We Took the Road Less Traveled

"Where troubles melt like lemon drops, high above the chimney tops. That's where you'll find me."- from Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed. (I'm sure this comes as no surprise.) This was not my idea of a vacation. This is not how we had said we would spend our 10th Anniversary celebration. My Director had totally hijacked our day and dedicated it to shopping. No...looking for the perfect gift to repay my sister and brother-in-law for watching Peanut for the two weeks we were away. This is one area where we, and I believe most men and women, differ. Shopping. I don't look for things. I think of what I want ahead of time and I set off to buy things. Or, I see something and impulsively say, "I'm going to buy that," finances willing. But I never say, "I want something like this so I'm going to go look for it." That's just a waste of time. Nonsense.

Yet, here we were. Immersed in nonsense.

This is 1 of nearly 6,000 identical stores.
But look at her in her cute hat. I can't stay mad at her.

We were on the island of Murano, the place in Venice famous for its hand-blown glass. And My Director had taken a one-way boat to Nutsville, obsessed with buying a set of glasses. We went into every store, on a mission. It was maddening because all of these stores are the same, except for infinitesimal differences in each figurine, light fixture, or piece of jewelry. I was stuck in Venetian Groundhog Day and I needed out. So I threw a bit of a tantrum. Albeit, a strategic, impassioned, but sympathetic tantrum. To my surprise, it actually worked.

Still, I was tired, hot, cranky, and annoyed as we boarded a boat to head back to mainland Venice, Piazza San Marco. First we had to make one last stop at "Murano Faro." This is the only place where you get a boat to the island of Burano. One of my wishes for our trip was to go to Burano, because it's little known, quiet, far away. But at this point, in the state I was in (the "done with shopping" state), I felt defeated and resigned to go back.

This selfie proves there were actually more happy
moments on Murano than not. (And that I am terribly bald.)

"Last chance," My Director called to me. "If you want Burano we have to get off here. Now."

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A Lesson in Capitalism

"The secret of success is to do the common things uncommonly well." -John D. Rockefeller
As part of our Summer Bucket List, aka the "attempt to relieve ourselves of our guilt for abandoning Peanut while we go to Europe for two weeks" list, we wanted to make a lemonade stand with her. She started asking last summer, but we ran out of time. So I promised myself we'd do it this summer. This past weekend was the time.

I had laid out a business plan:

• Signage must be big, bright, and welcoming. (Peanut and I spent a good hour laying on the floor with magic markers, creating our masterpiece.)
• Location is key. (My Director and I actually disagreed over this. She, as you might expect, turned out to be right. Dammit.)
• Give 'em something no one else has. (We made FRESH lemonade with real lemons and mint from our garden.)
• Set a strategic price point. (At $0.75 a cup, 2 for $1, why not get two? Besides, we're the only game for miles, no? If you're stopping, you're buying.)
• Create a welcoming storefront. (We went for summer bistro.)

Here is the result:

Don't you love the handheld arrow she made?

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Making the Most of the Day

"It's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years." -Abraham Lincoln

This summer, I find myself saying, "I could have used one more day" a lot. To save days off for a two-week trip My Director and I are taking to Europe later this month, I can't afford to extend weekend trips by taking off a Friday or Monday, like I normally would. This past weekend, for example, we made the drive to see My Director's brother and his wife in Vermont. Normally I would have taken Friday or Monday off, not only to extend the trip but to ease the burden of the six-hour drive as well. For the third time this summer, I didn't. Or couldn't. Once again this prompted my, "I could have used one more day." (All of this is a nice problem to have, I know.)

The three of us, rocking the canoe.

