Fun on Flight 1703 (The Zippy and Lippy Show or Dad Gone Wild!)

This past Christmas season my family and I traveled to New York City, (a favorite destination of ours--especially around Christmas). The trip was amazing--Central Park, The Grinch and A Color Purple on Broadway (go Fantasia!), pizza at Famous Ray's (on 42nd St.), M&M's superstore, breakfast in a diner with singing serving staff, and a number of memorably aromatic cab rides:) A good time was had by all. And now we were flying home to the land of Mickey Mouse--with a plane packed full of giddy would-be mouseketeers.


There were no signs of trouble initially, all was well. Take-off and climb to cruising altitude--no flames, sudden dives, or oxygen masks dropping down--so, you know, a good flight. There were four young kids and an elderly couple occupying the two rows in front of mine...the couple was not connected with the kids. But I didn't panic--the kids were being kids (a little loud, a little rambunctious) but they were cool--nothing outrageous. I turned up the ipod and we all settled in for a fun flight.

Then he arrived...(not actual, but similar)

Before I continue, there is one thing you need to know about me: I need more patience, have needed more all my life (slow learner), so God sends me a pretty steady flow of "helpers" to help build my character.

For example, if there is a guy in a church service who is tone deaf and bellowing with abandon to the worship songs, look over and you'll see me--right in front of him.

Guy who takes a cell phone call during a movie, talking loud ("Hey man, yo, what up?...")--he's right behind me.

Slow, oblivious drivers using their cell phones, listing back and forth between the lines--there I am, right behind them (Serenity...NOW).


My latest "helper" (let's call him "Zippy"--name changed to protect the guilty) came tearing up the aisle and slid to the row in front of me (safe!)--to peals of laughter from the children in front of me. Zippy, a young "real smart kid" of 10 or 11 stood up and fell down HARD on top of two of his friends, dragging himself over them as they shouted in pain...all the way to the window seat (directly in front of me--of course). He said a "soap in your mouth" word and pulled a younger boy out of the seat. When the younger boy tried to resist and cried out in pain, Zippy predictably replied "Cry baby, cry! Waaaahhhh...Waaaaahh... Waaaaah... repeat... repeat." Finally, with a loud, "I'm gonna tell mom!", the younger boy fled to the back of the plane, no doubt to where the proud parents of Zippy were.

Zippy had barely plunked down in his seat before slamming down his seat back, knocking my ipod (my favorite possession in the whole wide world) off the tray :) He then began a repertoire of mischief that was pushing every button in this dad who needs patience (Serenity...NOW!).

First he thought it would be fun to REPEATEDLY hit his head and back against his seat back with great force--for several minutes. Unable to use my tray, I shut it (with slightly more force than necessary--he got the hint). I thanked God for my children.

Touching the hair and face of the girl in front of him was his favorite, which she thought was fun the first 50 times or so, but after like the 500th time, her patience was wearing thin and she was shrieking at him ("Stop it Zippy, I mean it!", "I'm going to tell your mother", Quit it!") all to the "enjoyment" of the elderly couple beside her. This went on for like an hour (or 10-15 minutes). What fun--wish I had a tazer! (I close my eyes and imagine tazering Zippy...and smile.) (Serenity...NOW!)

Throwing things was Zippy's next best idea. Napkins, ice and snack items were his favorite ammo. And he began stealing the same from his friends for more ammo. Which means there was a CONSTANT bickering and arguing. My right eye was starting to twitch. I am now looking for something to throw...something hard....can't find. (Serenity...NOW!)

Profanity laced acapella rap by the young lad was the final "gift" bestowed on me and the elderly couple nearby. Zippy's previous victim, the young girl, tried to shush him--trying to help him behave--which of course only encouraged him to get louder and to refer to her as a "Ho!", as in "Shut up, Ho!" Things were WAY out of hand. That was the final straw. The young girl stood with a huff, then clambered over the feet of the elderly couple and went to the rear of the plane. She returned with a reluctant authority figure--Zippy's dad. Yay!! (God had heard my fervent prayer. Surely now everything would be better. Right? Not so fast.)

