FatherSon Ventures

Building a Relationship through Adventure

The Really Awesome Improv Show

Written By: Scot Butwell - Nov• 23•17

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“Where are you?” L’s text said.

As I glanced down at my phone screen, a girl in her early twenties clucked like a chicken as she officiated a wedding ceremony for Michael Jackson as part of a hilarious improv comedy scene.

I typed the words “kids’ comedy show in Hollywood.” I tapped the “send” button and wondered how she’d respond while the bride and groom moon walk danced across the stage.

Okay, I felt nervous because of L’s five-mile radius for our father-son adventures. But I looked over at D and saw a smile spreading across his face and turning into heartfelt laughter.

It all began with breakfast at Chic-fil-A and an urge to break out of our normal destinations and zip codes and to go somewhere totally new and different. D and I were overdue for a change.

“Want to go to Hollywood?” I asked D, after he ate his usual two eggs and two boxes of hash browns. I had googled “kids’ comedy show” and “Hollywood.” There was a show in an hour at noon.

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“Yes,” he said.

“We’re going to HOLLYWOOD,” I cheerily boomed as we turned on the freeway for the 30 to 45-minute ride. “Hollywood, here we come! Woo-hoo, we are going to HOLLYWOOD!”

Yes, my enthusiasm was overblown. However, it was pent up frustration from adhering to L’s “unofficial” five-mile radius for our father-son adventures for the past six years.

A week ago, D asked me to go to a baby store to look at books, plush toys and other toddler stuff. He even walked up to a store employee and asked her if she could look up a book title.

I listened as my nine-year-old son inquired about a book for toddlers. On the one hand, he was asking an employee for assistance. On the other hand, he asked for a toddler book.

I felt weird. Maybe, he missed the characters from his early childhood. However, as the employee searched for the book, I pretended it was a birthday present for a brother–if she asked.

THE REALLY AWESOME IMPROV SHOW #5 photo by Joe Funk

So this is what prompted our trip to “The Really Awesome Improv Show,” voted the best kids’ comedy show by LA Magazine, at Second City theatre on the famed Hollywood Boulevard.

We parked and had eight minutes till showtime. We started running, and I pointed out a few names of stars on the sidwalk, and we made it to the theatre with two minutes to spare.

The show was in small, cozy black box theatre with seating for around 100 people. We sat in the front row where our feet could touch the stage. It felt cool to be up so close to the actors.

The actors played improv games, taking suggestions from the audience to create zany characters and scenes and encouraged kids to participate. Wackiness ruled the one hour show.

REALLY AWESOME IMPROV SHOW photo by Second City

I wanted to nudge D to be part of a scene on stage, but I sensed he was not yet ready. To be be honest, it was an accomplishment to have made it here; and this gave him an intro to improv.

I wish I could remember more of the scenes–it was a month ago–but I recall that the actors beautifully demonstrated the give and take of improv. Listening and responding.

The biggest surprise was later that day–L was okay with us going outside her “unofficial” five-mile radius without me discussing it with her.

She approved an hour trip to Malibu Wine Safari last December–to which she declined an invitation–and granted permission for us to go the Griffith Observatory without her.

THE REALLY AWESOME IMPROV SHOW photo by Second City

But she has said “no” to other suggested longer trips, so her boundary seems to be an arbitrary, depending on her mood or perspective on my parenting at the moment.

She suggested I take parenting classes during a recent heated argument.

And whenever she walks in on one of D and my “improv” scenes, which are of course ridiculous, she says, “do you guys have normal conversations?”

So L not as big a fan of improv as me or D.  I admit our scenes are non-sensical and lack any logical progression, but they foster a socisl reciprocity like nothing else.

And that’s what’s important–especially for a kid on the spectrum.

This is why I love these “creative” conversations. It’s the way D and I bond with each other, just as L connects with him in their deep conversations–though I am capable of having a serious talk with D too.

I wrote a few years back that I thought an improv class would improve D’s social skills, and I think it might be time to take his improv acting  from the living room to the stage.

He came in as I was editing this with a towel wrapped around him and pretending to be a caveman–we volleyed dialogue back and forth, so, yeah, I think he’s ready.

The Really Awesome Improv Show is every Saturday at 12 pm for only $5

This hilarious show has been running for eight years and is great for the whole family. No scene suggestions are accepted that are inappropriate for kids, and because there’s a rotating cast, you’ll see a different cast and games if you return a second time.

