When my wife shops, it is not unusual for her to be gone for several hours at a time. Her lengthy trips are not because she spends money frivolously, but rather they take a long time because she is always trying to get the best deal possible. The other night she was on one of these trips while I stayed home with the kids. I don’t usually start to worry until she has been gone well over an hour, so when the phone rang a half hour into her trip, I was a little concerned that something had gone wrong. “I’m getting some hamburgers and I need you to stay on the phone with me,” she said as soon as I answered.
“Okay,” I replied, not sure why my voice needed to accompany her on a burger run. I was confused, however, since I had taken the kids out for burgers the day before. It wasn’t like we were in any kind of burger slump at the moment and we really didn’t need more for dinner.
“I ran into this guy in the parking lot and he asked if I could buy him some food or let him follow me home and do some work on the house,” she began. “Since I had just gotten a bunch of stuff for free at the store, I thought that God was checking to see if I could turn my bargain into generosity.”
“So where are you now?” I asked.
“I’m in the drive thru. He had his wife and two little kids with him so I thought I would get them some burgers”
“I’m glad you chose the food option over the follow-you-home option,” I reassured her. I listened as she placed the order and then added, “I’m proud of you.” My wife is not exactly a people-person. She is actually quite shy in social situations and to step out of that comfort zone and do something nice for strangers was a really big step for her. As I mentioned before, she is also very careful with money. To spontaneously give money to a stranger without figuring out where in our budget it will come from was another big step.
She explained to me that the family was in a red car and they would meet her in the parking lot after she got the food. It seemed that she was handling things in a safe manner and as long as she stayed in the car, I wasn’t too concerned. I did, however, stay on the phone to make sure she was safe. Not only was I impressed that she was stepping out of her comfort zone, but she was also listening to God’s prompting. As she made her way through the line, I heard her pay for the meal and pull out to the parking lot.
“I don’t see the car,” she said.
“Look around for a minute,” I replied.
“They were going to drive over from the store and meet me here,” she responded. After several minutes there was still no sign of the red car, the man, or his wife and kids. “Do you want a burger?” she asked.
“I’m always up for a burger,” I replied. “Come on home.” As she drove home we speculated about what might have happened to the family. The most logical explanation was that it was all a scam and the family wasn’t really hungry, they just wanted money. When my wife offered to buy them food, they pretended to be polite, then went off in search of someone else who would just buy their way out of a good deed. With her confidence in mankind shaken, she drove home with one eye in the mirror to make sure the creep wasn’t following her.
Despite the fact that her good deed was not appreciated, there is still a valuable lesson in this story: Never waste a good burger.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Manhood
Do you ever wonder if you are doing your job as a parent the right way? Are you teaching your sons what it means to be a man and your daughters what it means to be a woman? Are you a good role model for them? All of these questions have been running through my mind lately, so I decided to take the kids out to Dad’s favorite restaurant and have a little heart to heart with them. I started with my seven-year-old son. “Hey, Buddy, I have a question for you.”
“What?”
I lobbed him a softball to get things started. “What is the difference between a man and a boy?”
“A man is old and a boy is young.” Makes sense.
“What does a man do that a boy doesn’t do?” I asked.
“A man has a job.” Simple enough.
So let’s follow up on this, I thought. “What are some manly jobs?”
He rattled off a surprisingly predictable list that included policeman, “war guy,” and fireman. What did impress me, however, was that even at his young age, he was aware of what it means to be manly. I must be doing something right.
As an elementary school teacher I sometimes wonder what kind impression of manly I am giving to my kids. While I enjoy my job, the only time I really feel manly is when I break up a fight between two ten-year-olds or nail a hot-headed punk with a dodge ball. From day one, my son has been a very cautious kid. He hates to take risks or try new things. Academically he is brilliant, but when it comes to doing the rough and tumble boy things, he would rather read a book about it than actually do it. The fact that he was aware of what real men do was refreshing to me.
I followed up on the manly jobs question by asking him if he would rather drive a big tractor or work at Del Taco. He responded with a giggle and said, “Drive a tractor!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that is what a man does,” he said. Score another point for the cautious kid.
“Where do you think men like to shop?” I asked.
“Home Depot!” he shouted. Oh, yeah!
