Movies 2, Roger Ebert wrote, "Here is a children's film made for the world we should live in, rather than the one we occupy. A film with no villains. No fight scenes. No evil adults. No fighting between the two kids. No scary monsters. No darkness before the dawn. A world that is benign. A world where if you meet a strange towering creature in the forest, you curl up on its tummy and have a nap." 

 My Neighbor Totoro sure impressed my nephew. Zach watched it again that afternoon, and it was the first thing he wanted to see on Sunday morning. Eventually my mom bought a copy, and Grandma spent many hours watching the film with Zach and my other nephew Josh and my niece Meghan when they were old enough.

In July of 2000, I took a trip to Japan to visit my buddy Ryan Dughman. I tried hard to find gifts I could afford to bring back to the States, and I bought a couple of Totoro dolls for Josh and Meghan. But when I showed the pair to my Mom, she asked if she could keep them for herself. Apparently the Totoro magic had also worked on her.

Okay, fast forward to Thanksgiving week 2012. A feverish Char was home sick with Dad on Monday, and home again with Mom on Tuesday. By Tuesday evening, her collection of library books and Care Bear videos weren't cutting it anymore, so I decided to play my Totoro card. I was guessing Char was old enough to at least enjoy the opening song.

Char's at the age where she says "No," before she even thinks, so I wasn't shocked when I showed her my DVD of My Neighbor Totoro, and she pushed the case away. Undeterred, I started the movie and skipped through the previews while Charlotte rolled around the floor quietly sobbing, "I don't want to watch Toro! Care Bears! Care Bears!"

I had seen this act 19 years ago, and I had faith in the totoros. Although the opening song is now sung in English, the music quickly caught Char off guard, and she got off the floor to see what was going on. Unlike Zach, she wasn't immediately smitten with the movie. It took about 90 more seconds for her to become enchanted. Like Zach, Totoro was the first thing she wanted to talk about the next morning.

I called my mom to tell her about Char's new favorite movie, and when she came to visit for Thanksgiving, Mom brought the dolls along as a gift. They were accepted:

So what makes this movie so different? For one thing, the girls' mother is sick in the hospital, but no one makes a big deal about that. The kids just take her condition as a fact of life. Letters to mom are written, and visits are scheduled when possible. As Mr. Ebert asked in his review, "...does illness exist in American animation?"

Another difference is its pace. MNT isn't a slow film, there's plenty of action, but it takes the time to slow down and let the Mei gaze into a puddle and curiously poke a finger into a cloud of tadpoles - exactly the kind of thing a child would stop to do.

To compare cartoons to music, most programs on TV today are like harsh carnival music. Totoro is closer in design to a smooth jazz tune that makes unexpected turns. MNT hits all the right notes, but just not where you expect them to be played.

For example, I sure didn't see this Cat Bus coming.

Speaking of the unexpected, there is a bath scene that's pretty jarring. There's nothing inappropriate about the girls bathing with their dad, but you'll know what I'm taking about it when you see it.

As a father of a girl, I also like that the two main protagonists are female. They don't rely on any males to help them on their journey, except their Dad, of course, and that's cool with me. But this isn't a movie targeted at a female audience, it's a movie which just happens to have female leads. 

Ebert sums it up, "It is a little sad, a little scary, a little surprising and a little informative, just like life itself."

It's also a little wonderful. Just like raising a child.

PS. Here's Roger Ebert's full review:

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20011223/REVIEWS08/112230301/1023

Thanksgiving Break Was a Little Tough This Year

When you have a head cold, a fever, and a molar coming in, no amount of stuffed animals, dolls, or blankets can soothe you.

Nope, that's when you need your Mommy.

A Song for the Season

I don't know any really good songs for Thanksgiving, so here's a generic "Holiday'" song that I think is cool.

The harmonies are so tight.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKd3HbQXy9E

Things I Still Own - part 1

On Wednesday night I had Charlotte to myself for a couple of hours, and I was trying hard to keep our dog inside the house. The neighbor behind us was working in his back yard, and Maggie hates that guy. I don't know why, but every time Mags sees his bald head, she sprints back and forth across our backyard barking and kicking up dirt.

