Growing up

June 24, 2010


I looked over and there she was, pushing her cart through the grocery store, acting as if she’d been doing it all her life, and while it was only a junior sized cart and while she never actually chose any of the items in it and while she was much too young to be pushing anything that happened to have a six pack of beer in it, she still looked so big, so utterly in control of the situation, so understanding of everything that was going on and the consequences of tipping over the cart or smashing the grapes or dropping the bottle of milk that it kind of made me sad.

Sad because my little girl is growing up.

And then, when we got home, I realized that Isaac is walking and he has a personality and he almost knows which way the spoon works. Meanwhile, Sierra is having real, two-sided conversations and making up intricate stories and developing a sense of humor that is amazingly aware of its own funniness.

Sad, yes. But also proud. Mostly proud. Absolutely proud, like I should be. Like I’m honored to be.

The sadness has nothing to do with what they’re doing. It’s 100% on me and my inability to accept change with the same grace that my kids do. Every single day.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra |

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The “Aha” moment

May 10, 2010


Sierra used to draw in scribbles. She colored to see the colors, not to make shapes; more interested in the basic elements of creation, she had no regard for form or development or art.

And then, one day, she began drawing people.

There was no in between. It was as if everything clicked into place at once, the idea of a body, the idea of a face, the idea of arms and legs, all in relative agreement and, though most of her drawings look like Ralph Steadman-inspired Humpty Dumptys, they are, without a doubt, PEOPLE.

These are “aha moments,” the currency of learning, when a concept suddenly snaps to grid. As we get older, these dynamic leaps become less common. Learning becomes gradual and the massive gaps from knowing to not knowing are filled in by experience.

As a student teacher, aha moments drove me to continue. Teaching science to junior high kids is a non-stop parade of aha moments. But they’re not groundshaking – an aha moment in a kid is a helpful byproduct of teaching.

Now, my aha moments are less about concepts and more about shifts in perception and principle. I’ll never rediscover the carbon cycle, but I CAN discover something I’d once thought impossible, or come to a realization that goes against my personal conventional wisdom.

Really, they might as well be called “Holy shit, that makes total sense!” moments. Or “You mean that’s really a thing?” moments. I had it the first time I realized you could make a career out of caring about content on the Web. I had it the first time I understood how much more fulfilling a day in the yard with your kids can be if you just let go of the damned yardwork.

What I guess I’m trying to say is that we never stop having aha moments. God forbid you ever DO stop, you guys. It’ll just mean you’ve stopped trying to figure out the world.

Tags: On..., Sierra, Vilhauer |

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Record Store Day 2010

April 17, 2010


Sierra and Isaac didn’t care about Record Store Day.

In fact, when I told them, out of the coolness of my Cool Dad Heart, that we were headed to Ernie November to check out Record Store Day, Sierra sort of looked at me, blankly, unimpressed and clearly confused as to why her father, Cool Dad though he might be, was suddenly giddy. Confused as to why, within minutes, he had turned into a child.

“Record store?”

“Uh… Music store,” I said, hoping to clarify.

“Music store?”

I should be happy. At least she grasped we were GOING SOMEWHERE. Isaac just ignored me and banged metal measuring cups together.

The weight of the occasion was completely lost on them, but I suppose the occasion wasn’t for them. This was for me. This was a father showing his children a bit of history, a tradition quickly becoming obsolete even in my own life: a record store, with physical records and CDs and videos; music in a concrete form, the way we had always accepted them until the icy hand of technology forced convenience into our lives, sending the value of tangible media into a nosedive.

This was a lesson in locality, understanding the process through which music used to be acquired, much like a field trip to the farm teaches us how chickens were raised before the factory model became prevalent.

Sierra wandered the aisles, pointing out album covers, counting monsters – you’d be surprised: there are a surprising number of monsters on modern album covers – and carrying a VHS copy of the South Park movie. Isaac spit in my ear and grabbed for my hat.

Though it wasn’t in the same location, it was this store – Ernie November – where my musical education formally began. The same could be said for most of my group of friends; hell, it could be said for most of the 20- and 30-somethings who grew up in Sioux Falls

Our high school punk band sold demo tapes in this store. It’s where we bought tickets to our first punk rock shows – mine was Good Riddance – and where we discovered bands that still resonate today: Texas is the Reason, Cursive, Jawbreaker, Hot Water Music.

What we didn’t know then is that, there in that record store, shuffling through used CDs, the atmosphere stained with incense and our opinions influenced by the certainty of indie culture, we were also experiencing the benefit of small business. We were getting a view of music that many couldn’t experience – not because they didn’t want to, but because they weren’t lucky enough to have an independent voice in the music business. The culture of a big box retailer is all about serving the lowest common denominator, discovering new music isn’t as safe as developing taste through the hive mind.

The Internet changed all of that. Now, discovering music is easier. It’s safer. It’s fueled by television soundtracks and iPod commercials, delivered immediately through the tubes and into the warmth of your computer’s speakers.

The unfortunate side effect is that independent record stores are waning, their importance halved. It’s no wonder that vinyl has come back as both a method of acquiring music and as an art symbol of its own: independent labels and record stores and fans of both are desperate to develop a new niche.

And I for one hope it works. Nothing will replace the community of a local independent record store. More than anything, I think that’s what I was foolishly trying to convey to Sierra and Isaac. I was forgetting that these were two kids too young to even comprehend what music means, too naive to understand the significance of this dirty old building, these used CDs and albums, these weird covers with monsters and singers with dirty hair and stupid names and lo-fi music they’d probably never hear.

