We playfully call it the “Cop Knock.” It’s The Diva’s subtle way of telling us she’s about to enter a room and we’d better be prepared. We call it a “Cop Knock” because it’s loud and the way she bursts into a room three seconds later is so frightening that My Lovely Wife and I are forced to freeze.
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Like the teenagers we struggle to raise, parents are never satisfied.
We complain because they ignore us, disconnect from us, roll their eyes when we speak, act like we were born in the Stone Ages and are generally as about as pleasant to hang around as a bag full of angry badgers. And during those dark days of rebellion and irritability, when those same temperamental teenagers act as if they’d rather make-out with a dung beetle than walk within a 100 feet of their parents – never mind the fact that they have no job and need us to buy their Hollister hoodies and acne face wash – we reminisce about those “sweet days,” when they were clingy and idolized us.
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It’s like living with a tiny tyrant, a pint-sized Imelda Marcos with fewer shoes, Paris Hilton minus the paparazzi.
The Diva’s no longer The Diva. That tongue-in-cheek title’s been wrestled away by Jellybean whose become the most demanding cuss this side of Celebrity Rehab. And the way she talks to her dear old dad is mean enough to make one of Cinderella’s wicked step-sisters stop and take notice.
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We’d been friends since first grade, but I hadn’t spoken to her in a decade
I remember the last time I saw her. It was my high school’s 10 year reunion – the Riverview Academy Vikings class of 1992. We’d all graduated from college, taken over the family business or settled into a rough approximation of trying to act like grow-ups. Back then, we couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to be 30 – that frightening plateau when TV tells us we’re supposed to have it all figured out, though none of us ever do.
I didn’t want to be there. I’d just quit my job as features editor for the Opelika-Auburn News and with a nice little inheritance had rented a house in Montgomery where I was going to write a novel.
I’d been in Montgomery for about six months and while I wrote every day, I was really watching too much Dawson’s Creek, drinking red wine and reading books that made the future seem even more bleak and unfathomable than it already felt.
I wasn’t ready to grow up. Hell, I’m still not, even with two kids and a mortgage.
She had just moved to Seattle and was an aspiring actress. I was jealous of her courage to move so far away. We drank and laughed and talked about the old days. She made the rounds, while I clung to my cadre of friends, from whom I’d quietly drifted away over the years.
There was nothing especially memorable about our conversation. I wouldn’t revisit it at all had it not been the tragic news that Facebook delivered early this week.
Her was Kimberly Layfield. She was murdered when a gunman opened fire at the Racer Café in Seattle.
Kimberly and I were Facebook friends and members of the Riverview Academy page. I hadn’t visited either in ages until Thursday afternoon when my phone started blurting nonstop. When I read the posts, all I could do was stare at the words from the crowd of mourners who gathered from all over the country to share their sorrow, their memories and their disbelief.
I hadn’t spoken to Kimberly in years, but with just a few clicks I was looking at pictures both old and new. It’s funny how the Kimberly of my memory – just a teenager – looked so much like the Kimberly in those photos – a woman – surrounded by people I didn’t know yet looking so happy and fulfilled, so … promising – as are all lives that aren’t allowed to reach their full because of some senseless, random act.
What I remember about Kimberly, aside from her beauty, was that she was the kind of person others gravitated to.
I’d known her since first grade, but as a dorky class clown, she was totally out of my league, even though we were friends – ‘course in a graduating class of 36 there’s not a lot of room for cliques. So when she signed my annual the year we graduated, I was secretly thrilled when she took up a whole page.
I can’t read it now without crying – both from embarrassment for having ever been so young and sadness as yet another light’s been taken out of the world.
Kimberly wrote about going on Spring Break and hanging out on the playground, basketball games, my becoming a writer and the poems – which were really poorly disguised power ballads – I shared, trying to show my tender side.
“I only wish,” she wrote, “we had one more year or one more day.”
Me, too.
Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.
Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com
It’s the shout heard ‘round the house. The one that makes my skin crawl, not because I don’t wanna help a Jellybean in distress, but rather because … well … I just don’t want to do it.
“DAD-E-E-E-E-E! Can you come and wipe me?”