Zippy was glad to see dad--let's call him Lippy (you'll know why in a minute). No sooner had dad displaced the child in the aisle seat, and moved Zippy beside him into the middle seat, when HE started doing the SAME THINGS his son had been doing. I WISH I was lying.

Lippy was a "real smart dad" so he began throwing napkins, ice, snacks. He started bothering the little girl that his spawn had been bothering--in the process accidentally kicking the seat of the elderly man in front of him several times, hard. (The elderly man was no doubt thinking, "I have what maybe a few more years left and I have to deal with THIS??"). Though dad didn't bust a profane rhyme, he had something EVEN BETTER.

He started making FART noises--yes, loud, ugly FART noises. An adult man...probably in his forties...making FART noises--to the giggles and laughter of the children, especially Zippy, who just beamed with validation and pride. He and dad were bonding. And Lippy went ON and ON doing this.

Finally, the old man seated in front of the father got up, turned around and said "Excuse me, how old are you?"

Lippy is shocked by this, because he is, well...missing the "consideration" gene, absolutely clueless.

"Old enough to know better sir, [FART noise]" is his "real smart" reply. The old man simply sat down. Zippy and Lippy kept one another entertained with FART noises for the remainder of the flight, to the misery :) of everyone around them.

(Serenity...NOW!)

Hillary Clinton famously said, "It takes a village to raise a child." I would add, "It takes only the village idiot to raise an idiot. :)

To the parents who don't understand what Lippy did wrong :) just a word--connecting with your kids doesn't mean behaving WORSE than them. Say no to stupid. Say YES to maturity. Maturity wants to be your friend. Maturity good.

(Serenity...NOW!)

(Disclaimer: No child is a true idiot---there is hope for them and some adults. We're all sometimes "idiots." No idiots were harmed in the writing of this blog or by the blog writer. And normally we love stupid people, just harder to do when we are trapped on a plane with them. Oh, and no I would never tazer a child, nor do I condone, etc., etc.)

--Jim Kochenburger

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I Am in Dulles Airport on 9/11...Observing Parents and Others

I am sitting in Dulles Airport, in DC, on 9/11 after missing my return flight home. (Love them last minute gate changes that aren't clearly communicated--I stepped away to browse books--must have been then.)

When I asked the woman at the gate what happened, she explained, I guess. It was in such a thick accent, I just couldn't understand a word (it was like calling HP support). I apologized for not understanding and asked her to repeat what she said. She looked at me sourly and loudly repeated what she said (as if shouting it loud enough would suddenly make me understand her language.) A sympathetic fellow traveler clued me in. Brother--a 3-hour wait.

I go to buy a pretzel...I wait until the pretzel person gets done talking to her friends before she waits on me. After I order my pretzel, she resumes the conversation...I have to interrupt to let her know I would like a drink. I was nice. She acts like I was rude. Perhaps she is not living her dream at the pretzel shop.

As I stroll back to the gate, I see a French woman is in her child's face, then slapping him on his arm for throwing a temper tantrum over a candy bar he wants. Perhaps she is unaware that "in this great country" of Patriot Fries, we do not strike small fries...and how lucky she is we don't call a cop over to do his job and cart her off to the slammer. Maybe I'll call...I have time to kill. (I decide not because she stops--and my pretzel isn't getting any warmer or softer.)

I sit down and bite into my pretzel. Mmmm.

My bliss is interrupted by an elderly woman on the cell phone beside me. She is talking to her son, describing some intestinal "irritable bowel" type symptoms--in detail. How happy he must be to have picked up the phone. As our parents get older, one of the toughest issues to get used to is their preoccupation with physical maladies (not my parents...others "Hi mom!")

So vivid is her description, frequncy, color, consistency--my stomach is queasy. I leave my pretzel for later when I can block this lady's conversation out of my mind.

I retire to the restroom in case I can't recover--seeking a refuge. The guy in the stall next to me is using the toilet (sitting down) and is also on the phone with his assistant, a woman--you can just tell. I flush like 5 times on purpose. Person on phone with him must have asked "Where are you?" He says, "In the bathroom." She gets off the phone fast. He has no clue why. Of course. (Friend, if you are so important and busy that you even have to use the phone when going #2...you're too busy...and nobody's that important.) By the way, he is still fiddling with his phone when he leaves--he doesn't wash his hands. These kind never do.

