Daddy Needs Decaf

This Blog Has Moved

2011-01-25T07:00:00.002-05:00

I have moved my parenting blog. My new location is http://www.waltmussell.blogspot.com/. Please click here to be taken there.

Thanks to everyone who has visited me at this location.

Moving Day

2011-01-18T07:00:00.004-05:00

There’s an old saying that “A good friend helps you move. A great friend helps you move a body.”

I thought about that as I contemplated what I’m doing today.

For the longest time, I’ve managed two blogs on my own. One, a blog on my activities as a parent. The other, a blog on the activities of the football team of my alma mater, Auburn University.

However, as life gets busy and my kids continue to get even smarter than they were the day before, I’ve decided to focus on the parenting one.

However, in deciding on the parenting one, I realize that the blog that has my name on it is the one that has football.

And I want to keep both.

So I’ve decided to move my parenting blog to my football blog.

And for those of you that read my blog, I hope you’ll move with me and sign up as a follower on that one.

I do have some nervousness. The last time I gave up writing about football, Auburn ripped off fifteen straight wins (AU vs. Georgia 2003 through AU vs. Virginia Tech 2005). After Auburn’s previous perfect season, I started writing about football again and Auburn opened the 2005 fall season with a loss to Georgia Tech. I felt responsible for that.

Given that Auburn is now on a 15-game winning streak, I worry what effect any writing change I make might have. In order to alleviate any karma backlash, I may occasionally pen a football post from time-to-time. However, unless it relates to parenting, it will be in addition to instead of in lieu of a parenting post.

Again, I hope you’ll help me move to the new location. Please click here to be taken there. Please sign up to be a follower. Thanks.

The First Snow of the Year

2011-01-11T07:00:00.003-05:00

My sons are happy.

It snowed in Atlanta and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Like their Dad, they’re Auburn fans. My wife would say it was forced upon them. But with school out today and also tomorrow, my boys got to spend Monday during the day playing in the snow.

They got to spend the night staying up late and watching Auburn play football.

And they spent the evening staying up late and watching Auburn football.

I’m posting this prior to the game kickoff. Hopefully, I’ll be celebrating an Auburn victory.

Either way, I’m celebrating a wonderful season…and some happy kids.

Yes, that is an igloo.

Santa in a Box

2011-01-04T07:00:00.003-05:00

“Daddy, I don’t think Santa Claus is real anymore.”

I was in our basement, assembling one of those indoor basketball shooting games. It requires three people to assemble, one to screw things in and two to hold things in place, so my boys were helping. There were times when I didn’t need their help, so they played with some of the other toys in the basement.

And then my eight-year old found a box.

My wife and I had hidden his gift from Santa, an electrically-powered dirt bike, in a section of the basement he wouldn’t check. It was behind some things and under a blanket. He hadn’t seen it prior to Christmas. I’d assembled it sometime after midnight on December 23rd (technically Christmas Eve), got it charging (it takes 18 hours), and just kept him out of the basement on Christmas Eve. Sometime about 12:30 a.m. Christmas Day, I brought it up. He woke up about 1:00 a.m. and found it.

I knew, though, when I assembled the dirt bike, that getting the box outside was going to be a challenge. We were traveling after Christmas to visit family and would miss garbage day. I would have to hide it until I could dispose of it. I chose the same place I hid the gift.

It wasn’t good enough.

“What do you mean you don’t think he’s ‘real anymore?’”

“I found the box for my Christmas gift.”

My heart skipped a beat. I’d expected that this would be the last year of him believing, though I’d hoped for one more year. My wife and I had discussed this. We knew from discussions with other parents that the kids were getting older. (Actually, my wife was talking with the other moms about whether or not their kids still believed and then telling me.)

Like the Grinch, I thought of a lie and thought it up quick.

“Of course,” I said. “Santa can’t carry the boxes everywhere. He assembled it in the basement, so that he wouldn’t get any oil or grease on the carpet. Can you imagine what Mom would say if he had?”

My son nodded his head. “Yeah, Mom would be mad.” He went back to helping me put together his latest gift.

Until next year.

Have you had years where you didn't get rid of the evidence quickly enough? What did you do?

Football

2010-12-28T07:00:00.000-05:00

My wife has put up with me watching football for years.

I've tended to be a college football follower so it's been a good year for me as my beloved Auburn Tigers are this year's SEC Champions and playing for the National Championship. However, good or bad, my wife has put up with me.

However, this post has nothing to do with college football.

It's Monday night, December 27, and I'm watching the Falcons play the Saints.

The most amazing thing is that my wife is watching the game, too. She's even cheering them on.
In 15+ years of marriage, I've never seen her like this

It's not to say my wife has become a total football fan. She could pretty much still care less about the NFL in general. But after a season of watching our son play football, living and dying with our 8-year old's season, she's picked up on football as well.

And she's become a Falcons fan.

Granted, our 8-year old takes it a little more seriously. He can name many of the players just by their numbers. My wife is a long way from that.

But my wife now wants to watch football, at least occasionally.

It's a start.

The Littlest Actor

2010-12-21T07:00:00.001-05:00

Every family has a story that keeps on giving, one that will be retold for the rest of their days. This is ours. And while I have run it on previous Christmases, I hope you won't mind if I run it again. It occurred a few years ago, when we lived in Oregon. May you Christmas worship time be memorable to you.

Every Christmas Eve, my wife and I take our sons to the children’s service at our church. The service includes a kids’ pageant and our boys seem to pay closer attention than they do during the typical church service. Also, we feel that attending Mass on Christmas Eve provides a wonderful way to begin the holiday. After the service is over, we go out to dinner to the one place open on Christmas Eve, a Chinese restaurant. While my wife and I believe every family Christmas is special, we cannot conceive that any will be more memorable than this one.

It was to be a big night as our older son, Andrew, was finally old enough to participate in the Christmas pageant. He enjoyed two rehearsals and getting into costume, admirably playing the role of a shepherd. Because church seating at Christmas is limited and we wanted to take pictures, we arrived almost an hour early to get a seat up front.

We knew it would be difficult to keep our pre-school age son, Christopher, seated for the long service and the time before it. Therefore, my wife saved our seats while I played with Christopher and kept him entertained. When it was close to time, I corralled him and took him to our seats; he sat on my wife’s lap and anxiously looked for his older brother and the start of the show.

Just before the beginning of the pageant, the stuffy air in the crowded church became a little more unbearable than usual. As there were several babies in the immediate vicinity, my wife and I both thought one of them must have needed changing. Catching the odor, Christopher said aloud, “What’s that smell?” He turned around, looked at his Mom, and said, “That’s disgusting! Mommy, you stink! Mommy, go to the bathroom!”

We did our best to quiet him down, while the people around us were suppressing their laughter. He continued on, repeating the words, “That’s disgusting! Mommy, you stink! Mommy, go to the bathroom!” Eventually, Christopher quieted down and the pageant began.

After Mass ended, we walked to the car, buckled the kids in, and drove away. On the way to the Chinese restaurant, my wife and I discussed the incident. She realized that the words Christopher used in church were the same ones she had used with him during his potty training. Also, we were convinced one of the babies close to us during the service must have had a poopy diaper or probably just passed gas. We chuckled about it.

However, our little guy provided the last laugh. Overhearing the discussion, Christopher, with the smile that only a young child can produce, piped up with one more comment, “Oh, in church? That was me.”

Daddy's Little Teacher

2010-12-14T07:00:00.000-05:00

“Daddy, can I have miso soup and rice for lunch?”

It was Sunday morning and we were nearly home after attending Sunday school. We would get an hour or so to relax before heading back to church for services. My eight-year old, starving, requested his favorite meal.

“We’ll see,” I said.

I laughed inwardly at his request. It’s not that the request is funny. All kids have a favorite dish of some kind. My kids are no different. However, as my wife is Japanese, she has cooked Japanese food for our kids since they were babies. Their favorite dishes are a slew of items that none of their friends have ever heard of. My 8-year old once invited one of the neighbor kids for miso and rice. (For some reason, the little boy declined.)

My son loves miso soup so much that he follows his Mom around the kitchen whenever she makes it. However, with me doing the honors this Sunday morning, he decided I needed a little help.

We started the rice, tossing a couple of cupfuls in the rice cooker, prepping it, and getting it going. Then it was time for the soup.

“Ok, Daddy. Here’s the pot. Boil some water. Once it boils, we need to put in the fish stock and the miso.” He then retrieved both items from the fridge. “We need a spoonful of this” he added pointing to the stock. “And three spoonfuls of miso.”

“Alright,” I said, letting him take the lead.

As the water came to a boil, my son searched the room. “Dad, we need tofu.”

I checked the fridge and pulled some out. I prepared to cut it when my son stopped me. “Dad, Mom always lets me do it.”

“OK. What should we do?”

“We put it on a small cut-thingy—“

“You mean a cutting board?”

Yes, a cutting board.”

I grabbed a cutting board from a drawer under the stove and handed it to him whereby he dumped the tofu onto the board. “Now, Dad, we do it this way so we can scrape it off the board into the soup with a knife after we cut it.”

I nodded and let him demonstrate. He sliced the tofu into chunks and then checked the pot. “OK, water’s boiling.” He added the fish stock and stirred, making sure it was mixed, then added the tofu. “We let it cook a little, then we add the miso.”

I’d been an observer most of the time. I saw no reason to change. Two huge spoonfuls of miso later, he made an announcement. “Dad, we need to taste it.”

We each had a spoonful. “Good job,” I said.

“Da-a-ad, it’s too salty.”

My wife entered the kitchen at that moment and tasted it herself, and concurred with Julian Child, adding more water to it and suggesting we cook it longer. Finally, he pronounced it ready.

The rice cooker beeped and we sat down for lunch. My little chef, impressed with himself, ate heartily.

“And that’s how you make miso soup,” he said.

I thanked him, recalling days long ago when he was much younger. Maybe one day I’ll actually tell him that I used to make miso soup for him on days when my wife was due home late from the office.

Nah, I’ll leave it like this.

A Spritz of Lemon

2010-12-07T01:00:00.001-05:00

For the second time in two weeks, I started drinking water with a spritz of lemon in the morning.

I started it the day after Thanksgiving, when I got up, still stuffed from the previous day, and immediately glommed onto that headline on msn.com about to ensure that the Thanksgiving meal isn’t a permanent fixture to your body.

The first recommendation was water with lemon. Apparently, it helps detoxify your body and clean it out. I’d never heard of that before but was willing to try anything.

However, no matter what you’re willing to try, you still have to step on the scale. It took me nearly six days before I finally willed my body back onto that digital time bomb that always sounds like it’s on its last circuit. When I looked down at it, I was pleasantly surprised. I was back to where I’d started the week before Thanksgiving.

Then came this past weekend.

My wife and younger son went to a Santa Claus Christmas party at my younger sister’s. It’s an annual event. Each year, however, it’s always missing a few dads, the fathers whose alma mater is playing in the SEC Championship.

It’s not that the dads go to the game. However, it’s impossible to watch a football game with a lot of young children running around. I had a couple of friends over. My wife fixed a spread for us.

And by the next day I was drinking the lemon water again.

I know there are various events throughout the Christmas season. And I’ll have a few more days to pig out. There will also be the Christmas day feast as well as various wonderful gatherings with plates of food everywhere and me wondering if I’m going to have pull the fat jeans off the shelf in my closet.

It’s unavoidable. I’ve yet to possess the willpower to push myself away from the table. I would try to exercise more, but with the temperature dropping, my outside activity will grow more limited. At my annual physical last January, my doctor looked at me and asked. “Are you getting enough exercise? Have you tried walking more?”

“Doc,” I said, “it’s ten degrees outside. How much walking are you doing?”

She conceded the point.

So, readers, what are you doing? How are you fighting the holiday pounds now that joyous Christmas season is upon us?

Christmas Carols

2010-11-30T01:00:00.002-05:00

Do you have most and least favorite Christmas carols?

I do. My favorites are “The Christmas Carol” and “O Holy Night.” I never tire of hearing these songs, regardless of who performs them. Carrie Underwood did a version of O Hoy Night in her Christmas album that is fantastic. I also like the song “Santa Baby,” but I’m particular about the artist. I always thought after hearing the Eartha Kitt version that it should have been retired. Macy Gray changed my mind on that. There are also songs I don’t like. “Last Christmas” grates on me. I also don’t like Toyland, but that was because I always thought it sad. I never understood what it meant until I grew up.

My wife is fond of particular artists. She really likes Carrie Underwood and also the latest Christmas music from Glee. As for songs, The First Noel holds a special place in her heart. We were at my aunt’s in North Carolina and my wife saw a decoration or garnet and gold with the four letters: E-L-O-N. As it was Christmas, she rearranged the letters to spell “N-O-E-L.” My aunt laughed and then reminded my wife of her longtime association with Elon University and that the school’s colors are garnet and gold.

There’s a new song that got my goat over the weekend. It’s “Christmas Is” by Run DMC. My boys first heard the song in the movie “Jingle All The Way.” (It’s the background music that plays when Schwarzenegger goes into a back alley warehouse or bad Santas and hot children toys. It is a funny movie. How many movies do you know that pair Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sinbad?) I have the song on one of the Christmas CDs that I play in my car. The kids like the music.

However, my eight-year old has started picking up some of the lyrics.

I don’t have anything against Run DMC. And the lyrics aren’t dirty. It’s just that he now walks around the house rapping “Give up the dough. Give up the dough. Give up the dough on Christmas Yo.”

So I ask the same question as I started with.

What are your most and least favorite Christmas carols? I’d love to know.

The Scooter's Tale

2010-11-23T00:05:00.000-05:00

We tossed out my 8-year old’s scooter last Tuesday.

It was a sad but necessary event, precipitated by a dark evening, a long commute, and a Dad’s one-time failure to see what toys were laying in the driveway on said dark evening.

So how could I miss a scooter you might be asking? Well, our driveway and garage are at an acute angle and my wife’s car is already in the garage when I get home. Given that it’s a tight turn and fit, I’ve always found it easier to back in via the driveway when I get home to park quickly in my spot in the garage.

Back to the now damaged scooter.

I brought my son outside to show him what happened, then reminded him of how often I’d warned him about leaving stuff in the driveway and that I’d run over something someday. Mad as I feared the car might have been damaged, I banished him to his room after dinner was over.

I examined the car and found it to be okay. No scratches that I could see and the tire hadn’t hit anything sharp. I then turned my attention to the scooter. It really was wrecked. The scooter’s platform was now at a worse angle than our driveway and garage. As I examined the scooter further, I wondered if its destruction wasn’t punishment enough.

The scooter had lived a good life. It had belonged to my older son and then passed to my younger one when my older son outgrew it. However, over a year ago it fell apart. (Two boys back-to-back. What toy stands a chance?) After leaving the pieces in the garage for several months, I received an ultimatum from my DW. Fix it or toss it.

I chose to fix it.

And my younger son was a happy boy. He rode it to the pool all summer, to his friends houses in the neighborhood, and always took it to the park when his brother had a baseball game. He especially liked taking it up a small hill in a cul-de-sac in our neighborhood, coming down as fast as he could. And yes there were a few mishaps and scrapes along the way. Fortunately, nothing broken.

So, with those memories in mind, I considered repairing it again. My wife delivered another ultimatum. Either fix it or throw it by the next time the garbage is picked up. She didn’t want to see the pieces sitting in the garage again for several more months.

I thought about ways to repair it but eventually concluded bending metal was a bit beyond me and the tools I had. I placed it out with the garbage Monday evening to be taken away on Tuesday morning.

On Tuesday morning, I took my son to school. The scooter was gone when I returned.

I went in the house and told my wife. “The scooter’s gone.”

“Of course, the trash people picked it up.”
“No, the scooter’s gone. The trash hasn’t been picked up yet. Someone with the ability to fix that thing took it.”
“Oh. Good. I’d rather somebody use it than it get tossed into a landfill.”

I agreed.

And I smiled at the thought of another little boy getting as much joy out of that scooter as my sons had.

So has anyone reading this ever had similar incidents to the above? Have you run over a treasured toy? Has someone taken stuff from your garbage because they could use it? I’d love to hear about it.

When Love and Football Collide

2010-11-16T00:05:00.003-05:00

I normally try to keep my posts here and my posts on my football blog separate. The two don’t intersect too often

This past weekend was the exception.

Having turned my kids into Auburn fans, I need to take them to an Auburn game when the chance arises. On this most recent Saturday, it did. The boys were excited. It was their first time to attend a game since the contest against Washington State in 2006.

They weren’t disappointed.

Neither was I

We arrived in Auburn on a Friday evening and headed to the massive tailgate across from the art museum. My cousin Katherine had an RV set up amongst the sea of RVs near campus and planned to hang out there for the weekend with her son and some good friends. We gorged ourselves on hot dogs and chips before calling it, heading out to my cousin’s place where we spent the night. It took awhile for my kids to finally relax. (My cousin has a pool table. There was no way they weren’t going to play a couple of games.) Finally, they nodded off to sleep and allowed my wife and me to do the same.

As Saturday unfolded, I admit I had more on my mind than just the game. (There’s the scandal involving Auburn’s QB that has kept my attention.) However, none of it came close to just being able to watch a game with my boys. We headed to the tailgate where my wife would spend the afternoon with my cousin and her friends. (My cousin had no plans to attend the game. She just likes tailgating.) And when kickoff became two and a half hours away, I knew it was time for the boys and I to go.

Now I know that sounds like a long time. We were only a thirty minute walk from the stadium at best. But, it’s one thing to go to a game. It’s another to soak in the atmosphere.

One particular tradition I wanted to share with my boys was Tiger Walk. Approximately two hours prior to the game, the football team walks from the athletic dorm to the stadium. The cheerleaders are there. A subset of the band is there. And thousands of fans line the path. My younger son in particular wanted to see two people: Aubie (the Auburn mascot) and Cam Newton.

He got to do both. As the picture below shows, he got to meet Aubie.

And, as the players walked through the crowd, he low-fived Cam Newton, the man whose smile will one day grace toothpaste commercials on all the networks.

From there, we headed to Toomer’s Drugs for lemonade, another Auburn tradition. Though a souvenir shop now, it was a pharmacy for many years. Inside the place, I took them to the back of the store and showed them the picture on the wall of their great-great uncle, Mac Lipscomb, who bought the business from Mr. Toomer himself and ran it for decades before retiring.

And then we went to the game.
When it comes to college football, the only thing better than watching a big game is watching it with your children. To enjoy their fascination as the eagle flies out and lands at mid-field, to enjoy their anticipation as the band takes the field, and then enjoy their amazement as jets do a flyover during the National Anthem.

“Dad, that was loud,” my son said.

“I could only smile back and agree.

With a victory, we celebrated and then headed back to the park to meet my wife and head home to Atlanta. For the second time in two nights, I tried to get the kids to get over their excitement and get some sleep. And for the second time in two nights, I failed miserably.

I know my kids won’t forget this trip.

Neither will I.

An Unanswered Prayer

2010-11-09T05:00:00.001-05:00

Part II

I lied a bit last week.

I told my younger son last week that we don’t pray for wins in sporting events.

I’m a parent. I want to see my kids succeed. I want to see their teams succeed.

Last week, I talked about my younger son’s team losing in playoffs.

This week, it’s my older son.

On the same day that my younger son’s team lost in the playoffs in football, my older son’s team lost in the playoffs in baseball. Seeded #4, they led the #1 seed in the final inning by a score of 3-1. I was praying hard. Praying that they’d pull it out. But the good play and bit of luck that had taken them this far dropped off at the end and they lost the game 4-3 to end the season

And it had been a difficult season for my teenager.

Moving up to the next league had been a bigger challenge than he thought. Heavier bat. Bigger field. Yet still blessed with the same unathletic genes of his father. Like every kid he likes to hit. Every time he steps up to the plate, I hope that he does

A long time ago, I developed a habit. Every time my one of my kids goes to bat, I cross myself like any good Catholic. I try not to be overt about it, though my wife has noticed it on occasion.

With my son’s struggles early on in pony, I think my fingers were working OT. Still, he struck out often. For the first four games, he got one foul ball and put one ball into play. He also got one walk.

He was depressed about his performance. He hates not hitting. Even more, he hates losing. Both were happening.

As the season continued, things got a little better. More foul balls. More balls in play. The team won a couple.

But still no hits. Yet, he kept trying.

Somewhere late, he finally put aluminum on the ball and made it to first. I was ecstatic for him. More foul balls and a couple more hits. His team finished fourth in the league out of five teams.

With the playoffs, my son’s team opened on a Friday night against the #5 team. Entering the last inning, they were down 3-2. My son came up second in the last inning with a man on first. He got his second hit of the night. His first hit had given them an RBI. Three batters later, he would cross home plate with the winning run. It was his first two-hit game of the season. He received the game ball.

So, when they lost to the #1 seed the following day, I was as heartbroken then as euphoric the night before. My prayers for one more game had gone unanswered.

With the game over, the two teams lined up for the customary awarding of the season t-shirt to the team whose season was over. Each kid gets his name called and the coach says something nice. When it got to my son’s turn, the coach called out “And to the hero of last night’s game…”

My prayers for winning that day had gone unanswered. However, my prayers all season had finally been met.

An Unanswered Prayer?

2010-11-02T04:00:00.000-04:00

Part One.

“Daddy, the blessing didn’t get answered.”

