Cruising Along Through Time

I had to wait sixteen years before I went on my first cruise.

It was, up to that point, quite possibly the greatest adventure of my life. On board, there was booze and lots of it. Servers hawking OJ and vodka at sunrise – a wake-up call, if you will. Although I was too young to gamble that small barrier wasn't enough to stop me from sneaking small change into the slots. There was late-night disco. Anita Ward’s “Ring My Bell”, Amii Stewart’s “Knock on Wood” and Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough” still hold special places in my heart because they bring back memories of that cruise. I was even propositioned by a prostitute, in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, right under the watchful eyes of my mother.

But the best part of that cruise was Rhonda. Her last name is long forgotten and I’m not even sure that I ever knew it. I don’t recall where she was from. My memory of what she looks like also has faded. All I know is that I had a killer crush on her.

She had a crush, too, but it was on my tablemate, not me. My sister and I were seated along with my mother at a table with a Hispanic mother and her two children, a boy and a girl who were roughly matched in age with my sister and me. The girl was drop-dead gorgeous and had blossomed at an early age in an area that was, for a teenage boy, difficult not to notice. Initially my crush was on her. Until Rhonda entered the picture.

Rhonda also was beautiful but in a different way. It was a more natural beauty that sprung from her innocence and intelligence. While the other girl was the type who caught your eye right off the bat, Rhonda was one that you might not have noticed right away but once you met her you knew you would never forget her. The problem was that she liked the other boy, not me. And I knew that the other boy didn’t feel the same way about her as she did about him. A tough pill that she had to swallow at the end, when I was the only one left to console her.

I never so much as kissed Rhonda but she is forever etched in my mind. The memories of her flooded back when I boarded my second cruise, nearly thirty years later. This time I was with my wife and son.

The Toddler didn’t even have to wait three years before his first cruise.

I hate to speak for him but I’m guessing that it was for him the greatest adventure of his young life, although it was a much different kind of experience than I had had on my first cruise. For him it was living what before had only been fantasy – the stuff of books and film. Mickey and Minnie. The Beauty and the Beast. But most of all, it was all about Peter Pan and Captain Hook.

You see, we were aboard the Disney Magic, one of the two ships that make up Disney Cruise Lines, a business that wasn’t even afloat when I took my first cruise.

Since the Toddler is still too young to care much at all about girls, his rich fantasy world pretty much revolves around the romantic appeal of swashbuckling. Just shy of three, he is already well-versed in the tales of The Sword in the Stone, Robin Hood, and, of course, Peter Pan. Playtime activities typically involve some element of good versus bad and almost always the differences are settled with swords. “En garde!” he directs over and over again.

So you can imagine what it was like for him to finally meet Peter Pan and Captain Hook. There was that unmistakable childlike glow in his eyes and a smile that stretched probably all the way to Neverland.

All along you kept wondering, did he realize that these were just ordinary people dressed in costume? Or, in his eyes, were they real? Did he think that Hook’s trusty sidekick, Mr. Smee, was really trying to swipe his plastic sword? In his mind, was Hook truly scolding me with his index finger because I had the gall to refer to him as a codfish?

I guess I hope that he actually believes that pixie dust can make you fly. Because that’s the magic of childhood and that’s what, for me, made the cruise such a great adventure.

One thing kept lingering at the back of my mind, though. Years down the road I’ll have that memory of childhood innocence etched in my mind, not unlike the memories that I still carry of my own adolescent innocence and that first trip aboard a cruise ship.

For the Toddler, though, the memories of his first cruise will likely be replaced by the many other adventures that life still has in store for him. Years from now it is unlikely that he will have any recollection of how it felt to be in the presence of his heroes of today. There will be other heroes for him tomorrow. And perhaps that’s the way it should be. But I can’t help feeling a bit saddened that he won’t remember this experience the way that I will.

Cat Fight

It’s sundown, and there’s a feline that’s been crossed in our house.

For two years, Domestic Cat (Felis Catus or F. Domesticus) tolerated the intruding Human Creature. He treated him as a houseguest that would eventually leave and seemed confident that this annoying little lap-stealing, tail-pulling beast would go away on his own free will. And if he didn’t? Well surely his Owners would come to their senses and throw him back out on the street, or return him to whatever faraway planet he came from.

While he showed no love toward the intruding Human Creature, Domestic Cat tried his best to keep his composure and dignity intact. That’s what cats do, especially those of sophisticated Siamese upbringing. If the intruding Human Creature pirated his spot on his Owner’s lap, he wasn’t going to be, well, catty about it. He’d do the gentlemanly thing and surrender it politely while giving a look of disapproval to his Owner. And even when the intruding Human Creature would physically assault him by yanking on his tail, he was willing to let bygones be bygones, certain that this barbarian would soon be bye and gone.