A toddler beside me is eating a bag of candy. It is after 9 PM. Kid is doing handstands and somersaults, double back flips (no lie!), jumping, dancing, leaping, stepping all over my feet. You could have put up a tent around this tot and charged admission. The young mother--bless her heart--is shouting faux "correctives" REALLY LOUD (I have a headache, and she isn't using her "inside voice"), "ARE YOU EXCITED ABOUT SEEING MINNIE?"

"YES!!!!" her daughter screams and whirls.

"ARE YOU GOING TO BE GOOD, CAUSE MINNIE WANTS YOU TO BE GOOD?!"

"YES!" as she spins and falls on the elderly lady on the other side of me.

"SAY YOU'RE SORRY FOR FALLING ON THE OLD LADY!"

"NO!"

"WELL, THAT WON'T MAKE MINNIE HAPPY!"

"P-P-S-P-L-P-L-P-S--L-P-L (raspberry sounds). ME...NOT CARE!!!!!"

Being Mr. Parentconsensus, I think of stepping in to cast a few pearls of fatherly wisdom to this mom, or to smile sympathetically and nod knowingly, but just then, the little girl falls and hits her head on the floor. She is screaming and crying. Mom is shouting "comfort" phrases over her daughter's boo-boo, boo-hoo's...which, surprisingly :) seems to make things worse.

"DID YOU GO BOOM?"

"DID YOU FAH DOWN?"

"OH, YOU'RE OKAY?" "OHHHHH-OH-OH, YOU'RE OKAY, ETC., REPEAT...REPEAT...REPEAT.

My head is splitting now.

I am called to board. Just in time. Whew!

I get to my seat to find my new seatmates...

"WHAT DOES MINNIE SAY?..."

--Jim Kochenburger

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Parents: Are You Good TV or Bad TV?

Last week, police officers in Trenton, New Jersey were called to the home of Evelyn DeLeon, after neighbors reported hearing a woman's persistent cries of "Help me! Help me!" When police officers arrived, they kicked in the door to make the rescue...and found a caged pet cockatoo named Luna who had mastered a very convincing call.

This was not the first time.

Apparently, almost seven years ago, police were dispatched to the same home due to reports of a possible abandoned baby. Sounds of a baby's cries had been non-stop all day long. Police and state child welfare workers were dispatched to the home to intervene, only to find Luna practicing a newfound sound.

Apparently Luna knows a lot of phrases--in English and Spanish--due to watching TV. (Source, AP, Sep. 5, 2008)

I'd like to use Luna as a reminder that our kids are like her--taking in all that they see and hear, deciding what to imitate, what to try on for size...words, emotions, attitudes, actions, all of it. And they love imitating us the most.

Sometimes our children's choices of what to imitate are a source of pride for us, but sometimes, their choices can be humorous or, yes, even embarrassing. (And sometimes, let's face it, they make up their own material and we fear people might think they are imitating us!)

We are the TV our kids are watching. But there is no DVR picking and choosing what they can see--no instant replay. No "erase" to get rid of what we "done did." There is no fast forward or rewind to try and gloss over or minimize our bad example moments. (And we can't slow-mo and bask in our shining moments.)

There we are, on the screen, in living color, in real time, for better or for worse. Little eyes and ears are locked onto us. We are must see TV for them.

What an incredible opportunity we have, as parents, to mold and shape young lives. Let us never take that lightly. Let's make sure we are always "good TV."

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Parents: You Are What You Click...

It used to be said, "You are what you eat." Bill Tancer , author of the new book, Click: What Millions of People Are Doing Online and Why it Matters. insists that nowadays, "You are what you click."

Tancer leads global research at Hitwise, an online market research company. His job is basically that of discovering the behavior of online users, primarily as a marketing tool, but much of what he discovers provides interesting nuggets on the impact of the internet on our culture, society and families.