My younger son’s tears continued to flow as we sat on the couch. His football season was over. In the second round of the playoffs, his team, the 8-year old Mill Creek Hawks* lost to the top seed team in the tourney, Parkview, 39-6. The loss dropped the team to 7-3 on the season.

His reference to the “blessing” referred to the previous Sunday. He’d worn his football jersey to church on Sunday, the day after his team won in the first round of the playoffs. Knowing he was facing the #1 seed, he wanted to show his team spirit and get a little extra help. After the service was over, we went up to the priest and explained the situation. He provided a blessing and also blessed my older son as well, whose team was also going to the playoffs last week. (My son’s team was the Phillies. There was no way he wearing a Phillies jersey into church.)

“Yes, it did,” I told my son. “The prayer was answered.”

“Dad, we lost.”

“I didn’t ask for you to win. I asked for a blessing for safety. The priest added one for sportsmanship.”

“What do you mean?”

I looked into his eyes. What was coming wasn’t an easy lesson. “You don’t ask God to help you win. You ask God to keep you and all the other players safe. You ask God to allow you to play your best.”

My son looked back at me. He was still sad but didn’t say anything. I knew that I needed to explain further. “Football is a dangerous sport but you wanted to play. People get hurt playing football. You don’t want see it happen but it’s a fact of the game.”

“I hurt my knee.”

“Do you want some ice for it?”

He thought for a second. “No.”

“Then you didn’t hurt it that badly. Listen to me. Did you have a good time this season?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Do you want to play football next year?”

Again no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Then that’s all that matters. You’re safe. You had fun.”

My son’s tears had finally dried up, yet he still hadn’t quite understood what I said. And I don’t know if a couple of days perspective has helped. Maybe one day he will.

At the same time, I knew it was the truth. My two biggest concerns were that he have fun and that he be safe. And even though it was towards the end of the season when I asked for the blessing for him, I knew I’d been saying it every time he stepped onto the field.

And I admit I still wanted him to win.

But my prayers had been answered.

* There are actually three 8-year old teams in the Mill Creek area. All three are called the Mill Creek Hawks.

Worth A Smile

2010-10-26T04:30:00.003-04:00

A little bit of disclosure about myself. I attended Auburn University.

For those of you that pay attention to college football, Auburn had an important game last Saturday. (For those of you that don’t know, Auburn, unbeaten and in the Top Ten in the nation, faced LSU, also unbeaten and in the Top Ten in the nation. Auburn won and is now the #1 team in the nation in the poll that determines who plays for the championship at the end of the season.)

Usually, I’m hard to reach mentally when Auburn is on TV.

Saturday was a different story.

We had a tiring family day this past Saturday. We opened it up at 9:00 a.m. with my older son’s fall baseball team playing the final game of their regular season. My son’s team won 7-6, stranding the tying runner at third base after he reached there with less than two outs. My older son went 1-3 on the day, thrown out at second when he tried to stretch his single into a double.

When that game ended, we headed to another location in Gwinnett County for the first round of the playoffs for my younger son’s football team. My son’s team trailed 14-13 at the half but had an awesome third quarter to finish with a 47-27 victory.

So what does this have to do with Auburn vs. LSU?

I missed the first part of the Auburn – LSU game because of the end of my son’s game. No big deal. Any parent would have done the same. Had I even had a second thought about paying more attention to the TV game than my son’s, I should be criticized, chided, lampooned. Pick your verb.

It was what we did Saturday night that drew gasps from friends.

You see, we had tickets for Saturday night’s hockey game between the Gwinnett Gladiators and the Florida Everblades. The tickets were about center ice down low and my younger son loves hockey. With them dropping the puck at 7:00, we left a little after 6:00 to give us time to be there for the start. In other words, I left during the third quarter.

Granted, I wasn’t completely cut off from it. A friend of mine texted me with updates on the game throughout the 4th quarter. I went nuts when I found out Auburn won. Still though, my younger son loves hockey. And the smile on his face, along with the Gladiators win, made missing the 4th quarter worthwhile.

As I read this, I think it sounds a little shameless. I did what a dad is supposed to do.

But sometimes it’s nice when little choices in life remind of us what’s really important.

Doing The Right Thing?

2010-10-19T05:00:00.001-04:00

After dropping my older son off at a function about a week ago, I took the brief time I had before picking him up to run some errands. My first stop was my bank as I needed to make a deposit.

I parked outside and walked toward the ATM. Someone was already there, so I maintained a respectful distance as the man completed his transaction. Finished, he left the machine and walked toward me. We said our casual acknowledgements as we passed, though neither of us was really listening, just being courteous as the sidewalk to the ATM allowed little room to get around each other.

I inserted my card and pulled out the checks when I noticed a card lying on the bottom portion of the ATM tray. I picked it up and read the name, assuming it belonged to the man who’d just left. I turned to see if I could catch him, but his black truck was speeding out into the street. I caught part of his license plate but little else.

OK. So what now?

Had it been me, I would have eventually noticed that my card was gone. However, I doubt I would have realized it while I was driving. Being that the person who’d left his card was a male, I figured he wouldn’t either. Still, I waited a few minutes. No one returned.

I could have left it where I found it but knew that wasn’t a good idea. A number of people would visit that ATM that evening. And while I like to think that the world is good, I know the chance exists that some less than honest person will pick up the card.

The best thing to do, I reasoned, would be to drop the card in a night deposit box of some kind. I looked for one but didn’t see any. Next, I looked at my ATM receipt and called the customer service number on it. After dealing with the bank’s IVR (Interactive Voice Response), I finally got to the right department, only to get the recorded message that said the department was closed and that I should call back during normal business hours.

I thought about putting it back right there. It wasn’t my problem. I’d made a good faith effort and come up empty. But I’d worked in a bank before, handling business customers, and had often dealt with situations where customers or their family members had been defrauded. It’s not a fun process.

I looked at the front door and saw another number printed on it in big white letters. The security number for break-ins. What did I have to lose? I called them and explained and asked if they knew a place where I could put this away. They didn’t but transferred me to another number. Unfortunately, it was another group who couldn’t help. I wasn’t the card owner. They were prohibited.

I turned the card over and saw a new customer service number, at least one I hadn’t tried. After navigating that system, I finally got a live sympathetic body. Unfortunately, it was the credit card group. She couldn’t help. I was holding a debit card. And while she could give me the number of the correct department, she couldn’t transfer me directly. She suggested I slip it through the door. I said that might set off the motion sensors, at which point I would have to wait for the police. And though they would probably believe what happened, it would be a long night either way.

So, at that point, I gave up. I could have the called the debit card group, but I was done. Instead, I placed the card near the front door, in a place only an employee (or as bank robber) would notice. Hopefully, someone saw it in the morning.

So what would you have done? Would you have called the debit card group? Would you have done what I did? Would you have given up earlier? I’d really like to know.

When Brothers Meet Brothers

2010-10-12T05:00:00.001-04:00

Before I start, I’d like to congratulate Bobby Cox and the Braves on an exciting season. In the end, the injuries from the season were just too great to overcome: Chipper, Prado, Medlin, Jurrjens, Wagner, and the list goes on.

Now back to the post.

Sometimes, I bring it on myself.

Admittedly, I’m a history buff and I put that in my kids. Occasionally ever, sometimes I overdo and then my kids drive me nuts. Such was the case this weekend.

On Monday, we drove up to Toccoa, Georgia to see the Stephens County Historical Museum. For those of you who don’t recognize Toccoa (my eight-year old kept calling it Taco, Georgia), it was the beginning training area for paratroopers during WWII. If you’ve seen the movie “Band of Brothers,” it’s the location of the first thirty minutes of Episode One.

I’ve known we were about an hour from the area and I’d longed to see it. I thought my boys might enjoy it, too. So, with them out of school for Columbus Day, I took Monday off. To prepare them, I even pulled out my copy of Band of Brothers and watched Episode One with them.

I learned a lot going up there.
1) Toccoa is a nice town full of friendly people.
2) The museum is small, but the military portion of it is quite interesting. One of the items they have is a stable from England, which shows how many GIs were housed when they trained in England.
3) There’s very little left of what was once there.
4) Toccoa Falls, located at Toccoa Falls College, was an unexpected benefit to the drive up there.

Granted, it was just a training facility. The government ended its use in 1945 and then sold it to a private company, making it a judicious use of public money. (There’s a rarity for you.) A monument remains. You can climb to the top of Currahee, the mountain they ran up each day.

So where do my kids get overzealous?

It was a lot of fun when my kids would grab me and say. “Daddy, come see this. Daddy, come see this.”

But now they want to watch the rest of Band of Brothers...in a row.

I’m not sure I can take nine straight hours of questions from my kids.

How to Properly Demote A Seal

2010-10-05T05:00:00.001-04:00

For a long time, my 8-year old son has slept with three stuffed animals: a seal, a dog, and a teddy bear. Being the creative sort, he gave them unconventional names. The seal was called “Seal-y.” The dog was “Puppy.” The bear was “Bear-y Bear.” (OK. Maybe they're not that original.)

However, a few nights ago, I got a surprise when I tucked him in.

“Dad, I don’t want to sleep with Sealy anymore.”

‘Why not? You love Sealy.”

“Well, I’m eight now and growing up. It’s time to put Sealy away.”

I was stunned. The trio of animals had been his friends for so long. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Do you really want to break up the group?”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s time. I’ll put Sealy away now. When I turn 10, I’ll put away Puppy. When I’m 12, then I’ll put away Beary Bear.”

I asked again if he was sure and he confirmed he was, so I picked up Sealy and held it up to my son, who gave it a last kiss. I then put Sealy on the other bed in his room, staring at his former charge from a distance.

I went back downstairs and told my wife the news. Sealy had been demoted. She was as stunned as I. However, we figured it was only matter of time. The little guy was getting bigger.

The following night, I put Sealy on the other bed again, said goodnight, and tucked him in. It was a sad time.

The following night I got home late. He was already in bed. When I went to check on him, I got a shock. Sealy was back with the trio.

Since that night, Sealy has continued to be a part of the group. It’s as if the growing up has been forgotten.

And I’m happy to have him be little just a little while longer.

A Great Book. A Great Time

2010-09-28T05:00:00.001-04:00

One of the pleasures in life is reading a good book. I’m having that pleasure right now.

I’ve recently acquired a book titled The Preacher’s Bride. The book is the debut novel of author Jody Hedlund, a fantastic writer from the Michigan area. A blurb (taken from the publisher’s website) is below.

In 1650s England, a young Puritan maiden is on a mission to save the baby of her newly widowed preacher--whether her assistance is wanted or not. Always ready to help those in need, Elizabeth Whitbred ignores preacher John Costin's protests of her aid. She's even willing to risk her lone marriage prospect to help the little family.

Yet Elizabeth's new role as nanny takes a dangerous turn when John's boldness from the pulpit makes him a target of political and religious leaders. As the preacher's enemies become desperate to silence him, they draw Elizabeth into a deadly web of deception. Finding herself in more danger than she ever bargained for, she's more determined than ever to save the child--and man--she's come to love.

The characters in the book are fictional, but are based on the real life of John Bunyan, the author of The Pilgrim’s Progress. With this story, Jody Hedlund brings an interesting perspective to the history of Bunyon by focusing on the story of his wife, Elizabeth. I first experienced Bunyan's work when I lived in Japan. However, as much as I'd heard about him, I'd never considered the perspective of the person who supported him. Until now.

I have to admit that I’m still a short ways from the end of The Preacher's Bride, but I've been enjoying every word. A copy of the cover is below. Click here to be taken to Jody’s blog.

Coach

2010-09-21T05:00:00.000-04:00

My kids love to play team sports.

You may have guessed that from some of the earlier posts. My older son is playing Pony League fall baseball. My younger son is playing football. They’re both having fun. (My younger son is likely having more fun as his team is undefeated.)

However, most of the time, I’ve watched from the sidelines. I’ve kept a scorebook. Being athletically inept when I was kid, I learned to take the one of Dirty Harry mantra, “A Man’s Gotta Know His Limitations.”

However, as the coach of my son’s baseball team announced that he would have a harried schedule and needed all the help he could get, I did the one thing I never expected to do. I signed up to be an assistant coach.

My son told me that the idea of me on the field freaked him out. I told him to get over it. However, I set low expectations in advance. I can definitely keep the book and can get on the field to run the bench if needed. And it really doesn’t take much to do soft tosses with a kid in a batting cage.

However, with the other assistant coaches out for a game one Tuesday evening, I faced having to actually get on the field and handle first base. And when the game was over and obligatory “good game” handshakes were exchanged, I fist bumped with the kids and the shook the home plate umpire’s hand.

And he called me “Coach.”

I have to admit I was caught off guard. I glanced left and right without turning my head, but I knew he was talking to me. It was weird feeling. It just didn’t fit. But, I accepted it and left the field.

I’ve been called coach once since and I handled it a little better. Though I may never get used to the term, I at least wasn’t surprised.

Now if I could only get used to getting on the field.

Church of the Chocolate Sprinkle

2010-09-14T05:00:00.000-04:00

One of out most important days in our church occurred last Sunday, at least for my 8-year old son. It wasn’t Easter. It wasn’t Christmas (though this day is particular popular). It wasn’t even the infamous “nudge Sunday” where family members deliver polite elbows to the ribs as the pastor discusses the gospel reading about how you should treat other family members.

It was doughnut Sunday.

Nearly every Sunday, around the time when Sunday school begins for a new year, my church begins serving coffee and doughnuts in the narthex. It’s meant to serve as an opportunity for parishioners to get to know each other after the service or just relax for a few minutes before heading home.

For my younger son, though, it’s something else. Being eight, he doesn’t quite get into church, but he does enjoy Sunday school. Part of the reason is he has friends in the class and he likes being with the other kids.

But another part is definitely the doughnuts.

This summer, when he realized that Sunday school was about to start, he looked at me and asked, ‘Dad, when are the doughnuts coming back?”

“After Labor Day,” I responded.

So, he counted down the Sundays until it was time This past Sunday, he was ready early. We arrived fifteen minutes prior to the start of class. He drooled about the doughnuts (thankfully not either on them or over them) picked up a nice chocolate one with sprinkles and some chocolate milk to wash it down with.

And enjoyed a few minutes of quality time with his Dad.

Little Things

2010-09-07T05:00:00.000-04:00

I took my younger son to football practice last night. Despite it being Labor Day (and all the Dads wanting to get home to eat quickly and watch the Boise State-Virginia Tech game), just about every one was there.

The topic of conversation, though, was the miracle finish from the weekend. My son’s team, in their weekly game, took the opening kickoff and marched down the field, taking a 7-0 lead. However, the game turned into a defensive struggle. At the half, the score was still 7-0. At the end of the third, it was 7-6 and late in the 4th quarter, my son’s team surrendered the lead.

Trailing 12-7 with the opponent needing to run only one more play, it looked bleak. However, the defense stood up the runner and the ball got loose. One of our players picked up the ball and ran it back for a TD. The final score was 13-12.

It was bedlam. I can’t remember a more exciting ending. Granted, I’m a parent, so I’ll always say that about games my kids are in.

But more than the game, though, is the enjoyment I get out of watching my kids play.

My son is enjoying football. That much is obvious. He looks forward to practice and to games.

But what I’ve noticed more is the way he expresses it. He loves his Legos. He loves to draw. And he’s used both to try to explain the game to me. He’s pulled out his sketchbook and drawn up the plays, showing me what he needs to do.

“Dad, on this play, I’m a pulling guard.”

“OK. Show me how it goes. Who do you hit?”

However, his drawings don’t seem to be enough for him. He also takes his Legos and puts them one a board, diagramming the same plays. (They’re easier to follow on paper, but it’s funny to watch a Lego Darth Vader as wide receiver.)

He shows me what he’s supposed to do and excited about it. Though, when he’s in action, he never seems to get the player he’s supposed to hit before the play is blown dead. I tell him he needs to be more aggressive.

He’s getting it.

I’m just glad he has fun while doing it;

The Season Has Begun

2010-08-31T05:00:00.001-04:00

The final score was a thrill for at least half the parents watching.

Mill Creek Hawks 40, Brookwood Broncos 14.

My 8-year old son’s football team opened the first of the 8-game season with a victory. And though the score seems lopsided, it was a little scary at first. The Hawks took the opening kickoff and took but a few plays to score. The point after conversion was missed and my son’s team led 6-0. However, the opposing team scored on their first play from scrimmage and then led 7-6 after they made their conversion. Two plays later, the Hawks found the end zone: 13-7. Another two plays later, the Broncos found the end zone 14-13. Mistakes on the kickoff and then on the first play led to the ball changing hands twice before my son’s team found its groove. They led 27-14 at the half and then picked up two more scores in the second half.

I was proud of my son and the way he played. After two practice games where he looked lackluster, I saw him block and tackle other kids in game situations. It’s his first year to play football and he’s getting the hang of it. I know he enjoyed the game. He’s already looking at the schedule, trying to figure out who they play next.

However, I’m also proud of my older son.

My older son, now 13, has started fall baseball. He loves the game and will continue to play as long as he can. I like to go with him to his practices, because I know how much fun he has. However, on Saturday, he had a practice that started before my younger son’s game ended. And, as much as I wanted to go to his practice, I didn’t want to miss my younger son’s first game or leave it early.

But we had an option.

The practice field for baseball is a short walk from where we live. So, we asked him to go by himself. We armed him with a cell phone, a whistle, and a way to get in and out of the house. I knew he’d get to the field fine.

Still, I called the house a few times that morning to make sure. Called to check that he was okay. When I realized that the football game was going to start late, I called him and told him that he would need to walk home. I called to make sure that he arrived at the field. And, when his practice was over and we were still on the way home, I called to let him know that we were headed back. (We arrived close to the same time.)

He had a baseball scrimmage game on Sunday. I was there, keeping the book for his team and cheering loud. The game didn’t go particularly well. But my son drew a walk and scored his team’s only run. I was as proud of him as I was my younger son.

Both my boys are growing up.

A Cup of Coffee meets a Child in China

2010-08-24T05:00:00.004-04:00

My friend and fellow blogger C.J. Redwine is trying to adopt a little girl from China. Though originally schedule for 2005, this process has now gone on for five years.

Finally, there is an end in sight, but it will cost $8,000. C.J. has asked her friends to help her raise the money. It what she officially titles “Skip a Starbuck’s Day,” C.J. is asking people to forgo one daily visit to their favorite coffee shop and donate the money to help her bring home her daughter. C.J.’s story is below. I hope you will check it out.

From C.J. Redwine…
We had three biological boys in four years and then I was diagnosed with cervical cancer. I had a hysterectomy and while I mourned the fact that I couldn't have any more biological children, I was certain our family wasn't finished. My husband wasn't so sure. :) I'd talked about adopting and I always saw us with a little girl from China. He came up with a ton of reasons why now wasn't the right time to adopt. Then, on Mother's Day of 2005, he leaned over to me in church and said, "We have a daughter in China. We need to start the adoption proceedings to bring her home." I adjusted to this unexpected news (we hadn't discussed adoption for months) in about 15 seconds. :)

The next day, we began researching adoption and we picked out her name: Johanna Faith. Johanna means God's Gracious Gift and Faith is what it is taking to bring her home. We signed up with Chinese Children Adoption International agency based out of Colorado. We completed our stateside paperwork and homestudy within a few months, sent off our dossier to China with the understanding that it would be a 6-8 month wait, and eagerly planned to bring our daughter home. Soon, though, we began to hear rumors that the wait time was extending. Then we heard that the government had cracked down on orphanages who were receiving money from the state but who weren't keeping all of their beds full and the wait slowed to a crawl. Our dreams of having her home for Christmas were dashed. And then our dreams for having her home in time for summer were dashed as well. Before we knew it, another Christmas had passed and we were still waiting. Meanwhile, the Olympics were coming to Beijing, and the word was most adoption processes would stop altogether because China didn't want unfavorable international attention on their orphanages.

As the wait stretched from 8 months to three years, I struggled with depression. I could hardly bear Christmas, because she wasn't yet there. I shut the door of her bedroom and left it closed because I couldn't bear to walk past it in the hall. It hurt to think about having a child out there whom I couldn't protect. Couldn't love. Couldn't save. Three years became four with no real change. Our homestudy expired. Our immigration petition expired. Three times. Our fingerprints expired. Four times. And China raised the orphanage and court fees by thousands while we waited. Suddenly, the cushion of money we'd fundraised at the start of this process was almost gone and China was picking up speed in their child match program.

In September, it will be five years since we officially started our adoption process to bring Johanna home. We expect to receive her picture, information, and permission to travel sometime by the middle of September.

I opened her bedroom door for the first time in 3 1/2 years.

And we need to raise 8k to cover travel and the cash required to pay the orphanage for Johanna's freedom.

Please click on the picture below to be taken to C.J.’s website. Some wonderful prizes have been donated. The overall post is educational. The feeling is better than an espresso shot.

Titanic Struggle

2010-08-17T06:17:00.002-04:00

My eight-year old son has become fascinated recently with the story of The Titanic. He brought home a book from the library and has been reading up on it. He knows that we have the movie so he asked to watch it.

At first, I said no.

While I applaud my son’s attempt to learn history and I’m willing to help as best I can, I didn’t want him watching the Titanic movie. And it had absolutely nothing to do with him seeing Kate Winslet nude, though that can be skipped over.

It had to do with the children.

The one indelible image I carry from that movie is the kids. Mothers putting their children to bed, knowing that the boat is sinking. A lifeboat returning to pick up survivors and the boat's passengers finding the dead floating in the ocean, including parents holding their children. It’s in those scenes that the director, James Cameron, captures the futility and the heartbreak. The movie was on TV recently. My wife and I watched the first half of it. We didn’t watch the second half.

