Lefty Limbo

Fall continues falling, and I find myself in search of sweaters. This is my favorite time of year; when the cold bites like an icy dog at my neck and ankles when I take out the late trash. One day soon I will be able to see my breath at night.

My son finds bubbles. Lots of bubbles, in his small gun which resides patiently on the porch. The sun shines, reminding me of the summer. Warmer months, when the dashboard simmered and his igloo ice block sweated as it kept his milk cold.

He didn’t know what a camera was, not too long ago. Had no idea what it did, nor what it was for. But now, he takes every opportunity to delight in the attention it pays. Greg grows so fast, his innocence lost to learning, his oblivion fading to knowledge. I dwell on this as I hold my iPhone steady, hoping to capture another moment.

Greg, in turn, points his bubble gun directly at the miniature lens and smothers it in suds.

One of the welcome aspects of Fall and Winter, aside from the autumn leaves and dewdrop-covered lawn and car windows in the morning, is the onset of frequent Asahi Ramen dinner dates. Yes, hot ramen, tofu and gyoza simply hit the spot in the chill of the night.

It was something Angela and I used to do when we were dating, and we’ve continued the tradition with our son in tow—in fact, we were winding oodles of noodles on our forks (yes, forks as we’re still non-adept at chopsticks) in front of lil Greg when he was barely two months old.

Now with him walking and talking and doing nearly everything else under the smoggy sun, family excursions to this noodle nook really do become a family affair, as he’s able to tackle his own piping hot portion of goodness with almost no help from the grown-ups. And boy does he love this place. Angela and I constantly joke that his affinity for noodles, spam, rice and other Asian commodities stem from his Flip side. Does it?

As a preschooler Pop, I’m always concerned about keeping a schedule with my kid. He’s gotta go to sleep at a certain time so that he can wake up at a certain time and get to school with no problems.

As a professional musician, I’m also concerned with keeping my kid in tune with music, musical instruments and dancing. And sometimes, in order to do that, I have to break the schedule that I fight so hard to keep. But it’s totally worth it.

Perfect example was this past weekend at the Anaheim House of Blues. This was the second time he’d seen me play, but the first time he actively participated. He’s normally drawn to a good beat and colorful lights, which openers Ron Silva and The Monarchs were chock full of. They had him dancing up a storm on the sidelines; so much so that at one point he strayed onto the stage and I had to run and get him.

This kid danced so much that I used up the remaining gigs on my card filming him on video. Kinda weird that this card is four times bigger than my previous card (4GB as opposed to 1GB), yet I seem to fill it up in a fraction of the time. Yet you know what they say—and I quote my buddy Rudy (also a pop)—take a lot of video when they’re young. A lot. ‘Coz pictures are one thing, but video captures everything. So I’m gonna need a bigger boat.

Yup, the bigger boat would’ve especially come in handy for priceless moments such as when my lil skanking spawn finally went full throttle during our closing number “No Worries” and danced beside Greg Lee in wild abandon. Greg even introduced him to the roaring crowd as “Greg Narvas Jr.” and history unfolded before my very eyes. Only thing is, I can’t for the life of me find a picture that was taken at that moment in time, although I saw several cell phones and cameras go up in the air snapping away.

Can anyone send me a pic? I’d love to have one.

I watched him as we chugged along. Our window was open and the refreshing Fillmore breeze blew in and played with his hair. I felt like we were so far away from home. In a way we were, being surrounded by fields, mountains and nurtured orchards, so unlike the concrete, tar and detours of the city under constant construction.

The train’s wheels resounded with the repetitive pattern of steel on steel, and I got sentimental for a time and era that was never mine. But he’s mine, I thought to myself. He was ours, and I cherished moments like this, knowing they were as fleeting as the lush landscape that passed us by.

Mini me.

As my fatherhood progresses, I wonder how much my son inherited from me naturally, and how much of his knowledge/interest is actually instilled by our teaching.

I want to encourage him to play drums like I do. So far, he’s taken a lot of interest in it, and Angela has told me that he loves to drum on things rhythmically. So is that simply a mimicking of my actions, or is it really “in him” to be interested in drumming?

As he grows up, there’s been a constant note-taking on his behavior and habits. It’s been a fun game between Angela and I to see and/or remark who he takes after. But how much of our influence will mold him, and how much of his development is on auto-pilot from the start? The questions only get deeper as I watch my son blossom before my very eyes.

When we were new parents and lil’ Greg was only a few months old, I’d run into other parents with older kids who would look at us and say, “Oh, you’re in the easy stage. Cherish these times while you can, ‘coz when he gets older, you’re gonna miss ‘em.” Sure enough, it’s true. Not to say that I dislike the way things are now, but having the “2-hour leash” was a heckuva lot easier than the 24-hr. surveillance mode I find myself in nowadays. So now when I see new parents, I think the same thing. Not sure how to put it, but there’s both a beauty and a tragedy in watching my kid grow up. The beauty lies in the constant milestones and discoveries, and the tragedy resides in the loss of innocence by the same milestones and discoveries. Isn’t that crazy?

On the other hand, it’s always interesting to run into parents who have kids around the same age as Greg (3 yrs. old). The sequence of events is almost always the same:

1. There’s always this silent pause to see how they interact with each other, and a readiness to address any impolite or unsavory actions (purely objective to the parents, of course…which presents a myriad of outcomes).





2. Then, if everything appears ok between the two kids, the parents make eye contact. This could be followed by 1) a mutual smile or chuckle of amusement between both parent(s)/couples, or 2) a smile or chuckle of amusement by one parent or couple, but a maintained weary or cautious look by the other parent/couple.





3. If option “1″ occurs, there is an exchange of general compliments, which includes a requisite “How old is he/she?.” From here, the conversation can extend to a variety of parenthood topics, the comparisons of which can lead to mutual bonding, or a realization that the children are being reared in different ways.





If option “2″ occurs, the realization of potential temperament differences results in the diminishing of “friendly” feelings, and the kids are eventually separated without any further acknowledgement between the parents or couples.

Interestingly, in any case, I’ve found that the focus always lies in the kids and their interaction, and the actual introduction between parents hardly ever occurs. I can definitely count on one hand how many times I’ve actually introduced myself to the other parent(s). Yes, we find out nearly everything about the kids, but the parents’ names are almost never known. Why does this happen?

We bought Greg a $5 bubble gun not too long ago, and he’s been having a blast with it since. With fresh batteries installed, it produces an endless swarm of bubbles, that, driven by the wind, spiral gracefully down our street…and soapily adhere to the newly-washed gleaming surfaces of luxury vehicles. Above, in less windy conditions, Greg attempts to fill our kitchen with bubbles—unsuccessfully, of course, due to the screen on the window.

But when the batteries start to lose their juice (and they do in a short time, thanks to Greg’s permanent trigger finger), the air flow from the nozzle no longer produces swarms of tiny bubbles, but rather work to inflate one big one, which he really gets a kick out of seeing.

It’s too bad that these greasy gigantors don’t detach from their maker and loft themselves wobbily on the wind, onto newly-washed surfaces of luxury vehicles. Nevertheless, add this gun to his ever-growing collection of toys that I would’ve killed for when I was a kid.