Brett Buckner Archive

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The Music of Our Lives

– May 14, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

Music has played a huge part in my life.

I got my first kiss at a fifth grade lock-in while slow dancing to Bon Jovi’s “Never Say Goodbye” off the seminal Slippery When Wet. When my house burned down, the only thing I actually mourned was the loss of my KISS records.

I got dumped right  before junior prom while Cinderella’s “Heartbreak Station” played  in the background and discovered that nihilism can be cool thanks to  Bad Religion’s “Stranger than Fiction,” which had lyrics like Procreation without gain or purpose/languid wills and torpid minds/catapulted  ever faster by the arrow  of time.

I got into my first fight at a Slayer concert … only to realize that I was the only one fighting. And I can still remember my first ever shipment of tapes from Columbia House’s 12-for-1-penny promotion that included the  likes of W.A.S.P., Joan Jett, Iron Maiden, KISS, Ratt, Keel, Y & T, Krokus, Pat Benatar and Stryper.

The only “Our Song” I was ever involved in choosing was “Love of  a Lifetime” by Firehouse (she wanted “Eternal Flame” by the Bangles) and I got an autograph from Kip Winger in a Woolworth’s  where he was reading a Hit Parader magazine.

I dove down the rabbit hole of a CD completest (meaning if I like a disc, or heck even a song for one band, I had to then own everything they ever  put out, which was especially difficult when I discovered Motorhead) because  this  girl made fun of me for not  knowing  who the Ramones were.

The first CD I ever bought  was Tom Petty “Live” because I confused “Don’t Do Me Like That” with “The Break-Up Song” by the Gregg Kihn Band after looking like a fool and singing the chorus for the dude  working the counter at MusicLand.

And while hair metal was the lynchpin of my formative years (I’m a child of the ‘80s), it’s no longer  the  lone driving force. I fell forever in love with My Lovely Wife because she knew the word’s to “Informer” by Snow (all I knew  was “licky  boom-boom  down) and would spontaneously break into “Regulators” by Warren G.

She’s the only person I’ve ever met who might have more songs rolling around her head than me – though her musical stylings lean more toward Indigo Girls, Loggins & Messinna and the Sister Act 2 soundtrack. I actually bought her the Easy Rock CD set from all those infomercials for our first Christmas. To wrap up her tastes in a nutshell – My Lovely Wife loves The Beatles, but only albums before Sgt. Pepper.

But I fear our shared musical obsession has transferred to Jellybean’s DNA. As the Go-Go’s might say … “she got the beat.” From Glee to Disney, Grease 2 (Awesome, and possibly the most unintentionally funny movie since  Urban Cowboy) to Little Shop of  Horrors, if there’s music, Jellybean will watch it. And she’ll listen to just about anything – save for Judas Priest which she  calls “Screaming Man.”

And if she hears it once, it’s stuck in her  head ‘til something else comes along  to knock it  out  of there, which mainly punishes  the  parents  for she  usually only remembers the  chorus. That’s why she’s been walking around for the past three days going, “Who let the dogs out? Who? Who?” and “We will/We will/Rock You (occasionally adding “F-O-R-E-V-E-R”).

She also makes up her own songs with a bunch of nonsiquiters with titles like, “This is My Love who is a Zombie but looks like a Cute Little Puppy Dogs” whose lyrics make about a much since as 90s-era REM.

Those are cute. It’s this recent musical mystery that’s steadily driving the entire household mad. We’ve been told it’s a song she learned in chapel but nobody at school knows the real song. Meanwhile, Jellybean’s constantly bouncing around the house singing, “Roll of God of cherry in of all/roll of God of cherry in of all/and we lock tag a line behind.”

And you’ve gotta do that first part twice or she makes you sing the whole thing over again.

This is the price musically inclined parents pay and fortunately Jellybean’s tastes are as cheesy as ours.

 

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

Tags: Bret Buckner, Parenting
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Cool doesn’t care about temperature

– May 7, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

My grandmother – or maybe it was Captain Kangaroo – used to say, “Cool doesn’t care about temperature.”

While such wink-and-a-nod sarcasm was mainly aimed at yours truly, they pertain to teenagers of any generation, when looking good and fitting in defy all other forms of logic.  It’s why so many young ‘uns end up sweatin’ like they’ve stepped out of a Richard Simmons exercise video because they think a jacket in August is a fashion statement rather just plain silly.