Eventually, I gave in to my son’s request. He was reading about it. He wanted to learn more. He was asking questions about the iceberg and how it could have happened. (And, of course, there’s the old standby of “My classmates’ parents let them watch it.”)

The movie is long and it took about three sessions to actually get through it as our viewing impinged upon bedtimes and other scheduled activities. This served to break up the tension, had he watched it all the way through. As I expected, he asked a lot of questions. Some were easy.

“Dad, why does everything look so old?”
“Dad, why do icebergs float?”
“Dad, what happened to the girl’s mom?” (Actually, this question was a little difficult, as it was hard to explain to him that some of the characters in the movie, such as Benjamin Guggenheim and Molly Brown, were real people while the main characters were made up.)

But then the others proved a bigger challenge.

“Dad, how could they hit an iceberg?”
“Dad, in my book, there are other ships close. Why can’t they get there in time?”
“Dad, why don’t they have enough lifeboats?”
“Dad, why aren’t the lifeboats going back to get people?”

Even as an adult, it’s hard for me to understand the level of hubris combined with fear that led to the death of so many. The question that follows any attempt to understand a disaster like this is also followed with asking what you do about it.

My favorite Titanic-related story actually deals with Guglielmo Marconi, the Italian who invented wireless radio. In those days, radios broadcast on all frequencies, crowding out other senders and receivers. Marconi was so moved by the tragedy, he supposedly spent the rest of his life refining his technology in the hopes that nothing like it would ever happen again.

For now, all I can explain to my son is that sometimes bad things happen to people through no fault of their own.

For those of you with elementary school age children, would you let them watch Titanic?

Old and New

2010-08-11T05:00:00.001-04:00

It was a busy weekend at our house.

My younger son had his first football game this weekend, a scrimmage game against another group of eight-year olds from a different city league. The teams shared the playing field with another couple of teams also having a scrimmage, so each team would start at the 35 –yard line and continue until they made a TD. Penalties were called (always against the offense, regardless of team), but no yardage was ever marked off. Downs were tracked, but there were no chains to move. My son’s team dominated the first half. The other team did better in the second. Somebody asked me the score when it was all over. I guesstimated it at 22-16 in favor of my son’s team. At the pro and collegiate level, there would have been a post game discussion on how well the players did. Here, the post game featured mothers from each side swapping last minute suggestions about good prices and locations on hard-to-find school supplies.

Sunday, my older son was up for the beginning of his sporting fall with baseball tryouts. He moved up to the Pony League this season, requiring a bigger bat. Unfortunately, the “Big Barrel” bats required for the league are in short supply in the fall, making what is a $40-$50 spring purchase into a $170-$200 fall purchase minimum. Thankfully, there’s Play It Again Sports nearby. We found a bat that was used in name only and counted our blessings. The bat was heavier than the ones he used previously and will prove to be a good intermediate bat to use until he goes to high school. Still, it was heavy for him now. However, he choked up on it and had probably his best tryout ever.

So what does this have to do with Old and New.

On Sunday afternoon, we began cleaning the basement. It was a long overdue mission. There’s a lot of junk down there that needs to be tossed, things like memorabilia that might have been important 20 years ago but not so much now. But how do you decide what to throw away. We developed a rule of thumb. If it’s hard to explain now, it will be worse in the future. Toss it.

But among the items we found were pictures of me and the sports team I played on when I was my sons’ ages. I had baseball, football, and basketball shots. By age 13, the age of my older son, I’d already given up baseball. However, at age 8, I was definitely playing football. My kids thought the pictures were funny. I did, too.

Sometimes, when my kids are grown up and out on their own, hopefully it will be important to them to save their team picture moments. And maybe, when the time comes and they’re in their houses cleaning out their basements, they can laugh with their kids, too.

Delayed

2010-08-10T05:00:00.000-04:00

Due to circumstances beyond by control, my post is postponed for a day. See you on Wednesday.

War Games

2010-08-03T05:00:00.001-04:00

“You shot me,” I said.

“No, I didn’t, Daddy. You shot yourself.”

Now while the above may sound like a bad family western, it’s a conversation that takes place a lot in our house. My younger son and I are now teaming up on Wii to take out the bad guys. We have two favorite games: Tank Battle and Blazing Angels.

Tank Battle is my favorite of the two. In the game, you play seek-and-destroy with successively harder to kill enemy tanks. The game ends when both players are destroyed on a single mission. The winner is the person who destroys the most tanks.

My younger son is better than I am at this game and I’ve only bested him a couple of times. The problem, though, is that he really likes to win. And, while he supposedly doesn’t mind working as a team, occasionally he thinks he will do better on his own and is convinced that I’m in the way.

“Dad, stay hidden. I’ll take care of these guys,” is one such suggestion.

“Dad, come out and draw their fire so I can shoot them from behind.”

Sometimes, if the game starts in the same area, he takes me out to leave the board for himself. Whatever happens, the result is the same. He amasses points. I get blown to smithereens.

Admittedly, I have done damage to myself. The shots have long rebound after hitting one on the walls on the game. I just don’t move fast enough. I’ve also been known to swing my turret the wrong way, catch a wall square, and blow myself to bits quickly.

However, there are those times when he gets shot early and he had to sit back and fret that we might not make the next round. He’s tried to remedy this.

“Let me have the controls, Dad. I’ll get us out of here.”

“No, you have to depend on me to get to the next level.”

“Oh my God. We’re doomed”

The tank battle game, which has sort of a simplified look, is tame compared to his favorite game: Blazing Angels. In Blazing Angels, players are WWII fighter pilots. You get to choose numerous battle sights, planes, and time periods during the war. I do wonder a little about the game’s accuracy. (I don’t remember there being any Gloster Meteors in the Pacific theater, but watching Midway 30+ times doesn’t make you an expert.). However, I can’t deny its challenge.

In this game, you go into battle, getting attacked from all positions. You do have some radar to tell you where the enemy is, but there zooming by you fast and it’s hard to get a good read, much less a good shot. Sometimes, you’re only warning, is a radio signal from another “pilot” telling you that “you’ve got someone on your tail,” “check your six,” or “if you’d stop flying straight, they might not shoot at you.”

I’m worse at this game than I am at tank battle. I’m lucky when I shoot down the enemy or actually get a bomb to hit right.

However, thankfully, he doesn’t feel the need to shoot me in this one.

Noodles

2010-07-27T05:00:00.001-04:00

Sometimes we sleep in on Sunday mornings and opt to go an early afternoon church service. This past Sunday was one of those times. When we do this, we make sure to eat lunch before we go. My wife usually makes a decent lunch for us. Else, I drop hot dogs in boiling water. One way or another, we get it done.

However, as my older son is now a teenager, my wife and I have pushed him a little bit to learn a few things and become self-sufficient in the kitchen. It’s not like he can’t fend for himself. Like any kid, he can make cereal or peanut butter sandwiches. I also taught him how to make cinnamon toast in the toaster oven. Still, there’s one challenge we hadn’t let him try yet.

We’d yet to let him use the stove.

About a month ago, though, I pulled a bag of yakisoba noodles and a can of green beans from the pantry and we started with the most basic of all things.

1. Boil water.
2. Dump in noodles.
3. Stir and wait a few minutes.
4. Drain pan.

And that’s it. Of course, with yakisoba, you also add flavor packets. (And my son likes green beans in his yakisoba, which is why we cooked them on the side.) Still, even with the green beans, it’s a pretty simple dish to make.

Now, I realize that noodles like this aren’t the most healthy of foods and canned green beans don’t add much more. However, given that most college students live on the dried noodles that they can cook in their dorm, I figured that teaching him how to prepare his own noodles will give him a leg up on other students and the impetus to learn more.

And so, on this past Sunday when it was time to make lunch, I handed him the noodles and told him to have at it.

“Can I cook green beans, too?”

I decided against it, as I wasn’t going to be watching him for the first time. Still, knowing he needed veggies, he asked if there was any leftover broccoli in the fridge that he could throw in. He then got to work, paying attention to what he was doing. And, as he sat down to eat, he was happy and I was proud. We will have to work on other items (mac and cheese comes to mind), but I know we’ll expand his repertoire soon.

And, if you think this is crazy, remember the following proverb.

Cook for your child and your child eats a meal.

Teach a child to cook and you don’t have to get off the couch.

Metal Castles

2010-07-20T05:00:00.002-04:00

We went to Mobile this past weekend to visit my Uncle Steve and his wife, Brenda. When they invited us, we searched our schedule, hoping we would be able to make it over there sometime this summer. The only weekend open was this past one. Thankfully, it worked for them, too. It was a last family excursion before our chance at summer trips were over. School is still three weeks away. However, my younger son’s football practice begins this week (initial evaluations) and that will soon be an everyday thing.

While in Mobile, we visited the U.S.S. Alabama, a battleship moored in Mobile Bay. The submarine, U.S.S. Drum, is set up next to it. There’s also a hangar with a number of planes on display. I had never been on a battleship before, so I was looking forward to seeing this one.

My kids and I first viewed the firing area for the large guns on board. I don’t mean the ones where the gunners themselves can change the elevation with a crank. Instead, these guns stretch several decks, being aimed on one and loaded on another. We also walked around the deck of the ship, trying to imagine what it was like back then.

And then we took the self-guided tour. To go below deck, you have to descend a steep set of stairs. My first thought was for the safety of my kids. What if they fall? Whenever we got on these stairs, I made sure I got under them, particularly my younger son, whose legs are shorter and who tends to be less careful.

Oddly, though, my second thought was of Himeji Castle in Himeji, Japan.

Himeji Castle is a seven-story structure and one of the few original castles remaining in the country. It also has steep stairs with narrow entrances between floors. We visited Himeji Castle on our last trip to Japan. As I ascended the stairs, my wife worried that I would hit my head going up or else fall. Apparently, hitting your head was a concern on the Alabama. As I climbed up the above ground decks, I noted small pillows attached around the openings to the next level. (I found out later that those pillows were likely put there for tourists after the boat was retired.) My kids and I climbed as high as we could, then waved at my wife, who had chosen to remain on the deck.

What I remember most about the ship, though, was what was below the main deck. When at sea, the battleship carried 2,500 people. There were beds everywhere and many of the areas aboard ship could be converted to makeshift sleeping areas (via hammocks). I’d expected to find metalwork and other functions that repairs of necessary shipboard items. However, there were cobblers, barbers, paymasters, a general store, bakers, movie rooms, a laundry (and a place to have your best uniform pressed if there were visitors), films, and many more functions you’d never consider. It was a floating metal castle, a self-contained city.

Himeji Castle, like most castles, was built for defense. However, it was never actually tested. The Alabama though, was built for offense as well. A castle ready to move forward. A castle ready to do battle and to take that battle to the enemy.

And I’m thankful for those served aboard her.

Postscript: The next day, we went to the National Naval Aviation Museum in Pensacola. Pensacola is just over an hour from Mobile. It showcases a complete history of naval air warfare. My kids loved it. (You can touch most of the exhibits and climb inside cockpits.) The admission is free. And it’s worth the look if you’re close.

Nine Holes

2010-07-13T05:00:00.003-04:00

For the longest time, my older son, Andrew, has been nine holes short of a golf merit badge. He’d started on the badge late last summer, studying grips, swings, and etiquette. However, he needed to play eighteen holes as one of the requirements. We‘d been to driving ranges and had practiced a lot, but I hadn’t taken him out to complete this final requirement. We’d played nine one morning late last fall. Bad weather and schedules prevented us from making a return trip.

So, one Friday night a few weeks ago, Andrew came up to me and asked if we could play golf the next morning. I promised him we would if the weather was good. I woke up early the next morning and it looked fine. I got the clubs out, expecting Andrew to get up soon. He did.

However, my younger son, Christopher got up first and saw where we were headed.

“Dad, I want to go.”

I hesitated. Andrew is quiet and knows how to behave on a course. However, Christopher has a short attention span and I feared he wouldn't last nine holes. I knew it would tear at me, though, if I left without him. “Come on,” I said. “Just remember, we’re trying to finish Andrew’s badge. You have to behave.”

He promised he would, so we got in the car and headed out of the subdivision. Andrew was excited. Christopher was quiet and even looked sad.

‘What’s wrong, Christopher?”

“Dad,” he said, “you may be missing one of your clubs.”

I scanned through a host of replies, but knew none of them were appropriate. I headed back to house. “OK, go get it.”

Thirty seconds later, he returned with the putter and I made a mental note to check that all my clubs are in the bag in the distant future.

We hit the links and played the first hole. I let Christopher putt for me to get him involved. By the second hole, I felt brave and decided to let him tee off. I stood behind him, figuring that to be the safest place. Then the ball came at me on his backswing.

“OK. My turn.” I teed off and then chipped onto the green. I allowed Christopher to putt for me again. Andrew marked his double bogey and we continued. Two holes completed. Andrew was having fun. Christopher was still engaged.

Then it happened.

“Dad,” Christopher said, “I’m tired. My feet hurt.”
I'd been wondering how long it would take before those words came out. I realized I thought we’d get at least halfway though.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Andrew said in response.

“Shut up, Andrew” Christopher shot back.

People were within earshot. Some of them were trying to hit. “Both of you. Quiet. Now,” I whispered.

I imagined the next seven holes with these two going at each other and wondered if I was going to be able to handle it. Finally, I knelt down and looked Christopher in the eye. “What did I tell you to do before we left?”

Christopher looked sheepish. “Behave.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, nodding. He promised that he would.

Christopher was true to his word, lasting a few more holes, as I worked with him on his grip and swing. He also got in extra exercise, running back to the greens of previous holes to pick up clubs he’d left. Andrew began having problems and I realized it was his aim. I put clubs on the ground and lined them up toward the green, reminding him of the need to hit straight.

As we hit the ninth hole, I breathed a sigh. I’d had fun but was ready to go home. Andrew hit his best drive of the day on that hole, with the ball flying so well it went into that lake that I thought he wouldn’t reach. We holed out, called it a morning, and headed for home.

And maybe one day we’ll play something more difficult than a Par 3 course.

Say Goodbye to the Happy Meal

2010-07-06T05:00:00.000-04:00

My 13-year old son is at Boy Scout Camp this week. It’s his first time ever to go to camp. He has been on weekend camping trips with his troop and I’ve joined him on a few of these excursions. However, on his only week away from home without the parents, he was with his grandparents. This hardly qualifies as getting out on his own. He couldn’t go to camp last year, because my wife and kids went to California to visit her parents for a month. He’s been dreaming about Scout camp ever since.

A lot of prep work went into this trip. My wife, admittedly, did most of it. She made sure he was packed and ready. I only realized how well my wife had packed things when I dropped my son off at the meeting place on last Sunday morning. Many of the kids had their sleeping bags on their trunks. My son had his “in” his trunk. This job was also confirmed by one of the older, more experienced scouts. When my son opened his trunk to toss in a troop t-shirt he received that morning, the older scout looked inside and uttered a soft “Wow!” I watched him climb into the SUV of one the Scout leaders and leave. And now that he’s away, I’m dealing with the feelings I have.

One of the things the adult scout leaders prepped the parents on was how to talk to the kids before the trip. The one item they were adamant about: Don’t tell the kids you’re going to miss them. The kids are going to be busy. (My son is taking five merit badge classes while he’s there.) However, there will be some lonely feelings. Letting your son know how much you’re going to miss him will compound his feelings by mid-week. Being away is difficult for the kids anyway. Just tell them how much fun they will have.

I did my best to adhere to this rule. Sometimes it was hard. We talked about the work he would be doing. We talked about him needing to pay attention in his classes as well as the pay attention to his Scout leaders. Another thing we talked about, though, was money. There is a camp store and the kids can get things there. We give the money to the Scoutmasters in one dollar bills. They boys then get $2-$3 each day, if they want it.

The last thing I did was to give him money for lunch on his trip to camp. The plan was to stop for lunch at McDonald’s before they checked in. I gave Andrew $5 for his usual happy meal.

“Dad, I can’t do that. I need to do something else.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I can’t get a happy meal. They come with toys.”
“And?”
“The other kids will laugh at me if I get something with a toy.”

I smiled. He was right. I gave him some extra money and we discussed some other menu options, so he could make a quick decision.

And I’m glad I gave him the extra money.

The troop took a last minute vote and chose Wendy’s. It’s more expensive.

With Apologies to my Eight-Year Old Son

2010-06-29T05:00:00.001-04:00

On Sunday evening, I got the lawn mower out as my wife had asked me to mow the front yard. (Yes. She asked. Like I ever think of these things.) As I was moving the mower around from the back yard to the front, I noted that one of my kid’s Nerf guns was laying in the back year. I knew the boys had played with it on Friday when my younger son, Christopher, had a friend over for a play date. On Saturday, we’d had a brief, torrential downpour that had taken out trees in our neighborhood. I wasn’t happy.

“Christopher,” I called out as I entered the house. “Get down here.”

Christopher came down the stairs and I explained the situation. “Dad, that’s Andrew’s gun,” he protested, blaming his older brother. My wife joined in my disciplining, sending our little guy out pick up his stuff.

It wasn’t the first incident of the day for him. My younger sister and her family went to the beach on Sunday, staying at my parents’ trailer at the beach. On their previous trip to the beach a month ago, she’d left her Wii game. My sons had played with the Wii while we were at the beach in mid-June. My sister called because she couldn’t find a couple of the games. She wanted to know what my little guy had done with them and could he remember where he put them.

I went out to the mow the lawn, doing a small bit of weeding as well. When I came back inside, my wife broke the news. Christopher didn’t leave the gun outside. Our older son, Andrew did. Later that night, my sister called. She realized that the people who’d been there the week between her visit and ours had also used the Wii. She called them and they told her where the game could be found

I felt bad about accusing my younger son. I admit that the evidence I had was only circumstantial. However, I was acting on past history. My younger son always leaves things outside and has been told repeatedly to put things away. If something is wrong or out of place, he’s the usual culprit.

Still, I’d been wrong. He hadn’t done it this time. I apologized immediately. He told me it was okay. He handled it well.

I, on the other hand, didn’t handle it well.

I’ll have to think the next time before I jump to conclusions in my house.

Do you have the same issue sometimes? If something goes wrong in your house, do you automatically jump to conclusions about which of your children is guilty?

As for me, I’ll jump more slowly next time.

A Beach Walk Through Memory

2010-06-22T05:30:00.000-04:00

I’m trying to come up with a new euphemism, but sometimes the old ones work. I feel like a beached whale.

Or maybe a fat pig? A bloated elephant? A gorged dinosaur? Whatever, I pigged out last week while I was on vacation and I don’t think I can eat anytime soon.

As I said, vacation. My family and I went to the Myrtle Beach. With football season less than a month away, along with Boy Scout Camp and Vacation Bible School (which doesn’t count as it’s already over), last week was the only time we could go to the beach. We swam in the ocean, went out for dinner (and ate a lot of seafood). And, because there was one nine-year old girl also on the trip (aka “a cousin”), we endured incessant renditions of this decade’s version of Leif Garrett, Justin Bieber and Bieber mania. (I have two sons. Thankfully, I’ve been spared this to date.)

But all vacations must come to an end, so we returned home Sunday evening. I drove back the six hours from Myrtle Beach and had a bit of time to reflect. I’ve been going to Myrtle Beach since I was a kid. When I was young, my parents and aunt and uncle ran a small company. The business owned a trailer. Every Easter weekend, we would pull the trailer down to a campground at the beach. My Dad would hook it up and then the Company would leave it there through the summer. Employees would sign up to use it, providing them with a place to stay.

Eventually, they got a mobile home trailer in the campground’s residential section. That was when I was in middle school. The Company as eventually sold, but they kept the trailer. With all the development that has gone on at Myrtle Beach, I expected each year that the campground had been bought and was being turned into condo space. However, there are currently a number of empty condos at the beach, no one expects the place to become upgraded tax usage anytime soon.

Eventually, the place will go away. Everything does. But there’s something special about your kids playing on the same beach that you did as a child. I think they have as much fun as I did.

A Step Up

2010-06-15T05:00:00.001-04:00

For the longest time, my sons have gone to the same section when they visit the bookstore, the kids section.

However, with my older son having turned 13 recently, I looked at the section of books that featured the Magic Tree House, Hank Zipzer, and various other elementary school heroes and decided it was time that he looked elsewhere. With elsewhere in mind, I pointed him in the direction of the Young Adult section.

I didn’t know if he was ready. Granted, I’d pushed him before. As I’ve mentioned in this space, my older son has difficulty reading. Every time he gets comfortable with one reading level, my wife and I make him move. It started with basic books like the Frog and Toad series. He didn’t want to change. Then he got comfortable with the writing of Magic Tree House and really didn’t want to change. He was so determined to stay put that he pushed back. Finally, a love of baseball drew him into the Henry Winkler’s Hank Zipzer series. The tales of an adventurous mouse introduced him to Beverly Cleary.

Young Adult was going to be another push.

It wouldn’t be his first foray. He’d read Harry Potter, or at least tried to read Harry Potter. (Those books are in the kids section, which still amazes me.) However, at some point, his struggles with reading get the best of him. I’d expected him to push back once again, but was surprised. He liked the idea of Young Adult. He relished the fact that he was growing up.