We are also not taking Peanut to Europe with us. This is a trip to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. European vacations are not for six year-olds, but that's a topic for another post. So we're trying to jam in as much Peanut quality time as we can when we're all together. With that in mind. I found myself trying to relax by the lake on Saturday, sitting in my beach chair and reading my book. Peanut, my brother-in-law, and I had just returned from a fun one-hour canoe trip around the lake. (See: Jamming in fun memories with Peanut before we desert her with my sister for two weeks.) That's when I noticed Peanut had taken my football out of the beach bag.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Five Simple Words

"Because if that little kid likes me, how bad could I be?" -Wreck-It Ralph

Father's Day. I don't ask for much. I don't ask for anything, actually. Anything tangible, that is. I went for a run and took three naps during the course of the day. Peanut and I watched Wreck-It Ralph, my new favorite movie. She and My Director made me breakfast. We walked the dogs and Peanut rode her bike in the park. That's all I needed. Some time to myself and some time with my ladies.

The best part of Father's Day, to me, is the homemade gifts from Peanut. In previous years, she made portraits of us. This year, however, she channeled her inner blogger and wrote about me. Here's what she wrote:

I was floored. This is what my daughter thinks of me? These are the words she chose to describe me? I was stunned to the point of asking My Director, "Does she even know me?"

Nice: This, I guess, is relative. I am nice to her. I am nice to most. But I can be very not nice at times. I can only assume I have done an excellent job of hiding faking it around her.

Calm: Huh? Me? Maybe I outwardly project calm. But she's never seen me in the control room at work. Dropping eff bombs like I'm getting paid a nickel per shot. On the inside, I am a whirlpool inside a tornado.

Kind: See "Nice" above.

Funny: Ok. Now she gets me. For example, instead of calling it "Father's Day," she mimicked me and called it "Fahz-sha's Day," like in the Austin Powers movie Goldmember:


Ticklish: Guilty as charged. But I will have you know that I am currently undefeated in tickle fights in my household. You mess with the bull you get the horns.

As amused and touched as I was by Peanut's words, I still had a difficult time believing them. Even though My Director insisted Peanut chose them herself. No coaching or coaxing from her teacher. Then I read what My Director wrote in her card to me:

Your daughter will always allow you to see yourself in the best way possible. Believe in what she sees.

Someday I hope to be half the man my daughter thinks I am.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Drawing Clumsy

I often wonder, when is it we begin to lose our imagination? When do we stop dreaming the impossible, and start to stare cold hard reality in the face? When did things get so complicated, that we can't find the simple solution?

One night for homework, Peanut had to come up with six words that start with "cl" and draw a picture of each thing. One of her words, she decided, would be "clumsy." I loved that she chose this word. But my black-and-white adult brain silently wondered, "How is she going to draw clumsy?" It's so abstract. I couldn't imagine how one would draw an adjective.

So I waited. I helped her spell the words she chose. And I waited for her finished product:

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Paying Money to Walk Funny

I never skied growing up. My first time on skis was in high school, and I was so terrible that I almost killed myself and several other people on that otherwise lovely mountain in the Poconos. My Director, on the other hand, did grow up skiing. Every winter. Not very athletic herself, she is nonetheless as graceful as a gazelle on skis. 

We decided we want Peanut to be a skier. Or to at least know how to ski so we can go as a family a couple of times a winter and build some memories. She, on the other hand, is rarely receptive to new things:

Not loving all of the gear she has to wear.

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Hope Still Floats

I missed Valentine's Day this year. That's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, and it was not due to any fault or ignorance on my part. I was sick with Man Cold before, during, and after. (It was actually more flu than cold. I was in rough shape for a few days.) Valentine's Day was on Thursday. When Saturday rolled around, I finally felt well enough to go to the grocery store to buy some essentials and make up for my absence. In addition to stocking the pantry and fridge, I bought cards, cupcakes, and balloons for the two women in my house.

Love will keep us afloat.

More than a week later, I noticed those balloons are still flying strong. I pointed them out to Peanut, who then reminded me of the time last year that the "Balloon Fairy" left balloons for her. She said those balloons also lasted a long time, "probably because they were magic." I thought it was amazing that she remembered that one little gesture from an unknown "fairy." Magic, even.