“Girls like to shop at the mall and at Henry’s (a local farmer’s market),” my daughter interjected.
Time for the next question. “What does a man do when he is not at work?”
This time my five-year-old daughter again chimed in. “He comes home and plays with his kids, then eats dinner and puts his kids to bed then spends time with his wife.” I am feeling pretty good about the impression I am leaving on my kids by this point.
“What are some things a man does after he puts his kids to bed, but before he gets tired?”
Once again, my daughter answered, “He goes to Bible Study.” Still feeling pretty good. I must be leaving a good impression.
Now I really wanted to get to the heart of the little guy’s manhood. “Do men like to do safe things or dangerous things?”
“Dangerous things.” I breathed a sigh of relief. He really does get it.
“What are some dangerous things you like to do, Buddy?”
“Play baseball,” he replied.
“That is dangerous. The ball might hit you in the face and hurt you,” I said adding to the conversation.
Now it’s time to find out if my son thinks I am a man. “What are some dangerous things Daddy does?”
Without even thinking he said, “You teach kids!”
So much for my manly impression.
“What?”
I lobbed him a softball to get things started. “What is the difference between a man and a boy?”
“A man is old and a boy is young.” Makes sense.
“What does a man do that a boy doesn’t do?” I asked.
“A man has a job.” Simple enough.
So let’s follow up on this, I thought. “What are some manly jobs?”
He rattled off a surprisingly predictable list that included policeman, “war guy,” and fireman. What did impress me, however, was that even at his young age, he was aware of what it means to be manly. I must be doing something right.
As an elementary school teacher I sometimes wonder what kind impression of manly I am giving to my kids. While I enjoy my job, the only time I really feel manly is when I break up a fight between two ten-year-olds or nail a hot-headed punk with a dodge ball. From day one, my son has been a very cautious kid. He hates to take risks or try new things. Academically he is brilliant, but when it comes to doing the rough and tumble boy things, he would rather read a book about it than actually do it. The fact that he was aware of what real men do was refreshing to me.
I followed up on the manly jobs question by asking him if he would rather drive a big tractor or work at Del Taco. He responded with a giggle and said, “Drive a tractor!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that is what a man does,” he said. Score another point for the cautious kid.
“Where do you think men like to shop?” I asked.
“Home Depot!” he shouted. Oh, yeah!
“Girls like to shop at the mall and at Henry’s (a local farmer’s market),” my daughter interjected.
Time for the next question. “What does a man do when he is not at work?”
This time my five-year-old daughter again chimed in. “He comes home and plays with his kids, then eats dinner and puts his kids to bed then spends time with his wife.” I am feeling pretty good about the impression I am leaving on my kids by this point.
“What are some things a man does after he puts his kids to bed, but before he gets tired?”
Once again, my daughter answered, “He goes to Bible Study.” Still feeling pretty good. I must be leaving a good impression.
Now I really wanted to get to the heart of the little guy’s manhood. “Do men like to do safe things or dangerous things?”
“Dangerous things.” I breathed a sigh of relief. He really does get it.
“What are some dangerous things you like to do, Buddy?”
“Play baseball,” he replied.
“That is dangerous. The ball might hit you in the face and hurt you,” I said adding to the conversation.
Now it’s time to find out if my son thinks I am a man. “What are some dangerous things Daddy does?”
Without even thinking he said, “You teach kids!”
So much for my manly impression.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Man Cave
I live in a house with a wife and four young kids. I work at an elementary school. My life is consumed by women and children. Consequently, there is very little “man time.” This weekend, all that changed when I reverted back to my prehistoric inner-self and became a cave man. Cave dwelling brings out the man from within the man and provide men like me who have no man time with a place to create man time.
It started quite by accident (but kind of on purpose) when I acquired some used couches that had resided in my parents’ house for well over twenty years. I was actually supposed to bring them back to my house and sell them, however, as soon as they landed in my garage, a strange thing happened. The couches arranged themselves into a cozy corner surrounding a scrap of old carpet and suddenly, without explanation, the man cave was born. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was here to stay. The couches had been a part of my life for so long as a child and now they were back. Their new duty is simple: to provided me an opportunity to rest my weary haunches upon their cushions. Their purpose, however, is infinite. They provide me a place where I can close the door and hide from the chaos within the house. My new cave is a place where I can sit and blog about having a man cave. It is glorious.