Since I will not receive his book from Amazon until Thursday, I had to settle for viewing some entries from his blog, which I found on the Amazon book page. (To see Tancer's blog, go to http://blogs.abcnews.com/click/2008/07/searching-for-a.html )

Along with facts like at any point in time 30% of Internet users are grazing porn online, I also found some info you parents may value.

What are the top 10 internet queries containing "fear of." (As of July 7, 2008)
1. Fear of flying


2. Fear of heights
3. Fear of communism (???)
4. Fear of intimacy
5. Fear of clowns (who ISN'T afraid of clowns??)
6. Fear of dying
7. Fear of commitment
8. Fear of darkness
9. Fear of death
10. Fear of germs

(More on fear coming in my blog this weekend...ths was just the appetizer.)

Tancer also discovered these internet searches in common with people who searched for the current presidential candidates (form your own opinions):

People who went to the site barackobama.com also tended to make these searches as well:
News: Washington Post
Television: PBS online
Shopping: IKEA
Dating: Match.com
Music: Linkin Park
Apparel: DSW
Baseball: Red Sox

People who went to the site johnmccain.com also tended to make these searches as well:
News: USA Today

Television: Food Network
Shopping: Bed, Bath, and Beyond
Dating: eharmony
Music: The Jonas Brothers
Apparel: Footsmart
Baseball: Yankees

Good news--you can buy Tancer's book through the Parentconsensus store and get the low Amazon price: http://www.parentconsensus.com/index.php?p=Store the book is on page 3 of the store.

So based on what you click on the internet...who are you? And based on what your kids are clicking on the Internet, who are they? (See the software SpectorPro in the Parentconsensus store to find out what your children are clicking online.)

Visit the website every parent needs, http://www.parentconsensus.com/! (Sign up for the parentconsensus e-newsletter--see the header at the top of the page.)

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Parents: The Ticking Crocodile Chases Each of Us

Not long ago I was enjoying lunch at a local favorite Mexican restaurant of mine here in Orlando (Tijuana Flats). At the table next to me was a dad in his thirties, sitting with his daughter--a young girl of six or seven. She was wearing a nice blue-flowered dress, had a ribbon in her hair--she was dolled up, suggesting this might be a "special" time of some sort.

I loved it...a dad and daughter, sharing a lunch out together. I am a sucker for that stuff--seeing dad's "into" their kids. So I paid attention. I thought I just might have a warm observation/ entry for this blog.

Sadly, I was wrong.

Though this dad had the right idea about being "there" with his daughter--sadly, he never showed up.

Predictably, he was wearing his bluetooth earpiece. Since he hadn't arrived in a helicopter, and there was no briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, my guess was, he didn't have his finger on the nuclear button--so no real need to keep that earpiece in. When he received a call and yukked it up for a few minutes with "Carl", who apparently was a "Dumb s__ of a b___!" asking, "How the h___ are ya?"--I knew for sure he had no reason to wear it.

(Hey--had the discussion veered even once from the inanities of "Hey man, how much beer DID you drink that night?" into aerospace technology or miltary jargon, I'd have given him the benefit of the doubt--this guy was no rocket scientist.)

Almost immediately after the Carl call, our boy hollered a "Go Gators!" greeting to the Tebow-jerseyed guy at the next table, and, for the next 30 minutes talked about how great the Florida Gators would be again this year(which is by itself annoying to me, a Florida State Seminoles fan. We've become a little thin-skinned and extra sensitive around Gators fans over the last few years.)
"Tebow...he, he, he once threw a football 200 yards--a guy I know saw him." Blah-blah.
"Tebow, even if he had just one arm, I bet he could still get the Heisman." Blah-blah.
"Tebow, if he was like running for President...watch out Obama!" Blah-blah. You get the gist. BLAH-blah!

Our boy said not ONE word to his daughter the ENTIRE time. She sat there silently, having long-finished her food, sipping her drink. She tried to get his attention a few times...but even then, when he heard her, he shushed her.

As I left, the girl was begging her father "Can we just go???" Needless to say "Can we just go??" is not how any dad "sees" his daddy-daughter time ending.

As I drove back to work, I took a little stroll down memory lane...