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Unnecessary Toughness

"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." -Thomas Edison

It seems every day, Peanut will say or do something that shows me just how much she's grown up. Not big things, mind you. Little things. Nuances, if you will. Like when she says something that perfectly - if not dramatically - communicates her true feelings...

Take, for instance, the night we told her she could watch a half hour of a movie before bed. "But at 7:30," we warned her beforehand, "we're turning it off and going right upstairs." My Director concluded with a firm, "No fooling around." Fast forward to 7:30. We turn off the movie. Cue Peanut joking around. She's laying on her mom, pretending not to hear her when she asks her to get up. General silly procrastination that we told her would be unacceptable. I snap. "Peanut, stop it right now and let's go to bed."

She immediately stops, stands at attention, furrows her brow and shouts, "Why are you always yelling at me?!"  In the moment, I shot back by telling her I wouldn't have to yell at her if she just listened. But put aside the fact that her use of the word always stabbed me, really making me feel like a jerk of a dad. Peanut is now more capable than ever of expressing her feelings effectively, without crying or whining. Her use of always was deliberate. And timely. Just a couple hours earlier, I snapped at her for lollygagging when she was putting on her shoes for our walk with Luna. (A walk she didn't want to go on but I forced her to because she hadn't been outside all day.)

Sometimes My Director rightfully
throws a penalty flag on me.

My Director perfectly describes it as "piling on." Peanut will do something wrong. I will correct her and if necessary, punish her. Nothing wrong with that. It's called parenting. But I don't stop there. I will then proceed to recall every similar wrongdoing she has committed since the beginning of time, point it out, and use it is as an opportunity to punish her for those prior offenses as well. Because obviously if she's repeating the offense, the prior punishment wasn't effective enough. (At least in my mind.) So I feel the need to "pile on." Or I don't give her a chance to correct it first, before I discipline her. It's my whole ready-fire-aim mentality of parenting.

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It's Good To Be the King

I'm scurrying around the kitchen preparing dinner. Peanut beckons me from the playroom.

"Daddy, will you please play with me?"

How can I resist when she asks so nicely?

"What do you want to play?" 

"Princess dress-up."

Despite my mental and masculine hesitation, I am yet to decline this royal request. For no dad of a daughter should be above donning a tiara, some plastic clip-on earrings, and a feather boa if need be. (Unfortunately for you, no such picture exists. Shockingly.) Getting in the princess groove is how we throw down in my kingdom, from time to time. (Thankfully, this is only make-believe because I would make an ugly woman.) I do it because it makes her laugh. And because she ought to know that it's ok for a boy to get his princess on if that's his thing.

But the one major perk of raising a little princess, is that most of the time, I get to be the king:

King DKL

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Knowing Your Roles

"Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else." -Judy Garland

We all have a job as parents. Moms and dads. No matter how our families happen to be constructed. No matter which roles in the family we hold, we are responsible for teaching our children. Showing them the way. Whether we like it or not, they are watching us. Watching us for how to be and how to act.

My parents had traditional roles. My mom was a housewife for most of my childhood, before they opened their swimming pool business. Before that, my dad worked a lot to support us. There were a lot of late nights where I remember him coming home as I was laying in bed.

To a certain extent, My Director and I have turned those roles around. We both work. We divide cleaning evenly. The kitchen and bathrooms are my responsibility. She handles the finances and is even better than me at fixing certain most things. I do the cooking. We don't follow traditional roles for a mom and dad.

Two examples from Christmas, one past and one present, tell the story...

My Director fixing the tree.
(Me taking picture.)

A couple of weeks ago, our Christmas tree fell down while we were at work. My Director was the first one home and didn't hesitate to jump in and assess the tree stand situation. Meanwhile, once I arrived on the scene, I took pictures for the blog and attended to the more pressing matter of figuring out how to save Googily, our Elf on the Shelf. Googily was sitting in the tree at the time it fell. (The big thing about the Elf is if you touch him he loses his magic. You can read more about this hilarious and potentially catastrophic adventure HERE.) I was also concerned about how long this disaster would delay dinner.