The official man cave initiation took place last night when I invited my wife out for a movie. This was no chick flick either. It was man movie night. As she snuggled in next to me I heard her remark, “This is kind of nice. It’s cozy.” And it was then that I knew she was hooked.
The next day it became even more apparent that she was digging my newfound manliness. As I I stood in front of my class of nine- and ten year-olds teaching them how to write a research report, an e-mail popped up on my screen. I glanced down and saw something about a babysitter so we could go to the gym together. Let me make sure you all read this right. My wife enjoyed a manly movie with me in my man cave and the next day made arrangements to come to the gym with me so I could impress her with my ability to sweat from places she never knew sweat could appear. Does a marriage get any better than this?
Unfortunately, there is a downside to all of this. Imagine a man cave in the home of a daddy. Now imagine what the man cave looks like when Daddy gets home from work. Now imagine Daddy wishing he could get his car into the garage, but there are so many toys overflowing from the man cave section of the garage that the car must remain in the driveway until the issue is resolved. Now imagine the man with the newfound manliness on his hands and knees picking up toys and bikes, and dolls with his three year old daughter gently reminding her that Daddy’s man cave needs to look manly by the time Daddy gets home.
That was how things panned out for me as I came home in great anticipation of my newfound zone. Later on that evening, I again retreated to the cave to write a blog about the manliness of my cave when the pitter-patter of little feet found their way into the garage. I kept on typing, never even looking up. The three-year-old cave invader marched right over to my couch, climbed up next to me, snuggled in close, and said, “Daddy, I need you.”
“What do you need,” I asked finally looking into her innocent eyes.
“I just need you,” she replied. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, but, I let her stay on the couch in the cave for just a few minutes. After all, being a daddy is part of being a man.
It started quite by accident (but kind of on purpose) when I acquired some used couches that had resided in my parents’ house for well over twenty years. I was actually supposed to bring them back to my house and sell them, however, as soon as they landed in my garage, a strange thing happened. The couches arranged themselves into a cozy corner surrounding a scrap of old carpet and suddenly, without explanation, the man cave was born. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was here to stay. The couches had been a part of my life for so long as a child and now they were back. Their new duty is simple: to provided me an opportunity to rest my weary haunches upon their cushions. Their purpose, however, is infinite. They provide me a place where I can close the door and hide from the chaos within the house. My new cave is a place where I can sit and blog about having a man cave. It is glorious.
The official man cave initiation took place last night when I invited my wife out for a movie. This was no chick flick either. It was man movie night. As she snuggled in next to me I heard her remark, “This is kind of nice. It’s cozy.” And it was then that I knew she was hooked.
The next day it became even more apparent that she was digging my newfound manliness. As I I stood in front of my class of nine- and ten year-olds teaching them how to write a research report, an e-mail popped up on my screen. I glanced down and saw something about a babysitter so we could go to the gym together. Let me make sure you all read this right. My wife enjoyed a manly movie with me in my man cave and the next day made arrangements to come to the gym with me so I could impress her with my ability to sweat from places she never knew sweat could appear. Does a marriage get any better than this?
Unfortunately, there is a downside to all of this. Imagine a man cave in the home of a daddy. Now imagine what the man cave looks like when Daddy gets home from work. Now imagine Daddy wishing he could get his car into the garage, but there are so many toys overflowing from the man cave section of the garage that the car must remain in the driveway until the issue is resolved. Now imagine the man with the newfound manliness on his hands and knees picking up toys and bikes, and dolls with his three year old daughter gently reminding her that Daddy’s man cave needs to look manly by the time Daddy gets home.
That was how things panned out for me as I came home in great anticipation of my newfound zone. Later on that evening, I again retreated to the cave to write a blog about the manliness of my cave when the pitter-patter of little feet found their way into the garage. I kept on typing, never even looking up. The three-year-old cave invader marched right over to my couch, climbed up next to me, snuggled in close, and said, “Daddy, I need you.”
“What do you need,” I asked finally looking into her innocent eyes.