Second City’s Address is: 6560 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90028. Phone: (323) 464-8542. Check out their website for a wide range of acting classes: www.secondcity.com.

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Zombie Dad

Written By: Scot Butwell - Nov• 22•17

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I didn’t want to go trick-or-treating without a costume since Halloween has become an annual night of father-son bonding with D, and here it was four o’clock and I had no costume.

D was a scientist. He had a white lab coat, goggles, and boots. I had nothing, so I thought if there was any last-minute way to complement his costume. And then I hit on it.

I could be a Zombie Dad.

L allowed me to use her make-up, dabbing black rings around my eyes, and I took over from there, adding splotches of red blood to my face, thanks to a bottle of her nail polish.

I shredded a dress shirt and jeans, ransacked bathroom cabinets for accessories like a blood-splattered band-aid for my forehead, and wrote Zombie Dad on my teacher badge.

An image from Plants vs. Zombies guided the remainder of my costume: a clip-on tie from D’s closet, a tan suit jacket from mine, and I applied nail polish generously to my shirt.

“You are overdoing it,” L said of my increasingly gory appearance.

But D thought I looked good. So did D’s friend C, and when we rang the doorbell of my former high school Journalism-English teacher, she complimented me on my creativity.

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“You are so creative! You are a fun dad!” she texted the next day. D and I even made it on her Facebook page with the title, “1987 South High grad trick-or-treating at my door.”

I felt like Cinderella under the glow of street lights, and knowing the clock was ticking on my zombie persona, I cherished the chance to lose my everyday identity for a while.

“My dad is my creation,” D the Scientist told a few neighbors.

So I serendipitously succeeded in complementing his costume, and in my effort to bond with D, I had restored the heart of Tafiti–just in the nick of time to go trick-or-treating.

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So we joined up with C and his dad, plus two middle-school girls and their mom. This made me glad to know 13 is not the end of the line for trick-or-treating.

D’s pillow case quickly filled up, and since L did not mandate a return time, we roamed the streets until we all started to wear out, and it was another sweet Halloween in the memory bank.

What I learned is that it takes only a modicum of creativity to enter my son’s imaginary world; a pair of scissors, an old shirt and jeans, make-up and a bottle of red nail polish.

It was an old lesson, as I remember, a few years back, making a homemade Tin Man costume with an oil funnel, silver make-up, a plastic ax, a poster board with a Sharpee drawn red heart.

As soon as I walked into the living room on that Halloween, D began checking out my make-up, hat, and ax and jumping off the living room sofa and chopping down imaginary trees.

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He had a similar reaction last year when I stuffed pillows under my shirt and painted my face green to be the Incredible Hulk, running up and body slamming into me like in a mosh pit.

This is why I love Halloween. With a   tiny spark of imagination, D and I can become the Scarecrow and Tin Man, Captain America and Incredible Hulk, or a Scientist and his creation.

I am already looking forward to next Halloween, and those few precious hours to wander the streets with D, and to assume the persona of my costume before heading home.

I saved my shirt and jeans–just in case my creativity wanes, and I need a last-minute costume–plus I enjoyed my alter ego of being a Zombie Dad and could see bringing him back to life.

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The Great Pumpkin Hunt

Written By: Scot Butwell - Nov• 20•17

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I’ve driven by the South Coast Botanical Garden in Palos Verdes many times without even giving a second thought to what I might be missing.

Now, I will not.

I will think about the 87 acres of blooming trees, shrubs, flowers, meadows, winding trails, benches in shady garden niches, friendly volunteers and crisp autumn air.

I will think of these things and fondly remember our visit to the Garden, and it will be a lot harder to pass by the Garden, knowing how much beauty lies within this 87 acre haven of nature.

D is a lover of treasure hunts, so we went to experience “The Great Pumpkin Hunt” in the Garden which involves locating clues in birdhouses to find a clandestine pumpkin patch.

But since I’m not much of a map navigator, and more prone to wander and enjoy nature, we got lost in the Garden while on the Great Pumpkin Hunt; and that was just fine with me.

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The Garden map was sound, I just didn’t feel like following it; and no one we asked knew the locations of the birdhouses, so getting lost in nature seemed preferable to finding clues.

The secret patch turned out to be behind one of the Garden’s Kid’s Adventure Club Stations–a once-a-month activity–where kids and parents alike could dig for marine fossils.