There was a time when I’d have to count myself in this sad category. I used to wear my bulky letter jacket when it was 98 degrees outside making my sweaty face break out like I’d been smothering it with Miracle Whip rather than Clearasil. And come winter, high school administrators would have to send home notes like, “Please instruct your son to STOP wearing shorts. His purple legs – possibly a sign of frostbite – are starting to freak out the faculty.”

My most fatal faux pas involved a suede leather jacket I got for Christmas my senior year. Dude, I looked dope in that jacket … Kool Moe Dee didn’t have nothin’ on me. Trouble was, winters in Albany were terribly mild … mid 40s was considered freezing. So my window for appropriate wear was very narrow.

Not that it bothered me. I wore that sucker deep into May only to have it ruined following a break-up/make-up fight with my girlfriend. Turns out that suede and running mascara don’t mix. I held onto it for years. The memory of the fight faded, unlike the stain from her tears.

The Diva appears to be the latest victim of such high school histrionics, only her misstep involves flip-flops, which she’s insisted on wearing through Christmas and into these unseasonably cool spring mornings.

Keep in mind that this is a child who keeps her electric blanket on  “10” year round because she’s always “freezing” and would wear hoodies in the desert were it not the opportunity  to get some sun. And it’s no act or cry for attention. Doubt her true chilliness and The Diva will touch you. Her hands are so cold they could be the source of superpowers like Ice Man.

So My Lovely Wife and I couldn’t help but roll our eyes when she refuses to wear her tennis shoes like a normal person. We nagged her at first, then just decided to sit back and let peer pressure (or hopefully common sense) to take its course.

That was two weeks ago and Little Miss Blue Toes appears unwilling to budge.

Now, full disclosure, this isn’t just about being cool or fitting in. She’s got a perfectly good – and  brand  new, I might add – pair of black and pink Nikes that have barely left  her closet. Why she refuses to wear them is something of a mystery. Our suspicion is that they aren’t as cool looking as they were in the store and she’s  afraid they might get unwanted attention, or that because she’s afraid  they’ll make her look too tall.

I imagine it’s the latter. Granted, it’s running shoes she’s wearing, not KISS boots. Unfortunately, her boyfriend’s a wee fellow. And while The Diva’s no Jessie Spano from Saved by the Bell, she tends to tower over him in a way that makes her, not necessarily him, self-conscious.

Being a teenager’s tough. Being a cool teenager is a study in personal, painful sacrifice. I guess Grandma knew what she was talking about. Come to think of … she was pretty dope herself.

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com

 

 

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

Tags: Brett Buckner, Parenting
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Let’s give Jellybean something to talk about

– April 30, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

 

It’s important for a father to bond with his daughter. It takes time and effort, finding not only mutual interests but also forging new levels of compatibility.

It’s not necessarily natural, but the benefits will be played out for years and years to come. These building blocks, like the foundational stones of a church, are laid early, creating a sense of strength and stability.

This is a grotesquely wordy way of saying that fathers and daughters (not to mention fathers and sons) need to having something to talk about.

Jellybean and I have Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

See, there are only so many episodes of Clifford the Big Red Dog and Curious George a man can take. I’ve memorized the dialogue to Lion King and sing Little Mermaid songs in my sleep. Therefore, I had to introduce Jellybean to something I thought we’d both enjoy.

I tried Kiss Meet the Phantom of the Park and even the 4 year old thought it was cheesy. My Lovely Wife said Halloween and its myriad of progressively awful sequels was too scary, so we settled on Buffy the Vampire Slayer simply because she was blonde, perky, funny and beat the holy mess out of demons, monsters and all other sort of ghoul. What’s not for a toddler to love?

‘Course the benefits of having this conversational commodity reaches far beyond a cheeky TV show that’s been off the air since 2003. Buffy plunges a wooden stake straight through the heart of every imaginary monster lurking under Jellybean’s bed, in her closet or in the drain of the bathtub.

Granted, she didn’t see as many monsters before the slayer entered her life, but that’s not the point. I’ve got something in common with a toddler (not sure what that says about me) so that whenever there’s a lull in the conversation I can always turn to Buffy, or Star Wars, or Harry Potter. All of which are favorites for both Jellybean and I.

Nowhere is this more useful than while sitting on the potty – her, not me.

Jellybean’s still in the training phase. We’ve graduated to pull-up diapers and Dora panties, but the actual … uh … going takes time and patience. So we’ve gotta find something to talk about while hanging out in the bathroom. Eventually all conversations lead to Buffy or vampires..