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The Words We Use

Words can injure. We all know this. Like me, I am sure you've been on both the giving and receiving ends of nasty language, spoken or written. In light of recent events, perhaps an examination of how we talk to each other, and how we teach our children to talk to others, is in order. Small steps.

Something that happened with Peanut prompted me to examine the words she chooses, but more important, the words I choose. She came home from school with a note from her teacher one day this week. Apparently, she had used some inappropriate language towards another student, then lied about it. A big double no. So her teacher let us know. Always one to assume the best of my otherwise angel of a child, I immediately imagined the possibility that the other kid deserved it. As I snapped back into reality, I knew what she said wasn't right. But I was conflicted about how big of a deal we needed to make of it. (It sparked quite a conversation with plenty of strong opinions on my blog's Facebook page.)

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A Fair Share

"The inherent vice of capitalism is the unequal sharing of blessings; the inherent virtue of socialism is the equal sharing of miseries." -Winston Churchill

Sharing. Fairness. They are a cornerstone of parenting, childhood, and a current political debate. As parents, we begin to instill in our children the all-important concept of sharing at a very early age. And as soon as they can speak, children will soon declare that no matter what you decide, no matter how things are split up, it's not fair. That they are somehow being wronged. To me, that is essentially the cornerstone of the political argument over whether some people pay their "fair share" of taxes. If you ask me, the politicians who spew that talking point sound like whiney children too.

My feelings on this issue were solidified recently during a fun and innocent game we play with Peanut. The game is called "Elefun." Do you know it? A mini air blower that comes in the shape of an elephant shoots paper butterflies up its very long, plastic, collapsible trunk. The object is to catch as many butterflies in your little net as you can. Wholesome family fun jam-packed into two minutes or less. When the last butterfly has been caught, you turn off the elephant and count to see who has the most.

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Making Heads of Dolphin Tale

"Dolphin Tale" (2011/Rated PG) Peanut is definitely my daughter. Not that there was any doubt. We have matching big toes, after all. But more and more, her traits resemble mine. This will make her a very popular troublemaker once high school rolls around. Not sure if I'm totally prepared for that, but there's plenty of time.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Reaching New Heights

I am a feet-on-the-ground kind of guy. But when faced with a death-defying stunt that would force me to push my limits, overcome my fears, and teach my daughter something all at once, I was all-in. Ok I admit, I was a little in. You see, I am not one to back down from a challenge. So I'd be lying if I said this story doesn't start with some good-old fashioned hubris and machismo.

My Director, Peanut, and I spent  a long weekend in Lake George, NY with two other families over Columbus Day. One of the days we spent at Fright Fest at an amusement park called The Great Escape. Fright Fest is appropriate because after a few rides with the kids I found myself face to face with this:

Zoiks

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Model Tee

If I could do it all over again, I would play little league baseball. You would think a guy like me with a love of the game like mine would have played throughout his childhood. But my parents owned a swimming pool business and baseball season was their busy season. I don't blame them, but if I could go back I'd tell them the put the kid in for at least one season.

So we're breaking new ground with Peanut playing t-ball. As a result, every little thing she does on that field is magic. Especially this:

Lord Helmet.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: One Last Summer As My Baby

I came down with a stubborn case of nostalgia this summer. Not helping matters, one night I was looking through baby pictures. (I needed one for a blog post. This post, as a matter of fact.) As I right-clicked my way through Peanut's baby years in a matter of minutes, it hit me. Where did the time go? Where did my baby go? I remember these times so vividly. I remember her so vividly. Baby Peanut. Toddler Peanut. Demon Tantrum Refuses-to-Potty-Train Peanut. Fond memories. Mostly. I tried not to break down. Like on the first day of school, I felt myself getting choked up. But I choked that shizz right back down again.