“I just need you,” she replied. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, but, I let her stay on the couch in the cave for just a few minutes. After all, being a daddy is part of being a man.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Green Beans
Everyone knows that there are different cuts of meat. We have all heard of sirloins, t-bones, chucks, and even the tubular hot dog, but have you ever stopped to consider that other foods have different cuts as well? Some foods just taste better when they are cut right. Take carrots, for example. When was the last time you gnawed off the end of a root-shaped carrot? Chances are you have been getting your beta-carotene from those nicely rounded baby carrots that you find at the grocery store conveniently pre-packaged and ready to eat. So, why do people buy baby carrots instead of the full-grown rooty carrots? The answer is obvious: for the same reason they buy prime rib instead of the tempting hoof cut, because it tastes better.
When it comes to sources of greenery in my diet, nothing beats a good old-fashioned can of green beans. One must be careful when purchasing canned green beans, however, because they come in two different cuts. As a matter of fact, one cut is so lamely named, that there is no doubt it is the inferior of the two. Take a look at a can of green beans in your pantry and see if it bears the lame name “Cut Green Beans.” If it does, you need to take a serious look at the meaning of your life. Perhaps you are like the Amish, and have been called to a life free of the wonders of the modern world. Or perhaps you are like a priest or a nun who has given up worldly pleasures to pursue a life that is pleasing to God. If that is truly your reasoning for eating “Cut Green Beans” then you have my blessing to continue eating them.
If, however, you are simply lame as the lame name “Cut” implies, it is time to step it up a notch. There is a whole new world waiting for you just beyond the reach of your pantry. Next time you venture out to the local market, try picking up a can of luscious, delectable “French Style Green Beans.” These green beans are as different from their inferior cut friends as pot roast is from filet mignon.
After you gently pour the French Style Beans into a covered microwave safe bowl, place the dish in the afore-mentioned microwave and set it for two minutes. Just after the ding signals that your meal is ready, carefully remove the hot dish from the microwave and set the lid aside. Without wasting any time, add a quarter of a cup of French Fried Onions (they sell them in a can on the green bean aisle) and gently stir. Ahhhh, the aroma.
Lame “cut” beans could never compare to the luxurious taste that the romantic French have provided for our tired American palettes. Next time you think that France has taken a back seat when it comes to international events, consider this. Somewhere in America, somewhere in Canada, and yes, even somewhere in the Middle East, someone is enjoying a can of French Style Green Beans, savoring every long, stringy bite.
And, yes, in case you were wondering, French Style Green Beans were on sale today and my loving wife bought me ten cans!
When it comes to sources of greenery in my diet, nothing beats a good old-fashioned can of green beans. One must be careful when purchasing canned green beans, however, because they come in two different cuts. As a matter of fact, one cut is so lamely named, that there is no doubt it is the inferior of the two. Take a look at a can of green beans in your pantry and see if it bears the lame name “Cut Green Beans.” If it does, you need to take a serious look at the meaning of your life. Perhaps you are like the Amish, and have been called to a life free of the wonders of the modern world. Or perhaps you are like a priest or a nun who has given up worldly pleasures to pursue a life that is pleasing to God. If that is truly your reasoning for eating “Cut Green Beans” then you have my blessing to continue eating them.
If, however, you are simply lame as the lame name “Cut” implies, it is time to step it up a notch. There is a whole new world waiting for you just beyond the reach of your pantry. Next time you venture out to the local market, try picking up a can of luscious, delectable “French Style Green Beans.” These green beans are as different from their inferior cut friends as pot roast is from filet mignon.
After you gently pour the French Style Beans into a covered microwave safe bowl, place the dish in the afore-mentioned microwave and set it for two minutes. Just after the ding signals that your meal is ready, carefully remove the hot dish from the microwave and set the lid aside. Without wasting any time, add a quarter of a cup of French Fried Onions (they sell them in a can on the green bean aisle) and gently stir. Ahhhh, the aroma.
Lame “cut” beans could never compare to the luxurious taste that the romantic French have provided for our tired American palettes. Next time you think that France has taken a back seat when it comes to international events, consider this. Somewhere in America, somewhere in Canada, and yes, even somewhere in the Middle East, someone is enjoying a can of French Style Green Beans, savoring every long, stringy bite.
