Growing Up A Mok: Mighty Ducks 2

Mighty Ducks 2 likely spawned not only an illogical amount of ill will towards the country of Iceland but also a generation of kids hell-bent on pranking people who are passed out.  The movie came out when I was in elementary school, so I know all about the flying V, the triple deke, and the fact that Pat Riley looks exactly like the evil Iceland coach and is therefore never to be trusted.  But the best thing about D2 was the introduction of the shaving cream prank.

The prank is simple, as most genius ideas are.  Wait until the victim falls asleep.  Put an ample amount of shaving cream in his/her hand.  Use a feather to brush his/her face.  The victim will then also become the perpetrator by having to scratch his/her face with the hand loaded with shaving cream.  The perfect crime.

My friend Ryan, also a newfound prank enthusiast, was sleeping over at my house.  We waited until my brother Jason fell asleep, and then we snuck into his room and got to work.

Unfortunately, I lived in a shaving cream-free home, as my dad used an electric razor, so we had to find an alternative.  We actually didn't have any kind of cream, including whipped.  The only household item we could think of to do the trick?  Toothpaste.

Between muffled giggles, we squirted some Crest onto Jason's hands and then used a feather duster to try to get him to smear it onto his face.  Unfortunately, he wasn't being super cooperative, and the result ended up rather underwhelming.  Finally, we got tired and gave up and just put the toothpaste directly onto his face.  Then we called it a night and went to sleep.

The toothpaste didn't magically evaporate, of course, so I think Jason woke up with a burning sensation in his eyes and toothpaste all over the pillow and sheets.  My mother was quite unhappy, but she probably would have understood if she had caught the movie.

Now I can order some shaving cream off Amazon to try the same prank on the kids.  These suckers ain't ready.

Growing Up A Mok: Gravity

The hardest part of being a dad is not laughing when your kid does something he’s not supposed to do.  The other day Levi was stacking some plastic donuts on the window sill, and I was tired, so I laid down on the floor next to the window.  Then he started stacking the donuts on my face.  So I sat up and put a donut on top of my head before doing a full-body shimmy and letting the donut fall to the ground.

Little man found it hilarious, so I did it a few more times, with more emphasis on each successive shimmy.  Then I let the donut just sit there on my noggin, and Levi took a couple steps closer to me, reached out...

...and full-on slapped me across the face.  The donut fell.

I was so shocked that I couldn't catch myself from literally ROFL-ing.  I told him "not for hitting" a couple times between cackles, but those pearls of wisdom probably didn't hit home.

Our upstairs loft area is slowly but surely transforming into a Gymboree, complete with toys and tunnels and all sorts of things to climb up on.  You know, the same setup you would want for a pet hamster.  A few months ago, little man started hurling items off of the second story and watching them crash down to the living room floor below.

My first reaction was the same as Tom Cruise’s at the end of his greatest movie, Jerry Maguire.  Nice arm!  But I didn’t want to reinforce the bad behavior, so I tried (probably unsuccessfully) to hide my delight.

He has flung toys into the open abyss a few more times since then, and he definitely knows it’s wrong at this point, but every time he acts up, I’m quickly reminded that he could be much worse.  He could be me.

Way back in the 90s, during one of my family’s trips to Hong Kong, I remember my siblings and I were hanging out at my grandparents’ apartment.  Now I can’t recall where my parents were, but I do know that the adult supervision was lax, to say the least.  Of course, this could be because I was at an age where I shouldn’t have needed Shawshank level security, but don’t worry, nobody got physically hurt or anything.

My grandparents' place was 35+ stories high, so we did what any kids would do in that situation.  We cracked open a window and started throwing stuff out to behold the power of gravity.

The adventure began with some folded paper airplanes, but we soon ran out of paper.  There wasn't much just lying around the house that seemed all that disposable, so we started searching some drawers.

Next thing you know, we were throwing my grandma's underwear out the window.  In the name of science, I suppose.  It was glorious.  We'd take turns tossing one out, get on our tiptoes to follow the flight path as far down as we could, then giggle with pure glee.  Rinse, repeat.

We must have gone through at least a week and a half's worth of bum covers before we were finally caught red-handed.  My poor grandma... we didn't think it was worth it to go down to ground level to look for the scattered undies, so they were probably lost forever.  Except for maybe one pair that I remember had gotten caught on a clothesline a couple floors down, though I doubt ole G went down there to claim them.

I started out writing this as a parenthood-type post with a lesson to be learned at the end of the story, but now I can't stop chuckling at the visual of some unsuspecting passerby walking around, minding their own business, and then having their world go completely dark due to flying granny panties.  This seems like a proper way to conclude.

Growing Up A Mok: "Is this new?"