When Peanut graduated daycare, she looked so grown up standing on that stage receiving her fake diploma. As a result of that image, I decided to call the past few months "one last summer as my baby." I knew it's where I would witness some small steps, but giant leaps for Peanut-kind. And I wanted to make sure to remember them. But most important, enjoy them. I'm glad for these memories. For capturing these moments in time. And for having one last summer as my baby:

She went night swimming with her cousin and
thought it was the coolest thing ever.

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The Road Less Traveled

"It's not a place you can get to by a boat or a train. It's far, far away. Behind the moon, beyond the rain..." -Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz

You never know how you're going respond to a moment. How you're going to react. I always envision myself breaking down and crying like a baby the moment the Jets finally win a Super Bowl in my lifetime. Tears of joy and relief, stunned disbelief. Then I snap back into reality and tell myself that's never going to happen. But a guy can dream.

I respond to the possible in the same way. So as Peanut's first day of school approached, I anticipated being an emotional mess. My Director did too. But we both said that we needed to keep ourselves composed for her sake. We turned our anxiety into excitement, building up her first day like we were waiting for the ball to drop on New Year's Eve. I am proud to say that we did hold it together.

Sorry. I tried for a cute picture but this is the best we could do. 

Brimming with Confidence

I should say My Director held it together. I did too, except for a brief moment after I said goodbye to Peanut. I kissed the top of her head and walked out of her classroom. I looked back and saw her sitting there coloring. My little Peanut, so big now. So strong. So independent:

Where did this person
come from?

I admit I got a little choked up. I felt the tears and the lump in the throat. But I fought it off to save face.

 
Once again, she thought nothing of this next step on our journey, this major milestone. She handled it with poise and grace. Just like her mom. Not only was Peanut not scared, she was fine. So we decided to be fine too. Because we know she is going to be fine.

We know because she's a lot more brave than we were at that age. She's more sociable and outgoing too. And she's amazingly curious. More curious than I remember being. When we recently watched The Wizard of Oz with her for the first time, for example, she provided us with an insight about the movie that we had never thought of before.

The Munchkins began to sing, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road." My Director and I instinctively began to sing along. Peanut, in full concentration mode while wearing her first-time-seeing-a-movie game face, interrupted our duet with a question that really forced both of us to think hard:

"What happens if they follow the red one?"

Why, yes. There IS a red one.

Red one? What red one? Yes. There it is. Right there, entwined in the spiral start of the yellow brick road. A red brick road. I was speechless. In all of my years of watching this movie hundreds of times, I never paid any mind to the red brick road, let alone wondered where it led. But not Peanut. That's the first thing she thought of. If the yellow brick road leads to the Emerald City, then where does the red brick road go?  (Incidentally, in one of the Oz books there is a second, much more treacherous yellow brick road. But no red one.)

So to make up for my lack of a suitable answer at the time of her question, I am responding to Peanut's most observant and clever query:

My sweet, the red brick road leads wherever you want it to. The only rules of the red brick road are these: follow your dreams and desires and make the most of your opportunities and talents. It will be what you make of it. No one will give you anything for free. It's never easy. But it can lead to wonderful riches, of the heart, mind, and even the wallet.

Curiosity is crucial along the red brick road. Don't ever stop asking questions like the ones you already ask me that routinely leave me stumped. Wonder and it will lead you to wonderful things. Mystery, adventure, love, heartache, laughter, tears, and friendship await you on the red brick road. Embrace these things. They will make you who you will become. Experience them. Remember them.

Taking that step

Now go on. Take that first step on the red brick road, if you choose. The first of many. It's truly amazing and inspiring. The places you'll go. The people you'll meet. The things you'll see. The things you'll eat. You don't need to rush along the red brick road. Walk. Enjoy. Savor. Soak it all in. Everything is there for the taking. You just have to go and get it. But earn it.