And, yes, in case you were wondering, French Style Green Beans were on sale today and my loving wife bought me ten cans!
Monday, November 9, 2009
Welcome Home
Before I got home from work today I already knew that my wife’s day had been rough. She had filled me in at lunch, so I was aware that the baby was grumpy and had only slept an hour all day. Naturally it came as somewhat of a surprise when I got home and was greeted by his bright smile. “Here you go,” my wife said as she handed the happy baby off to Daddy. “He needs you.”
“But he looks happy,” I replied. It was as I reached out to grab the boy that I realized why he needed Daddy. The evidence was oozing out the back of his pants. “Oh, I get it,” I said.
“At least he will be happy now,” she said. “I think that was what he’s been working on all day.” To be honest, I did take the child and got busy on the dirty work, but this job actually required both of us in order to get it done without damaging the house. It was that messy.
Just as we wrapped up the blowout, my daughter decided to wake up from her incredibly late nap. Waking up, however, involved some sort of bad dream and a lot of tears and clinging to dad for about a half hour. Welcome home.
Now fast forward to later in the evening. My wife clearly needed a break before dinner, so I sent her out to do some therapy shopping (for on-sale necessities only) while I prepared dinner. (Again, I have to be honest. Dinner was leftovers, so don’t give me too much credit. Oh, wait. On second thought, the leftovers consisted of the chicken that I had barbecued over the weekend, so I guess I do get some credit after all.)
Keep in mind that I had been gone for the whole day at work and what greeted me? A diapular blow-out and a clingy, fussy child. What does Mom get when she returns home from a one hour shopping trip? Well apparently it all depends on what you bring home. Her loot consisted only of some boring basics like milk, soap, and shampoo, but it was enough to bring delight to a child’s eyes.
“Oooooh! Look at the shampoo! Mommy got it for us,” my youngest daughter shouted out as she held the bottle up high and paraded around the house. “Can we take a bath?”
“Yeah well I worked hard so she could buy it,” I sighed. Despite my lame efforts to take some of the credit, the parade marched on with no mention of Daddy. Excitement oozed from every square inch of of my daughter’s body as she paraded up and down the hall singing the praises of Mommy and the shampoo. How is it that Mom got to be greeted by oozing excitement and Dad was welcomed home with other oozing matter?
Some things in life just don’t quite seem fair.
“But he looks happy,” I replied. It was as I reached out to grab the boy that I realized why he needed Daddy. The evidence was oozing out the back of his pants. “Oh, I get it,” I said.
“At least he will be happy now,” she said. “I think that was what he’s been working on all day.” To be honest, I did take the child and got busy on the dirty work, but this job actually required both of us in order to get it done without damaging the house. It was that messy.
Just as we wrapped up the blowout, my daughter decided to wake up from her incredibly late nap. Waking up, however, involved some sort of bad dream and a lot of tears and clinging to dad for about a half hour. Welcome home.
Now fast forward to later in the evening. My wife clearly needed a break before dinner, so I sent her out to do some therapy shopping (for on-sale necessities only) while I prepared dinner. (Again, I have to be honest. Dinner was leftovers, so don’t give me too much credit. Oh, wait. On second thought, the leftovers consisted of the chicken that I had barbecued over the weekend, so I guess I do get some credit after all.)
Keep in mind that I had been gone for the whole day at work and what greeted me? A diapular blow-out and a clingy, fussy child. What does Mom get when she returns home from a one hour shopping trip? Well apparently it all depends on what you bring home. Her loot consisted only of some boring basics like milk, soap, and shampoo, but it was enough to bring delight to a child’s eyes.
“Oooooh! Look at the shampoo! Mommy got it for us,” my youngest daughter shouted out as she held the bottle up high and paraded around the house. “Can we take a bath?”
“Yeah well I worked hard so she could buy it,” I sighed. Despite my lame efforts to take some of the credit, the parade marched on with no mention of Daddy. Excitement oozed from every square inch of of my daughter’s body as she paraded up and down the hall singing the praises of Mommy and the shampoo. How is it that Mom got to be greeted by oozing excitement and Dad was welcomed home with other oozing matter?