We went to our local Borders on Saturday. I had a big coupon and my eye on a Japanese history book. (Yes, I know. Fun reading.) I dropped my son off at the YA section while I headed to the history area. When I went to see what he was doing, I discovered he’d picked out two books: Heat by Mike Lupica and The Boy Who Saved Baseball by John Ritter. (No, not that John Ritter.) I asked if he wanted to get them. He said he wasn’t ready.

I recognize, though, that it’s a matter of time. He has his summer reading list and has to work on that, but I know he’ll eventually move on to the next reading level. (Though my wife is teaching him to prefer the library and there’s nothing wrong with that.). I just hope one day he’ll choose to progress on his own, without his Mom and I shoving him forward.

And I look forward to that day.

A Night at the Movies

2010-06-08T05:00:00.000-04:00

Somewhere last week, I realized that I missed last week. Memorial Day lapse. I spent Monday afternoon in the hot sun at a Braves-Phillies game. I’d planned to write about a family outing to the game, which was followed by a Beach Boys concert. However, a combination of four hours of hot sun followed by hot dogs at The Varsity left me in no shape to do anything.

However, it does bring up the subject of family outings.

During the summer, the Mall of Georgia has movie night under the stars every Saturday. The evening opens with a demonstration of some kind (e.g. karate club breaking boards, dance group, etc.) followed by a local cover band. The movie usually gets started around 9:15. We went a few times last summer and will probably see a few movies again this summer.

Last Saturday’s movie was Planet 51. My kids had already seen it, courtesy of certain family members two generations removed from them. However, it was a first time for my wife and me. We packed our chairs, a blanket to sit on, drinks, and popcorn. There’s always a good crowd at these events, but it never feels crowded.

After we got set up, I had what I could only describe as an anxious moment. My kids, armed with coupons for ice cream and fries at Chick-Fil-A, declared they wanted to go.

“What?” I asked.

It dawned on me that somebody needed to remain with our stuff. My wife wanted to look around the mall while my boys and I watched the music. However, the idea of them walking together to and from Chick-Fil-A scared me. The look on my face must have spoken volumes. My wife looked at me and said, “I’ll walk with them to the place.”

That left me a little bit better. However, it was only half way there. My older son, newly thirteen, is mostly a responsible young man. We even let him go by himself to the bathroom at the Braves game. My eight-year old, though, is another matter. I stared at my younger son. “You listen to your brother and you come straight back.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Still, I sweated it out while I waited for them. One of our biggest challenges in raising our eight-year old has been in ensuring that he doesn’t run off when he’s out with us. When he was younger, he thought hide-n-seek was a game suited even for a public place. We worked hard to make sure he understood the danger, still his rambunctious nature worried me. I sighed when I saw them come back.

My relief was short-lived. I should have known what was coming. “Dad, I need to go to the bathroom.”

I’d actually thought this event through. There is a Barnes & Noble next to where the movies are shown. Though the place is active, the bathroom isn’t busy and the store is quiet. I asked my older son to escort his brother there. They made it back safely.

My wife was more relaxed about all of this then I was. She spends more time on outings with the kids while I’m at work and knows how good they are. Still, it was a learning experience for me.

So, how do you handle this situation with your kids?

Checking Off the Book

2010-05-25T05:00:00.001-04:00

My older son wants to be an eagle scout.

He’s got a long way to go. He currently has achieved Tenderfoot rank, the second step on the road to Eagle. The next rung on the ladder is Second Class. There’s two pages of requirements and he’s been diligently working on them. As of this week, he had his remaining requirements down to five. He also had a plan. He prepped for two of his remaining requirements prior to this week’s meeting. As we drove up, he began searching for the Asst. Scoutmaster that he needed to find.

“Dad, there he is.”

“Wait. Let me stop the car first.”

I brought the car to a stop and he was out before I turned off the engine. He got two requirements done, then tracked down the Scoutmaster to discuss what else he needed to do. He got two more requirements completed, leaving him one to go. He should achieve Second Class by sometime in mid-June. (From there, he’ll start on First Class.)

He’ll have his new rank just in time for camp for Scout Camp. He has mapped this out, too. To reach Eagle, he needs to earn 21 merit badges. Twelve of these come from a specific list. He currently has four badges (almost five) with one from the list. At camp, he’ll work on five merit badges. Three of them are from the Eagle List. He also has mapped out three more badges to work on this summer, all Eagle required. In his Boy Scout book, he has checkmarks next to the badges he’s working on with a plan for what to do next.

Before I left the meeting, I ran into the Scoutmaster. I congratulated him on a recent accomplishment in his family. His own son just achieved the rank of Eagle. He was excited about it. He then mentioned his conversation with my son earlier in the evening. He mentioned how proud he was of my son’s accomplishments and what he’s doing to make sure he makes Eagle.

So am I.

Thoughts at a Wedding

2010-05-18T05:00:00.000-04:00

Family weddings are fun.

I spent the weekend in Mobile, watching a cousin of mine marry the woman of his dreams at a place called Five Rivers, a state park on the Mobile Delta. The wedding party held the ceremony on a dock while the guests viewed the nuptials from above. A gator swam around in the marshy background, first poking his eyes out, then floating around in the distance while a group of a boaters approached. (Good opening for a movie, but nothing happened, thankfully. However, that sucker was huge.)

After the ceremony was over, we had an absolute blast of a party. The food was great. We danced the night away. When the first party ended, a number of us headed to a second party at a hotel in town that featured a lot of dance music and an Elvis impersonator. (Whether Elvis was part of the decorum or just there on his own, none of us knew.) Then, I kicked back with some of my umpteen cousins and enjoyed a few final minutes with people that I get to spend too little time with. We speculated on when we would all get together again, trying to decide which currently single cousin might be the next to walk down the aisle. Finally, we decided we should get together soon anyway, wedding or not.

However, one of the most memorable things about the weekend had nothing to do with the wedding. An uncle of mine who lives in Mobile has a company that builds floats for Mobile’s Mardi Gras parades. He and his employees spend all year preparing for this annual event. My uncle took us to his float barns (warehouses) to see what was left over from last year’s parades as well as show us what work had been done for next year.

Across from the float barns were some long yellow plastic segmented cylinders that resembled a cross between a long chain of hollow pontoons and a huge earthworm. They were barriers, barriers for the oil spill in the gulf. Like several of my family members touring the float barn, I walked across the street to take a look at the barriers, brushing my fingers across the watertight material. I then stared at the buildings, the full parking lots, and saw how much work was still to be done. The Port of Mobile is busy these days as it is one of the places where efforts continue to stem the disaster.

When I arrived in Mobile and first saw the water, I noted how brown it was. Despite having been to Mobile and having seen the water before, I still asked if it had anything to do with the spill. My uncle reminded me that the color was the result of the churning of the dirt from the five rivers that empty into the gulf. However, it looked like the spill and my body reacted the same way.

Between the dirty water and its effect on me, the yellow barriers, and the full parking lots, I wondered if I now had a better understanding of all the effort being made to contain the disaster

And I can feel the texture of that barrier even now.

Games

2010-05-11T04:30:00.000-04:00

When we moved to Georgia, my mother began bringing various items, from the house where I grew up, every time she visited. These items were leftovers of my childhood, priceless mementos with sentimental value (aka junk my mother wanted to get rid of so she could clean out my old closets and put some space to better use.). These items have found a treasured place in our house (ok, in the unfinished basement). Now, my wife dreams of being able to get rid of these items, too. However, occasionally, these items surface and make their way upstairs. Such was the case this weekend.

It wasn’t intentional.

My eight-year old son is a big fan of the Revolutionary War history. He’ll watch any movie with George Washington in it. Recently, he asked me several times to watch The Crossing, a wonderful movie about the crossing of the Delaware. I spent a lot of time with him explaining the various personalities, particularly one of my Revolutionary War heroes, John Glover.

So, while we were playing ping pong in the basement, my son noticed a board game with what appeared to be Revolutionary War pictures on it. The game is called Skirmish, a two-player game where you get to fight the Revolutionary War. This game made its way out of the basement, where I familiarized myself with directions I’d long forgotten. We counted the pieces. (I was only missing three, which was amazing and something that could be dealt with.)

And then we played.

I took the side of the British forces while my son got to be the Americans. In a take-no-prisoners approach (it’s hard to remember how to lose when you’ve forgotten how to play), the British quashed the American rebellion on Sunday.

My son was not to be outdone. He called me as I was driving home from work on Monday. “Dad, I’ve got the game set up. This time, you’re going down.”

And he was right. This time, the dice and cards fell my younger son’s way and Washington persevered, striking down the British forces. My son was so happy, he danced around the house.

I’m sure we’ll play again soon. In the meantime, it’s nice that my son enjoys the game. History should be fun. It’s great when it is.

Yes...It's That Time

2010-05-04T04:30:00.000-04:00

There were many subjects I considered writing about for this post. However, I chucked them out the window.

Because it hit me that, this week, something dramatic happened. I became the father of a teenager.

I remember when that concept first hit me. It was five days prior to my son’s 11th birthday. I glanced at him in the rearview mirror to inquire as to how he felt about the impending day. “Are you excited about turning eleven?”

“Yes, Dad, five more days until I’m eleven. Then only 735 days until I’m a teenager.”

At that point, I turned and focused on the road. It was safer than running off of it. I wasn’t even thinking about two years from then. Only enjoying the now.

“A teenager? You’re thinking about becoming a teenager?”

“Yes, I am.”

I didn’t know what to say after that. What did it say about me? How old did it make me? Last week, I went to his middle school band concert. They played a wonderful show, closing with “We Will Rock You” by Queen. It brought back memories of high school for me when I was in the high school and high school bands played “Another One Bites The Dust.” (Granted, my high school team wasn’t overly successful, so it was usually the other team’s band playing that song, but still it was a memory.)

But I’m not that old, at least not to me. I do have classmates that have adult and college-age children and I wonder how that makes them feel. At least one of my high school classmates is now a grandfather, so I wonder about that as well.

But it’s different when it happens to others vs. when it happens to you.
I know I have several more years to enjoy my older son and definitely more than that to enjoy his younger, elementary school age brother. But realizing that my son is now a teenager makes me think I have less time with him than ever. He’s growing up and one day he’ll move out and be on his own.

Still, there are other worries I have. On that day in the car, when my older son let me know he was only two years away from being a teenager, he added one more sentence. “And five years from now, I’ll be driving.”

I know I’m not ready for that.

If Joyce Kilmer Had a Bad Day

2010-04-27T04:30:00.000-04:00

As a kid, I always enjoyed the comic strip “B.C.” My favorite character was Wiley, a crotchety old guy with a wooden leg who also managed the baseball team. (Yes, baseball in caveman days. It’s a comic.)

Wiley was also the poet of the strip, often composing amusing ditties with a message at the end. In one strip, as he is sitting under a tree, he begins writing “I THINK that I shall never see A poem lovely as a …”

And then a tree limb falls off and hits him on the head. Wiley gets up and storms off, saying, “The world will have to wait for Joyce Kilmer.”

We had our own tree situation at our house. A tree at the edge of our backyard died. My wife and I think it was due to a bolt of lightning. Whatever the cause, it was rotting slowly. A few months ago, pieces started falling off. Each time there was a storm, we’d look out in the backyard the next day and see limbs on the ground. A safety issue waiting to happen. We assumed that one day tree would come down on its own. We have a large yard, so we knew it wouldn’t hit the house. Still, the house wasn’t our main concern. We worried about limbs hitting our kids.

We told our boys not to play close to the tree and they obeyed us as we searched for a solution. The cost of removing a tree was enormous, though we could cut it if we didn’t have the stump ground. The longer we waited, though, the more chance that we knew the tree might come down on its own. In addition, with the tree being dead, the issues surrounding removing it safely would also likely increase the cost.

A few weeks ago, another storm took out another limb from our tree, smashing a part of our back fence with it. At that point, my wife and I knew we could no longer search for a deal. One of the contractors we’d gotten a quote from came back with a lower price. We took it.

They came out a few days later and went to work on our tree. First, they removed part of our fence that hadn’t been destroyed. Then they cut off a major side limb that grew out of the base and now reached heights over half the size of the tree.

Next was the most difficult part. One of the men climbed halfway up the tree and tied a rope around the trunk, then moved down and began cutting under it. The men on the ground eventually pulled the top of the tree down to the ground, where it shattered on impact. From there, the men cut down the rest of the tree and then cut it up.

Later that afternoon, they left. The tree was gone. Sawdust remained. We were happy to have it done.

And our backyard was safe again.

Once A Generation

2010-04-20T04:30:00.000-04:00

Last week my 8-year old finished his CRCT, his standardized tests for the state of Georgia. This week, my 12-year old son is taking the tests for his grade level. And after it’s done, the kids will still study for school and tests, projects, etc. But the biggest challenge, worry, or whatever you want to call it, will be over.

On Monday, my son had his Reading test. Today, he has Language Arts. Given his language challenges, these two sections are easily his most difficult exams. Still, after helping him prepare, I wonder if those sections, particularly Language Arts, would cause problems regardless.

For starters, my boys did all of the practice exams on the state website, retaking the tests where they did poorly and discussing with us the wrong answers. For Language Arts practice, my wife copied the wrong answers from our 12-year old’s tests and placed them in a word document. She got confused when she went over the questions.

“Honey,” my wife asked, “what’s a predicate nominative?”

“It’s a noun in the predicate that renames the subject. Sort of like. ‘He is a middle school student.’ ”

“What’s a predicate adjective?”

“Adjective in the predicate that describes the subject. Sort of like ‘The car is green.’ ”

“What’s an appositive?”

“Not a clue.”

Last Saturday, we devised a plan for the final push. And on Sunday, laptop in hand, I took my boys to Sunday school. My younger son went to class.

My older son sat with me in the narthex while we discussed predicate everything, appositives, direct and indirect objects, etc. From there, we went home and had lunch. I went on-line and found practice sheets for everything that was throwing him. After church that afternoon, he worked on them. We then took a break, did reading comprehension, took another break, did some science and history, had dinner, and then went over his language arts trouble spots one last time before he called it a night.

Sometime after the kids had gone to bed, my wife asked the big question. “Is he ever going to need that stuff when he grows up?”

“Yes, some day, his kids will be studying the same thing he is now. He’ll have to go through it with them, However, it’ll be more difficult.”

“Why?”

“I learned it in 8th grade. He’s learning it in 6th grade. When he has kids, they’ll be doing it in 4th grade.”

Until the next generation then.

Eight-Year Old Dreams of Cy Young

2010-04-13T04:30:00.001-04:00

“Dad, can you show me how to throw a change-up?”

My eight-year old future Braves phenom wannabe flashed his hopeful smile at me as we took to our cement pitching practice arena (aka, the driveway).

“No, I don’t know how to throw a change-up. You need to ask someone who can actually tell you the right way.”

“How ‘bout #48 from the Braves?”

Images of Tommy Hanson, the Braves #3 starter flashed through my head. “Uh, you need to ask somebody we know.”

“Oh,” my little guy said, as we threw warm-up tosses. “Somebody we know, huh?”

“Yes, but you need to work on just throwing the ball. Get the ball over the plate as hard as you can on a consistent basis.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He threw a few pitches as we began our simulated start. The goal is to throw 50 pitches, similar to the rules in his league. (Fifty pitches or less and he can pitch in 48 hours. Anything over 50 and he has to wait for 72 hours.) We’d been going every two days since spring break started, hoping to keep him fresh when the season resumed. Like every day we practiced, he opened up with a strikeout of his first batter after getting to a full count.

“Nice job,” I said, tossing the ball back to him. “You ready for the next batter?”

He nodded and smiled and that should have alerted me. Something’s up when he’s quiet. He stepped into his wind-up and appeared to have a hitch before throwing a ball that did a good imitation of rolling off a table.

“Strike,” I said.

“That was my change-up. What did you think?”

I grudgingly admitted it had been a good one, but admonished him to focus on just getting a good pitch over the plate. Consistency. Consistency. Consistency. Given that he’s eight, I knew what was coming next.

I saw that little “stop hitch” again and hoped for similar success. The pitch hit the rim of the basketball goal and bounced into our garage.

“Ok. Remember the first rule of driveway. No hitting Mommy or Daddy’s car.”

He stared at the ground and promised not to do it again. We finished the rest of the session without incident, making it through two simulated innings. He looked at me, proud of getting out of a jam after walking the bases loaded.

“Dad, can I try throwing a side-arm?”

“Do you know anybody that throws a side-arm?”

“Yeah, #58 for the Braves.”

Though I wasn’t sure of the number, I knew who he meant. “Sure,” I said. “Go look up the number for Turner Field on the Net, gives the Braves a call, and when they answer, ask to speak to Peter Moylan. Maybe he’ll help. In the meantime, we’ll try to find somebody we know.”

He smiled as he went inside to wash up and get ready for dinner. Meanwhile, I thought to myself, who I am going to find that can show him how to throw those pitches? If any of you readers know Tommy Hanson or Peter Moylan, please ask them to get in touch with me. Thanks.

Breakfast and Lunch

2010-04-06T04:00:00.000-04:00

I want to welcome back all of my readers. It was a nice break. I worked in the yard, played with the kids, and, yes, I did watch a little basketball. And with end-of-year tests for both my kids coming up, I’ve decided to cut back to once a week. I’ll be posting on Tuesdays.

The order laying on the kitchen counter was brief: 2 eggs, 1 toste, 2 bakun. My eight-year old, my waiter and sous chef, had planned for a couple of days how we would celebrate my wife’s birthday. He’d decided we’d fix her a special breakfast. (My older son had decided we should sneak out to go card shopping for her the night before. In other words, none of us, me especially, knows what to get my wife for a present.)

But back to breakfast.

My younger son’s biggest concern was the place setting. He wanted to make it look good. “Daddy, can we go to Aunt Jeanne’s and get one of those towel holders for the table.”

“Towel holders?” I puzzled for a second. “You mean napkin rings?”

“Yep, napkin rings.”

I chuckled and told him not to worry and showed him where we kept such items. He rolled the silverware in a paper towel and shoved the package through the ring. I made bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. When it was ready, he went upstairs and fetched his mom.

“Wow, looks delicious,” my wife said, laughing. “I thought I said two toast.”

“Nope, one toast,” my son corrected her.

“Aw, I thought I said two of everything.”

But the little guy was sure of himself as my wife started chowing down. I made a second piece of toast while the boys looked for ketchup and hot sauce for the eggs. The boys then brought out the cards and wished their Mom a happy birthday.

Now, the toast was a minor thing (and I’m sure my wife did say two of everything), but I wondered how my son could have messed it up,

I wondered only until Monday.

My wife called me at the office late Monday morning. “Did you take the leftover curry for lunch?”

“Uh, yeah, we discussed it last night.”

“I changed it, though, don’t you remember? (Our eight-year old son) wanted it for lunch today. I wanted you to take something else.”

I recalled last night’s conversation. M wife was right. But with me hunched over my computer writing away, her words had not resonated in me.

At least my wife knows where our son gets it from.

Taking a Break

2010-03-16T05:00:00.002-04:00

I want to thank everyone for stopping by. I appreciate all of you that read my posts. I hope it provides you with laughs as well as reflections on times with your own kids.

This note is to let you know that I’ll be taking a break from this blog, but will be back in April. This is not a March Madness break, just a chance to refresh and come back.

Look for my next post on Tuesday, April 6th. I hope to see you then.

Two Places at Once

2010-03-12T05:00:00.000-05:00

For the first two games of the baseball season, I kept score for my younger son’s team. I wanted to help my kids’ teams in some way and this was the most I could do. Given my commute, I never have time to be an assistant coach. Just getting to the games is hard enough.

On Tuesday night, though, I couldn’t even keep score.

On Tuesday night, both my sons had games at the same time. They were two fields apart. To keep score at one meant I couldn’t watch the other. So, I spent 90 minutes walking back and forth between two fields. It’s not a big deal. I’ve done it before. When the boys played in the Buford City League, they often played at adjacent fields. I’d watch both games from the outfield, thankful that none of the kids on either team had the capability to put it over the fence, especially while I was facing the other direction. There are often times that practices are about the same time. My wife and I do our best to get the kids where they need to be.

And then there are days like Thursday.

Both boys had practice at 5:30, a time which is nearly impossible for me to be at home to help my wife. The practice locations were at least ten miles apart. My wife, as amazing as she is, still can’t be in two places at once. And unfortunately, I couldn’t help her. She had to drop off one son at one place and get the other so to his practice late.

Sometimes, in this situation, you can ask friends. In the fall, there was another kid in the neighborhood who played on the same team as my older son. My son sometimes got a ride from them. No such luck this time around.

So, what do you do when faced with these situations? I’d love to her some suggestions.

March

2010-03-09T04:30:00.001-05:00

John Belushi did a funny SNL skit about how March comes in differently in other countries vs. the U.S. In Norway, for example, March comes in like a polar bear and goes out like a walrus. There was one country (and it wasn’t Australia) where March hops in like a kangaroo and goes out like a wild dingo. However, my personal favorite was that there are nine different countries where March comes in like a frog and goes out like a golden retriever. (I tried to find a copy of this skit on youtube, but no luck.)

But, in Georgia, I don’t think anyone ever expected March to come in like a lion. Given the schedule of my sons’ baseball league, the Mill Creek Athletic Association, it’s obvious they didn’t.

There’s a rule in Mill Creek baseball: No playing if it’s below 45 degrees. The rule used to be honored, at least as far as I knew. However, weather like this was such a rarity that it was rarely ever invoked. Unfortunately, with the weird weather we’ve been having, the rule needed to be broken.