It keeps us engaged and that’s what matters most. Even My Lovely Wife likes Buffy. ‘Course you may roll your eyes or judge me harshly for exposing a toddler to such dark topics as what it’s like living above a Hellmouth, but what My Lovely Wife does is potentially more devastating to Jellybean’s emotional and psychological well being.

They watch Days of Our Lives.

Nothing strikes fear in the heart of men worse than plopping down in front of the big screen TV to hear their precious child ask, “What is Bo doing?” or “Why is Sammy crying?”

Poor thing is gonna grow up not only believing vampires are real but that the average woman sleeps with her husband’s brother who just woke up from a coma, but the reason she had the affair was because a car accident left her with amnesia so she forgot not only that she was married but that her baby had been kidnapped by her evil twin.

No matter, at least that’ll give us all something to talk about … might be on a psychiatrist’s couch, but we’ll be talking just the same.

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com

 

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

Tags: Brett Buckner, Parenting
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Of music and rebellion

– April 23, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

I never thought Lil’ Wayne would become such a dominant presence in my life … or Lil’ John or Lil’ Mama or any other the other legions of “Lil’ ” hip-hop stars that seem to have recently invaded my radio.

Little Red Riding Hood. Little Bo Peep. Little Orphan Annie. The Little Engine that Could, even “The Littles. I was looking out for those, preparing to placate Jellybean until she graduated to less obnoxious characters.

But this is an audio affront.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m no prude. I too once offended and frightened Mom and Dad with my heavy metal worship, idolizing the likes of Blackie Lawless, Ozzy Osbourne, Gene Simmons, Dee Snider and Bon Jovi (OK, so he wasn’t that scary, but Slippery When Wet had some pretty suggestive lyrics).

But in the face of Lil’ Wayne, the diminutive, platinum-selling, dread-locked rapper known for such booty-shakin’ ditties as “Misunderstood,” “Lollipop” and “Knockout”, those dudes with the eyeliner, spandex and more Aquanet in their hair than a Vegas showgirl are harmless. Nobody would ever accuse Bret Michael of being gangsta.

I find myself cringing whenever The Diva climbs into the passenger seat with CD in hand. She loves hip-hop … possibly because I don’t.

True, I grew up with the Beastie Boys teaching me to fight for my right to party. Public Enemy showed me how to “Fight the Power.” I knew Ice-T – pre Law & Order SVU – as the original gangsta. Run DMC taught me how to walk this way. I remember Ice Cube before he was family friendly. And who could forget MC Hammer or Vanilla Ice … though many are trying to.

So I’ve been down with O.P.P. and witnessed the strength of street knowledge, but what these kids are listening to … I just don’t get it. Today’s rap is to music what comic books are to literature. Though I must admit being in awe of Lil’ Wayne and Eminem’s clever wordplay, I’d rather they not serve as a role model – musically or otherwise.

So I play along. Every morning we play her mix CD on the way to school. She knows every word. Minus the bits of skillful self-editing, The Diva’s got game. She spits memorized rhymes with the fury that I used to sing Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” … Lebanon, Charles de Gaulle, California baseball, Starkweather, homicide, children of thalidomide….

And yes, there are curse words and illicit references. I get the “clean” version when possible, but music is supposed to be dangerous and rebellious. If it weren’t, we’d all listen to the Kidz-Bop. From Dylan to Drake, good music’s supposed to make you think, to inspire. It makes everyone feel heroic and empowered, especially for those whose real lives are anything but.

I remember convincing my mom that Stryper’s “To Hell with the Devil,” was Christian metal with a strong moral message. Just ignore that parental guidance sticker. I promised my dad that 2 Live Crew’s “As Nasty as they Wanna Be” wasn’t all that bad and that it’s totally normal to have to show a picture ID when buying a tape.

The Diva likes rap (among other music including melancholy acoustic ballads, quasi-punk and “scream-o”), and I’ll continue to act like I hate it. Course she doesn’t know that I sing the same songs – only louder – after dropping her off at school.

And I’m allowed to cuss.

 

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

 

Tags: Brett Buckner, humor, Parenting
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What do ya mean I’ve got a ‘bubble butt’?

– April 17, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

It wasn’t supposed to hurt my feelings, mainly because I didn’t understand what she was talking about … but it sure wasn’t a compliment.

