How NOT to be a Good Parent Thursdays 001

Because I'm an on-again, off-again blogger, I've decided to set a goal for myself of at least two posts a week, one on Tuesdays and one on Thursdays. Today, I want to kick off my "How NOT to be a Good Parent Thursdays" post series, and I plan to follow it up on Tuesday with my "How to be a Good Parent Tuesdays" post. Since being a parent takes up every ounce of my energy these days, I suppose I should write about it, right? So, here goes. Some are taken from my own experience as a parent, and some from my own experience of being parented. Either way, here's How NOT to be a Good Parent: 001.

1. Direct your school's first school-wide musical since the 1960s.

As an English/Theater teacher, when I moved into my brand-new school building this year (complete with a beautiful new theater), I decided it would be a great idea to produce the first school-wide production since the 1960s. Pretty soon the other theater teacher was on board, and the ball was rolling. Now, time time time time time time time time time is spent on the musical and I miss my kiddos. Start-up programs are time consuming and difficult, and more often than not the noncommittal attitudes of today's youth are more of a hindrance than lack of materials or funding. Either way, signing on to direct your school's first school-wide musical since the 1960's is a good way to NOT be a good parent.

2. Teach your child an innovative young game called "Block Blockers"

When Erilyn was a young infant--young enough to lay around and move her arms, but not old enough to crawl--I taught her to play an innovative young game called "Block Blockers". I even created a great theme song: "Block Blockers...it's time to block blocks!" The game consists entirely of me trying to stack ten wooden blocks on top of each other before Erilyn reaches over and knocks them down. Sometimes I win. Usually, I do not. She is methodical in knocking down those blocks. She loves this game. It is her favorite game. We play it all the time.

Until my wife comes home from Wiggles and Giggles--the children's play group that meets at the library on Wednesdays. Erilyn--who can now walk and giggle and jabber with the other children--struggles making friends because "all she wants to do is knock down their castles and it annoys the other kids." Ooops. I never thought about those ramifications. When we began, Erilyn was too young to stack blocks. All we played was "knock down the tower, Erilyn". Now, well, I guess teaching her to play Block Blockers was a good way to NOT be a good parent.

3. Every time your baby poops in the potty say to the other parent in your home, "Hey, Kevin, check this out!" 

I think these three are probably the extent for this week. Look for the happier version of this series on Tuesday of next week where I will share a few tips on how TO be a good parent.

Writing Tip: 001

With my daughter's adoption just a little over a week away I have had quite a busy week. This spring I am also co-directing Roger's & Hammerstein's Cinderella (more on that in the weeks to come), however, I have still managed to make enough time this past week to make a few writing submissions.

So far every single one of my submissions has netted me a rejection letter. Some rejections are electronic, just a simple DECLINED on a status bar. Some come in the mail with little stationary from the magazine and a cute old lady's handwritten signature. However, these submissions have already netted me something more than just rejection--and I haven't heard back from any of them yet.

Every Wednesday, Robert Lee Brewer, editor of Poet's Market, hosts a poetry writing prompt on his Poetic Asides blog. Last Wednesday I posted a poem, and, while this isn't technically a submission (the blog isn't a publication) it did help me in one very specific way:

Feedback.

Other poets--some published, some not--were able to read and comment on my poetry. They all said good things (I was new, I'm sure the critiques will come later), but they built up my self-confidence. Two days later Brewer hosted a Poetic Form Challenge, this one with the chance of publication in Writer's Digest magazine. The poetic form was a Tritina--a three stanza poem consisting of three end words that cycle through three tercets in a ABC, CAB, BCA pattern with a tenth line that uses all three words in any order. I posted two and have received great comments so far. My second tritina really pushed the form because I my three end words were can, wind, and lashes, but I used words like pecan, unwind, and eyelashes.

Anyway, head over to Poetic Asides and enter the competition today. It's a fun way to submit poetry, and it will build your self-esteem.

Good luck!

Finally, the Adoption

After many years of waiting (two for us, seven for her), our daughter Olivia is finally being officially adopted soon. I cannot express how excited I am about this event, or even the joy and peace it brings to my family. In honor of this tremendous, inexpressibly wonderful day, I would like to share an original short story written by my daughter Olivia.

"Little Penguin" 


By Olivia DeRossett

Little Penguin hatched out of the egg. Little Penguin got lost from his father. He saw a bird and a seal. Little Penguin was found, and he became an Emperor. 

In many ways, I think this may be autobiographical. I love her writing. I see so much potential in it. The bird and the seal part--that's what makes a good story, all the little pieces.

I love this girl so very much. And in her honor, I'd like to post a poem about the first time I met my little girl.

"When I Got a Life"

Incredible moments happen in

parking lots.

Cold, rainy,

                   December.

I met my daughter for the first time

When she was five.

So sweet, so gullible, smart, and new

To me.

Where did she come from, this

Will o’ the wisp light

This changling child, this

Read-to-me-tonight

Kind of kid?

The moment she entered I smiled.

She stepped out of the car

She smiled at my wife

Her first words spoken were

“When did you get a life?”

                (The answer, it seems,

     was right about then.) 

Response to Yesterday's Poem

I didn't mean to write this, really, but poetry breeds poetry in a way. In fact, there is an entire magazine dedicated to referring poetry from other materials. After posting the poem I posted yesterday, this came to me. Maybe you'll enjoy it, too.

"Stares"

I see the way you look at me
Swinging a left hook at me
With your eyes.
Thinking,
What does he know of addiction?
And admitting in this statement
That you know I know of addiction--
Which means that you, too, know of it.
In your accusation,
A confession.
It's not that you wonder how I know;
It's that my admittance made you admit.
You're uncomfortable,
I am too.
(we're both human)

Coming Clean, A Poem About Addiction

I'm pretty sure we're an addicted culture. We're addicted to video games, food, pornography, drugs, gossip, the internet, magazines, you name it. How many people are comfortable sitting at home, alone, in silence? No, we need things. It's more than a need, though. In a way, it's a craving.

As I mentioned yesterday, I am trying to take addiction head-on in a new book of poetry that I'm working on. My goal is to finish it sometime this year. In a way, I'm just trying to make sense of my life, and who I am. But, really, who isn't trying to do that?

I'm leery about posting my poems online. It's weird for me, because I don't usually share them with everyone, or anyone. But, the poem is here. I hope it shows the destructive nature of our addictive lifestyles. Feel free to leave a comment or two to let me know what you think about it. Hope you enjoy!

“Coming Clean”

He clenched a ball of fire in his fist

And ate it like you would eat an apple

Bite by bite.

He wished it didn’t burn so much

But what can you do when you’re addicted to the

Blue

Orange

Dancing flames.

His mother caught him licking live coals

When he was fourteen.

Ever since then

He’d been afraid of losing his tongue.

So now he just inhales the heat

And tastes the flames.

But still, he misses the feel

Of the coals

Searing his tongue.

Maybe just one last ember.