It was a daddy/daughter "date" with my 3-year old daughter, Kristin, (now 15--going on 20). Back then, I set aside time each week to focus on Kristin for a couple hours instead of the usual few minutes at a time. Though we varied the plan--the playground, an ice cream shop, children's section at a bookstore, and others--her favorite destination for one-on-one time with dad was the Barbie aisle of the local toy store. (I did a LOT of time in the Barbie aisle--almost had to trade in my "man card.")

On the way she would happily chat my ear off with giggly stories, and questions ("Daddy, why is sky?"), mixed with sing-a-longs to Veggie Tales ("I Love My Lips") and Barney.

Every date would end the same way...with a chocolate milkshake. Milkshake in hand, I would say, "Baby, always stay little, okay?"
"Okay daddy!", she said with a giggle and little kick of her legs. (It was the first playful "banter" we shared.) I'll never forget her little red cheeks, chubby little knees and her fine hair styled in what I called a "bee-paw" ribbon scrunchy, giving her that "Pebbles" look.

I'll never, ever forget those smiles, those songs, those happy times. And when I face trials with my teenage Kristin...I call on these memories, of my little girl and I find new reserves of patience, and love.

Time marches on. Kids grow up. Hopefully, we are left with the deep connections we forged, and the memories we made (not those we didn't).

In the story of Peter Pan, there is a crocodile who swallows a clock, who pursues Captain Hook endlessly. But he's not the only one. That ticking "clock croc" pursues us all.

Randy Pausch, in his book, The Last Lecture, writes, "Manage your time well...Time is finite....Time is all you have. And you may find one day that you have less than you think."

The croc is ticking...

(Special note: You know the Barbie aisle has a special place in my heart :) Well it does for a blogging friend of mine as well. Check out the blog Barbies4Sale at this link: http://barbies4sale.blogspot.com/ )

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Caring About What People Think: The Hat, The Car, The Suit, The House

My Dad The Hat

THE HAT

This hat looks much better than the one my dad wore to our Father's day meal this year...at a restaurant...in public. Whereas the hat to the right might be seen at a country music concert, dad's wouldn't be. His was kind of lopsided and crushed down on one side, had more black spots, was frayed around the edges, but had a very festive, decorative band. Not to mention this hat was HUGE--I almost didn't see dad under there!

It struck me as one of those "lucky" hats one has worn for decades, more for sentimental reasons than for any real practical use, now relegated to being worn during yardwork--not meant for restaurant wear. It was hard to miss--though I was hoping everyone would.

No such luck. Quite a few snickers from onlookers and a couple of sets of rolled eyes from the grandkids proved I was not alone. I was so embarrassed, so suddenly, I was surprised. But it was not the first time, oh no...

THE CAR (STATION WAGON)

Just before I began junior high, dad bought a beat up old gold station wagon that spewed large clouds of black exhaust and started and stopped with a gunshot backfire and a frame-jarring shudder. Oh, and the best part? This car had a hood colored bright "primer" blue. Dad bought the car for $700 with the promise of getting it repainted one day. That never happened.

Every day of junior high, my arrival was announced by a large cloud of smoke and a "ka-BOOM" that stopped every conversation and turned every head (sending some of the more skittish kids running for cover). I leapt from "the heap" as it trembled violently (if mom stopped totally it would stall and possibly not restart) to the amusement of the kids from the local Washington Park projects who were being dropped off in Cadillacs and other big, nice, new cars.

Sure they lived in the projects and lived off food stamps and my dad owned a music store and a rental property, but as dad would point out--"at least my car is paid for." I would counter this with my junior high wisdom that I wished I had their parents cause at least they understood the importance of cool and of not just getting there, but "arriving."

Paid for. Who cares? I wanted prestige. Apparently the “prestige gene” was missing from my dad. The “paid for” gene was in charge. That station wagon with the unpainted hood was with the Kochenburger family through my college years. (One victory--I did successfully lobby not to be driven to my high school graduation in it. I was driven in my older brother's car which was one color.)