Allow me to set the stage

The Diva and I were sitting in the car waiting for cheerleading practice to end. And no, she’s not a cheerleader but her best-friend-of-the-moment is. They were going to church together with a mystery friend – meaning a young lady’s whose name I couldn’t remember.

I was in Meet the Other Mother mode, a duty normally reserved for My Lovely Wife who is way better at first impressions and knows to ask all the pertinent questions: “How are they getting home?” “What time does (enter event here) end?” and “Would you be offended by a random background check and drug screening?”

I generally have the mental faculties of a ransom drop – I dump and run just being thankful to get away without being recognized. But raising a teenager to become a living, functioning, socially responsible adult sometimes requires surviving awkward situations, namely meeting other parents and appearing interested in what they have to say.

But this was screwy from the moment the plan was hatched, which is to say last minute, like everything The Diva and her cohorts do.

I was inappropriately dressed, wearing a T-shirt from the 1963 horror movie Blood Feast (produced by Alabama’s own David Friedman) that depicted a mad doctor playing with the bloody body of young, most certainly dead, damsel. In bold letter above the grisly milieu was the slogan, “Nothing so appalling in the annals of horror.”

Yep, that’ll make mom feel safe the next time we schedule a sleepover.

Upon alerting The Diva to my concerns about getting out of the car she answered, “Why … ‘cause of your shorts?”

I was aghast, confused.

There was nothing obviously wrong with my shorts. They weren’t skin tight Sun Britches or Jams. They were plain ‘ol Wal-Mart Starter basketball shorts. Nothing could be more age-appropriate.

“Uh … what do you mean, my shorts?” I said worried about what would come next.

“Well, you’ve got a girl’s butt,” she said without a hint of sarcasm. “It’s a bubble butt.”

For the record – I’m a 38-year-old guy who started losing his hair around freshman year in college. I used to be skinny and have become a tad plump, but I’m still skinner than most of dad’s I know. I’m not the best looking dude on the block but I’m no Creature from the Black Lagoon either.

Hey, in high school they called me “Sexy Legs” … OK, so one cheerleader called me “Sexy Legs,” but I had a T-shirt to prove her assessment. My butt was something I’d never given much thought to when it came to my overall appearance.

I tried to let it go, but suddenly I felt self-conscious.

My Lovely Wife assures me that I have nothing to worry about. “It means you don’t have a flat butt like most guys … it’s a good thing. Besides, I love you no matter what.”

Again, less than complimentary. Plus, I’ve never been good at taking complements, especially when they might be veiled insults. ‘Course given the bulbousness of my butt, I figured the mother I was about to meet wouldn’t pay notice my T-shirt. Good thing I know how to back that thang up.

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.
 

Tags: Brett Buckner, humor, Parenting
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Kids will command your attention…whether you want them to or not

– April 9, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

I try to pay attention. I try to stay involved, connected; to say all the right things and hide my swelling impatience. I want her to know that I’m proud of her accomplishments.

But a man – even the most well-intentioned father – can only feign wonder and excitement so many times while watching his child kick her leg in the air.

It’s what we’re referring to as the “Look at me!” phase. Jellybean’s always commanded an audience. The child’s as much of a wall flower as Lady Gaga. She wants to show off every single move she makes. She makes Kim Kardashian look shy.

“Watch me, Daddy,” she hollers, kicking up one leg while holding onto the coffee table.

“Watch me, Daddy,” she shouts, jumping off the curb at the mall.

“Watch me, Daddy,” she demands, pushing the empty rocking chair back and forth.

“Watch me, Daddy,” she calls while hopping on one foot, juggling a flaming Christmas tree in one hand, a bowling ball in the other and reciting the Gettysburg address backwards.

“Wow,” I respond atonally. “Good job, honey.”

OK, so that last one was an exaggeration. Even amid my parental apathy I’d recognize a David Letterman moment when it fluttered across my peripheral vision. But the others? Totally true.

About 700 times a day, Jellybean screams for me to watch her do something that, quite frankly, isn’t all that impressive. Of course, the things she tries to do to elevate her game – like dancing on the lawn chair or showing off how many yard rocks she can stuff in her mouth at once – only get her in trouble.

But she won’t be ignored.

Try to look away, try to politely placate, try to cook Sloppy Joes instead of standing on the patio steps while she does jumping jacks and she’ll call your name over and over and over again until you either become fully engaged or your head explodes … and quite frankly, as long as there’s some kind of reaction, she doesn’t much care which comes first.