And as always, your mom and I are here for you when you get lost, when you need to find your way, when you're not sure of the direction. We will help you get there.

So go right ahead, Peanut. Follow the red brick road. I'm right behind you.

We actually had our doubts about showing Peanut The Wizard of Oz, but she once again proved she is more resilient than we sometimes give her credit for. You can read about it here. 

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Subtle Reminders

"Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you." -Robert Fulghum 

It's truly amazing how almost every time Peanut and I take Luna for a walk in the park, some sort of magic moment happens. I love these walks and this is why. They're my chance to be one-on-one with Peanut, hands-free, and chat with her. She often provides unique insights. Sometimes her opinions surprise me. This time around, she was riding her bicycle. (She's getting really good at it. But we've still got some time before those training wheels are ready to come off.)

We came upon a series of signs, dotted along the edge of the woods just off the path we were walking/riding on:

"That's nice," I called to Peanut as she rode ahead of me and Luna. 

"What, daddy?" 

"The volunteers who take care of the park put up those signs so Luna doesn't go in there and get poison ivy." 

"Luna can't read, daddy." 

"You're absolutely right. Silly me."

Peanut is doing this more often. Correcting us, providing perspective, making observations, or reminding us of things. Sometimes, like the example above, it's funny. Sometimes it's enlightening, like when she hears the first few harmonica chords of Piano Man as we're riding in the car and says, "Daddy, it's your favorite song." Enlightening because she IS listening to me.

Sometimes it's as harsh as a bucket of cold water in your face. For instance, she now serves as our mediator. My Director and I sometimes often bicker like an old married couple. Wait...what? (10 years in December, by the way.) Whenever Peanut is around and we become engaged in one of our discussions, she joins in as an interested but neutral third party. 

"Work it out," she'll shout from another room.

Or

"Guys, it's ok," she'll offer from the backseat of the car.

And My Director and I will look at each other with those "why-are-we-such-bad-parents-but-you-started-it" eyes. Then we will indeed work it out.

She is even aware of change. Like the other day, when she asked, "Daddy, why don't we hear the songs from Megamind in the car anymore?"

"Because mommy listens to a different radio station and she picks you up from school now." (And when I'm driving, it doubles as your musical education.)

Wow. She really notices everything we do. Everything we say. Everything. That's scary. She has a memory too. Even scarier.

It is the gigantic burden of parenthood. You are your child's example. Their moral compass. The old cop-out adage "Do as I say not as I do" does not apply. It should never have applied. She's watching. A little sponge absorbing. Learning. From me. Through me.

On my 37th birthday: We're so alike it's scary.

This is why she'll put her pajama pants on her head to distract us when she's being difficult at bedtime. Because when she's hurt or sad or crying for any other reason than naughtiness, I will put her pajama pants on my head to get her to snap out of it. When she mimics this hilarious, never-gets-old act of mine, My Director will turn to me and say, "See what you've done?"

Yes. I've created a comedic genius is what I've done. That pants-on-the-head gag kills every time.

We share a fondness for
fabulous headware 

When we're all in a happy mood and we're enjoying each other's company, she'll call My Director "the best mommy" and me "the best daddy" because I call her "the best little girl" and Luna "the best puppy."

But she's also helping me with her reminders. Because sometimes in the frantic rush from place to place, you can forget some crucial things. Like when I put her in her car seat, close the door, walk around to the driver's side, get into my seat, start the car, buckle my seat belt, reach to put the car in reverse and she giggles, "Daddy, you forgot to buckle me."

She thought I was being silly. I wasn't. I was being forgetful. She helps me remember.

Then there's the time we were playing tee ball in the backyard and My Director jokingly hit my butt with the bat. And now, just like the pants-on-the-head gag, it's become a thing to hit daddy's butt with the Whiffle-ball bat. Every time we switch sides from batting to fielding, I hand her the bat, and she smacks me with it. (But unlike the pants-on-the-head gag, this one gets old.)