My dad is one of those people who grew up poor and is now not poor, but old habits die hard.  That statement may not have anything to do with the rest of this story, but it might, so I figured I'd lead with that to cover all my bases.

Growing up, my dad would always have some form of sustenance ready for his three kids in the morning.  He is a rad dad.  Half the time it would be something delicious, like pigs in a blanket or croissants.  The other half the time it would be some horrendous combination, like toast with both butter and peanut butter.  They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but butter and peanut butter is a punishment nobody deserves.

One thing was always consistent, though -- a giant cup of milk.  Now from this point onward, I know I'm going to risk sounding more and more like a spoiled brat, but in reality, I love milk.  Me and milk are tight.  Milk is responsible for cheese and ice cream, two of my favorite things (not together), so you know I have no problem with milk.

I just can't drink "old" milk.

No, I'm not talking about expired sour milk, although I definitely can't drink that, either.  I'm talking about milk that has been poured out and sitting for longer than ten minutes.

I don't know how to explain it.  The first 9.99 minutes after it leaves the jug?  Cold, fresh, and anything 1% fat and over?  Money.

Once that timer hits ten minutes, though?  The taste of the milk completely transforms.  Like I said, I don't know how to explain it -- it's just science.

But my dad would never believe me.  I've had a lifelong struggle with alarm clocks, so I wasn't always the most punctual person to the breakfast table.  I take sole responsibility for that, but nobody should have to drink old milk.

After the first couple times, I told my dad to not pour me milk.  If anything, I could pour it myself, right?  In theory, yes, but every time I came downstairs, there it was.  A glass of milk waiting for me.  He just couldn't help himself.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm grateful.  More so now than back then, probably.  But I started asking my dad what became a recurring question in the house: "Is this new?"

My dad's automatic response: "Sun, gah!"

For my non-Cantonese brethren, that's a yes.  Specifically, the direct translation would be "new," followed by one of the thousands of interjections Cantonese people tack on to the end of every sentence.

So I took a big gulp.  I don't know what was worse, the poison going down my throat or the knife in my back.

Maybe it was just bad milk, I thought.  Gotta give my father the benefit of the doubt, right?  It's all good, just a one-time strange mishap.

I reminded my dad that I would get my own milk, but the following day, there it was again, a full cup sitting on the counter.

I inquired with a raised brow: "Is this new?"

"Sun, gah!"

So I took a smaller sip this time, a little more skeptical than the day before.  And my suspicions were justified -- this was definitely old milk.

We reached an impasse.  My dad couldn't not pour me milk, and I couldn't drink old milk.  So I did the only thing I could think of.  I would wait until he left the kitchen, then I'd pour it down the drain.

Everyone judging me for wasting milk right now, please stop.  It wasn't just me.  My siblings followed suit.  That doesn't change much of anything, but at least it should spread the judging around.  If I'm going down, I'm taking y'all down with me.

My dad caught one of us in the act, and he wasn't all that giddy about it.  What followed was an unpleasant discussion, but I thought that was the end of him pouring milk for us.  But he just adapted.

The next time, there it was, taunting me.  Another cup, brimming with milk.

"Is this new?"

"Sun, gah!"

So I grabbed the handle on the mug, and it sent my Spidey sense tingling.  The handle was cold.  Cue the dramatic music.

My dad had poured the cup of milk, placed it in the fridge, waited until I was almost downstairs, pulled it out of the fridge, placed it on the table, and told me that he had just poured it.

I trust my dad with everything in life.  Except for an honest answer to the "Is this new?" question.

But it's easy to flip the script and see things from my dad's lenses.  He just wanted to make sure the three of us had our fill of vitamin D.  His motives were pure.  His inability to tell the truth was limited to milk.

Or so we thought.

Fast forward a few years, and my brother Jason was home from college for the weekend.  Only problem?  He forgot his toothbrush and asked our dad for one.

My dad disappeared into his room, reemerging a few seconds later with a toothbrush.  No plastic wrap.  No container.  No nothing.

"Is this new?"

"Sun, gah!"

Jason went in for a closer inspection.  The stick was slightly worn.  The bristles were pointed in different directions.  This toothbrush was definitely used -- on someone else's teeth, on the bathtub, on the toilet seat -- your guess is as good as mine.  My brother looked up, prepared to protest, and my dad just had the goofiest grin on his face.

The best part?  Jason ran into my dad's bathroom to investigate, and my old man had a handful of brand new toothbrushes still in their boxes just waiting to be opened.  That nasty toothbrush from who knows where that my father had tried to pawn off onto my brother wasn't even close to being the only extra toothbrush he had.

Needless to say, nobody asks my dad "Is this new?" anymore.