I probably overdid it. I spent more than I should have, purchased a few albums I didn’t need, even grabbed an exclusive Record Store Day release 7” that I can’t even listen to until I secure a turntable.

But then again, maybe I haven’t been doing enough. Because independent record stores – both here in Sioux Falls and in every town I’ve ever lived or visited – have helped paint a small part of who I’ve become. I owe them in part for my sense of independence, for my reluctance to blindly accept mainstream and for a couple of lasting friendships.

My kids might not understand that right now. But they will.

My only hope is that they’ll get the chance to experience the same thing for themselves.

Tags: Isaac, Music, On..., Sierra, Sioux Falls, Vilhauer |

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Isaac + Sierra = BFF

April 1, 2010


Isaac and Sierra

I know they’re still young, but these two kids are friends, and that’s probably one of the coolest things I’ve ever been a part of.

—

EDIT: I hereby interrupt this nice sentiment to clarify that this picture has a texture on it. Our bathroom isn’t really that dirty. We promise.

Tags: Isaac, Photography, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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On rocking kids to sleep

March 29, 2010


As hard as we try to get out of the bad habits of parenting – or, at least, the bad habits we stumbled into the first time around, with Sierra, who at times (like most first children, I assume) served as more of a test subject than a child, our best guesses at sound parenting nothing more than a series of experimentation – we often fall back into them.

We understand that children don’t learn to fall asleep on their own until they are set down while awake – no rocking to sleep, no snoring before letting go. We know this firsthand, thanks to the nightmare of Sierra’s sleep schedule through the first 15 months and her refusal to sleep without a full narcotic dose of rocking and singing.

Yet, I can’t help at this point – a full two and a half years into this parenting business, and over nine months into trying to figure out kid #2 – but want to rock him to sleep. To closed-eyes, shallow-breath, oops-I-let-go-too-early-but-he’s-totally-not-waking-up sleep.

I don’t care if he wakes up, wondering where he is, confused as to how he got to this point, crying and wailing and wanting someone to help him return to the state he was in before he zonked out: in the arms of a parent, safe from the world.

I don’t care if he takes a few extra months before we’re able to set him in bed, turn off the light and say “good night!” without swaddling and rocking and feeding and snuggling and the rest of the routine.

I don’t care, because, as I realized while rocking him tonight, he’s only got a few more months of needing us to fall asleep. Where Sierra is totally self-sufficient in the sleep category, Isaac still clings to us for protection, still curls up in the den our arms form around him, still looks to us for that basic need.

I don’t care, because I know someday that will be gone. He’ll fight going to sleep, but in a different way. In a combative way. No longer looking to us to help him, he’ll see us a foes – as the adults standing in the way of another hour of television.

So for now, I’ll rock him. To sleep. For whatever he needs. And wait for the day when he realizes he can let go.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra |

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Through a Mirror Sprightly

March 22, 2010


As Sierra is faced with nap-time, she opens up her public persona. She comes alive, becoming an artist, a singer, a dancer; staging Sierra Vilhauer’s Follies: a performance in three acts.

Her stage: a twin-sized bed. Her audience: a twin set of mirrors.

This is how Sierra fights nap-time. She sings, and watches herself do it. She stands on her bed and watches herself dance. She reads out loud to her animals. She even pretends to sleep. And she does it all under the reflection of her own unbridled energy.

Located just a few feet away – directly across from her bed – the mirrors have become a top shelf distraction.

It’s frustrating. It’s also fascinating.

Though she doesn’t understand it, as Sierra mugs and puts off her nap she’s also looking through a new set of eyes. Our eyes. Seeing herself as the adults in her life do. Fearless. Acting goofy – ridiculous even – without being self conscious. Completely unaware of what people are thinking about, about why they would even care in the first place.

Naïve of her own innocence, she simply sings and fights sleep, never once understanding that she’s seeing that innocence as we do: as something absolutely beautiful.

Tags: Sierra |

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On the empathy of a toddler

March 1, 2010


I couldn’t do it any better. None of us could. Not one, not a single person.

Not unless you, too, were two years old. Not unless you, too, were so filled with innocence; your heart still sporting an unbroken seal, the cotton still lodged firmly in the top, clogging the cynicism, soaking in the barbs.

Still shielding doubt. Still accepting the pain of others as your own.

This is still how Sierra sees the world, and it might be both the tenderest and the most genuine thing I’ve ever seen. Her friends? Their hurt is her hurt. Her parents? Our sadness is her sadness.

“When Isaac cries, it makes me sad,” she says. And it’s that honesty – that unbridled empathy – that I have yet to experience in anyone else.

As we grow and live and understand that some people use emotions as weapons and every unit of communication can be a war, we can’t help but to sometimes doubt sadness. We lose our ability to empathize. Little by little, it calluses. The seal long gone, all that remains is a quarter teaspoon of aspirin dust and the dull shake of the remaining pills.

Outside of a few select friends and loved ones, we protect ourselves from being manipulated. And just like that, our culture begins seeing empathy as weakness.

I still like to think I feel it. I know I do with those I love. With those in awful situations. I might even be more sensitive to others’ pain than most, if routinely tearing up during certain Ben Folds songs is any indication.

But not like Sierra. Not like any two year old. Unwilling to accept that people can be bad, they still believe in empathy. And they use it without understanding how much it means to the rest of us.

Tags: On..., Sierra |

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