Ewwww!
Honestly, I thought after we got the child potty-trained I’d stop having such intimate encounters with another person’s poo. Nope, soon as her work is done, I hear Jellybean call out with the desperation of someone yelling “Shark” at the beach. And I’m about as excited for what comes next as those unfortunate swimmers are with sharing the water with a man-eater.
Wiping the bottom of another is a skill I simply do not possess – thankfully. I drag my knuckles in toilet water every single time, and that’s just not healthy (not to mention the fact that, since sharing this personal anecdote with my family, nobody will shake my hand).
The point is – at 4 years old, Jellybean is more than physically capable of cleaning her own bottom. But just because she can, that doesn’t mean she should. This is the golden rule for many of the annoying chores My Lovely Wife and I continue to perform for Jellybean.
The same rule used to apply to The Diva as well, but at 15, we grew wise to her ruse. Sure she “accidentally” forgot to put a new liner in the trash can after taking the trash out – leading to my dumping old coffee grounds into an unprotected garbage can – or she missed almost all the dirt and grime when cleaning her own bathroom, but she actually knows better and just doesn’t want to be helpful (she’s also real smart).
With Jellybean, it’s a little more complicated.
Sure can brush her own teeth, but she doesn’t do it especially well, leaving her teeth and breath mighty funky despite wasting a full tube of toothpaste and leaving a trail of puddles all over the bathroom floor.
So we brush her teeth to ensure she’s not the only girl in pre-K with dentures.
Jellybean picks up her own toys. She chooses her clothes for the day (allowing for multiple morning “options” from which to choose). She’s great at the grocery store and picking out her own bedtime books. She can now use scissors … and we’ve got chopped up, unread magazines to prove it.
She desperately wants to help her mom cook, but is usually satisfied simply licking the beater or stirring something unlikely to stain her clothes or melt the skin from her bones. And she’s very helpful when it comes to soothing the dogs during bath time.
But when it comes to doing her business in the bathroom, it’s generally a Jellybean-Free Zone – save for the role the biology and Mother Nature’s call plays in the flow of things.
She doesn’t wipe well and almost always forgets to flush. The later being the reason that on those special occasions when she does go alone we usher her into her sister’s bathroom where an unflushed toilet is but one of the gross things lurking in the closed-door darkness. Plus the child, who is inscrutable when it comes to washing hands, wastes more water than synchronized swimming as an Olympic sport.
I know that when she’s all grown up, there are many things about raising Jellybean that I’ll look back on fondly. But her screams of “DAD-E-E-E-E! Can you wipe me? “won’t make the list.
Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com
Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.
It’s the shout heard ‘round the house. The one that makes my skin crawl, not because I don’t wanna help a Jellybean in distress, but rather because … well … I just don’t want to do it.
“DAD-E-E-E-E-E! Can you come and wipe me?”
Ewwww!
Honestly, I thought after we got the child potty-trained I’d stop having such intimate encounters with another person’s poo. Nope, soon as her work is done, I hear Jellybean call out with the desperation of someone yelling “Shark” at the beach. And I’m about as excited for what comes next as those unfortunate swimmers are with sharing the water with a man-eater.
Wiping the bottom of another is a skill I simply do not possess – thankfully. I drag my knuckles in toilet water every single time, and that’s just not healthy (not to mention the fact that, since sharing this personal anecdote with my family, nobody will shake my hand).
The point is – at 4 years old, Jellybean is more than physically capable of cleaning her own bottom. But just because she can, that doesn’t mean she should. This is the golden rule for many of the annoying chores My Lovely Wife and I continue to perform for Jellybean.
The same rule used to apply to The Diva as well, but at 15, we grew wise to her ruse. Sure she “accidentally” forgot to put a new liner in the trash can after taking the trash out – leading to my dumping old coffee grounds into an unprotected garbage can – or she missed almost all the dirt and grime when cleaning her own bathroom, but she actually knows better and just doesn’t want to be helpful (she’s also real smart).
With Jellybean, it’s a little more complicated.
Sure can brush her own teeth, but she doesn’t do it especially well, leaving her teeth and breath mighty funky despite wasting a full tube of toothpaste and leaving a trail of puddles all over the bathroom floor.
