December 5: Krampustag, a Griswold Birthday Party, My Beautiful Child

Happy Krampustag!

Yes, today is the day that celebrates the figure of Krampus, a demonic figure in Central European folklore that is the antithesis of Santa Claus.  Krampus, with his horns and hooves, shows up on this day to drag misbehaving children away to be punished.  Recently, the myth of Krampus has gained popularity, perhaps due to the release, a few years ago, of the film Krampus.

My daughter hates the fact that she was born on Krampustag.  (She rolled her eyes when I mentioned it to her a few minutes ago.)  I, on the other hand, think it's kind of cool.  I understand why she dislikes the association of her birthday with a demon.  That isn't exactly something to write home about, I suppose.  Yet, my daughter has always been her own person--not really marching to the beat of anyone else's drum but her own.  She is kind and loving.  The thing that she's most excited about this Christmas is that she gets to buy people presents with her own money that she's earned by working for Food Services at the university.  She's more excited about giving than getting this holiday season.

My daughter doesn't have to worry about Krampus coming for her tonight.

And how did we celebrate my Krampustag baby's birthday?  By going to a screening of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation at our local movie theater.  Yes, she wanted a Griswold birthday party.  So, we grabbed a quick bite to eat at one of her favorite restaurants, and then we all headed to the theater.  We met up with my wife's sister and her family, and we ate buttered popcorn and watched Chevy Chase ruin and save Christmas.  Not a demon in sight.

As I said in my post last night, my daughter amazes me on a daily basis.  She has saved my life in so many ways.  I want to grow up to be just like her.  She may never read this blog post, but I want her to know that she is an inspiration to me on a daily basis.  She reminds me of all that is good in the world.

Maybe she's reading this thirty or forty years from now.  Maybe I'm still alive.  Maybe I'm not.  But know this, my beautiful child:  being your father made me a better person.  If I am no longer with you physically, remember that I will always be a part of you.  I am with you when you smile and laugh.   I am with you when you weep.  I am with you when you celebrate.  I am with you when you grieve.  I will always be a part of you, and you will always be a part of me.

Happy birthday, my sweet, sweet baby.

Saint Marty loves you the way waves love the beach.  The way snow loves the cold.  The way crickets love the night.  The way Krampus loves naughty children.  The way God so loved the world.

April 3: Poopy Head, Billy Collins, "Child Development Poem"

I am going to see a movie with my son this evening.  It's called Home, and it's a feature-length animated cartoon.  My son has been talking about this film since the commercials for it started appearing on the television.  He's going for the funny purple alien.  I am going for the buttered popcorn.

I will enjoy myself.  My son can make me laugh all the time.  He's playing a computer game with his sister right now.  He's shirtless, and his hair is slicked to his head with sweat.  They're actually getting along.  Of course, in a matter of seconds, things could change.  My daughter could decide she's done playing, and he could kick her in the shin and call her a poopy-head (one of his favorite insults).

For now, though, peace reigns.  I will take that.  Laughter.  Giggles.  Squeals.

No poopy-heads in Saint Marty's house.

Child Development Poem

by:  Billy Collins

As sure as prehistoric fish grew legs
and sauntered off the beaches into forests
working up some irregular verbs for their
first conversation, so three-year-old children
enter the phase of name-calling.

Every day a new one arrives and is added
to the repertoire. You Dumb Goopyhead,
You Big Sewerface, You Poop-on-the-Floor
(a kind of Navaho ring to that one)
they yell from knee level, their little mugs
flushed with challenge.
Nothing Samuel Johnson would bother tossing out
in a pub, but then the toddlers are not trying
to devastate some fatuous Enlightenment hack.

They are just tormenting their fellow squirts
or going after the attention of the giants
way up there with their cocktails and bad breath
talking baritone nonsense to other giants,
waiting to call them names after thanking
them for the lovely party and hearing the door close.

The mature save their hothead invective
for things: an errant hammer, tire chains,
or receding trains missed by seconds,
though they know in their adult hearts,
even as they threaten to banish Timmy to bed
for his appalling behavior,
that their bosses are Big Fatty Stupids,
their wives are Dopey Dopeheads
and that they themselves are Mr. Sillypants.

That's Mr. Poopy Head