Some things in life just don’t quite seem fair.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Here's to You (Part 1)
It’s been a while since I have written anything that has made it past my hard drive and out into cyberspace. There are several reasons for this, but none of them very good, so I’ll not bore you trying to explain myself. Lately, in an attempt to conquer the dreaded writer’s block, I have been looking for inspiration in the world around me. I know that there are stories that are worth telling everywhere I look, but I seem to have forgotten how to notice them.
Since the point of this blog is to dwell on the comical, insightful, and inspiring moments of my journey through life as a Christian husband, father, and observer of life in general, I figured that the best way to jump start my dead brain was to focus in on the best in others. Given that, I am going to start a series entitled “Here’s to You…” In this, I will point out the good that I see in others. It could be little things, big things, or some of those medium things that fall in between. My goal is to train myself to look for the best in people and, in so doing, encourage anyone else who might be reading. So, without further ado I’ll begin. (When was the last time you ever heard anyone say “ado” without the word “further” or “much” in front of it? Tell me about it in the comments below if you think you can do it.)
I am a very fortunate father. (If you have any doubts about that refer back to my post entitled “Second Place” in February of 2008.) My kids are cute, smart, and very well-behaved. I’d like to think it is because of me that they are this way, so I will. One of the goals my wife and I have set lately has been to work with our girls on responding to us with enthusiasm when we give them a task to complete. The premise is simple. When Daddy asks one of them to do something, she responds with a cheerful, “Yes, Daddy!” and then runs off and does it. Occasionally one of them might forget the cheerful response, but a quick reminder will usually do the trick.
Tonight was a total failure. Tonight my cute, smart, and very well-behaved daughter was not in a “Yes, Daddy” mood. I think she was actually in a “Kiss off, Old Man” mood. Fortunately these moods don’t come very often, but when they come, they hit hard and are contagious. Tonight’s eruption started, ironically enough, just as I was settling down to read my girls a Bible story and put them into bed. I’m not sure how it all started, but it was one of those moments that went from bad to worse in seconds. After a particularly intense “discussion” with my cute, smart, and very well-behaved daughter, she was in her bed sobbing hysterically. (Because I had won...if you can call that kind of result a victory.)
Behind her closed door the sobs grew louder and angrier and I struggled to hold myself back. Fortunately, if I tried really hard, I could almost ignore the tantrum that was erupting. When I returned to the living room where all of this had begun, my other cute, smart, and very well-behaved daughter was sitting in her mini rocking chair right where I had left her when all the drama had begun. My blood pressure at this point was through the roof, my heart rate was sky high, and adrenaline was pumping through my veins.
I glanced down at the pajama-clad preschooler, pretty sure my spiritual meter was not set to “Bible Mode” when she looked up at me with the biggest grin she could muster and handed me the Bible. “Here you go, Daddy!” she said.
“Did God really just use a three-year-old with a smile and a Bible to change my mood?” I asked myself. It appeared that He had, because who could have resisted that smile? (I know that her smile really meant, “Aren’t you so glad I’m the good girl, Daddy,” but it was meaningful nonetheless.) As the boiling blood inside me started to simmer down, I took the Bible from her small hands and opened it. At this point, the tantrum was still audible down the hall, but all of a sudden something inexplicable happened. One second I heard a blood-curdling screaming moment of rage, and the next, it all changed.
“I’m sorry, Daddy!” The words tumbled down that hall as loudly as she could yell them.
“Did she just say she was sorry?” I asked my wife. My cute, smart, and very well-behaved little girl can also be very stubborn when these rare moods flare up. She’s not the kind of kid to give up like that.
“I think so,” my wife replied as I handed her the Bible and went in to talk to my cute, smart, very well-behaved daughter once again. Needless to say, the tense moment had passed and the worst was instantly behind us. Not to be outdone, I offered her my apology for letting my temper get the best of me in the midst of the chaos as well. The next thing I knew, she threw her arms around me and planted a heart-felt kiss on my cheek. It reminded me of the kind of kiss a little girl gives her daddy on her wedding day, the kind of kiss that says, “Thanks for being my daddy.”
“I’m sorry.” There is a lot of power in those words. Wrap that up with a kid handing you a Bible and anger and frustration don’t stand a chance.