It all started with tryouts. Tryouts were in late January. They postponed it one day due to rain, but had to run it as soon as they could. The practice schedule through February was tight and they had no choice.

My younger son’s team tried to meet out of the gate. Cold weather and more rain sent them to the batting cages. Field time was a rarity and the kids were blowing on their hands when they weren’t throwing that ball. Everyone kept hoping, it seemed, that the weather would improve, but to no avail. We had more practices at The Cage (a batting cage in Buford). And, if you had field practice, you were thankful that you weren’t on a late evening practice team as the thermos that could keep hot chocolate warm through an entire practice hasn’t been invented yet. And there were stories of pee-wee kids crying during practice games because it was so cold.

My older son’s team had the same problem (minus the crying). Rain killed their field times and they got in a lot of hitting practice, too.

The arrival of March signaled, I had hoped, the last of the cold weather. Still, temperatures of around forty degrees plagued my older son’s game last Thursday and my younger son’s first game last Friday. However, on Saturday, the weather finally brightened and a hint of spring broke through. Saturday felt closer to baseball weather and I hope it stays that way. However, news weather teasers suggest more cold weather ahead.

The oddest March I remember form my childhood happened when I was in middle school. My Dad had somehow wrangled tickets for the ACC tourney. The weekend of the tourney, the first weekend in March back then, saw North Carolina hit with a huge ice storm. The Greensboro Coliseum was over half-empty. Never imagined that. We parked on the street, outside the coliseum, and walked in facing a strong wind.

The following weekend featured temps in the 80s. This was good as (and I don’t rightly remember) we either headed to the beach the following weekend or else they were running at Rockingham.

Back to the present, I’m sure that all of us look forward to the warmer weather. Hopefully, not too hot though.

After all, Mill Creek football practice supposedly starts in late June.

Bunco

2010-03-05T05:00:00.000-05:00

For the longest time, the word “bunco” meant one thing to me: swindling. I’d learned it watching cop shows growing up. And being a clueless male, I’d never thought about anything else.

Then, last summer, I went to a book signing over at Books 4 Less in Buford, where four published authors answered questions about the publishing world as well as signed copies of their books. I picked up two books and had a blast.

One of the authors had a women’s lit book related to “bunco.” I again thought “swindling.” The woman said it was the latest craze. Kind of an excuse for women to get together. “Ok,” I said with a shrug. Still, it didn’t register.

Then, about a month or so ago, someone placed a flyer in our mailbox. One of our neighbors was organizing a bunco group and was trying to find 12 women, plus alternates, to participate

“What’s bunco?” my wife asked.

Armed with the limited knowledge I had from the book signing, acumen, which barely exceeds my knowledge of curling, I responded without hesitation. “A way for women to party with the girls, sort of like a Tupperware party, except nobody’s selling anything.”

“Not interested,” my wife said.

“Why not? Go. It’ll be a good chance to get to know a number of women in the neighborhood. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll have fun.”

My wife eventually respond in the affirmative to the party, but she wasn’t’ completely excited about it. She knew a few of the women that were going to be there already, either from school where she volunteers or from seeing them at local baseball games involving everybody’s kids. However, she was nervous. When the big night came, my wife steeled herself for it.

The boys and I were looking forward to our own male bonding that night, over a pizza and a superhero movie we’d all already seen. Maybe we’d get lucky and there’d be something on one of the movie channels that we could watch. Given her expression when she left, I figured my wife would be back to help tuck the boys in.

9:30…nothing.

10:00…nothing.

It was a Friday night and I’d let the boys stay up late as they wanted to see their Mom, but now they needed to go to bed. They both took a shower and got in their PJs.

“Dad, will you tell Mommy to come give me a hug when she gets home?” my younger son asked

“Sure,” I said, nodding. “She should be here any minute.”

11:00?

11:30?

Finally, around a quarter to 12:00, I heard the garage door open and a car pull in. My wife entered shortly thereafter, a smile on her face.

“I’m guessing you had fun?

“Yes,” she said. “It was great.”

“That’s good.”

She removed her shoes at the entry and came into the house. “By the way, we set up a schedule for the next 12 months. I’m on the schedule for late in the summer. You and the boys will have to vacate the house.

“Leave?”

“Well, you can stay upstairs all night. It’s women only. Or we can finish our basement.”

I looked away briefly and thought for a second. “Ok. I’m sure we can find something to do. Glad you had a good time.”

“Me, too. Can’t wait for the next one. I almost won a prize for being the worst player, but I won the last round.”

I stared, uncertain how being bad was actually good. (William Hung notwithstanding). However, I was glad she’d gone to the party.

And the boys and I have a date for the Bobby Cox farewell tour.

Trying to Kick Canadian Buttocks

2010-03-02T04:00:00.001-05:00

I watched a lot of the Olympics.

I yelled in surprise at moguls, ski jumping, incredible snow boarding tricks, and just amazing overall feats.

My boys, particularly the younger one, were into something different. They were watching hockey.

For most of last weekend, as tension built up to the gold medal hockey game, my 8-year old son treated us with a periodic yell of “Let’s kick some Canadian buttocks.”

“Where did you hear that word?” I asked.

“Jimmy Neutron,” he replied and then treated me to a brief replay of that part of the movie.

And while I wondered why he couldn’t have picked up a phrase like, “I may be small, but I’ve got a BIG BRAIN,” my wife and I thought that his use of the word “buttocks” at home was funny.

On the other hand, when he yelled it as we were headed to the parking lot after Sunday school, I thought maybe I should have tried to curtail his enthusiasm.

Oddly, though, as excited as my little guy had been, part of him didn’t want to watch the final contest. The games rekindled an interest he had in hockey. His uncle played hockey growing up and during college and still plays in a rec league now. Years ago, he even gave my sons a couple of his old sticks.

But, as the game approached, he just wanted to play.

When America started winning, both my boys decided it was time to pull the sticks out of the garage and this old soccer net we had in the basement. It was meant for them when they were younger and was now too small to be a real soccer net, but it definitely served as a hockey net. The boys took the sticks, practiced passing with a tennis ball, and scored goal after goal. They pretended to play the gold medal game. When it was over, America won the gold medal 17-16 over Canada in a penalty shoot-out.

So why didn’t he want to watch when the game started.

It turned out, that watching the U.S. was nerve-wracking to him. He’d been in school when the U.S. was playing Finland and it was already 6-0 when he got home. No pressure. But he’d watched the previous U.S. - Canada game as long as he could (until we told him to go to bed) living and dying on every slapshot.

It was easier to play than watch.

So, the two of stayed outside as long as we could, having a shoot-out in the garage. Eventually, my wife called us in, saying they were about to drop the puck. He hesitated. He just wanted to play.

Shortly thereafter, we did go inside and cheered for America. My formerly Japanese (now officially American) wife had spent six years in Canada and loved it while she as there. She’s not a sports fan and tried to ignore us, but felt compelled to serenade us with “O Canada” every time our screams woke her from her afternoon nap.

And when the game was over, the Olympics were done for me. It had been two weeks of quality, albeit overly schmaltzy at times, entertainment that I could watch with the boys, but I was Olympic’d out.

I even decided to skip the closing ceremony, though this may not have a been a good idea. This may or may not have been a good idea. While the Olympic organizers made a joke of fixing the torch, NBC supposedly showed it hadn’t learned anything in over forty years, cutting off the ending (a la a Heidi resurrection) to show its overly hyped new show The Marriage Ref.

It wasn't a good idea to skip the rest of the closing ceremony as I, like NBC, cut back too soon to real life. I turned on the new episode of Desperate Housewives, knowing that my wife would watch “Brothers and Sisters” an hour later. My 8-year old walked in on the entrance of DH, and I winced as he caught an eyeful of a bra-and-panties clad character on the screen. “Step back. Don’t look. Did you finish brushing your teeth?”

“Yes, Daddy. She’s naked.”

“Almost. Did you brush your teeth?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go floss.”

"Daddy, U.S.A. lost."

"We'll get 'em next time."

And I tucked him in for what had been a pretty good day.

Interruptions

2010-02-26T04:00:00.000-05:00

My older son was sick recently.

Granted, as I wrote in a recent post, most of my family was sick. However, it kept my 12-year old out of school for two days until he could be fever-free for 24 hours. He made it back into school on Friday, a day on which he had three tests. He missed lectures, though it was mostly review. He had his books at home, knew what was coming, and studied the best he could.

The results: one A, one B, and one C.

Normally, a “C” would be a signal for hand-wringing at home. We’re determined that our kids make A’s. If not A’s, we tell them we’ll be happy if they do their best. However, we’ve come to realize that we can expect A’s out of our older son. It wasn’t always so. When he was first diagnosed with his language/speech delays, we wondered how he would do in school as he got older. His challenges make it difficult for him to learn, but he has learned how to overcome his difficulties.

But as I said, he can get A’s. In elementary school, my older son once got a B in Art. My wife contacted the teacher to find out what had happened. It turned out that he’d misbehaved twice and had cost himself a letter grade. My wife thanked the teacher for his time and apologized if she seemed overly aggressive about the situation. The teacher’s response was that he wished more parents took grades in Art seriously.

So, we chose to let him take three tests on his first day back, instead of asking for additional time. And when the teachers e-mailed us the grades over the weekend, we told our son what they were and told him not to worry when he got them. We were proud he’d done well, in spite of being sick. We wanted him to move on and just keep up with his class.

The truth is, he deals with interruptions all the time. Our son is pulled from his classes several times a week for speech and language lessons. He misses a number of lectures and is always catching up. His personal goal is to get out of speech. He hates being taken out of class. He hates feeling different. Having to leave makes him different in front of his classmates.

We wish he could get out speech, too. And we hope for the day that he is ready.

I don’t know if we seem harsh or overly concerned with his grades. We just know he can do well and expect it out of him. And then, sometimes, we tell him it’s the best that he could do on a given day and that he needs to move on.

So, we moved on to next week, to CRCT prep, and trying to maintain focus, and keep him ready.

Until the next interruption.

Pets

2010-02-23T04:00:00.000-05:00

“Wanna lick?”

My wife laughed at my younger son’s choice of words as he held my uncle’s dachshund snugly in his hands. At various times the little dog would turn his head and lick my son’s face. The smile that it provoked was huge and he wanted to share the love

“No thanks, my wife said.

My son left from there, his arms clutching his new best friend as he turned around and carried the dog to other attendees at the party. I know he enjoyed the moment. However brief it was going to be.

My kids love animals. They always welcome a chance to play dogs and cats, if they can. Our neighbor’s cat, Freaky, often makes it to our yard where he finds both my kids anxious to give him attention. The kids would do anything to have a pet of their own.

But they can’t. My wife is allergic to pet hair.

The allergy isn’t as bad as it could be. She can handle pets for a little while with no problem, but it can’t be ongoing.

The previous owners of our house had pets. For some people with pet allergies, that would have disqualified it. The previous owners cleaned. We had professionals come in and clean after that. And over the next few months, as we found more and more hidden locations of pet hair, we managed to get the place acceptable. Good filters got rid of more. Eventually, it was okay.

Yes, I know. I can hear the cries. We could get one of those hairless breeds. And my wife could probably deal with it. However, we’re fearful of how our kids will handle it.

A pet can be a 15-year commitment. My kids both say that they’ll take care of one. I know they will, for a while. They will be there to play with it and run with it. But at times, they’ll won’t be there at all.

So, we tell our kids to enjoy these chances when they can play with animals. We tell them they can even make money if they offer to look after pets when neighbors are away.

You hear some adults say that they don’t like kids or like kids for a short time and then want to give them back. The little amount of time satisfies their desires for kids. We worry about the same thing for our kids regarding pets. We fear that there interest will wane if they have a pet at the house.

So when we see our kids with pets, we know that they’re having fun. My younger son didn’t want to play basketball with his other cousins. He just wanted to take play with my uncle’s dog. Hopefully, he’s got it out of his system…until the next time.

Taking a Day Off

2010-02-19T04:00:00.000-05:00

This weekend, my Dad's family is getting together to celebrate my Grandmother's 90th birthday. My grandmother, Rita Mussell, has nine kids, 17 grandkids, and 7 great-grandkids. Most everyone will make it. It's gonna be a blast.

See you next week.

One of THOSE Weekends

2010-02-16T04:00:00.000-05:00

I considered bagging it today on posting.

It was a rough weekend. The snow was fun, especially as we don’t get much of it in the Atlanta area, and my boys like to take advantage of it when they can. The last snowfall yielded little in the way of excitement. Last weekend brought a good time.

But a Friday night snowball fight, in which I discovered my aim was so bad that I kept throwing snowballs over my kids’ head, heralded not the plans we’d envisioned. Somewhere late in the evening, my older son woke to stomach pains. He spent what felt like an hour or so losing it at both ends while my wife and I mulled over what could have happened. Food poisoning? The timing was right. But it didn’t make sense. No one else in the house was sick. My wife had been sick earlier in the week and became convinced that she’d passed it on to him.

Whatever it was, the big guy felt better the next morning. Not enough to go out and play, but still well enough to eat and sit up. My younger son, on the other hand, saw what he relished. More opportunity for snow. More opportunity for sliding down the hill in our back yard. More opportunity for a good time. And he took in every bit of it. By the afternoon, he was joined by his older brother who felt much better. They built snowmen in the back yard, using them for target practice and later as football tackling dummies. My wife also felt well enough to try and do some things around the house.

When Saturday evening came, I noticed that my younger son’s temp was slightly elevated, though he felt only a little malaise. My wife was also tired and I worried for her as well. On Sunday morning, the little guy’s temp was down, but something was still wrong. My wife also woke up and felt like she didn’t want to move. I suggested both stay home, while I took my older son to church. He was definitely back to normal, as evidenced by him jumping out of bed after I told mentioned we could stop for a blueberry bagel if he got ready early.

Sunday passed with my wife sick and my little guy out of it. Late Sunday night, my younger son woke up mimicking the same symptoms my older son had shown on Friday…and the same results. My wife, who had recovered some, took care of him while I tried to get some sleep so I could be ready for work.

So what does that have to do with anything. Well, as you may have noticed, one person in the house avoided the bug.

Until now.

This morning, I woke up feeling like crap. I know it’s only a matter of time before I get what felled them.

But, like most maniacs (writers), I had to write something, as not doing so would make me sicker.

Ever have one of those weekends?

Need Some Help

2010-02-12T04:00:00.003-05:00

Normally, I write about my kids. Today, I’m going in the other direction. I’m going to write about my grandmother.

My grandmother is turning ninety. It’s a fantastic number. The family will be gathering soon to celebrate this milestone occasion. It will be a long weekend party and I’ll enjoy every minute of it.

My favorite grandmother story for the longest time has dealt with my grandfather. Apparently, my grandmother met my grandfather when she was in her late teens. He had a date with someone else, but was so smitten with my grandmother that he broke his date to go out with her. Grandma apparently felt the same way about Grandpa. She often talked about handsome he was in his Army uniform back when she first met him.

Recently, my grandmother revealed a memorable story about my dad. My grandfather served in Europe late in WWII and afterwards. He was gone for a couple of years. My grandmother tried to think of something special to welcome my grandfather home.

My dad apparently suggested getting a baby brother or sister.

I remember visiting my grandparents when I was a kid. Grandma would fix me oatmeal for breakfast and I would try to help her with the puzzles in the newspaper. I rarely ate oatmeal at home, but always did at Grandma’s. For some reason, it just tasted better.

Most of have stories like that, I know.

And, as I said above, my grandmother is turning ninety. And here’s where I need the help.

My aunts and uncles want to put a sign in the yard announcing the event. Hallmark has a few choice slogans for younger ages. “Lordy, lordy, look who’s forty” and “Ain’t it nifty, you’re turning fifty.”

However, we don’t have anything for my grandmother’s age.

One of my uncles jokingly suggested, “Kiss her hiney, she’s turning ninety.” However, we know that isn't going to work.

So, anybody got any suggestions?

What's In A Number?

2010-02-09T04:30:00.000-05:00

With two and a half hours remaining before kick-off of the Super Bowl, I took my eight-year old to a batting cage for his first official practice of the spring season. Practice had originally been scheduled for the ball field , but rain and soggy conditions had necessitated the move inside.

With an hour on my hands, I looked for an empty spot at the tables outside the cages. Other parents of the Mill Creek Pee Wee AA Yankees were already assembled. I’d met only one of them before, meaning I had a whole new group to get to know. It’s always fun, sitting with the other parents and watching the kids, because you now have a common bond of cheering for the same team.

The topic of the conversation, oddly, was football, but not the kind you would expect. Yes, their was the Super Bowl, but little league football registration is in late March. As my 8-year old son wants to play football, I spent most of the time learning the details of what to expect.

However, I was momentarily brought back to baseball by a situation I didn’t expect. One of the team Moms was confirming with kids and parents the sizes of jerseys and pants. For jersey numbers, she’d gone to the line and asked each kid. When I saw number 14 next to my son’s name, I questioned it.

“Are you sure?” I asked. “When we registered him, he wanted to be #11, after Kenshin Kawakami, the Braves Japanese pitcher.
The woman glanced back at her paper. “Well, I went through the line. That’s what he said.”

I got up from my spot on the bench and headed over to where my son was waiting his turn to enter the cage. I knelt down, so I could look him in the eye.

“I need to ask you something. What number do you want be again?”
“Fourteen,” he said, nodding.
“Are you sure? You told me before you wanted to be #11. Don’t you want to be Kawakami?”
My little guy shook his head. “Naah, I wanna be #14.”
“OK. Who’s #14?”
My son didn’t answer, so I pressed him again. “You can tell me. Who’s #14?”
He hesitated and then finally answered. “Nobody.”
“Nobody? You don’t want a number of another player?”
He looked at me and said, “No, Dad, I just want to be myself for a change.”

I had to admit. It was the best reason I’d ever heard of for choosing a number.

Shooting for the Moon

2010-02-05T04:00:00.000-05:00

My second grader has a month-long project for school. He has to go out each night and look for the moon, check its phase, and record it on his chart. He remembers the assignment each night, though he remembers it late. Still, he gets excited about making a mark on his worksheet.

However, we’re on Day Four of the assignment and we’ve run into a snag we didn’t expect. We haven’t seen the moon.

I went out with him on the first night of the assignment and walked around the house. Nothing. I first thought it was a new moon (and thought what a stupid day to start the assignment), but then I went on-line and checked. Full moon expected.

Just with the thick clouds we couldn’t see it. I looked in the distance and could see one section of the clouds was much lighter, I knew the moon was there. But, it didn’t help. My little guy just wrote cloudy on his paper, hid a mournful look, and went to bed. Night two was pretty much the same. More thick clouds, but no moon, which produced a sad little boy.

On the third night, we were greeted with stars. I was ecstatic and knew my second grader would be, too. We went out to get our first glimpse of the “cold hearted orb that rules the night,” as the Moody Blues say.

Still nothing.

The main street in our neighborhood rolls up and down. Some houses are elevated. Others not. Our house is in low spot. We couldn’t see the moon. It was too low in the sky and not in our field of vision. My son wrote “too low in the sky.”

While at work on Day Four, I resolved to take the little guy on a drive. I was determined he would see the moon. The rain and clouds had other ideas. He wrote “cloudy” again on his sheet.

With 26 days to go, I know we will eventually have nights where he can see the moon. However, if this continues. I know he won’t get the full benefit of the exercise. I could show him on computer, but would that help?

Any suggestions?

Passing On the Nerd Gene

2010-02-02T04:00:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite movies, admittedly, is Revenge of the Nerds. In it, a fraternity of geeks takes on a fraternity of jocks for campus superiority. The nerds are battling for respect while the jocks are fighting to keep the “beautiful people” running things. At the end of the movie, the Nerds defeat the jocks in a campus competition and take over the Greek system. The jocks respond to their loss by trashing the nerds frat house. The movie ends at a pep rally, where one of the nerds is given a microphone. The head nerd gives a roaring speech about how many people might have themselves been thought of as a nerd at one time, inviting those who were to come down off the stands and join them, “No one will really be safe until nerd persecution ends.”

The one thing that always got to my friends and I during that last scene is when the entire band comes down off the stands and joins the nerds.

Why did this bother me?

Well, as you may have guessed, I and most of the friends I hung out with, were in the band. (“No, not the band,” we screamed.)

So, it was with great joy recently that I attended my sixth grade son’s first band concert. It was a wonderful evening with lots of proud parents. My son, who loves practicing on his clarinet, couldn’t get rid of his smile. He was having a good time.

After the concert, we took pictures of him and his best friend, a nice kid in the percussion section. It reminded me of me. I was in the drum section during my band years and my best friend played clarinet.

I don’t know if my son will do all of the things with band that I did. In high school, I played in marching band, jazz band, and a local orchestra. (Yes, I even went to band camp).

I hope he continues to enjoy it.

And I can relax, knowing I have successfully passed on my nerd gene to the next generation.

Sad Songs

2010-01-29T04:00:00.000-05:00

In the tune, “Sad Songs” by Elton John, there is a line that says “When all hope is gone, sad songs say it so much.”

I bring it up as there are a lot of sad songs I hear on the radio each day. But, for me, one of the saddest songs ever is “Cat’s In The Cradle,” sung by the late Harry Chapin. The song has four verses. The first one is about when his child is born. The father is so busy that he misses his son learning to walk and also misses a lot of the talking. It ends with a toddler telling his Dad he’s going to be just like him when he grows up. In the second verse, the child is now ten years old., He receives a new ball and invites his Dad to play, but Dad was still too busy. The child said it was okay and still talked about growing up “just like his Dad.”