But days and months went by and the intruding Human Creature didn’t show any signs that he was packing his bags. Strangely enough his Owners seemed to be growing more and more attached to this monster that just kept growing and invading into more and more of his space. How could this possibly be? Had his owners plugged their ears and shut their eyes to what this barbarian had been doing? Why did they put up with his incessant cries? How could they just let this man-child take all that had once been his? His once purr-fect world was anything but.

One day reality hit Domestic Cat right square in the whiskers: the intruding Human Creature wasn’t leaving.

That’s when Domestic Cat brought out the claws. The feline in the sand had been crossed. His meows were not being heard by his Owners. Hissing and moaning didn’t work. So he left them a clear and simple message. He dropped the cat-turd bomb right smack in the middle of the intruding Human Creature’s bed.

A few days he waited but change did not come about. When you’re fighting for a revolution, you have to be prepared for a lengthy battle. The second time he struck an old infant blanket decorated with teddy bears. In recent days the insurgency seems to have picked up in its intensity and the attacks have become increasingly more brazen. Right before his Owners’ eyes he squatted over the enemy’s red book bag before they shooed him away.

Domestic Cat has become decidedly undomesticated. Once a friendly feline, he has developed rather disturbing antisocial personality traits. But even as he poops all over our pad, you can’t help but feel sorry for him. As much as having a child has altered our universe it has pretty much turned his upside down. His behavior is only natural and there’s not much that’s likely to change it. All that we really can do is be cognizant that he needs our attention every once in a while, too, and that the kitty landmines he leaves us are just his gentle reminder of that.

Rebel Without the Caws

Clap, clap, clap your hands, clap your hands together.

Clap, clap, clap your hands, clap your hands together.

La la la la la la la, la la la la la la.

La la la la la la la, la la la la la.

So begins Clap, Clap, Clap, and so begins the Toddler’s Saturday morning music class, a mechanical wave of hands and annoying songs.

But where have all the Daddies gone? Slowly they’ve been disappearing. The Moms still dutifully show up with their little ones for the 9 AM class. But week by week, the Dad population has thinned. What has caused the decline?

The answer, I think, can be traced back in time to the Elementaryazoic Period in the development of the male species. It was during this stage of our lives that we spent a considerable amount of our time in classrooms. Most of that time was spent with our homeroom teacher but there were two breaks in that schedule, one of which was for gym class and the other of which was for music class.

For most boys, gym class, with the exception of recess, was the best time of the day. You got to run around like animals and throw balls at each other. What was there not to like about it? If you have an answer to that, odds are that you were not a boy.

Music class was everything that gym class wasn’t. A dreadful bore, it was. You felt like you were trapped in a birdcage for an hour. And the teacher forced you to do things that boys just didn’t do, at least in public, like dancing and singing and, worst of all, hand holding.

One would think that as the male species evolved and grew, it would have become more comfortable in its own skin. But the experience of toddler music class has demonstrated that not to be the case. If anything, Daddies are even less mature than their kids.

The Daddy drop-our rate in The Toddler’s music class is accelerating at an alarming rate, and it’s attributable to the class making them feel somewhat, well, less than manly. If real men don’t eat quiche, they certainly don’t dance around in a circle, holding hands and waving colorful scarves.

About three-quarters of the way through the class, the teacher plays a listening activity for the one and two year olds. In her whisper of a voice, she asks, “What sound is that?” When the one and two year olds yell “Crow!” it signals the lead-in for the song Billy McGee.

There were three crows sat on a tree, sing Billy McGee, McGaw.

There were three crows sat on a tree, sing Billy McGeee, McGaw.

There were three crows sat on a tree, and they are black as they could be,

And they all flapped their wings and cried, “Caw, caw, caw!”

With each “Caw, caw, caw!” the teacher places her hands in her armpits, flaps them like wings and adds the cawing sounds of the crow. Ritualistically, the toddlers and their parents follow her lead in cacophonous cawing, except for me, one of the few remaining Dads. I’ve taken to just watching from the safety of the crow’s nest, in the seats at the back of the room, the rebel without the caws.

Kids and Grown-Ups: Different as Knight and Day

You don’t realize just how grown up you really are until you have a kid.

We like to say things like “I’m a kid wrapped in an adult body” or “I feel like a kid again.” But aren’t we really just, ahem, kidding ourselves?

As much as we like to think of ourselves as kids, our bodies and our hearts are always there to remind us that we’re grown up.

I suppose I knew this all along but the realization hit me the hardest while engaged in a little friendly jousting.