By the time she relents and agrees to come inside, her paws are caked with mud. Char makes a big enough mess for me to clean up. I didn't need mud all over, too.

To keep Mags quiet and happy while I was playing with Char, I tried to sneak up stairs to make Magie's favorite treat: a rubber Kong filled to the brim with peanut butter.

"What are you doing, Daddy?"

"Getting Maggie's Kong ready."

"Can I help give it to hur?" Charlotte's at an age where she wants to help do things for Maggie, and she thinks it's fun to throw treats at her dog.

"Sure you can help," I replied while I walked downstairs, "Here, just put this by Maggie's feet." I handed the Kong to Char and pointed to a spot on the floor about a foot from us. Char swung her arm towards Mags, but instead of tossing the chew toy forward, she released it on the back swing. The Kong flew from her hard and somersaulted down the stairs leading to the basement. With every bounce, the toy spurted globs of peanut butter on the walls, the carpet, and the basement's ceiling. 

Char wailed, "Oh, nooooo! Maggie's treatnut budder went downstairs!",  and I mentally said a lot of words ending in "ing".

Actually, I shouldn't have been surprised.

Charlotte's my daughter, and I have the athletic ability of a brick wall. Throw me a ball, and the only way you'll get it back is if the ball hits me squarely in the chest and bounces back in your direction. Sure, I participated in high school sports, but the only thing I ever caught was crap from my friends for missing another pass. Like Char, I can't throw with any accuracy, either.

So, it may come as a surprise that I have a basketball championship trophy. Here it is on top of my bookshelf:

Let's look closer.

I was in 6th grade in 1981. Against my protests, my parents signed me up for a winter basketball camp. Practices were held Saturday mornings in our elementary gym. If you've seen the first half of the movie Hoosiers, then you have seen that gym. After six weekends of tripping over painted lines, dribbling the ball off my foot, and being stymied by the mystery that is the five man fast break, I found myself on a team entered in the YMCA Tri-State Basketball Tournament. Oh great, instead of embarrassing myself in front of my friends, I could do it in front of strangers.

The first game was on a Friday night, and I don't remember anything except being secretly disappointed that we won. Once again, I'd have to get up early and suck at basketball on another Saturday morning.

The second game was in Brandon, South Dakota. Since there was a chance we might make it to the third and final round, there was more pressure on the coaches to use their good players. That counted me and about four other guys out. I know I saw some game time, but I was on the bench when Jon Neff, who normally sat out the game next to me, wrestled the ball away from an opposing player and then missed a layup into the other team's basket. Our good players hung their heads in disgust, but the bench riders pointed and laughed because it wasn't us out there.

The final game was at the Sioux Falls YMCA, and I can mentally see the photo taken after our "team" victory. We were each given a trophy and then told to line ourselves up in front of the wall mat. The five guys in the middle of the group were drenched in sweat, and as you visually worked your way outward the pit stains on the shirts grew smaller and smaller. I was on the far left and dry as a bone.

So why do I still have a trophy for a victory I had no part of? I found it while cleaning out my mom's storage unit this past summer, and holding it again put a big smile on my face. It's fun remembering what a disaster I was, and Jon running the ball the wrong way is still funny, but that's not why I keep it.

In my home town, guys had to play sports to be socially accepted. It was a rite of passage.

So for me, this isn't a trophy for winning a basketball tournament. This is a trophy for surviving junior high and high school sports. It's my "been there, done that, and never gonna do it again" trophy.

Thank God those days are over.

PS. http://aol.sportingnews.com/sport/story/2012-11-16/wrong-basket-video-belgian-basketball?icid=maing-grid7|netscape|dl2|sec1_lnk3%26pLid%3D235607

Sole Mates

When you run in large, organized road races, companies like Marathonfoto.com will have photographers stationed throughout the course to take action photographs of you.