In the third verse, the son comes home from college. His Dad invites him to sit and chat. Instead, the son borrows the car and goes out.

In the final verse, the Dad is retired and the son has his own family. The Dad calls his son and asks about getting together. However, a new job and sick children prevent the son from having time to meet his father. The last line of the verse is “And as I hung up the phone, it occurred to me. He’d grown up just like me. My boy was just like me.”

I was reminded of this song recently by my eight year old son. My eight-year-old likes me to tuck him in each night. It’s a little thing, but it’s very important to him. Most of the time I can, but sometimes I’m busy. I always tell him I’ll be a few minutes, but sometimes it gets late and he falls asleep waiting for me. A couple of nights ago was an instance where I was too late. When I went back to his room the next morning to check on him before going to work, I moved the blankets, which were twisted all around him. Then, I picked up his bear off the floor and put it back in bed with him. He woke up, looked at me, and said “Good night, Daddy.” He didn’t realize it was morning.

Life does call and I know there are things I need to do. However, whatever I’m doing, I always need to ensure that I‘m never too busy to tuck my son in.

Sweatin' With The Youngies

2010-01-26T04:00:00.002-05:00

It was over dinner Sunday night (and I’m thankful that we always eat dinner a family, even if my younger son always ends up saying grace with his mouth full), that my wife asked me if I wanted to join a gym.

“I think the place may be running a special. Ten dollars a month isn’t bad.”

“I know,” I said. “I just wonder if I'll have the time?”

“Well, you should do something. You could stand to drop a few pounds. The doctor said so.”

I looked down at my slight paunch and knew she was right. I’m not fat, but I don’t want to keep growing in the stomach.”

“Dad,” my younger son piped in, “if you go to the gym, I want to go, too.”

“You already have a gym,” my wife said. “It’s called recess.”

“It’s been too cold, Mommy.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she responded. “You still get exercise.”

“I know,” he answered. “Daddy, you can use that movie you have with the exercise girl, the one that I used to do with you.”

Exercise girl? My wife mouthed, wondering what video I was showing the kids when she wasn’t home.

“Pilates,” I said,

My wife nodded and then her head perked up. “I know. You can do exercise TV on cable.”

“We can do what?”

“Exercises. There are free videos on TV.”

With dinner over and the table cleared, we began searching our cable company’s “On Demand” feature. Normally, we only use this for movies, as it was good for both free ones as well as ones where we know even buying it on DVD is still too high a price. But I’d had no idea there was exercise videos as well.

We looked first for a short video to get into the spirit. There were all sorts of categories. Basic toning. Cardio. Carmen Electra (I know what that one is. Could never watch it with my kids), as well as walking videos. We scrolled through the toning videos, choosing one for basic abs and thighs, as I was silently thankful that my kids didn’t ask me to explain some of the more interesting titles. We spent 15 minutes, getting some kinks out of our muscles while my wife and I moved the couch to give us room. It had definitely been awhile.

“Kick in, not out.”

“Arms up.”

“Crunch.”

“Stay in rhythm.”

“Mommy stop laughing.”

I looked over at my wife. “Honey, you’re welcome to join us.,”

“No, I’m already good shape,” she joked. Granted, I’ve been telling her that for years. It takes something like this for her to believe me.

Ab work done. We started a walking video, doing what amounted to 1+ miles in about 20 minutes. Finally, we called it a day.

“What? You’re quitting?” my wife asked.

“Honey, the workout’s over. The boys need to study.”

My wife laughed. “And what’s your excuse.”

“I have to help them.”

I’m certain it won’t be our last night of family exercise, though I don’t know how long we’ll stay at it. If it goes at least a month, it will exceed most of our resolutions. Still, with family dinners and a family workout, it was a nice evening at home. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Going It All Alone

2010-01-22T04:00:00.000-05:00

“Mom. Dad. Guess what I got on my math test.”

My 12-year old son’s attempt to hold back a smile gave away the answer, but we still asked the question. “What’d you get?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Great,” my wife and I both said.

We were proud of him. However, my pride also contained relief. This test had been a little different from other ones in that my son hadn’t asked my help in studying for it. My son has always been an “A” student in math. It’s his best subject. However, as he has progressed in grades, his homework has gotten harder, requiring him to study more hours. My wife often helps with projects and preparing study sheets. I handle Math, Science, and History tutoring.

But what made this math test different? When we asked him last week about what tests he had this week, he mentioned the math test. He has 2-3 tests/quizzes per week and we both work with him. However, when we asked if he needed to study (and study help), he surprised us. “No, I’m ready for it.”

“Are you sure? The test is in two days.”

“No, I’m good.”

We repeated the same queries the night before the test. He said he didn’t need it. He was ready.

And so we did something which is at times, very hard for us. We took him at his word that he was ready.

It wasn’t the first time he’s claimed to be ready for an exam on his own. Sometimes, he does well. Other times, he makes silly mistakes. But why is this hard for us? For those of you that may not know, my older son has speech and language difficulties. It’s hard for him to express himself, to follow a conversation, and to follow social cues. (The last trait my wife attributes to me.) This ability to process information is one of the reasons we study with him hours every day. It takes him that much extra time to learn. He may pick up only a little in class. We teach him the rest at home.

For him to say he was ready without us was his confidence that through class, and by studying on his own, he was ready. And this is a big step. It gives my wife and I pause, but we want to believe he can do it on his own. And when he brings home a 100%, my wife and I celebrate with him. And my son had confidence, knowing he had progressed in learning to do things on his own.

Yesterday, he had a science test. I don’t remember studying groundwater and saturation zones as a kid and I doubt I’ll remember it much after this week is over. But we did spend three nights on it, getting my son ready for the test. And I’m sure I’ll do it again soon. But maybe soon, he’ll learn to be okay on this subject as well.

Legoland

2010-01-19T05:00:00.000-05:00

For those of you that have small children and have spent some time in southern California, you might be familiar with a place called Legoland. This theme park, north of San Diego, offers unbelievable fun to Lego-crazed kids everywhere. My boys have been several times, as my in-laws live in L.A. Given a choice, at least for now, they would choose Legoland over Disneyland. And with a Lego-themed scheduled or Atlanta sometimes in the future, I know we’ll become members and visit regularly.

This post has nothing to do with that.

Instead, today’s musing deal with another adventurous Legoland, the one in our house. We’ve bought untold numbers of Lego toys over the years, going back to the day when my older son discovered Bionicles. We’ve put the toys together, taken them apart, and then built bigger ones like taking two double stuff Oreos and making one really big cookie. When we moved from Oregon several years ago, my wife, in packing the house, actually managed to disassemble all the Lego toys, put them back in the original boxes she’d saved, and ship them to Georgia. This is one of the most amazing feats of reverse engineering in mankind’s history.

But as my kids grew, we expanded our Lego investment, branched out on Legos, buying bigger and better ones (re: more complex). And why a 1,000 piece Lego model is suitable for kids 5 & up I’ll never know, but we accepted without question the age recommendations on the boxes, confident that it would be a learning experience.

We got that right. We learned.

We learned that once a boy builds a Lego he is likely to destroy a Lego. And my younger son, whom we should have named Calvin (after Calvin & Hobbes) is a master of his craft. Pieces go all over the place. Toys gets mixed together. Things fall in (get launched into) the heating vent. And if it’s hard enough to find a 1-mm piece amidst a thousand pieces. Imagine what happens when you’ve got 5,000 pieces in a pile and you keep adding to it every time you’re moving around in the dark or don’t watch your step.

About a year ago, after a particularly egregious experience, we enacted a Lego ban. The ban lasted until this past weekend when my wife relented and allowed our 8-year old to purchase a small Lego (actually Mega blocks) toy with his own birthday money. He promised to be good. He promised to take care of it. We also agreed let him put together a Lego toy he got for his birthday a week ago, another 1,000+ piece contraption.

The small toy didn’t last a day. We got a little peeved, tried again to re-establish some rules (or at least something that our kids would obey regarding Legos), and went forward. The rules are:

1) A broken Lego goes immediately to a table or desk with all parts.
2) Broken Legos shall ONLY be assembled at tables or desk.
3) Broken Legos are not put back in boxes, unless disassembled on purpose and confirmed that all pieces are there.
4) Assembly by dividing things into piles by both color and size (large or small) is best.
5) This is their last chance.

Until the next time.

Eventually, one day, after our kids are grown, we will likely put together the toys to confirm that we do have all the pieces. We’re going to re-box them and put them away. And then, when our sons least expect it, we’ll get our revenge.

Presents to grandkids anyone?

What rules do you have in your house for Legos or similar type objects?

Where Have You Gone, Darth Vader

2010-01-15T03:00:00.000-05:00

My wife called me at the office. “Honey, where’d you put Darth Vader?”

I thought back to my 8-year old son’s birthday party over the previous weekend. My wife had borrower the Darth Vader game piece from his Star Wars Monopoly game, inserting it into a cupcake. At the party, she planned to distribute cupcakes to all of the kids. The one who got the Darth Vader would win a prize.

The game went off well, even though several kids decided to forgo eating and just squashed the cupcake in their hands. When the little piece was discovered, it was still covered in cake, so I retrieved it, washed it off, and showed it to the partygoers.

“It’s on the counter, right behind the basket with the chips.”

“No, it’s not. I checked there.”

“How about behind the sink?”

“Not there.”

“On the desk next to the fridge.”

“Nope.”

I paused. This was a mini-emergency. My eight-year old is a Star Wars fanatic and Darth Vader is his favorite character. We can’t lose this piece. “Honey, I’ll look for it when I get home.”

“You’ll never find it. I’m sure of it. It’s gone.”

When I got home that evening, I gave my kids hugs and immediately began a search. I first examined the places I’d already mentioned. No luck.

“Did you find it?” my wife asked.

“Not yet.”

“You didn’t put it away, did you. You could have taken an extra minute and put it away instead of leaving it out. No, you had to show it to the other kids.”

“You’re not suggesting one of his friends took it, are you?”

My wife shook her head. “No, I’m just saying one of them picked it up and then left it somewhere else. It’s gone.”

“Honey, don’t worry. We’ll find it.”

“YOU’LL find it.” Her elevated tone left no room for discussion.

We had dinner and I went back to my search. Upstairs. Downstairs. Finally, I had an idea. Think like a kid. If I’d picked up, where would I put it? I immediately started looking on the floor. I found it after turning over my second piece of furniture.

“Got it.”

“Great. Where was it?”

I thought about telling her what I’d gone through, but figured it would be better to skip it. “It was on the floor.”

“Can you put it away this time, please?”

And I did.

On the desk next to the fridge.

The Game*

2010-01-12T04:00:00.001-05:00

* Not to confused with Paul Levesque, a professional wrestler known by his ring monikers, Triple H and The Game.

“But Dad, you suck at it.”

My younger son, age 8, actually meant well with his words. He just wanted to spare his Dad any embarrassment.

“Ok, then let’s go. You. Me. Mario Kart. Mano y mano.

“Mano what?

“Against each other.”

“Oh.”

We plugged in the controls and began. The first match was no contest. He kicked my butt. My older son couldn’t resist. “Who here has a driver’s license?”

I glanced at my 12-year old, then turned to younger son. “Rematch?”

My son smiled and we restarted. A few minutes later. He sat in shock. The old man had won.

It would not be the first time I surprised my kids. For Christmas, my 12-year old son received “Punch-Out,” a Wii boxing game. I asked if I could try it.

“Dad, you wouldn’t have a chance. You can’t beat these characters. You aren’t that good.”

“I’ve never tried it. How will I know if I don’t try?”

“But you don’t know how to play.”

“Well, how about you and me? Mano y mano.”

“Mano what?”

“Against each other.”

My son nodded and set up the game. He showed me to how move the controls. Then we sparred. I KO’d him in the 2nd round.

He finally admitted I might be better than he thought and let me play the game. I got past the first two fighters before I had to call it quits. He got into the next division.

I did face both my sons again, but never matched those early successes. Granted, they’ve practiced more than I have since those match-ups. But they’d also practiced before. It leaves me with one question.

Did they let me win?

Tale of Two Rooms

2010-01-08T03:00:00.000-05:00

I put a note up on Thursday that said I might be late. I don’t like posting late, but today there was a good reason.

I didn’t know the result of what I was going to write about.

When we bought a house here in Atlanta nearly four years ago, one of the things we liked about our new place was the large spaces for the second and third bedrooms. Both these rooms opened into a loft. Our boys had slept in separate rooms before, but the rooms had been small and close. We’d figured the boys would have been happy about it.

Our older one was.

Our younger one wasn’t.

Our little guy was scared of his new digs. Instead of sleeping by himself, he preferred to sleep with us or sleep on the floor in his older brother’s room. A kid who prided himself on his independence was afraid to be alone and afraid of the dark. He pressed on his big brother to let him move in with him. His big brother agreed and we allowed it. We turned the 3rd bedroom into a guest room and it’s been that way ever since.

However, with my older son starting sixth grade this year and often needing to work late on homework, my wife and I decided to split the two of them up. It was necessary, not only because of homework, but also because my younger son fights to stay up late and he was keeping his older brother up on nights where he needed to sleep well for a test.

We didn’t brook any dissent on this decision and spent most of this week getting things ready (Ok, my wife did most of the work, though I did move a few bits of furniture.) Last night became the big night. There were a few complaints. The biggest one was from my younger son. As my older son got the now former guest room, he also got a TV. The little guy complained that he should get one, too. We said we’d get him one as soon as he learned to turn it off when he was told. We figure we’re good on this until he goes to college.

As of this moment, the boys are asleep. Hopefully, they make it through the night that way. It’ll be good practice, especially since it looks like school will be closed tomorrow due to snow.

Guest Blogging

2010-01-07T22:59:00.004-05:00

I have a guest post today at author Kelly Stone's blog, Free Your Creative Mind. Kelly is the author of three books and numerous magazine articles. Kelly's latest book, Thinking Write, examines ways to use your subconscious to improve your creativity. I discuss my habit of doing sudoku prior to writing. Please click here to check it out.

The Eight Days of Christmas

2010-01-05T02:00:00.000-05:00

“If I get this, will you eat some of it?” my wife asked, as she held up a kamaboko, a traditional Japanese New Year food item she’d just pulled from the refrigerated section at the local Asian foods store. I glanced at the item that resembled a white cheese log with a pink coating. I recalled when I first ate it many years ago. It lay in knocked-down domino-like slices on a food tray. I thought it a pastry, given the pink coating and eagerly grabbed one to try it.

And such was my first experience with Japanese fish cake.

“Yes,” I said, to my wife’s astonishment. In 14+ years of marriage, she’d never realized that I actually liked the taste of it.

That decided, we wheeled the grocery cart through the rest of the store as my wife searched for more items for our final holiday celebration of the season. Noodles, mochi, chicken, the list went on. There were other things I know my wife would like to have picked up. However, she didn’t as she knew the boys and I hadn’t developed a taste for it and she didn’t relish eating these foods alone. Still, we would have something to celebrate the New Year on what would be our eighth and final day of festivities.

Yes, I said eight days, for that’s what the holidays were this year. We started on Christmas morning, opening gifts at our own house. From there, we met family for a Christmas Day feast.

After returning home, we packed as we were driving up to North Carolina the day after Christmas to spend time with my family. My parents are divorced, so we have to plan two separate events, each complete with a meal. We also meet an aunt in NC, spending time with her as well. My younger sister’s in-laws also live in NC, so the trip has to be coordinated, making sure there’s sufficient time to see everyone. As expected, this took several days to do everything.

This year, with our kids getting older, my parents offered to look after our boys, giving my wife and I a little time to be by ourselves. We welcomed the opportunity and did what most parents would do,

We slept for most of it.

Let’s face it. We were worn out, though we did count the seconds until the ball dropped and then watched some moron on ESPN break a car jumping record before calling it a night.

And so, on New Year’s Day, we found ourselves in the Asian grocery store, looking for items to celebrate the Year, Japanese style. Our kids were still with their grandparents and we wouldn’t be picking them up until the next day. If my wife’s parents had been around, they would have brought everything we needed. Instead, we did the best we could.

And, on the day we brought our kids home, my wife cooked the things we’d bought the day before and she presented them with their otoshidama, a ceremonial envelope containing money, given by my wife’s parents, and sufficient for picking up one last toy. It was the eighth day of Christmas. It would have been nice to see my wife’s parents, for they have a way a making New Year’s special. Maybe next year.

So, how did you spend your New Year’s?

A Week Off

2009-12-29T22:37:00.002-05:00

My apologies, but I'm taking a break on this web site for a week. Will return on January 5th, 2010. Thanks to everyone for dropping by. Looking forward to next year.

Merry Christmas to All

2009-12-25T02:00:00.001-05:00

At church last Sunday, our pastor gave a talk about Mary's visit to her kinsman, Elizabeth. He pointed out that the two of them lived roughly 80 miles away form each other and that Mary, a young teenager, just didn't get up and go. Instead, she would have traveled in some kind of caravan and family would have come with her to protect her. The caravan would have traveled only four days a week. They would have unpacked the day before the Sabbath to set up camp, done no work on the Sabbath, and then spent the day after the Sabbath packing.

But the most amazing part of that story was the reminder that Elizabeth's baby, John the Baptist, leaped in the womb at the presence of Jesus.

May we all greet Jesus the same way.

Merry Christmas.

The Littlest Actor

2009-12-22T02:00:00.001-05:00

Every family has a story that keeps on giving, one that will be retold for the rest of their days. This is ours. And while I have run it on previous Christmases, I hope you won't mind if I run it again. It occurred a few years ago, when we lived in Oregon. May you Christmas worship time be memorable to you.

Every Christmas Eve, my wife and I take our sons to the children’s service at our church. The service includes a kids’ pageant and our boys seem to pay closer attention than they do during the typical church service. Also, we feel that attending Mass on Christmas Eve provides a wonderful way to begin the holiday. After the service is over, we go out to dinner to the one place open on Christmas Eve, a Chinese restaurant.

While my wife and I believe every family Christmas is special, we cannot conceive that any will be more memorable than this one. It was to be a big night as our older son, Andrew, was finally old enough to participate in the Christmas pageant. He enjoyed two rehearsals and getting into costume, admirably playing the role of a shepherd. Because church seating at Christmas is limited and we wanted to take pictures, we arrived almost an hour early to get a seat up front. We knew it would be difficult to keep our pre-school age son, Christopher, seated for the long service and the time before it. Therefore, my wife saved our seats while I played with Christopher and kept him entertained. When it was close to time, I corralled him and took him to our seats; he sat on my wife’s lap and anxiously looked for his older brother and the start of the show.

Just before the beginning of the pageant, the stuffy air in the crowded church became a little more unbearable than usual. As there were several babies in the immediate vicinity, my wife and I both thought one of them must have needed changing. Catching the odor, Christopher said aloud, “What’s that smell?” He turned around, looked at his Mom, and said, “That’s disgusting! Mommy, you stink! Mommy, go to the bathroom!” We did our best to quiet him down, while the people around us were suppressing their laughter. He continued on, repeating the words, “That’s disgusting! Mommy, you stink! Mommy, go to the bathroom!” Eventually, Christopher quieted down and the pageant began.

After Mass ended, we walked to the car, buckled the kids in, and drove away. On the way to the Chinese restaurant, my wife and I discussed the incident. She realized that the words Christopher used in church were the same ones she had used with him during his potty training. Also, we were convinced one of the babies close to us during the service must have had a poopy diaper or probably just passed gas. We chuckled about it. However, our little guy provided the last laugh. Overhearing the discussion, Christopher, with the smile that only a young child can produce, piped up with one more comment, “Oh, in church? That was me.”

A Little Boy’s Nightmare

2009-12-18T02:00:00.002-05:00

My younger son likes to misbehave. At this time of year, my wife often find ourselves reminding the little guy that “Santa is watching him.” The admonition seems to work for awhile. However, he soon engages in what seems to be an all-out effort at being mischievous. It’s such an ongoing event with us that, while shopping at Wal-Mart recently, my wife found a t-shirt with the words, “Dear Santa, I was framed.” She immediately found one in our younger son’s size. Of course, he wears it with pride.

But there is one event in his life that still gets his attention.

One of our Christmas traditions is to place our boys’ Santa gifts next to their bed. My wife buys a nice wrapping paper that she hides in the closet so she won’t use it for anything else. (It wouldn’t do to have Santa using the same paper we do.) We wait till we’re sure the boys are asleep, then we set out their big present from Santa. (Actually I set it out as my wife is asleep. However, as she bought the gift, hid it, and wrapped it in the special paper, it seems to be the least I can do.)

Though we usually spend Christmas at home, one year we went up to North Carolina to visit my family. We spent Christmas Eve at my Dad’s place. My boys stayed up for while, drinking hot chocolate and watching Santa Claus’s approach on the NORAD website. However, my younger son was his usual naughty self. We warned him that we were going to call Santa. He would say he’s sorry, but then revert to his old self a few minutes later.

Finally tired, our boys sacked out on a queen-sized bed in the guest room. When we sure they were out, we set up a platform of pillows on each side and placed their Santa gift on top of each pile.

The next morning, while we were sipping coffee in the kitchen, my younger son came running into the room in tears. “Santa didn’t leave me anything,” he cried. We went into the room and realized what had happened. The gift had fallen off the pillows in the night and the pillows had covered it. He was devastated.