D and I were given plastic spoons for shovels, a plot of dirt bracketed by string, and a volunteer explained to D how the garden had been a marine environment thousands of years ago.

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“Do you know what a person who digs for fossils is called?” she asked D.

“A paleotologist.”

“What do you expected to find since it used to be a marine environment?”

“Shark teeth.”

“Wow! You are really a smart boy!”

We got so into digging for fossils that we didn’t pay any heed to a pumpkin patch in front of us. The pumpkins looked like they had been ravaged by some hungry animals in the Garden.

One pumpkin looked like a basketball without air, and we were told the Garden held a contest a year ago, to guess the weight of a giant pumpkin, but it had mysteriously disappeared.

Bite by bite, that is. As the squirrels, rabbits, mice and racoons ate the prized pumpkin and, apparently, they did same this year, judging by the appearance of the pumpkin patch.

Getting lost in the nature, or sitting on one of the Garden’s many benches, and just feeling the warmth of the sun, I concluded, is what I’ve missed driving by the South Coast Botanical Garden.

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“Climb the mountains, get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their freshness into you…while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”

John Muir’s words came to me while D and I sat on a bench after walking through the labyrinth of trails, and as I pondered Muir’s thoughts, I could sense nature’s peace flowing into me.

True, D asked to look at my phone as he leaned back into my chest. But I enjoyed the lush greenery and warmth of the sun on my face as I wondered about the people who walked by us.

I reminisced about the 17-mile drive in Carmel when a tram passed by us. Walking on the Garden’s scenic trails and roads brought back to mind L and my trip there on our honeymoon.

My mind wandered to the missed opportunity 18 years ago to ride a bike in a slight drizzle; in retrospect, it was the perfect condition–though I chose wisely to not abandon my new bride.

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This got me thinking if biking is permitted in the Garden–I didn’t see anyone riding a bike–but the program staff is always expanding new ways for visitors to experience the Garden.

In December, the Garden will pipe in Christmas music on selected roads/trails and host bands playing holiday music; in January, guests can listen to a pop music playlist while walking through Garden trails.

A sign outside the front gates also announced yoga will be coming soon to the Garden. In addition, the Garden hosts plays, concerts, and movie nights in its meadows–Mauna played in July.

D and I enjoyed acting out scenes from the Wizard of Oz in a small shaded amphitheatre with a canopy of trees. An acting class would make a great addition to the Garden, I thought.

We ran into a troop of girl scouts, and one girl ran over to D and said, “D, what are you doing here?” And then he was surrounded by a group of girls, who were all saying the same thing.

He hid behind a tree watching them before he was spotted. I gave him some space to interact with the girls, but he seemed overwhelmed, and we walked and ran on with the map in my pocket.

D liked the numerous opportunities to pick up dirt clods along the trails. He’s still a sensory kid at heart, and frankly, that may have been his favorite part.

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We appreciated the quiet solitude; sometimes, a father and son need to escape into nature–you know, to get away from family life stresses–and the Garden was a perfect nature getaway.

You enter through the gates, walk through an enchanted garden with small miniature houses, grazing cows and other ornaments, and you forget all about the various stressors in  life.

You walk along trails or a road, turn right or left down a myriad of trail/road options, and you will feel tempted to chuck the map, and you may decide getting lost in nature is preferable.

That’s what I felt like doing–and so we found only two of the six birdhouses with clues to the pumpkin patch. But time stopped, and that’s the best way I know to enjoy an afternoon with D.

The next time we drive by the Garden, I will assuredly give more than second thought to what I will be missing. And I am sure I will planning a return visit to the Garden in the next few weeks.

Full Disclosure: I received two tickets at my request in exchange for writing this blog post. However, all opinions in this post are mine, and I hope you enjoy the Garden as much as we did

The South Coast Botanical Gardens Hours are: 9 – 5 everyday (open 364 days a year). The address is: 263000 Crenshaw Blvd., Palos Verdes. You can learn more about the Garden by visiting their website:southcoastbotanicalgarden.org.

Tickeprices are: Adults $9, students $6, children (4 – 12) $4, and toddlers are free.

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Dance Party

Written By: Scot Butwell - Oct• 28•17

It had been a long day for all of us.

A homework battle, a struggle for D to get started and to stay focused on his one page of math and grammar, plus a writing graphic organizer and three-sentence introduction paragraph.

