S.F.X. (Safety First, Xum)

Weeks ago, Namiko, the kids and I went on a road trip to Colorado to visit Namiko’s sister. Since we had planned to be on the road for a few days with an agreement to limit “screen time” for the kids (we didn’t want them to miss the scenery), I made sure to pack plenty of music for the trip.

By the time we had reached the Nevada border, the kids had both requested to hear “Hold on Tight”, a catchy 1980s hit performed by Samantha Fox that gushed with vivacious 1950s-style rockabilly.

Namiko, immediately recognizing the request, started to thumb through the sleeves of my massive CD folder in a fruitless search of the “Touch Me” album that housed the song. “I don’t think your dad packed that one.”

“Actually, I did. It’s on the green disc near the front.”

A few seconds later Namiko pulled out from the folder a metallic green CD-R marked only with three hand-scrawled letters: S, F, and X.

Shortly after I had returned from Japan, I had created a “mix CD” of… um… non-suggestive songs from my Samantha Fox albums so I could listen to them in the car while the kids were in the back seat. In addition to “Hold On Tight,” I had mixed in other bouncy tunes like “If Music Be the Food of Love,” “Rocking with My Radio”, “Aim to Win” and “Holding” (the last three were some of the earliest songs Ms. Fox recorded as part of a group called S.F.X., which inspired my handwritten label).  I also included songs of empowerment such as “Nothing You Do, Nothing You Say”, “Never Gonna Fall in Love with You Again”, and “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Me Now”.  There were love songs as well, including “I’m All You Need”, “Baby I’m Lost for Words”, “Cause an Effect”, “Ready for this Love”, “Dreams Unfold”, and “The Best Is Yet to Come” (which was actually “our song” at Namiko’s and my wedding reception, which a number of guests had never before heard, yet loved – as much as Namiko loved the look of surprise the guests gave her when she revealed who the singer was). And I did not forget to add touching ballads such as “Out of Our Hands”, “Dream City” and, of course, “True Devotion”.

Namiko chuckled a bit at my shorter explanation of the album (essentially the first sentence of the previous paragraph). “’Non-suggestive’? Are you worried about Sam Fox giving the kids ideas?”

I turned ever so briefly away from the moderate traffic ahead of me on I-80 to toss my wife a quick look, only to reveal to her that I had blushed a little at the remark. “No, not at all.”

However, Isamu and Aika loved to sing, and they both had the uncanny ability to pick up 90 percent of a song’s lyrics after only a few listens (even if they don’t fully understand all of the words). Sometimes the catchier song lyrics are picked up straightaway. There had been a time, a few days after watching the first Percy Jackson movie, that Isamu, then age 6, spontaneously belted out the chorus to the soundtrack's “Highway to Hell” (which to him was just shouting that phrase over and over and over) in a crowded supermarket. Aika, at age 7, enjoyed listening to Namiko’s Katy Perry Teenage Dream album, and she especially enjoyed singing “I Wanna See Your Peacock (cock cock)” at the top of her lungs on the schoolyard to see the “funny” reaction from the teachers.

Indeed, since I had started playing my Samantha Fox mix CD in the car, both Namiko and Isamu now loved to sing along to “Hold on Tight” and “Rockin’ with My Radio.”  Let’s just say I didn’t want to add the catchy-yet-suggestive lyrics of “Touch Me” and “Naughty Girls” to their vocal repertoire at this time.

Of course, my response to Namiko in the car was much briefer: “Since the kids are going to sing along, and sing out loud, I figure it is best they do so with songs that they both understand and that are… um… safe to sing in public.”

“Safe…” Namiko repeated slowly, as if to emphasize my momentary struggle to find that word.

“Yes. Safe.”

The traffic had started to pick up a little then so I had to keep my eyes on the road, but I was sure that I heard my wife’s face crinkle slightly with amusement.

By this time, “Hold on Tight” was in full swing, and the kids were already singing (off-key) along in full force (yes, a pun was intended). So that trivial topic of conversation had ended… or so I had thought.

A few weeks later, when I had pulled the CD out for a listen in the car, I discovered that Namiko, with the assistance of a Sharpee, decided to have the last word…

…and a suggestive one at that.

Father's Day

This is an actual Father's Day card I had received a few years back from Isamu, when he was 8.

I always keep it as a reminder that:

1. There will always be times I'll receive this message from my kids
2. When I do, they do not actually hate me, they just think they do
3. Kids always change their minds... in many cases very easily
4. Most likely they actually hate something I did, so I should assess how I have done them wrong
5. There is no perfect Dad... or perfect kids

I wish the best to fathers everywhere, and to the kids that put up with them.

That’s My Boy!

A few of you reading this blog had already pointed out to me that the timelines between when my son Isamu was born and when I had met Namiko didn’t quite match up. And while I have eventually explained the discrepancy, some people are still asking me why I referred to Isamu as “my” son when I blogged about the reality of Santa Claus, when it is clear that I am not his biological father.

This question reminded me of one of my first da—outings with both Namiko and Isamu in 2005. We were taking advantage of the “Indian Summer” in the Bay Area to go kite flying in Crissy Field. Namiko was deftly handling the kite string while I sat on the grass watching. Isamu was next to me, strapped in his shaded stroller, gurgling and laughing as his tiny hands reached out and tried to follow the movement of the kite as it swooped and danced in the Saturday afternoon sky.

Then it happened. Most likely a combination of a very strong Pacific wind and my selection of a very old kite string. Suffice to say, the kite broke free from its restraint and pinwheeled off to the far side of the field.

I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Namiko’s shapely form running after the errant kite, until I was reminded of a special ability that is likely inherent in most 11-month-olds: the power to sense the nearby presence of the mother, as well as a built-in alarm system that activates when the mother is physically out of range.