I'm usually in a lot of pain when the shutter clicks, but I try to smile. Lord knows why; in every photo I look like I have a stick up my wazoo. At first I thought it was just bad timing, but after running in several of these races, I've found that all of my photos look like this:

My chest sticks out too far, my head is tilted at a weird angle, and I look like I'm being pulled by a rope attached to my chin. It's hard to admit to myself, but I must look this awkward when I'm doing training runs, too. No wonder neighbors eye me suspiciously.

Last night Daphne pointed out how Char has already worn down the soles of her tennis shoes. Charlotte may not yet be a runner, but like most kids her age, she runs everywhere she goes. What I noticed was the excessive wear on the outside of the heel of her shoes. You can see the raised hearts on the inside of the sole, but on the outside the hearts have been worn away:

I wear down my shoes in exactly the same place. This is called oversupination, and it's a problem for runners because the foot is far less able to provide shock absorption when it is landing on the outside edge. Ankle sprains, shin splits, and stress fractures are all problems associated with oversupination, and I have experienced all three.

Poor Charlotte, she inherited my step and all the troubles that come with it. I just hope she doesn't get my goofy gait, too. But if she doesn't escape that fate, then maybe the two of us can be running partners. We could look awkward together.

Actually, that would be pretty awesome.

As Seen at My Dahl's Grocery Store

It's official, no matter what your interest is, there's a magazine out there just for you. My friend Boris likes to point out that I have a lot of interests that are out on the "fringe".

Looks like I'm not the only one out there.

In case you were wondering: http://www.basspro.com/Strike-King-Slab-Hammer-Tooty-Fruity-Tubes/product/10221570/

Also:

I remember when being "almost funny" was a criticism.

This makes me want to place "almost" next to other advertising slogans.

A diamond is almost forever.
Subway, Eat Almost Fresh.
Almost Hungry? Why Wait?

While googling for ad slogans, I came across this:

Whatever they're selling, I'm buying. When Charlotte's really crabby, we can use all the help we can get.

http://www.thesurrealist.co.uk/slogan.cgi?word=Monson 

I Love This Kind of Stuff

Awhile back I bought a dead iPod Mini at a Goodwill store for five dollars. For fun, I drove over to Target to see if it would work if I plugged it into one of their demo iPod players. The iPod did spring to life, but the battery wouldn't show that it could take a charge.

I researched battery replacement  http://reviews.cnet.com/4520-11293_7-6378822-1.html, and then bought a five dollar battery through Ebay.

Pair that with another Goodwill find, a three dollar boom box with RCA connections, and you've got something that sounds pretty good. This stereo was probably donated because the cassette player was broken, but the open cassette door provides a great stand for the iPod Mini. I also dig the old school LED display.

After Charlotte goes to bed, I'm quietly rockin' out to this setup in the garage.

A Family Tradition

For the past three years, Charlotte has gone to the "Disney on Ice" with her mom, her two grandmas, and her aunt. They meet downtown for an early dinner, and then they head over to the Wells Fargo Arena for the show.

I think this is an amazing opportunity for Charlotte. I also think these ladies should take her every year they can. Why?

BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE TO GO!

Sorry for shouting, but I get pretty excited about this night. Take a look at that guy in the Nemo outfit. After waving goodbye to our car backing out of the driveway, that's me jumping around the basement.

In the past three years, I may have spent three evenings alone in our house. Sure, I'll miss the girls after a few hours, but boy, I will have fun for awhile. I can surf the net without being told to switch to Starfall Camp. I can make an unhealthy meal choice and eat while watching a horror movie. I can leave the bathroom door open, and I won't traumatize anyone. The possibilities are not endless, but at least a few exist.

I'm not the only one excited for this night. Charlotte has already chosen her outfit, and she'll happily model the dress for you.

After Charlotte was born, I don't know how many parents told me, "They sure grow up fast." Initially, I would mentally roll my eyes, but now I know that line isn't a cliche. It's the God's honest truth. You know what?  I'm actually relieved that I have only spent three evenings alone. I wouldn't want to miss any of this...