Plus, thirty minutes of reading.

We were all tired. Ooops!! L doesn’t like me to use that word–tired–even though it is a description of my mental and physical state on most days after teaching squirrelly 14-year-olds.

D whipped through the graphic organizer with his three reasons and three details for each reason, and he whizzed through writing the three-sentence introduction on his topic.

He likes to write–although it can often veerbetween real and imaginary–and his intro was about being kidnapped by an animatronic bear Nightmare from the Five Nights at Freddy’s.

Maybe, this is his writing style–his voice–though he may struggle with academic writing (thesis, evidence, explanations) in the future because of his preference for imaginary over real.

I like the writing homework. It is an chance to share what I’ve learned about writing with D, and the math (rounding to tens, hundreds, and thousands) is time to spend with D.

“You’re yelling at me like a Mad Man,” I overheard D say to L the other night when she was helping him with one part of his homework assignment.

She screams at me too if I interfere with him doing homework by himself.

My approach is different than hers. I like to make it light and easy, to banter a bit and, yes, to embrace the jagged process. Though I have to remind myself several times to be patient.

I tell ninth-graders every day to stay on task in my job as an English teacher, so my preference would be to not have to do this again at home–thus, the reminder to be patient.

Be patient.

This is the “brand” I want to be remembered by D: a patient dad who isn’t prone to fits of rage if his attention happens to momentarily drift away from a math problem.

Which it will.

Being patient is what works with nine or 14-year-olds, both of whom I’ve come to realize share common traits, like losing focus and tearing off the eraser nubs off the top of pencils.

Impatience will only escalate a situation to a toxic level, and that’s why I sit next to D on the sofa, to let him know I am with him in this task. This is just how I choose to do it.

And being this close to him in proximity not only provides a sense of comraderie, but it also allows me to redirect him if his mind does happen–which it will–go down a rabbit hole.

Sometimes, to break up the monotony of the homework, I even go off the grid with him to spice up the daily grind of grammar, math problems and writing (which has become his favorite).

So after D finished his introduction paragraph, I tell him about Steve Pressfield (War of Art) and Shawn Coyne (The Story Grid), and how Steve is a writer and Shawn is his editor, and Shawn’s job is to improve  his friend Steve’s writing.

“You are the writer, and I am the editor,” I say to D. “You be Steve and I will be Shawn. My job is to look for how to make your writing better.”

And after he finishes, I explain to him how “everyday” words in conversation can be replaced with more precise action or descriptive words, and he receives my input like a real writer.

His assignment was to use “sound” and “motion” words, so he changed said to murmured, goes to speeded, and added caw-caw in on his own, and then we shared his writing with L.

L said she thought his teacher would think his paragraph was too polished, but I explained it was an opportunity to share my knowledge on writing and to teach D about the revision process.

His writing did sound professional–though his handwriting is still a work in progress–but his homework never returned in his backpack, so I guess you will have to take my word on it.

After his homework was completed–this story is really about this moment–D cued up a catchy song with a fast tempo and beat on my phone, and a dance party broke out right there in the living room to a song from Sing.

D kicked his feet left, right, forward, and backwards, he executed a 360-degree spin move a few times, he nearly completed a few handstands, and his arms and legs moved rapidly for the duration of the entire song.

I joined D in the Dance Party as L cheered him on (“Do it again…Woo-hoo”, she said after his spin moves.), mimicing his moves except for the head stands, and by the end of the 4-minute song, we were sucking in air.

This is how we capped a Tuesday evening, and the homework saga, his writing style, our collaborative effort and the dance party, I thought all added up to…the Fourth Grade D.

The dance party infused my body with newfound energy, and a new appreciation of my son, and his wonderful, spontaneous spirit.

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Culver City Steps

Written By: Scot Butwell - Oct• 16•17

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This was one of those ideas–hiking up 279 stairs at the Culver City steps–that sounded like a good idea at the time, but it didn’t feel so great when we were  on, say, step number 133 or 208.

At step number 279, I was more than grateful we had made it to the top, and forgive me for the cliche, but I realized I ain’t no spring chicken any more.

I don’t want to say I am getting old, although I will soon be able to round up my age to a hundred, and having no regular exercise routine isn’t the best preparation for a 279 stair workout.

I needed to catch my breath several times, but D didn’t have this problem. He kept scaling up the steps, only stopping occasionally, and was not fazed by the two-foot block stairs.