Again, there’s no way to come away from this ran without sounding mean and callous. But if you’ve got kids over 3, you’re secretly nodding along in guilty agreement. They’re precious. We love them infinitely. They are our greatest joys and our starry-eyed hope for the future. But man, they can suck the life right out of you at the end of long, hard day.

‘Course My Lovely Wife – who’s also subjected to a continuous barrage of “Momma!” “Momma!” “Momma!” – do our best to take it all in stride and with a knowing laugh.

My Lovely Wife loves to tell the story of how when she was home all weekend with The Diva when she was 5 or so, after a mind-numbing series of shouts and hollers, she turned to her firstborn daughter, who was then, as she is now, as precocious as that particular day was long, and said as sweetly as her simmering temper would allow, “OK. I love you very much, but for the rest of the day, my name is not ‘Mamma.’ Call me whatever you want, but for today, I’m not going to be ‘Mamma’.”

In the years since, during various verbal sparring matches, The Diva’s called us both names outside of proper parental parameters, when she’s not giving us the wounded silent treatment. So I’d better pay attention to Jellybean for as long as she’s still speaking to me.

Till then … David Letterman, here we come.

 

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

 

Tags: Bret Buckner, Parenting
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There are no secrets

– April 2, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

Life with Jellybean is like living with a TMZ reporter.

Every little secret and embarrassing moment is thrown out there for strangers to ridicule and nothing is left to the imagination.

Now I know what it’s like to be Lindsay Lohan – minus the cocaine and craziness.

Take for example the answer Jellybean gave to the simple question of, “So what does your Daddy do?”

“He works really hard and orders pizza.”

I can only imagine the look on the daycare teacher’s face when Jellybean blurted that one out. Granted, we’re not exactly tight with her teachers – defined by the fact that I know them only as “Miss. Tonya” or “Miss Christy”. Given that I’m usually dropping my child off in the morning dressed like I’m about to go pick up trash on the side of the road (a perk of working from home), I gotta think their minds were running wild with that revelation.

At least she put “works hard” ahead of “ordering pizza,” both of which, I must confess, are fairly accurate descriptions of my daily duties.

But the child could’ve thrown in a few superlatives for good measure.

Something like “uproariously funny writer” or, “award-winning freelance writer,” or “adverb-advocator” or “A man who will always be measured by the weight of his words and not the amount of his paycheck.”

Seriously, is that too much to ask of a 2-year-old … perhaps. Heck, I’d settle for “Man who makes all of my tiny dreams come true.”

Instead, I “work hard and order pizza.” I guess it’s better than a punch in the face, but I must admit to a bit of bitterness.

But the humiliation and underselling doesn’t end at the schoolhouse door.

While sitting in the waiting area of MasterCuts for The Diva to finish getting pampered – (seriously, they could’ve washed Medusa’s hair in less time and that’s with half the staff being turned to stone), Jellybean felt the need to make me a punch line for the row of nearby customers.

“My sister’s getting her hair cut,” she said in her Outside Voice, “but my Daddy doesn’t need one ‘cause he doesn’t have any hair.”

Yes, I am bald. Yes, it’s fairly obvious to all who meet me. Do I care? Not especially. Because my hair started falling out before I could legally buy a bottle of Boone’s Farm, I got over never being able to cultivate the world’s most majestic mullet. That doesn’t mean I need my baldness broadcast to entire world.

I already have to live with the fact that the very same MasterCuts we were patronizing gives me the children’s discount because of what little I’ve got to work with.

Jellybean, in her defense, was just trying to make conversation. And here we’ve preached the whole “Don’t talk to strangers” bit time and time again. I suppose we should’ve amended the warning by adding of, “especially when you run the risk of publically humiliating your father.”

She never does that to her mother.

But I know Jellybean loves me even if the way she expresses it is a bit creepy. Just yesterday she told me, “Daddy, I when I was a baby, I lived in Mommy’s tummy. So next year, I think I’m gonna live in yours.”

Now that’s just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. And there’s nothing embarrassing about that.

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

 

Tags: Bret Buckner, humor, Jellybean, Parenting
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A Parenting Rhapsody

– March 25, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

It was a rare attempt at subterfuge and it failed miserably … it’s impossible to sneak anything past a 4-year-old, but you can’t blame a Daddy for trying.

I wanted to listen to MY music for a change. It was just a 10-minute drive to Wal-Mart, and I figured we’d be in the parking lot before Jellybean realized what was going on.