THE SUIT (WRINKLED AND MISMATCHED)

My father showed up for one of my middle school concerts driving the heap (I had stayed at school to avoid having to be driven in it). Parents of my friends from the projects (mostly single mothers) showed up too. But whereas they were dressed to "the nines"...my dad was dressed to the "two minus", in a wrinkled, outdated sport coat with equally wrinkled and mismatched shirt and pants. Dad didn't put a whole lot of stock in gazing at himself in mirrors, wasted no time on matching colors--comfort was rule #1 and overruled all else.

My junior high heart was mortified, to the point that I avoided sitting with him, paying visits to my friends, leaving him to stand alone with no one to talk to. Finally, after the room had cleared a bit, I went over to him. Even though he had done it again--lowered my coolness factor a few notches.

THE MESSY HOUSE

My dad likes everything in his house to be where he can find it...which means everything is all over the place all the time. He also doesn't like to throw anything away because "you never know when you might need this", including warped 2x4's, many empty gallon milk jugs, various lengths of PVC pipe, lengths of twine and rope, flower pots, large boxes of screws and nails--all unsorted, the list goes on. (His explanation for this was having learned during the depression that you don't waste anything...and I think part of some plan to hedge against when the next one hits.)

Bottom line...my brothers and I and our younger sister didn't invite friends over to hang out at our house. Besides, it took training to navigate--we didn't want to lose anyone in the clutter.

Who's Right, Me or Dad?

All this to say, it isn't just the hat. My dad has never had that something in him (let's call it that "prestige" gene) that cares about what other people think of him based on outward appearances and making impressions. And that has variously mystified, frustrated, angered, disappointed, mortified, or embarrassed me in my teen years when I knew everything and was certain I was right about most things, especially the the whole image thing. But now, with me at 46 years old, why the reaction to the hat?

It got me thinking. And as I noodled, I realized that at 46, I born of the "prestige" gene, may NOT be as right nor my dad as wrong as I had always thought.

After all, he has a lot less to worry about than I do. This maintaining appearances and making impressions business can get nerve-wracking! He is really happy as he is, pretty carefree in most regards. We throw too much away in America. And, you can't argue with refusing to go into debt to purchase something that depreciates as quickly as a car.

I am willing to allow my dad that maybe he and I are about 50-50 on the whole "prestige and image" thing. He could care more, I could care less. So to the words "embarrassed" and "mortified" by my dad, let me add the word..."humbled" as well. I am still learning from dad.

Here are a few other thoughts and observations...

My embarrassment is my problem, not dad's.

Dad was happy that day wearing his hat, looking how he wanted to look. I was the only one who was unhappy. It was my problem and I needed to get over it to be happy. What I eventually told myself was, "Jim, that's your dad under that hideous hat...now give him a kiss and get down to the business of the day, honoring him as your father, who always did his best for you--and who just might have it more right than you do on the appearances and image thing."

At least dad was there

Wrinkle-suited as he might have been, he was in my life and he was interested in me and what I was doing. Many of my friends from the projects didn't have their dad there. Their dad wasn't around, wasn't interested. And dad and mom have been my biggest fans in life--always interested in what I am doing. They love the new site http://www.parentconsensus.com/ and all my books, including the latest one, 101 Movie Clips That Get Families Talking http://www.parentconsensus.com/index.php?p=Store (which was part of my gift to him for Father's Day).

I'll take them being there for me and showing interest in me over a nice car and good fashion sense any day.

Freedom from what people think is a key to happiness

I love those freeing moments when I don't care at all what people think. Those are some of my happiest times. That I am able to go there at all is a gift from my father. Maybe that "paid off" gene will rise up and overcome that "prestige" gene some day.

Don't let your child, teenager or young adult's image fears and insecurities control you.

Be sensitive to how self-conscious they are. Don't do things purposefully to provoke them or to get them "over it" (that means don't embarrass them on purpose with hopes they will desensitize). But don't let their fears and concerns dictate your behavior. Don't let their insensitive comments get to you. Your security in yourself, and refusal to be overly concerned with what others think (even them) are two of the most important things you can model.

I hope you too find some freedom from what people think today. Do at least one thing today that you don't care what ANYONE thinks about...even your middle school child.

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