I looked forward to a father-son moment taking in a vista of Los Angeles. But when we reached the top, D looked back for a split second and followed the trail around a bend.!

Ho-hum, he must have thought.

I was thinking something along the lines of  “this isn’t everyday you see a view like this and, hey, I was really hoping (re: needing) to take a much longer break…to get a second wind.”

We passed through a building with a display in the history of Los Angeles on the way back down. However, D gabe a cursory thought to the info before exiting out a side door.

The way down was easier. I realized near the bottom I needed to find bathroom asap. All the step on the way upmoved my breakfast through my intestines at a faster rate than usual.

Plan A…was a nearby Dunkin Donuts which I remembered passing on the way to the steps, but there was a sign on the bathroom door: Out of Order.

Plan B..Smart and Final next door. I needed to make it in a hurry, but the stall was occupied, and there was no time to search for a nearby restroom.

Plan C…required expediency. I saw a nearby trash can. There was no time for Plan D–just immediate action.

D looked at me with a surprised look. He had never seen me poop in a trash can before, so I felt a need to provide life lesson of some sort to what he saw.

“Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do in an emergency. This was an emergency and, maybe, you will be in an emergency like this one day.”

Yeah, I am not proud for what I did–and I only accidentally hit publish on this–but I think, all things considered, that I would do the same thing if such a situation happens to arise again.

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When the Birds Come

Written By: Scot Butwell - Oct• 16•17

Yep, that’s me launching an angry Bird. It was Big Brother Terrence. He connected with a pig, and the rest of birds came. Bomb. Chuck. Red. Hal. The Blue Birds. The Mighty Eagle.

The Mighty Eagle swooped down and crashed into the pigs’ towers. Hal boomeranged in and activated a button on the side of a monkey’s truck.

The truck started up, rammed into the towers–or at least what was left–and the monkey screamed ,”Ewwww! EEEEEEE! Ewweee! !EEEEEEEE!”

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Homework Mariachi Style

Written By: Scot Butwell - Sep• 04•17

I had just finished reading about Robert Rodriguez’s “mariachi style” of low-budget movie making by using only the props, actors, costumes locations and music available to him.

In addition, I listened to an interview where he talked about “doing one thing well” to be creative. Both were prep for my English class reading his book on making a movie for $7,000

The movie was a El Mariachi, and it resulted in a three picture deal for Rodriguez with Columbia studios. The book about making the movie is aptly titled Rebel Without a Crew.

I was inspired by Rodriguez’s statement to try to “do everything creatively,” so when it comes time to be creative in film making, it would not seem different than other tasks.

If he had been creative in cooking breakfast or cleaning the living room.

I wondered if Rodriguez’s philosophy of creativity could apply to helping D to complete the last four pages of his monthly homework. I figured it was worth a shot to test out his theory.

I knew I could do it L’s way. D sitting at the kitchen table while I fought the urge to assist him to stay focused. This usually results in L getting upset at me for not letting D do it by himself.

Ultimately, I chose Rodriguez’s “do-everything creative” approach because D had crashed my Sunday afternoon lesson planning, and I got no reply when I called L in the living room.

Apparently, she fell asleep on the sofa. Thus, she wouldn’t be aware of my homework experiment, so D and I kneeled on the floor with his homework on the bed blanket.

In this comfortable position, I exhorted and bantered our way through a page of subtraction problems, patiently explaining the rationale for regrouping tens.

I made funny ammnoises, assumed personas of movie characters, and turned into a  “savage” Nick Wilde from Zootopia after being shot in the next by a dart filled with serum.

We wrested during breaks, and at one point, D leapt on my back and I turned into a rodeo bull. This was all part of my effort to turn homework from a dreaded task into a creative endeavor

We hissed at each other like two cats in a fight, bearing our teeth and our claws, to reboot our brains before the final page of what initially I had thought seemed like a daunting task.

We stretched out on the bed for the last page, and if L would have walked in, she would have criticized me, and my “do everything creative” approach jettisoned like balloon on a windy day.

My arm looped over D’s shoulder as we alternated reading Mauona, and when Chief Tui said,  “no one goes beyond the reef,” D went off the script and called me (Cheif Tui) an idiot.

I looked at him and furrowed my brow, not sure if I should get upset at him since I was acting out Chief Tui’s voice, when D said, “I’m sorry.” And so I un furrowed my brow, letting it pass.