Well, we did the only thing we could do. We fought the urge to bust out laughing. After a few “well, we warned you,” we finally went back into the room and “found” his gift.

Relieved, he was able to enjoy the rest of his Christmas and was soon to back to his naughty, but lovable self, but a little timid at times.

Maybe next year. ;-)

How to Freeze Your #*%$ Off For a Good Cause

2009-12-15T02:00:00.002-05:00

For those reading this, you can fill in the blank. However, as far as weird things I’ve done in my life, how I spent last weekend hits a new level.

Last weekend was Yule Log for the Boy Scouts in the north Georgia area. For those unfamiliar with it, on the weekend of Yule Log in December, Scouts gather for a weekend of friendly competitions at Scoutland in Gainesville. The price of entry is canned food as all the Scouts in attendance spend their days prior to the weekend collecting food to replenish local food banks. Some troops spend the weekend. Some come in for the day. All bring food to help out. Sounds fantastic and it is.

So what was weird about it?

Last weekend was, as most of you may have noticed, a little on the cold side. And my son’s troop chose to spend the weekend camping out. As the day approached, I saw the weather reports showing freezing temperatures with an inch of rain scheduled for Saturday night and I started asking myself what I might have gotten myself into. I’d camped with my son’s troop before and it had been a lot of fun. However, the potential of freezing rain? I must have lost my mind.

Complicating this was that we’d gotten my son a new tent. It was his first and he was excited. Scoutland has a lot of large canvas tents with mattresses already set up at the various campsites and my son and I had arrived early enough to claim one. Mattresses sounded like a good idea, and the tents were big enough for our gear, but my son would have none of it. He wanted to spend the night in his tent. His 6’ x 5’ tent, camped out with his 6’2” father.

With the weather coming, the only thing I knew to do was dress in layers. For most of Friday evening, I felt pretty good. My son and I got the tent set up and then realized scant little of our gear would fit. We took what we needed to back to the car and made due what we had, blankets from the house that we’d hope would keep us warm. The two of sacked out about 10:30 p.m. and I thought we’d be ok.

I woke up later and I realized I was cold. I’d slept most of the night, I figured. It would be dawn in a couple of hours. Then I reached for my cell phone so I could check the time.

1:15 a.m.

Oh! My! Word! (Actually, I uttered something else, but this is a family space.)

I rearranged the blankets on my son to make sure that he covered and then drew back my hand. The blankets were wet. Condensation from my son’s body heat meeting with the night air. I checked to make sure his cap was on. I knew he was in no danger. (I could have always taken him to the car and driven him around to get him warm if it was really that dire, but I knew that would have been overreacting.) After taking care of him, I wrapped my own blankets around me and tried to get some sleep.

3:00 a.m.

3:45 a.m.

4:45 a.m.

I realized I hadn’t endured a night this long since I was a kid on Christmas Eve. My son woke up at 5:15 and had to go to the bathroom. (I took him there, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. The sun still hadn’t risen and it would be another two hours at least.) I asked if he was okay and he said that he was fine, though he didn’t like the cold. As much as we’d prepared, we hadn’t done enough. When he finally got up on Saturday morning, he was beat. So was I.

We went home Saturday afternoon and both had hot showers. (The whole troop bugged out on Saturday, in anticipation of the bad weather.) I slept for several hours, got up for awhile, then went back and slept for more. On Sunday, I felt like I was finally warming up again, though the pain in my back left me feeling like the stunt double for the hunchback of Notre Dame.

I asked my son if he’d enjoyed his time, now that it was over. He made a comment about camping in the cold, saying he didn’t want to go again until it warmed up. Maybe next Yule Log, we’ll go for the day. One time, though, in that weather was enough.

But we’ll be sure to take lots of cans.

Food banks can use your help. Please remember them at this time of year. Click here to get more information about the Atlanta Community Food Bank.

When Reindeer Get Religion

2009-12-11T02:00:00.001-05:00

“How was school today?” I asked my 7-year old son as he chomped away on his dinner.

“Great, Dad. We learned about reindeer.”

“Oh, really? What did you learn?”

“We learned people used to denominate them.”

I paused. “Denominate?”

“Mm-hmm. Denominate.”

My wife looked at me with a stare that said what? and I figured I must have returned one just like it as I wondered what might be the religious preferences of Santa’s reindeer. I realized I could never be certain. (After all, I don’t know them personally, except for the Christmas specials I watched growing up.) But, I could at least make some reasonable assumptions.

Dasher always has to be first, so that means he’s one of seven possibilities. As for Dancer, I had no clue how to get his religious preference , but as I figured “Dancer” was a nickname, I at least could eliminate a few choices. Comet was my best hope. As I learned in the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Special, he’s all about rules. This meant I could narrow it down to two possibilities, one of which is mine. And I figured Vixen and Cupid were atheists, else they would have changed their names.

Finally, it hit me and I looked directly at my son. “Do you mean, domesticate?”

“Yeah, domesticate. That’s it. They used to keep them and use them to help around the house and the farm.”

I nodded. “Yes, and in some places they still do.”

My wife commented. “Big word for a little boy.” She then glanced at me. “How’d you figure that one out?”

“It just came to me.”

“Your mind works in strange ways.”

She has NO idea.

The writer hopes everyone takes the above in the humor it was intended. However, even though he acknowledges that denominate doesn’t mean “to assign a religion,” it really was the first thing that popped into the author’s head.

Goodbye, Mr. Monk

2009-12-08T03:00:00.000-05:00

An era ended at our house last Friday.

The final episode of Monk premiered. I watched it with my wife and our younger son. Our older one, also a Monk fan, was involved in an event at his school. He’ll have to catch the final episode on re-run.

For eight years, we’ve watched this show. It started with me, because I like the quirky detective genre. I love Sherlock Homes and Hercule Poirot, so I gravitated to Monk. My wife started soon after and then my kids got into it, too. My 7-year old would scream with delight when it was time for the show to come on. “Monky-Monk,” he always called the main character.

For eight years, if we were home on Friday night, we watched. (The show is older than my younger son.) We always knew what the final episode would come down to…Monk finding his wife’s killer. We also knew it had to end After eight years, the writers seemed to be running out of ideas. Shows in the last season were nowhere near as crisp as they had been in the earlier years. Had the writing been like this at the outset, the show would have never survived. However, we stayed with it through the last season, like an old friend that had given us many pleasant memories.

I did wonder how the final episode would end. I was convinced he would die. Sherlock Holmes ended his career by falling off a high cliff ledge with his greatest opponent, Professor Moriarty. Hercule Poirot died of natural causes, but with his dying breaths convinced his greatest opponent to take his own life. It seemed appropriate for Monk that he would pass at the end, as the search for his wife’s killer had sustained his for twelve years. Instead, Monk was poisoned, survived, and given a new reason to go on living.

I’m sure we’ll find something else to do on our Friday nights. (My older son is already counting down the days until he starts driving and he’s not even a teenager yet.) But, we will miss the quirky detective who brought so much enjoyment into our lives.

Goodbye, Monky-Monk.

Post-Thanksgiving Blues

2009-12-04T00:01:00.000-05:00

I did something Thursday morning that I shouldn’t have. I stepped on the bathroom scale.

Actually, it’s something I should have done a few days ago, but didn’t. I knew I’d indulged myself over the holidays and figured the extra weight would go away. (One of the rules of weight loss. If you don’t think about it, it goes away.) But as I walked into the bathroom that morning, the flat white device mocked me as images of clothes fitting more snugly than they used to fit flashed through my mind.

Don’t do it.

One voice of supposed reason echoed in the emptiness that is my head when I haven’t had coffee. It tried to talk me out of it.

Your wonderful wife fixed one of your favorite dishes last night. So what if you had thirds. Give it another day.

But I didn’t listen and I stepped on that scale.

Uggh!!

I was still five pounds over my pre-Thanksgiving weight, which was already elevated in an inverse relationship to the amount of Halloween candy left downstairs. And with parties every weekend until after New Year’s, it looks like I have no hope.

My wife would probably tell me to eat less. (Fat chance of that. She’s a great cook.)

I could hope for warm days, so I could get outside and play with my kids, or at least get some exercise. (Granted, I shouldn’t let a chill stop me.) However, keeping the holiday pounds off, like any laudable goal, takes work.

Any suggestions from readers out there?

A Look Back at Thanksgiving

2009-12-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was last week. (Not that I was thinking anyone missed it.) We had a blast. We drove up to NC to spend time with my family Two days, including the actual holiday, with my mother and her husband (Grandma and Papa Foy). Two days with my dad and his wife (Grandpa and Na-na). (I’m glad my wife’s parents are Japanese. My sons use the Japanese terms for grandma and grandpa. I would have had difficulty coming up with separate names for them otherwise.) Whichever set of grandparents it is, my boys enjoy being with them.

However, the start and end of the trip provided an interesting commentary that I hadn’t expected. On Wednesday, we met Grandma and Papa Foy at Old Salem, an historic community of shops (like a miniature Williamsburg) that demonstrates how people lived in the 18th and 19th century. The community, founded by the Moravian church, is located in Winston-Salem, NC. People take you through tours of explanations of old bakeries, gun shops, shoemakers, tinsmiths, etc. as well as living and worship spaces for the townsfolk. My sons enjoyed the gun shops. (They’re boys. It’s to be expected.) They also enjoyed a Toy Museum exhibit.

One of the facts I found interesting was that, at Old Salem, they alternate days between the 18th and 19th century. We’d showed up on 19th century day. This meant that a lot of the 18th century style shops were closed. Old Salem used to run both types every day, but budgeting and the economy had forced the community to cut back. Some people did double up. The shoemaker was also the potter. The tinsmith switched operated both days and just switched the equipment he could use. Overall, though, the interesting little place was half-staffed and would remain that way for the immediate future.

Though I thought the situation sad, I didn’t think much else of it. We celebrated with a big group on Thanksgiving day at my mothers, went to my father’s on Friday, and then went shopping on Saturday with my wife while my kids enjoyed a movie with Grandpa and Na-na.

On Sunday, we packed for home. We left mid-morning, as we were afraid of traffic slowing us down. It had before. We expected it. And while we did run into spots of traffic, the overall traffic volume was lower than I remember in previous years. Were we lucky? I don’t know.

However, those musings were overshadowed by all the similar-looking signs I noticed while traveling south on I-85. How were they similar? They all had a number to call, if you were interesting in leasing the space.

So, a nice family vacation, bracketed by little signs of weakness in the economy. And I as considered my own situation, I realized one thing.

I have a lot to be thankful for.

Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T00:01:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! If you're going somewhere to be with family, I hope you have a safe journey.

Next week, I will resume my Tuesday and Friday posting schedule. However, I will be dropping the "This Weekend in Atlanta" posting. Not sure what I'm going to do yet. I like the idea of people submitting funny comments by kids. We'll have to see.

The Haircut

2009-11-24T00:01:00.001-05:00

“Daddy, I need a haircut.”

The words, coming from my 7-year old, stopped me dead. “You want a what?”

“I want a haircut.”

“Ok,” I said, nodding. Inside, I was happy. My little guy has fought getting a haircut for a number of months. My wife and I have often commented how long his hair is and that he should have it shorn. We tried numerous approaches.

“If you don’t cut your hair, you won’t be able to see. You’ll trip over something.”

“I can see fine. I just move it out of the way.”

During baseball season, he went into a slump. We seized the opportunity.

“You seem to be having trouble batting. Is your hair getting in your eyes?”

“I just shove it under my helmet. I can see fine.”

“That’s a lot of hair, though. Maybe your helmet’s too tight.”

Still, he blew our concerns off and wouldn’t be deterred. My wife, frustrated, demanded that he at least agree to cut his bangs. He pouted and sat still, long enough for my wife to give him a trim. Other than that, nothing.

Finally, we thought we had a solution.

“Tell you what. We’ll let you keep your hair long. You just need a bow.”

“Mom! Dad!” he fumed. “I don’t want a bow.”

“”It’ll be cute,” we countered. “You can borrow a bow from one of your classmates. Your cousin wears a lot of bows in her hair. Maybe she’ll give you one.”

Eventually, given enough teasing, he would storm off. My wife and I would laugh, convinced we were getting to him. However, he was not deterred. Finally, my wife and I agreed to let him keep his hair long as long it didn’t get in his eyes and cause him problems.

So, for this reason, his comment about cutting his hair caught me off guard.

“Really,” I asked. ‘What made you change your mind.”

“Some friends of mine said I look like a girl.”

Ah. Peer pressure. That would do it.

Still, even though he’s decided to get a trim, my wife and I realize that we have another challenge. He’s only seven. Is he already listening to his peers more than us? How do we deal with that?

This Weekend in Atlanta

2009-11-19T00:01:00.002-05:00

When my wife and I visited New York a few years ago, we had a chance to see the Rockettes. The show was absolutely wonderful.

This weekend, today actually, The Rockettes open at Fox Theater. They'll be in town until December 6th. Click here for more information. (Picture originally published on the Fox Theater website.)

Ode to Maurice Sendak

2009-11-17T00:01:00.000-05:00

I took my boys to see “Where the Wild Things Are” recently. It’s been out awhile, I know, but we’ve been busy. We caught the Saturday morning show over at Discover Mills Mall, when tickets prices are only $6 apiece for shows before noon. My wife thought it was a wonderful way to save money on ticket prices and it would have been, had I not promised the boys popcorn and drinks.

The kids enjoyed the show, though my younger son thought it a bit scary at times. (Granted, that could have been the caffeine and sugar in the Coke that kept him agitated.) My older son loved it. Admittedly, so did I, but not for any reason that had to do with the movie.

When my older son was still a toddler, my wife and I noticed he had trouble speaking. He had babbled like any child does at the appropriate ages and then his language abilities fell to the ground like a meteorite. We took him to doctors, therapists, specialists, etc. And we grew more and more frustrated.

One of the things we did though was to continue to try and read to him. We read simple books, books with great pictures, books to help kids pick up reading. We tried acting these books out to bring his words out.

No book was more popular with my older son than “Where the Wild Things Are.” We read the book every night. We bought a cassette tape of Maurice Sendak stories and listened to it in the car on the way to day care. And, as we went through the book, we followed the crescendos and decrescendos all the way up to my son’s favorite part of the book, where the little boy character, Max, is made king of the place where the wild things are and gives his first decree.

“Let the wild rumpus start.”

Max and the wild things all danced around and played. My son and I would do the same thing, at least until it was time for the wild things to be sent to bed without their supper as had happened to Max earlier in the story.

From there, we would finish the book. We might read something else. Another one my son’s favorites was another Sendak book, “In the Night Kitchen.” And while my son enjoyed that story, his reaction was never close to what came out for the wild things.

And after our reading was done, my son and I would put the books away until the next night, when we got to open up them up and let the wild rumpus start all over again.

This Weekend In Atlanta

2009-11-12T00:01:00.000-05:00

For those of you on the east side that have always wanted to see a hockey game, but don't relish driving downtown to Blueland, the Gwinnett Gladiators are at home this Friday and Saturday. Click here for more information.

A Step Away from Independence

2009-11-10T00:01:00.002-05:00

As much as I love both of my kids, I sometimes find myself wanting to spend time with just one or the other. It varies back-and-forth. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but it does seem to be a fact of life.

And so, when my older son went camping with his Boy Scout troop this past weekend, I found myself looking forward to some one-on-one time with my 7-year old. My wife made it easier, heading out for shopping with the girls on Saturday, leaving me to take my little second grader to his school’s fall festival. I’ve been to this festival every year since we’ve been in Georgia. It’s a good time for all. My son jumped on jumpies, came home with brownies from a cakewalk, and bought a poster at the book fair. (My wife is still getting on me about allowing this one. “He’s supposed to buy BOOKS, not POSTERS. I couldn’t help it. There were posters for sale and he really wanted one. He vacillated for several minutes between a poster for the Falcons and one for my alma mater, Auburn. He finally decided on the Auburn one. I’m sure that’s why my wife thinks I let him buy it.)

One incident from that afternoon stands out. My 7-year old is an independent type, or at least he claims to be. He often runs off, convinced the world is his playground, and every day is a day to play. My wife and I have often gotten upset with him when he runs around in public places. We’ve tried to explain how dangerous this is. He says he gets it, but runs away again. When he was younger, my wife and I thought we might be driven to get one of those kid leashes. We chose not to do so.

This day, however, the little guy boy proved he’s not as independent as he likes to pretend. I was at a row of booths checking out the goods being promoted at one of them. My son ran toward the end of the booths to see some others items. I was watching him, so I knew exactly where he was. However, he thought I was behind him. When he turned and didn’t see me, he went a little nuts. When we reunited, he was upset. “Daddy, you left me. I thought you were behind me.” Telling him I was watching him the entire time didn’t make him feel any better.

That night, after my wife returned, our son regaled her with the story of how Daddy left him at the fall festival. We joked, saying “Don’t you like being by yourself?”

The truth is…no. As independent as he is, he needs to know someone is close by. When I put him to bed that night, he asked if I would sleep on the floor for a few minutes till he went to sleep.

“Are you scared?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.

So, he still needs me. And I’ll enjoy that feeling as long as I can.

This Weekend (actually next weekend) in Atlanta

2009-11-05T00:01:00.000-05:00

On Facebook this weekend, I posted a comment about taking out the Christmas decorations now that Halloween is over. My wife reminded me that I'm not the one who pulls out the decorations, she does. However, she'd never let me put up anything until after Thanksgiving anyway.

So, with that in mind, what better than a reminder that next weekend (Saturday, the 14th), Stone Mountain Christmas opens up for the Christmas season. For more information, please click here to be taken to the website.

Too Soon to Pass By

2009-11-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

Last October, we told my older son that it was his last year of trick-or-treat. It wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy it, but he’d outgrown the costumes at Party City. My wife had concocted a Harry Potter ensemble that my older son loved and we made sure that we hit every house in the neighborhood. While walking the neighborhood, we talked about what Halloween 2009 would be like. My son mentioned he wanted to play escort and take his little brother around.

As this October drew closer, he often mentioned his role in taking care of his little brother. He wanted my wife and I to have a night to our own. As much as I appreciated his consideration, I knew I had to go. Unfortunately, the scariest people out on Halloween are sometimes not in costume. My older son debated with me vociferously, but as Dad I drew a line in the sand.

When this Halloween rolled around, my 12-year old made one last impassioned plea. I agreed to follow from a distance, but knew I would keep them in my sight. He could still escort his little brother. And, as it was raining, his little brother needed someone with an umbrella to keep the candy dry.

So, as my younger son, Bakugon (Japanese anime), went door-to-door, my older son had a quandary. The adults tried to give him candy, too. He initially refused it. (He didn’t have a bag.) But he finally gave in and began accepting the offerings, stuffing them into his pockets. When his pockets filled up, he gave them to me or dropped them in his little brother’s bag. When adults asked him what his costume was, he told them he was dressed as “Dad.”

After we got home, my wife suggested we might have made a mistake. There were many older kids, dressed in costume, who came to our house. My wife thought we’d aged our oldest out too early. Maybe next year, he could go door-to-door again.

My older son didn’t mind. He doesn’t like candy that much anyway. (And my younger son gets to ring the bell at every house.) However, for my older son, he tells me he got to be one of the things he wants to be when he grows up—he got to be Dad.

This Weekend in Atlanta

2009-10-29T00:01:00.000-04:00

I'm about a day late on this one, as the event started yesterday. But with shows running through Sunday, I figure there's still time.

The 101 Dalmatians Musical is playing at the Cobb Energy Performing Arts Centre. The show will run twice a day through Sunday, with the exception of Friday. (One show only on Friday.) Tickets are $15 - $65, depending on seating and show time.

Click here for more information on this and other Cobb Energy Centre events.

Desire of a Champion

2009-10-27T00:01:00.001-04:00

This week, my older son’s baseball team will play in the championship game for the 11- 12 age group in the Mill Creek area. My son is looking forward to it. He’s never been in a Championship game before.

My son has been playing sports for a few years. Unfortunately, he inherited his Dad’s athletic ability. (I think I’ve mentioned that before, but it bears repeating in his defense.) He tries hard and occasionally does good things. In the semifinal game, he made a great play in the outfield that helped save a run. He also got an RBI. Granted, that was from being hit by a pitch when the bases were loaded. Still, like any dad, I was proud.

One of the things my son is thinking about, if his team wins, is the trophy. Both my sons have received a lot of trophies already. They’ve played on various teams, had fun, and made good friends. After the season ended, the boys got trophies at whatever shindig/get-together the team organized.

Up until recently, the favorite trophy for both of them was the one each received for finishing second in the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby. They designed and built cars themselves. My older son made his car look like Bumblebee from the Transformer movie. My younger son made his look like the Mach 5 from the Speed Racer movie. They sanded, painted, and then I added weight to take the car up to the legal race limit. Why was the Pinewood Derby trophy their favorite? It’s because it represented winning. As much as each likes the trophies he has received for playing, it’s the winning that they remember.

Like I said, up until recently.

In the spring, my younger son’s team won the championship of their league. He now has a trophy he treasures above all the others, one of being a champion. Yesterday, after my son’s team won their semifinal match-up, I found out how envious my older son was of his brother’s success. “Dad, I hope we win the game. I want a championship trophy, just like my little brother has.”