I quickly unstrapped the crying child and brought him to my shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort him, and to my surprise he calmed down immediately. Isamu then turned towards the kite, still in the air. He pointed and giggled at it while it continued its slow spinning freefall.

It was then that a pair of older women paused in their powerwalk to admire Isamu. They approached us and made cute faces and waves, all to the child’s delight.

“Your son is beautiful,” one of the women said.

And in some Schrödinger-inspired parallel universe, I responded with: “Oh, he’s not really my son. He belongs to a woman I’m dating. Well, she wouldn’t exactly say we were dating, but we go out often. And we have kissed a few times. So we are more than friends. Um… she’s not here right now…” And most likely I was faced with some perplexed stares, with one of the women perhaps reaching for her mobile to report what she perceived to be a kidnapping in progress.

But in the world we know as ours, I simply replied, “Thank you.”

Now, one of the reasons I said that was because it was easier (and I didn’t want to be hauled off to jail). But another, more important reason, is that I actually did feel very proud of Isamu at that moment. The way he smiled, and laughed, and made the women gush as they resumed their exercise with a cute little “bye-bye” wave. I had to admit, I used to have an indifferent attitude towards children, but ever since he first snatched my finger, Isamu had stolen my heart.

A short while later, Namiko returned with the stringless kite.

“Everything okay here?” she asked. Isamu was still in my arms, playfully tugging at my hair.

“Just fine,” I said. “He cried a little when you ran off, but…”

“Oh, yeah. He does that when I leave him at day care. Usually takes him an hour to calm down…” her voice cut off as surprise immediately surfaced on her face. “Wow, he must really like you. He’s not even reaching out for me to take him.” Her voice had a slight hint of disappointment lining the amazement.

“Well, the feeling’s mutual.” I said. “Do you want to take him while I restring the kite?”

“And interrupt this big male-bonding moment? No way!” she smiled.

I’d like to believe that’s when Isamu first considered me as a father to him. It’s definitely when Isamu first felt like a son to me. As Isamu grew, he’s always known the truth about his parentage, but we don’t see a need to diminish the importance of our relationship with more technically accurate terms like “step-father” or “step-son”.  While I may not be his father, I am Isamu’s dad.

And while Isamu may not be my flesh-and-blood, he is my son.

Yes, Virginia, There Is an Insanity Clause.

Santa Claus is real. There is really no argument about that. Though there was one evening when he became both unreal and then more real…

On November 30 of this year, my seven-year-old son and I decided to start a “25 Days of Christmas” tradition whereby we would watch one Christmas-themed movie or TV show on video each night until Christmas. And we were not limiting it to the typical “TV specials” of the season. As long as the program had some link to Christmas (no matter how small), and that it was age-appropriate, it was fair game.  And before you ask -- yes, this would’ve included Santa Claus Conquers the Martians… if we had “26 days of Christmas.” Maybe next year…

Anyway, on the “fourth day,” my son and I settled in to watch the Justice League episode, “Comfort and Joy,” which is a wonderful tale comprised of three interchanging stories featuring how five of the superhero "stars of the show" spent their holiday season. For Superman, it was inviting his more-alien comrade, the Martian Manhunter, to spend Christmas with him and his parents in Smallville. Drinking cocoa in the kitchen of their cozy farmhouse, Ma and Pa Kent would reminisce about past Christmases with young Clark. I still chuckle when Pa mentions how he had to wrap the presents in lead foil so the super-lad wouldn’t “peek” using his x-ray vision.

“You mean, Santa wrapped them.” Clark interrupted, showing a charmingly hokey aspect to the Superman character on this show by having him earnestly believing in Santa Claus.

“Yes, of course, dear.” Ma Kent briskly replied, which caused the Martian guest to ponder at this strange new element of the conversation.

This reply also made my son ponder as well.

“Wait, does that mean Santa isn’t real?” he asked me.

I stopped the video. I will admit that the last thing I wanted that evening was for Ma Kent to ruin the Santa Claus myth for my son at an age where Christmas is at its most magical -- as well as ruin the myth for my son’s parents that can always use the extra incentive to illicit good behavior from a mischievous seven-year-old.

But I wasn’t going to be dishonest to him either.

So after we finished Justice League, we used the Internet to research Nikolaos of Myra, a.k.a. Saint Nicholas -- a real person who served as the original inspiration for the Santa Claus we know today. We spent the rest of the evening reading about this historical Saint, who was a well-to-do well-known for his secret gift-giving, and my son was pointing out the parallels between Nikolaos and the Santa Claus currently viewed by most of the world.

And, of course, my son quickly figured out who really wrapped the “from Santa” gifts, who filled the stockings, and who ate the cookies the kids would leave by the fireplace each year on Christmas Eve. I’m sure the “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” song he recently learned in school took an entirely new meaning for him (which was, actually, the original one).

I cannot claim to know why other parents do it, but I did explain to my son that my wife and I “do the Santa routine” in respect to the original patron saint -- a way to honor Nikolaos’ life and memory -- as well as add a little bit of magic to our kids’ childhood. “Of course, we may need to stop doing that now…”

But my son would not hear of that. Because of Saint Nicholas, “Santa” had essentially become more real to him now more than ever. He actually told me that we should continue to honor Nikolaos and “keep the magic going" for his five-year-old sister, who still believes in the flying-reindeer-driver, frozen-tundra-property-owner, cookie-addic… er, loving, elven-factory-director Santa Claus. So this year there was a new “Santa’s helper” on December 24th, one who would still be surprised on Christmas morning with a special present “from Santa.”

Because Santa Claus is real. There is really no argument about that.

(That reminds me: we never did get around to figuring out where the flying reindeer and the elven factory workers came into the picture. Perhaps next year.)