And when I gave up chocolate for Lent  and she was making pretend-coffee in her play kitchen and she came in and said, "Daddy, it's ok. You can drink it because it doesn't have chocolate."

Not only is she always listening, she's always looking out for me too. She sees my love, feels my love, and loves me right back.

One of the things she teaches me, and reminds me of, is forgiveness. And wouldn't you know, Luna was involved there, too. I wrote about that here.

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Thunder Road

"So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore. Show a little faith there's magic in the night." -from Thunder Road

Sometimes you hear a song and it just gives you that feeling. A feeling that it's right. That it's good. I felt that the first time I ever heard Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. I love this song so much that I would sing it to baby Peanut as a lullaby. There's a live version that's more subdued. Something takes hold of me when those first few chords on the piano play, followed by the soft rip of the harmonica. Goose bumps bordering on tears. I feel like I'm experiencing a piece of music history every time it plays on my iPod.

I would channel that version as I held her in my arms in the wee hours of the night after one of those 2am feedings. I'm from New Jersey, where Springsteen is religion. So I wanted it to be part of Peanut's religion too. Instead of the traditional lullabies, I sang her rock-n-roll.

April 2007. Her first bottle. Daddy=sleepy.

I continued to sing it to her as she grew older. One night when she was around three years old, Peanut interrupted me when I sang this line:

Well I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk.

"Daddy, guitars can't talk," said Little Miss Literal.

"Some people CAN make them talk," I said. "Like Bruce Springsteen."

How cool is this picture? (I got it here.)

But I have a confession to make. As many times as I've listened to this song; as many times as I sang it as a lullaby or karaoke; as many times as I've answered with it as my favorite Bruce song, I didn't really know what it means. That is, I didn't know what Bruce was thinking when he penned it. I knew what I thought it meant. Sometimes that's all that matters, I know. But the two meanings could be totally different. (For example, when I heard Bob Dylan's It Ain't Me Babe shortly after my dad died, it reminded me of him. The song is definitely not about a father and son. Still to this day, for whatever reason it reminds me of him.) 

To me, Thunder Road has always been a song about making the most out of life, making the most out of opportunities; about last chances; about making it real. (Those are some of the lyrics, anyway.)

We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels

Recently I jumped into a Twitter debate about Springsteen's best song. (I also love Waitin' on a Sunny Day.) When Thunder Road came up I mentioned that I once sang it as a nightly lullaby. One of my Twitter friends responded, "That's an interesting lullaby to sing to your daughter." So I got self-conscious. And worried. Was I singing an inapproriate song? I always assumed there WAS "stuff" going on in Thunder Road, with the ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away and your graduation gown lying in rags at their feet. I thought, "What have I been singing to my child?" I mean, I sang it to her so much that at one point when she was a toddler she actually requested it at bedtime and would accept nothing else.

So I did what any rational dad would do. I googled that shiz. And here's what Bruce himself had to say about Thunder Road in a 1991 documentary, according to good old Wikipedia:

"So this was my... my invitation to a long and earthly, very earthly journey. Hopefully in the company of uh, someone you love, people you love, and in search of a home you can feel a part of."

A long earthly journey. Hopefully in the company of people you love. In search of a home. Thanks, Bruce. For proving me right. Perfect.

July 2012. Along our long earthly journey

It's a town full of losers. Then I'm pulling out of here to win.

One day Peanut's journey will take her beyond this place we chose for her to grow up. She'll leave to do better than we did.

Here's the live version I sing to Peanut:


A story Bruce tells in another live version of one of his classics got me thinking about our roles in the dreams of our children. You can read about that here.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Every Shell Tells a Story

Peanut and I were collecting shells on the beach earlier this month on her self-proclaimed "best day ever." As I picked up a shell I thought I'd attempt to get philosophical with my five year-old:

'"You know, Peanut. Every shell has a story to tell." 

What I meant was, they've been places and done things... in the past...

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