We finished his homework an hour, and even with all the silly banter and playing, and bested the time D would have finished if he sat at the kitchen table and he did it the proper way.

So I am a believer in Rodriguez’s “do everyone creative” and use whatever resources are available to create a work of art–and that’s exactly what we did in our homework experiment.

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Meet the flock

Written By: Scot Butwell - Aug• 11•17

angry birds

Terence , blue ,chuck ,Hal, bomb ,mighty eagle, red and bubbles are D ‘s wild flock  egg stealing pigs , general – frank ,dopey ,ross , general Fred , Steve , grandpa pig and king pig . we will eat the eggs before the pigs do ! Now its birdie time !

 

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The Worst Two Sons

Written By: Scot Butwell - Aug• 11•17

I took my mom to her ear doctor appointment, a couple days ago, and the septuagenarian doctor told us a story about his nephews at the end of her appointment.

His sister had two sons. She got a divorce and remarried. As a twelve-year-old boy, the older brother liked jumping off the roof onto a mattress in the backyard to practice World Wrestling Entertaining (WWE) moves.

“His mom didn’t really know what to do with him,” he said.

The younger brother was occasionally rude to his father-in-law, calling his toupee a rug. The dad got a toupee to help make himself look younger when he got laid off from his accounting job.

“Ageism is still alive,” the doctor said.

The rude younger brother loved to draw. Both brothers went to college and graduated. The older brother now travels the world as a WWF wrestler under a pseudonym. He also does stand up comedy and voice over work.

The younger brother worked his way up to become an animation director for the Family Guy show. “That’s a big deal,” the doctor said, saying it again one word at a time and looking me in the eye.  “That’s a very  big deal.”

“My brother-in-law used to pick at the younger son all the time, and even now that he has become a successful director for Family Guy, he watches his son’s show and tells me, “I don’t get it. I don’t get it all the time, either.”

I have no idea why the doctor told us this story, of an accountant dad who doesn’t get his creative son, but I’m glad he told the story. My mom is 83, and her sons are grown up. I am 48, and my son is nine. So, maybe, the story was meant for me.

I thought of D, and how I want to encourage him to follow whatever vocational path he chooses, and how I want to support him in his current passions like drawing angry birds.

He loves to draw angry birds, as well as characters from Veggie Tales and Five Nights at Freddies, and talks a lot about them, making up little stories about these animated characters.

“Who is your favorite Five Nights at Freddy character?” he likes to ask me. “Freddy or Nightmare Freddy.”

“I like Freddy because of his cool hat,” I say. “It reminds me of a hat I used to have.”

“You like Nightmare Freddy better, right?”

“No, I like regular Freddy because Nightmare Freddy is creepy.”

I think the angry birds or Freddy characters may foreshadow D’s future vocation like the older brother’s jumping off the roof or the younger brother’s rude behavior foreshadowed their future career paths.

I take away two points the story: 1) the father-in-law never learned how to embrace his sons for who there are, and 2) the sons vocations were wired into their DNA by their natural proclivities.

I tell the doctor’s story to L, hoping it will help her to better understand our son, that he is a boy and sometimes boys will tend to be more rowdy and leave ther clothes strewn all over their bedroom floor.

 

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Things About Myself

Written By: Scot Butwell - Jun• 29•17
  1. I am a sugar addict
  2. My favorite is chocolate hostess cupcakes with the cream filling.
  3. I wait until the last minute to tell the wife about stuff.
  4. I rarely go to see the doctor.
  5. I never floss.
  6. I lost my left cornerstone tooth while eating pizza.
  7. I need time by myself to refuel.
  8. My stomach protrudes out from too much pizza, hamburgers and soda.
  9. I don’t drink alcohol or smoke.
  10. I like to wear t-shirts to work: anything with the name of my school.
  11. I loved playing basketball as a kid.
  12. My favorite drink is coffee, preferably from McDonald’s.
  13. I like to watch Netflix in bed on my phone.
  14. I am a Capricorn (not that I believe in that stuff).
  15. I have one brother.
  16. I once was the director of a crisis hotline.
  17. My wife would likes to say I used to be a good listener.
  18. I like to faint when she gives me a compliment.
  19. I like to eat D’s noise reduction headphones.
  20. My wife thinks I have autism.
  21. I like to lose myself in art.

 

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