I was in a metal frame of mind – not sure what that says about my mood at the moment – and I was had a hankering for some Judas Priest, nothing vile or violent, just loud.

We were maybe a foot past the mailbox when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Jellybean mouthing along. My heart leapt like I’d just been told to “Come on down!” at the Price is Right.

It took to the guitar solo to realize that Jellybean wasn’t singing, she was shouting – and not in that heavy-metal-fist-pumping kinda way. She was actually yelling over the music and trying desperately to get my attention, this look on her face like she’d just swallowed a turd-flavored bug.

So I broke the first rule of rock, and turned the music down to just below ear-splitting.

“Daddy!” she bellowed, “Why is that man screaming … is he hurt?”

“No sweetie,” I answered in that tone that says, ‘this is a teaching moment.’ “That’s Rob Halford. He’s got the greatest voice in heavy metal. They call him the Metal God … He’s supposed to sound like that.”

We drive for a few feet as Jellybean considers this. Another track starts, though at a more tolerable level.

“I don’t like it,” Jellybean says. “Can I hear Glee now?”

And that pretty much drove the final nail in my metal experiment. I bond with most people through music. My Lovely Wife says that at any given moment I have more songs rumbling through my head than anyone she’s ever met. ‘Course have the reason I fell in love with her is that she knows every line from “Informer” by Snow and has been known to bust out Warren G. anytime she hears the word “regulate.”

I take it as a compliment that my mind can go from Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical,” to the Ramones’ “Cretin Hop,” to the theme from Star Wars to Loverboy’s “Workin’ for the Weekend” and finally REM’s “The One I Love” in the time it takes to walk from the bathroom to the kitchen.

I taught The Diva to appreciate both Green Day, My Chemical Romance, Eminem and Lil’ Wayne (those last two might call my parenting skills into question, but at least it gives us something to talk about … rage and blunts mostly, but only from a place of “making wise choices and rappers aren’t role models.”)

And the same can be said for Jellybean, though I’m still working on her appreciation for ‘80s hair metal (most of whom are now bald, which is a tad ironic) as well as classic rock.

While I must confess to loving Glee, to choose Lady Gaga over Judas Priest offends my better nature … though not nearly as much as having a toddler holler “I’m a freak, baby” at the top of her lungs from the daycare parking lot as “Bad Romance” blares in the backgroundaHHlkdlkjdsslHalkdkdkdkdkdkdkdkdkd.

Still, being a good Dad means making concessions. At least she’s knows when to properly head-bang during Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” That’s not something that can be taught … that’s instinct, baby.

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

Tags: Brett Buckner, humor, Jellybean, Parenting
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It’s all about the intent

– March 20, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

I would think she was playing me if she didn’t look so sincere.

“We don’t say, ‘butt’ because ‘butt’ is a bad word.” And that’s pretty much how the conversation begins, but it’s far from over. For Jellybean there’s an ever-growing list of words and phrases that she’s not supposed to say … and yet says constantly under the guise of double-checking (or else to make sure that I’m still paying attention.”

These words include: “hate,” “butt,” the aforementioned “shut-up,” “idiot” (thank you Toy Story 3) and virtually anything we here Daddy saying when he’s digging holes out in the yard. Oh, and “holy crap” has recently reared its ugly head, so we’ve also nipped that one in the bud. Jellybean also said “damn it, move you fool!” But that was my fault … can I help it if people who text while they drive makes me nuts?

I cleared up the confusion right away with the age old, “do as I say, not as I do” routine, which I guess should be more like, “do as I do and not as I say” … now I’m just confusing myself.

But what’s funny is that while these words have entered the Toddler Lexicon under the heading “Utterances not to utter” she says them now way more than when she initially got them in trouble for saying them in first place because it’s part of her daily school report, telling us the naughty words that her friends said. Thus far we’ve established the precedence of, “as long as you’re repeating words used by others and not firing them off yourself, you’re in the clear.”

I guess it’s kinda like how on TV it’s OK to say, “Dick,” as long as it’s referring to the nickname of a man named Richard and not referring to … well … you get the gist.

So afternoon conversations at the kitchen counter go a little something like this, “Savannah told Ella Claire to ‘shut-up’ today when we were at the tire swing, but I told her that ‘shut-up’ was a bad word and that it wasn’t nice to say ‘shut-up’ ‘cause saying ‘shut-up’ is mean can hurt somebody’s feelings. But then you know what? She said ‘shut-up’ any way. And then I said, ‘We don’t say ‘shut-up’ …”

You get the idea. The same goes for “butt” and “idiot,” which Jellybean actually pronounces “addiot,” so I’m a little confused if that should still count considering that most people wouldn’t understand what she was saying anyway.