But I'm still not going to that ice show!

Bug Update

Tick, tick, tick goes the clock. Flip, flip, flip goes the calendar.

This car hasn't moved under its own power since late June, but that's about to change. I finally finished the brake job, and I'm ready to take a test drive. Unfortunately, this is one of the busiest weeks in the school year, and I'll have to wait a few days until I can cruise around the neighborhood.

I spent most of July and August under the Bug's rear fenders. 

Once school started, work on the car slowed to a glacier pace, but by the end of October I was seeing some progress. Everything black and tubular is new:

Pull the camera back a little, and you can see my new brake hardware. That black ring in the center is an axle seal that also had to be replaced. I screwed up the first seal, so I had to wait a week for the new one to arrive. I got so sick of the smell of transmission oil.

I also learned that when you replace anything having to do with the brakes, you have to do it in pairs. So any work performed on this side was repeated on the other. Obviously, this doubles the size of and the time for the job. 

Hmmm. Four months of work quickly summed up in three pictures and a handful of sentences. That doesn't seem very impressive, but since I'm spending only one hour a night on the car, it takes me awhile to get much done. I'm just glad I hung in there and kept plugging along, even when I had unexpected problems.

My "oil slingers" had holes worn into the tubes, and I couldn't find replacements for sale online. Sometimes 50-year-old parts can be rare. I ended up taking my slingers to the Village Blacksmith in Valley Junction to be repaired. The work was high quality, and the price was right, but these things take time.

When I was finally ready to install the brake drums, I noticed the inside of one the drums was pitted and scored. I posted this picture on the Samba forums and asked if I should get the drum "turned" (i.e. the inside of the drum is ground down to a smooth surface).

I was told by many members that the drum needed to be replaced, and turning wouldn't cut it. I needed a brake drum from 1964 or earlier that would have the correct hole for my repaired oil slinger. Through the Samba classified ads, I found one for sale in Whittier, California. Here's the "new" drum installed.

The axle nuts that hold these drums on are notoriously difficult. The nuts require over 217 pounds of torque to remove, and they are often overtightened and/ or rusted to the axle. So, no, they're not coming off with a pair of pliers. I soaked my nuts for a day in Kroil penetrating fluid, and then used a socket the size of your fist, a 1/2 inch breaker bar, and four feet of pipe to get them to turn loose.

Early into the brake job, I ordered the "Torque Dude" tool to help me tighten the nuts back to 217 pounds of torque. But by the time I was actually ready to use my "Torque Dude", I discovered that the holes in this Chinese-made tool didn't line up with the holes in the German drums. I was well past the date I could return the tool, so instead of wasting $84, I spent the next evening with a hand file slowly enlarging the holes until they matched the drum's. After that, the Dud was back to being a Dude.

Luckily, time and labor are free at the "Bent Wrench Garage". Plus, I'm getting better at handling these delays and disappointments. Instead of throwing things against the wall, I first try sitting down and figuring out a solution to the problem. Sure, I'm learning about car repair, but I'm also becoming less impatient, better at problem solving, and maybe a little more mature.

Or not, I did giggle after I wrote, "I soaked my nuts".

I have only made one cosmetic change since I began this project. In the early 90s, I opened the hole in the dashboard and installed a crappy, AM/FM radio that needed a voltage converter to work with the Bug's weaker 6 volt system. The converter drained the battery, and the Chevy radio looked out of place in the painted dash.

I must have thrown the original "radio delete plate" away when I installed that dorky radio, but I found a replacement in the correct color (pearl white) for sale on the Samba. I'm really happy to see the dash look like this again.

Years ago I couldn't imagine owning a car that didn't have at least a radio. Now I don't really care. I want to drive this car. I don't want to be distracted from it.

That's all for now. I'll write more after I turn that key and shift into reverse.

Fingers crossed.

Ack!

What's the Joker doing in our copy of The Helpful Little Puppy?