So we brush her teeth to ensure she’s not the only girl in pre-K with dentures.
Jellybean picks up her own toys. She chooses her clothes for the day (allowing for multiple morning “options” from which to choose). She’s great at the grocery store and picking out her own bedtime books. She can now use scissors … and we’ve got chopped up, unread magazines to prove it.
She desperately wants to help her mom cook, but is usually satisfied simply licking the beater or stirring something unlikely to stain her clothes or melt the skin from her bones. And she’s very helpful when it comes to soothing the dogs during bath time.
But when it comes to doing her business in the bathroom, it’s generally a Jellybean-Free Zone – save for the role the biology and Mother Nature’s call plays in the flow of things.
She doesn’t wipe well and almost always forgets to flush. The later being the reason that on those special occasions when she does go alone we usher her into her sister’s bathroom where an unflushed toilet is but one of the gross things lurking in the closed-door darkness. Plus the child, who is inscrutable when it comes to washing hands, wastes more water than synchronized swimming as an Olympic sport.
I know that when she’s all grown up, there are many things about raising Jellybean that I’ll look back on fondly. But her screams of “DAD-E-E-E-E! Can you wipe me? “won’t make the list.
Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com
Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.
There are joys great and small that come with being a parent. For every first word or graduation ceremony, there’s an expected giggle or insight that makes us swell with pride.
Public humiliation is such a small joy. And it’s a door that swings both ways. Jellybean’s embarrassed me by, for example, shouting, “My daddy pooted,” while walking down the frozen food aisle at Publix. But for The Diva, we are the catalysts for such torment … and God it’s fun.
Back when she was a wee-Diva, My Lovely Wife and I got our out kicks by seeing how many deepening shades of red she could turn while we sang Tim McGraw’s “Indian Outlaw” ay full throat in an utterly empty Pizza Hut. Most the time our mere presence is enough to elicit such facial contortions, but her defense is pretending we’re only weird strangers who seem to be following her around the mall, or Target or anywhere else that children of a certain age congregate.
Which is why I was utterly dumbfounded when she agreed to go see a movie with me this past weekend … this past Friday night, to be exact, which also happened to be opening night of a horror movie called, “The Lady in Black.”
I almost didn’t ask, not because I didn’t want her to go, but figured there’d be a greater chance of a John Lennon and George Harrison rising from the dead to reunite The Beatles than my teenager agreeing to go out in public with me, knowing there was a possibility of running into someone – anyone, no matter if it’s the janitor – from her high school that she knew.
But say yes she did. The Diva and I’ve always bonded over horror movies My Lovely Wife scares easily, therefore – hindsight being 20/20 – taking her to see Saw on our first date was a bad idea. From The Thing to The Exorcist, Halloween (both part 1 and 2) to The Strangers, The Diva and I have rolled our eyes and pretended to not be afraid through them all.
We even survived The Dead Girl – a terrible movie about some boys who find a nekked zombie and start … well … having sex with it. Needless to say, I had my Netflix-picking privileges suspended a while for that one.
The place was packed with largely loitering teens, but The Diva walked only about nine feet in front of me and even managed to talk to me once we got into the theater. Together we mocked the previews and made fun of the goofy looking adults standing in line with their kids (I knew choosing the Iron Maiden T-shirt would raise my cool quotient). Then tragedy struck – a cute boy from her school walked in with a mob and “L-O-O-O-O-K-E-D” at her, making “totally awkward eye contact.” She used my phone to text anyone about the mortifying situation into which she’d stumbled.
I was invisible again. The Diva spent the next 20 minutes silently wishing that seat would either swallow her or me, but once the lights went down … it was like were sitting on the couch at home, pretending not to be scared.
When the movie was over … let’s just say fire drills and bomb threats have been met with less panic. Back in the car, after her heart rate had slowed and the color in her cheeks cooled, The Diva and I debated the movie’s merits.
Parenting … it’s all about the small joys.
Contact Brett Buckner at brettbuckner@ymail.com
Brett Buckner is an award-winning freelance newspaper/magazine writer who was raised in Albany.
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.
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.
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.