What, you don’t joust? It’s the hottest thing going, at least in our house.

Jousting, the competition between two knights on horse-back, wherein one knight tries to knock the other off his mount, was at one time the sport equivalent of soccer in Europe or football in the United States. But that was about eight hundred years ago.

Try to explain that to a toddler, though, and all you’ll get is an empty stare, followed by “Come on, Daddy, joust.”

So between my legs goes a makeshift horse, which is, in reality, a cardboard tube left over from wrapping paper. In my right hand goes a makeshift lance, which, in reality, is also a cardboard tube left over from wrapping paper. I am, almost always, Bad Knight.

About thirty feet away is the condensed version of me, about three feet shorter but packing about ten times the energy. He is, almost always, Good Knight.

Our eyes meet. We raise our lances. And then, in unison, we call out, “Charge!”

Almost always, the battle ends with Daddy in the moat, which also happens to be the cat’s water bowl. The cat is not a fan of jousting.

There are things that you do as a parent that before you became a parent you would have sworn you’d never do. Jousting is one of those things.

I liked thinking of myself as a kid at heart. But the lesson I’ve learned from jousting is that I am an adult in both body and spirit. Not only do my knees creak when I struggle to get up after being knocked down, but I also lack the heart of an honorable knight.

While I stand there holding a cardboard tube between my legs, I find myself frequently turning my head, just checking to see if any of the neighbors can see me through the sliding glass door.

Lately I look for excuses not to joust. “Not right now,” I tell the Good Knight, “Daddy’s washing dishes.” Yes, I’d rather wash dishes.

The Good Knight looks down, dejected for a brief moment, but then returns those battle-worn eyes to mine with that childlike glimmer of hope and throws the dagger-like response: “After?”

Beaten once again, I sigh and surrender to his magical powers over me.

After the last dish is washed, I stride to the horse stable, which is, in reality, a large wicker basket. I pull out my trusty steed and grab hold of my lance. The Good Knight beams as we square off on opposite sides of the room. Finally, we raise our makeshift lances and call out that one word the Good Knight has been waiting to hear all day: “Charge!”

Eighties Enough

The words potty training typically sound off alarm bells in the ears of parents.

But not mine.

What I hear is the sound of blowing steam, followed by a train whistle and then a voice calling out “Aaaaahhhll aboard.”

Music starts playing slowly in the background and slowly builds into one of the funkiest grooves you’ve ever heard.

Soon my shoulders are bopping up and down and my head is bobbing. Suddenly R&B great Charlie Wilson belts out:

Everybody all aboard.

Anybody want to take this ride?

Anybody want to ride?

All it takes is a nickel or dime.

Be sure to get your ticket.

Hurry don’t you miss it.

Everybody’s got to stand in line

To be sure that you will be right on time.

Everybody, all aboard.

Everybody, all aboard.

Baby, don’t you miss that train.

Don’t miss the party train.

The song is “Party Train,” a classic eighties funk groove from The Gap Band. Whenever talk turns to potty training, it plays in my head. And when it’s just me, The Toddler and the potty, I let it spill out, taking a bit of artistic license with the lyrics, singing Baby, don’t you miss that train. Don’t miss the potty train.

Okay, so I'm not Bob Dylan.

The Toddler rolls his eyes, as if he’s telling Daddy, “Don’t you dare sing that in front of my friends.”

Lately it seems quarters are dropping regularly into the jukebox of eighties songs that is my head. Like when I heard that The Toddler’s hair stylist is named Jenny and Tommy Tutone’s “867-5309/Jenny” popped up.

You probably know the lyrics but if you don’t they go like this:

Jenny, I got your number,

I need to make you mine.

Jenny, don't change your number,

 8-6-7-5-3-0-9 (8-6-7-5-3-0-9)

8-6-7-5-3-0-9 (8-6-7-5-3-0-9)

I sang, “Jenny, I want a haircut” and The Toddler joined in, giggling like when he first discovered pancake holes.

Recently we booked a Disney cruise and the song that’s played in my head since was Lakeside’s “Fantastic Voyage.” Now I know that while other parents on the cruise will be hearing “It’s a Small World (After All),” “When You Wish Upon a Star” and “Under the Sea,” till their blue in the face (and not due to seasickness), I’ll be tuned into Come along and ride on a fantastic voyage.

One day all of this will be “Set Adrift on a Memory Bliss,” which is of course the title of P.M. Dawn’s 1991 hit that sampled Spandau Ballet’s new wave classic “True” (1983).

But I choose to live for today. And to follow the immortal wisdom preached by another eighties band, Wang Chung: “Everybody have fun tonight. Everybody Wang Chung tonight.”