As I told my wife, championships games don’t come around too often for players, whether little or big. I remember my feelings as a kid of winning and losing baseball and football championships. (I also remember never playing on a championship basketball team, though I did play on a couple of runner-up ones.) It was a special time. Winning isn’t everything, but sometimes it does carry extra weight. My kids have reminded me that, though they have fun, winning and the opportunity to be on a team and play for it all means a lot to them.

And they (my boys, that is) mean a lot to me.

This Weekend In Atlanta

2009-10-22T00:01:00.000-04:00

This weekend begins Boo at the Zoo at Zoo Atlanta. The event takes place this Saturday and Sunday, the 24th and 25th, and then next Saturday, the 31st. Activities run from 10:00 a.m - 3:00 p.m. on all three days. Events include costume contests, treats booths and the Monster Mash Disco as well special birthdays for various animals at the zoo.

Also, both this Saturday and next Saturday, the Zoo features Boo at the Zoo Nightcrawlers, which includes evening activities from 6:00 p.m. - 10:30 a.m. the following day. Event include pumpkin painting, trick-or-treating, and story telling for children ages 6 and up.

Click here for more information.

Money Money Money Mo-NEY...MO-ney

2009-10-20T00:01:00.002-04:00

With apologies to the O'Jays...

Last week, I went out with my boys for a pre-Halloween walk through the neighborhood. Or at least it felt like it, given that I had the boys get dressed up and walk door-to-door.

My boys were involved in their annual Cub Scout/Boy Scout popcorn fundraiser. Many people are unaware that the male version of the scouting world sells popcorn to raise money for their activities. I figure it’s because of the late start to the American psyche. When I was a scout as a child, the boy scouts didn't sell popcorn. (We tried yard sales among other things.) However, given the iconoclastic nature of the annual spring activities of the green-clad cookie cartel, I figure the Boy Scouts of America (BSA) decided, some time in my adult life, that they should try something like this, too. The BSA at least sells its popcorn in the fall, partly out of courtesy and probably knowing they’d get waxed in the spring.

The weather was misty with occasional sprinkles when we headed out. But, given that there were other activities on other nights, it was the only night they would have all week to do this. Still, they trudged on happily, arguing about who would get to ring the next door and present the pitch. Our neighbors were receptive and wonderful, with a number of them purchasing popcorn. As we have two boys and they’re selling together, we split the sales in half so that each boy reports roughly the same amount to his pack or troop.

Admittedly, though, I was a little apprehensive when the annual popcorn sale was announced. It came at the end of a whole list of fall fundraisers. We had stuff for fall baseball, Christmas items for the band, magazines for the schools, and the list goes on. All good causes. All worthy of support. Sometimes, my wife and I just ask the fundraising organizers a question, “How much do you get per item and how many are you asking each boy to sell?” This works really well with the coupon books, where the boys might be asked to sell only three and the group gets $5 of the $15 purchase. For my wife and I, it’s easier to write a check and just move on to the next one.

There are lots of kids in our neighborhood and they do come to our door, too. Hopefully, we participate as much as we ask our neighbors to do. However, many of the kids are also scouts and a number of them also play fall and spring sports. Those kids are selling the same things our kids are. (Oddly, there seem to be no girl scouts close by. Thankfully, the girl scouts set up stands at grocery stores. My wife can satisfy my craving for shortbread cookies when she goes shopping.)

I am happy that my boys get excited about these sales endeavors. As I mentioned before, I didn't sell popcorn. However, to raise money for various school groups. I sold doughnuts, pizza, magazines, and Christmas ornaments. The doughnuts were always my favorite. A dozen cost only $2 back then. The school group got $1 from the sale of each box. The Krispy Kreme truck would arrive early in the morning and you could smell the sugar all over the school. Of course, my parents always bought a box for our house. If my parents were lucky, I made it home with half a dozen at the end of the day.

A couple of days ago, I noticed a note posted on the fridge. It detailed an upcoming bake sale at my older son’s school, listing the prices of cakes, pies, etc.

“Honey, the school’s having a bake sale?” I asked my wife. “What are they raising funds for?”

“It’s just his math homework project. He has to plan a fundraiser and figure out the best way to raise $150.”

I was glad of that. I wasn’t ready for a bake sale. However, I was gratified to know the school was teaching my older son practical skills…for the day he becomes a parent.

This Weekend in Atlanta

2009-10-15T00:01:00.001-04:00

My sons and I attended two Gwinnett Braves games this year and we had a blast. (My wife took the opportunity to sleep. Hopefully, she’ll come next year.)

Now that the season is over, Gwinnett Braves stadium has been converted into the Stadium of Screams for the rest of the month. Times are 7:00 – 12:00, Thursday through Saturday, with one final night on Sunday, November 1st. There are scary attractions for those who are ready for horror with less scary attractions (Friday/Saturday only) for younger children. The scarier attractions are priced slightly higher than infield box seats at a Gwinnett Braves game, while the less scary attractions can be had for about the same as a field box level ticket. Discounts can be obtained by purchasing on-line and parking is free.

Click here to be taken to the website for further information.

A Taste of Things to Come

2009-10-13T00:01:00.001-04:00

We recently entertained friends from Japan. Among the gifts they brought us was some very high-quality eel. For those of you who haven’t had eel, it doesn’t taste like chicken. However, it is delicious and, for me, one of the wonderful things I picked up during my four years in Japan. (A good friend of mine refers to wife as the best thing that happened to me in Japan. Agreed, but that’s another story.)

Now, because my boys have a Japanese mother, they have acquired tastes for a number of Japanese foods, including all the basic noodles and fried items (though the latter may also be partly due to their southern heritage). They also like some Japanese sweets. My older son is particularly fond of shrimp chips and will do anything for spicy rice crackers. He’d take them as snacks to school, if we’d let him. However, given how cruel kids can be to other kids who are different, we don’t let him take these snacks to school. My wife often finds the cracker bag empty and yells out, “Who ate all of these?” It’s one of the few times she’s not looking at me for an answer.

On the more grown-up Japanese items, my kids aren’t there yet. Eel is something of a grown-up taste, at least in my opinion. Sushi is the same. And as both are expensive items, my wife and I were content when our sons hadn’t acquired a taste for these items.

Then, there was our trip to Japan in the summer of 2008. While there, we visited the northern island of Hokkaido and went to Otaru, a wonderful little city on the sea of Japan. (Click here for my post on Otaru.) One of the things my wife wanted was good (re: expensive) sushi. We found a good restaurant and my wife eyed the menu greedily, ordering various items. Then my younger son asked to try it.

What a wonderful time for my younger son to instantly acquire a taste for sushi. Now back in the U.S., he often asks to go out for it. We indulge him when we can.

So, with the eel in front of me, I look at younger son and say, “Do you want to try some?”

My wife looks at me, horrified. “I don’t want him to acquire a taste for eel yet. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll waste it.” Still, I break off a little piece and offer it to him. His upturned nose tells me the answer.

Despite his distaste, he chews the tiny piece down anyway. My wife then notes, “you forgot to add the sauce.” I add it to my eel and give him another little taste. Same reaction.

“That was eel?” he asks. “It tastes like fish, not chicken.”

No kidding.

I do hope my son will someday love eel as much as I do. However, on those days where friends and family bring us eel as a gift, I’m happy not to have to share it yet.

And I will not serve Kobe beef at the house, at least until after the kids go away to college.

Note to Readers: My wife thinks I should put the this weekend in Atlanta recommendations on Thursday instead of Friday. Will try the switch.

This Weekend In Atlanta

2009-10-09T00:01:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow, from 10:00 - 4:00 at Mercer University's Atlanta Campus, is the sixth annual Atlanta Parent Family Block Party. It's an opportunity get out and play all day with more than 50 kid-friendly activities, entertainment, storytelling, informational booths and more! It's a way to spend a beautiful fall day with family (and then spend the evening watching college football
:-) ).

When Benchmark Meets The Bench Player

2009-10-06T01:00:00.000-04:00

Several times during the school year, my sons have a battery of tests that seem to last a week. The big one is the CRCTs and we sweat those out for a while. Other tests include COGAT, ITBS, and a lot of other acronyms I’ve either forgotten of mixed up.

This week, my older son has Benchmark tests. Benchmark tests to review what kids have learned so far this particular school year. It doesn’t have a big effect on your grade. However, like losing baseball games in April, it will still count you at the end of the season. For the benchmark, it’s as if the teachers are being judged to see how well they are doing.

Because school and tests take center stage among all kid activities, we sometimes find ourselves making decisions on our kids’ evenings. With benchmarks requiring nightly study in all subjects., we told my oldest that he would have to miss his Monday night at Boy Scouts. Scouts is a wonderful endeavor and my son enjoys it. It teaches kids such skills as how to work together as a team to accomplish goals. Still, Scouts is something of an individual endeavor. If my son isn’t ready for his tests, he can’t go to Scouts.

It’s the same way with sports. We’ve had scenarios where one of our kids has had a big test is the day after a practice. On that day (and days before), we’ve made them study hard. We check their comprehension before practice. If they know it, they can go. If they don’t, then they can’t.

Games are a different matter. If you keep a kid away from game, you bring up the possibility that the game could be a forfeit. Kids get sick. Nothing you can do, but there aren’t a lot of extra kids on each team. My older son’s team has one extra player. If two kids are missing, they only have eight kids. They can play with that many, but you’re trying to cover an outfield with two kids. Not easy.

So what should we do? School is still the most important thing. Commitment is also important. So, we pray we make the right decision. We pray that our son studies early and often.

And like the fans of the Boston Braves during the last 40s when Warren Spahn and Johnny Sain took the mound, we pray for rain.

This Weekend in Atlanta

2009-10-02T05:00:00.000-04:00

This weekend is the annual Moonlight & Magnolias conference, the annual conference of Georgia Romance Writers. It is one of the largest conferences of its kind, bringing together writers from all over North America. Though most events are closed to non-attendees, two events are open to the general public: a speech by NY Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon, followed by a book fair and autograph signing.

Kenyon's speech takes place at 3:00 p.m. The book fair follows the speech and lasts from 4:00 - 5:30 p.m. The signing features many bestselling authors. Click here for a complete list.

The Joy of Batting Seventh

2009-09-29T05:00:00.000-04:00

My 12-year son loves to bat. He loves to connect with the ball (what kid doesn’t) and, although he isn’t quick, he wears an irrepressible smile whenever he gets on base. However, there’s one thing about hitting that my 12-year son doesn’t like.

He doesn’t like batting last.

For those of you that don’t have kids in baseball, every kid gets to bat (at least they do in our league). It doesn’t mean they all play in the field at the same time. Usually, each team has ten or eleven kids. The kids can start the game, switch positions, sit out an inning, and then go back on the field. Along with this set-up, the batting line-up includes every kid on the team.

However, having started later in playing the game and having an uncoordinated father, my son has perennially been seen as a weak hitter. This means he’s often stuck at the end of a line-up. Games are limited to 90 minutes and, with kids pitching, innings can take a long time. Though the games are planned for five innings, it’s not unusual to have a game where the kids are lucky to get three innings in. It’s in games like these that the kids who bat at the bottom of a line-up only get one at-bat in a game. I’ve lost count of how many times my son was scheduled to bat in the following inning, only to have the game called.

Last Friday night was one of those situations. My 12-year old’s team nearly went through the order in the first inning. He was standing in the on-deck circle when the kid in front of him struck out. My son batted first in the second inning and struck out, but the team managed to bat around. He was scheduled to open the third inning and wanted redemption. But my son’s team was the Home team. Ninety minutes had elapsed by the end of the top half of the third inning (when the Visiting team bats). My son’s team was leading and the umps called the game. He was happy that his team won, but disappointed he only got one shot.

On Sunday, he ran up to me excitedly. “Dad, I’m batting 7th.” He knew what it meant, more opportunity. He went 0 for 1 with strike out and scored a run. I was proud of him for coaxing a walk after being down 0-2 in his second at-bat. The game got through four innings. Like many times prior, he was the next batter when the last inning was over. His team won again, but I thought he’d be disappointed being stranded once again in the on-deck circle.

He just looked at me and flashed a rueful smile. “I almost got up there a third time.”

“If you want to stay up there, you need to keep hitting,” I told him.

Hopefully, he will.

This Weekend in Atlanta

2009-09-25T05:00:00.001-04:00

Though it's still September, my wife and I are planning our fall visit to a pumpkin farm. Our pumpkin place of choice has always been Burt's Farm in Dawsonville. However, we realize there are many choices of places to go. You may believe I'm nuts (since most people don't think about pumpkins and Halloween in September), but it is that time and it's best to go early before the good pumpkins are gone.

Click here to be taken to a list of pumpkin farms in the Atlanta area. And, for those willing to drive the distance, I understand there is a wonderful maze in the Chattanooga area (The Enchanted Maze).

Bored Games

2009-09-22T05:00:00.000-04:00

With the recent torrential downpours, the Mill Creek Athletic Association in Gwinnett County cancelled all of the weekend baseball games by Friday as the fields were such a mess. It proved to be the right decision as rain continued through the weekend.

So, with my kids cooped up in the house, we talked about what to do. The boys wanted to go see a movie. Normally, we wouldn’t mind this, but both my sons had their hearts set on G.I. Joe. I saw no problem with taking my older son to it. However, both my wife and I were convinced that the movie was much too violent for our 7-year old. (Yes, he pouted.)

However, from there, we turned to board games. My kids have several games they like: Braves Monopoly, Tank Battle (game from my era, but a cool one), Sorry, and Battleship. However, their favorite game is Risk. For those of you unfamiliar with Risk, it’s a board game where the object is to take over the world. The board is a world map subdivided into 42 sections (Antarctica not included). The players start with an equal number of sections and attack and defend with rolls of dice.

It’s an entertaining game. My sons have favorite places on board, like Japan (because they’ve been there) and Madagascar (because of the movie). However, my 7-year old has interesting names for some of the areas on the board.

“Daddy, I’m attacking New Jersey.”

“It’s New Guinea.”

“I’m taking over Queen Bee.”

“That’s Quebec.”

“Daddy, where’s A-Gyt?”

“Egypt,” I respond. “It’s in Africa.”

My kids get excited as they take territory. However, as shown above, they have problems with some of the names. As fun as the game is, though, there is always one part that makes me stop and think.

“Daddy, where’s Af-Af-Af?”

“Af-ghan-i-stan,” I say. Slowly.

“Afghanistan,” my 7-year old repeats. “What’s that?”

And that’s when I stop. Kids know we have soldiers fighting for our country. And you can explain that Afghanistan is one of those places. But how much farther do you go after that? When is the proper time to discuss issues like these with your kids? Is a rainy Saturday afternoon the time to discuss with your kids the lives of real G.I. Joes?

Readers, what do you think?

This Weekend In Atlanta

2009-09-18T06:00:00.000-04:00

The Gwinnett County Fair begins this weekend. The festival, held at the Gwinnett County Fairgrounds (where else :-) )in Lawrenceville, will run from September 17-27. It features live entertainment, games, livestock shows, and lots of carnival rides.

Prices are reasonable and kids under 6, who will definitely have a blast, are free. Don't let reports of bad weather keep you away. Click here to be taken to a website for more information.

Cunicio ergo sum (I pitch, therefore I am)

2009-09-15T06:00:00.000-04:00

When a local magistrate ordered William Tell to shoot an apple off his son’s head, William Tell took out two arrows. He notched the first one and split the apple.

“Was the second arrow in the event you missed high?” the magistrate asked after Tell’s successful first shot.

Tell shook his head. “It was for you in case I missed low.”

So what does William Tell have to do with parenting and baseball?

My 7-year old dreams of being a pitcher. He practices at home and I play catcher for as long as my knees will allow. His favorite Braves player is still Brian McCann, but after that it’s Kenshin Kawakami. (My kids are half Japanese, so they went nuts when the Braves got a player from Japan.) My younger son wanted to pitch on his previous teams, but didn’t get the opportunity. However, this fall, that finally changed. He finally started working in the pitcher’s role (playing third base when he’s not on the mound). When the little guy took his warm-up tosses with the coach. He did so well that the coach picked him as the first pitcher in the opening game.

However, the coach had to get him over one problem…facing live batters. With no one in the batter’s box, my son has no problem finding the strike zone. However, put a batter there and he gets wild. Apparently, this is a problem with young kids in their first time as pitcher. They’re afraid of hitting the other kids. It’s a mental block. You tell them to forget the player and concentrate on the mitt. A difficult thing to do. My older son volunteered to serve as the batter (a target my younger occasionally wants to hit anyway), but the coaches preferred to take the lumps themselves.

So, when last Saturday night arrived, my little guy took the mound. (My wife and I were nervous, as any parent would be.) He walked the first two batters, got the third one out on a fielder’s choice, and then struck out the final two to end the inning. We were psyched. Unfortunately, the next inning didn’t go as well. The first batter reached on an error and my son walked the second one. The third one hit a two-strike grounder that got by the third baseman and plated both men on base. My son was pulled (for pitch count reasons, as he was closing in on 50 pitches).

My younger son made up for it in the next inning, scorching a single to right that brought two men on base home. However, he was still dejected about his pitching performance (that and his team losing). I was a proud Dad, though, and I let him know it after the game. “Kawakami couldn’t have done any better,” I said. That cheered him up. For his performance, the coach named him the captain of the next game.

Now, he looks forward to his next game and he wants to get back on the mound. I know he’ll get better and I can’t wait. Maybe he’s still scared of hitting the other kids, but he doesn’t show it. However, there is one worry. The other team’s pitcher hit four kids on my son’s team.

Thank goodness for batting helmets!

Readers, have you faced situations like this?

Yellow Daisy Festival

2009-09-11T06:00:00.001-04:00

Sometimes, I find things my own. Sometimes, my wife tells me what's going on.

This is definitely one of the latter

This weekend is the 41st Annual Yellow Daisy Festival. The Festival, held at Stone Mountain, is a congregation of 500 arts and crafters from all over the U.S. According to my wife, it's a place of shopping madness for women with lots of activities for kids.

Apparently, there is also a large section of chairs for husbands to sit, relax, and read. Granted, she may have just told me that to assure me I would have something to do. She didn't mention anything about radios (to listen to football games on Saturday), but I can adapt.

The Festival lasts until Sunday and it should be good weather (and not so hot). Click here to be taken to a website for more information.

A 12-Year Old Goes Shopping

2009-09-08T06:00:00.001-04:00

My 12-year old went shopping this past weekend. He had unused gift cards from Target and some cash saved up. After a long wait, he finally decided it was time to go.

So what does a 12-year old boy want when he had money?

Mine wanted an alarm clock.

We first bought a cheap one. Andrew wanted something a little nicer, but I talked him into the most inexpensive one there as I thought he should spend his money on something else, something more fun. I didn’t want him to waste his money on something so…practical.

Well, we took it home and my son was excited. We set it up. Everything look good.

A few minutes later, my younger son cried, “Dad, something’s wrong. Come up here.”

I hurried to the room and saw the clock. The minutes were changing every five seconds. We’d bought too cheap a clock. My older son was disappointed. He’d looked forward to his new acquisition. He’s have to wait until we went back.

We went a second time to Target. He looked at couple of clocks about double the price of the first one. They were nice, but he couldn’t decide. He also liked other alarm clocks, ones that were much nicer. I couldn’t believe he was considering them. However, this time he wasn’t ready to purchase. We left with no clock. He wanted to sleep on it.

On Saturday, we returned to Target. He finally selected a clock, one worth three times what the cheapo version was. We set it up. He knows how to set the alarm. He also likes radio (so he can listen to Braves games).

Had to ask him though. Why a clock radio?

Apparently, he wanted to get up on his own. He wanted some control over his mornings.

He wanted to take some responsibility for his life.

I was impressed with my soon-to-be teenager. However, the practicality of the gift was hard to fathom. (He did pick up a couple of DVDs he wanted, so he would at least enjoy those.) I mentioned it to my wife.

“He’s only twelve. He shouldn’t be so obsessed with time,” my wife responded.

“I was,” I said.

“Then why were you so surprised about his choice? It means he’s just like you.”

And that may be the best thing of all.

Readers, are you ever surprised by the things your kids want to buy themselves?

New Book Release

2009-09-06T06:00:00.003-04:00

And because it's the weekend of the Decatur Book Festival, I'd like to drop a line about the new release of my friend, Kit Wilkinson. Her first book, Protector's Honor, will be availabe in stores on September 8th. The back cover blurb is below. If you like it, click here to order.

It’s instinct. When NCIS agent Rory Farrell hears a woman scream, he reacts. But even after he saves her from abduction, Rory can’t get the beautiful and fragile Tabitha Beaumont out of his mind. Especially when he finds a connection between Tabitha and his latest murder investigation. She needs protection—Rory’s protection—while Rory needs answers Tabitha doesn’t even realize she holds. Yet how can he find the truth without betraying Tabitha’s trust? Soon, Rory must decide what matters most—keeping his objective distance, or keeping Tabitha, in his arms and under his protection, forever.

2009 Decatur Book Festival

2009-09-04T06:00:00.000-04:00

Today begins the fourth annual Decatur Book Festival. This free book festival, which will last until Sunday, is held at various locations around the downtown square in Decatur and gathers over 250 fiction and nonfiction authors to the Decatur area. Last year, over 75,000 people attended the three-day event. I’m looking forward to making this event as I’ve wanted to go for the last two years, but was out of town.

There are many children’s activities, including a parade Saturday morning and a mariachi brunch. There are also events for teens, so families of all ages should have a good time. Click here to be taken to a website for more information.