With kids, it’s all about intent. I remember My Dear, Sweet Mother hated (oops, I mean, “didn’t like”) whenever I said “Freakin’!” mainly because I said it really hard and fast so that it sounding more like … well … try it yourself and see what I mean.

What’s even more entertaining are the words we actually allow her to say but in limited use. These fall under the heading of “Silly Words that are Funny, but only to a Certain Extent before They become Annoying.”

These include “poopie head” “tooty face” “booty,” kooky” “poopsie” “tootsie” and about 75 variances thereof.

None of these perpetuate the reality of a child who has an impressively extensive vocabulary, but Jellybean’s also a very goofy kid. Were we to extract these words from her vernacular, she’d never speak.

It’s a fine line between funny and foul, but I gotta give Jellybean a nod for finding a loophole. She may be a poopie head, but she’s a smart poopie head.

But don’t tell her I said that.

 

 

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

Tags: Brett Buckner, Jellybean, Parenting
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Parents can get something out of punishment

– March 12, 2012Posted in: Brett Buckner, Columns

 

 

It’s the best punishment ever … and gives me an actual recourse when reaching “Three.” See, I thought counting was like an evil spell that put kids under a grown-up’s control. Turns out that trick, like every other aspect of parenting, wasn’t nearly as easy as it sounded.

Trouble was, I didn’t know what exactly to do when I got to “Three.” I made a big show of counting … “One!” “Two” … but Jellybean would just look at me and grin. Sure, she’s cute and all, but that just made me feel stupid (sorry, we don’t say “stupid”) I mean … silly.

I was utterly powerless, a dud, a pitbull with dentures, a Roman candle that only puffed out smoke and disappointment.

That was until My Lovely Wife gave me some advice. When I get to “Three”, Jellybean loses a book. That’s the punishment – one less book to read. This is awesome.

Now, before you load up the comments page, yes I love reading to my child. In fact, it was one of the things that I looked most forward to when I found out about being a father. I bought books. My dad gave me old Sweet Pickles books (What’s so great about Nice?” is a personal favorite) and 300 or so Little Golden Books. My Dear Sweet Mom sent all the newest, educator-recommended children’s books, along with pounds of Pooh books.

We’ve got more books than an old fashioned Baptist book-burning, and I treasure each and every one. There are the Shel Silverstein books – Where the Sidewalk Ends and Light in the Attic – I had as a kid and My Lovely Wife’s copy of Fox Eyes she got when she was like a year old. Our house is filled with books, and Jellybean, though she can’t read a word, is every bit as obsessed. She stacks ‘em and uses them to make pretend bridges and houses. She “reads” to her menagerie of stuffed animals and “nekked babies” in a language that sounds like German only sweeter.

We read her two books every night before bed. But the problem is that SHE gets to pick ‘em. And by the Great Grammar Gods she either picks the longest book this side of Ulysses (Stone Soup), one that’s just plain terrible (Little Hiawatha), one that’s utterly ridiculous (Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy) or is a long, tongue-twister that’s also terrible and makes no sense (One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish Blue Fish … and yes, I know it’s blasphemy to dislike Dr. Suess, but go reread Cat in the Hat … see … told ya … terrible. Give me Yertle the Turtle any day).

That’s the problem. We’ve always gotta read what Jellybean wants, and man is she stubborn. You’d have better luck getting Rush Limbaugh to admit liberals aren’t the anti-Christ than convincing Jellybean to read something other than Morris goes to School for the 22nd night in a row. I wanna read The Digging-est Dog that Ever Dug, or If You Give a Moose a Muffin or Llama, Llama Mad at Mamma or The Monster Who Ate My Peas or The Giving Tree.

But N-O-O-O-O-O!. It’s Mouse Soup – a book that I could and have read in my sleep.

Thus the awesome punishment – Jellybean puts a toe out of line and I’m countin’ one-two-three faster than the guest referee in a Ric Flair/Dusty Rhodes loser-leave-town match. And then it’s “Uh-oh! Lost a book.”

Sure she may cry, but that’s the price of making Daddy read bad books.

 

Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com

Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.

Tags: Brett Buckner, Parenting
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