I don’t always like it when my kids teach me lessons, but they are often the most meaningful. So here’s to you Maddie Rae and Hamster, the two best girls a dad could ever ask for.
Since the point of this blog is to dwell on the comical, insightful, and inspiring moments of my journey through life as a Christian husband, father, and observer of life in general, I figured that the best way to jump start my dead brain was to focus in on the best in others. Given that, I am going to start a series entitled “Here’s to You…” In this, I will point out the good that I see in others. It could be little things, big things, or some of those medium things that fall in between. My goal is to train myself to look for the best in people and, in so doing, encourage anyone else who might be reading. So, without further ado I’ll begin. (When was the last time you ever heard anyone say “ado” without the word “further” or “much” in front of it? Tell me about it in the comments below if you think you can do it.)
I am a very fortunate father. (If you have any doubts about that refer back to my post entitled “Second Place” in February of 2008.) My kids are cute, smart, and very well-behaved. I’d like to think it is because of me that they are this way, so I will. One of the goals my wife and I have set lately has been to work with our girls on responding to us with enthusiasm when we give them a task to complete. The premise is simple. When Daddy asks one of them to do something, she responds with a cheerful, “Yes, Daddy!” and then runs off and does it. Occasionally one of them might forget the cheerful response, but a quick reminder will usually do the trick.
Tonight was a total failure. Tonight my cute, smart, and very well-behaved daughter was not in a “Yes, Daddy” mood. I think she was actually in a “Kiss off, Old Man” mood. Fortunately these moods don’t come very often, but when they come, they hit hard and are contagious. Tonight’s eruption started, ironically enough, just as I was settling down to read my girls a Bible story and put them into bed. I’m not sure how it all started, but it was one of those moments that went from bad to worse in seconds. After a particularly intense “discussion” with my cute, smart, and very well-behaved daughter, she was in her bed sobbing hysterically. (Because I had won...if you can call that kind of result a victory.)
Behind her closed door the sobs grew louder and angrier and I struggled to hold myself back. Fortunately, if I tried really hard, I could almost ignore the tantrum that was erupting. When I returned to the living room where all of this had begun, my other cute, smart, and very well-behaved daughter was sitting in her mini rocking chair right where I had left her when all the drama had begun. My blood pressure at this point was through the roof, my heart rate was sky high, and adrenaline was pumping through my veins.
I glanced down at the pajama-clad preschooler, pretty sure my spiritual meter was not set to “Bible Mode” when she looked up at me with the biggest grin she could muster and handed me the Bible. “Here you go, Daddy!” she said.
“Did God really just use a three-year-old with a smile and a Bible to change my mood?” I asked myself. It appeared that He had, because who could have resisted that smile? (I know that her smile really meant, “Aren’t you so glad I’m the good girl, Daddy,” but it was meaningful nonetheless.) As the boiling blood inside me started to simmer down, I took the Bible from her small hands and opened it. At this point, the tantrum was still audible down the hall, but all of a sudden something inexplicable happened. One second I heard a blood-curdling screaming moment of rage, and the next, it all changed.
“I’m sorry, Daddy!” The words tumbled down that hall as loudly as she could yell them.
“Did she just say she was sorry?” I asked my wife. My cute, smart, and very well-behaved little girl can also be very stubborn when these rare moods flare up. She’s not the kind of kid to give up like that.
“I think so,” my wife replied as I handed her the Bible and went in to talk to my cute, smart, very well-behaved daughter once again. Needless to say, the tense moment had passed and the worst was instantly behind us. Not to be outdone, I offered her my apology for letting my temper get the best of me in the midst of the chaos as well. The next thing I knew, she threw her arms around me and planted a heart-felt kiss on my cheek. It reminded me of the kind of kiss a little girl gives her daddy on her wedding day, the kind of kiss that says, “Thanks for being my daddy.”
“I’m sorry.” There is a lot of power in those words. Wrap that up with a kid handing you a Bible and anger and frustration don’t stand a chance.
I don’t always like it when my kids teach me lessons, but they are often the most meaningful. So here’s to you Maddie Rae and Hamster, the two best girls a dad could ever ask for.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Day 1
Some things in life are predictable. Some are not. They say death and taxes fit into the predictable mold. Kids, however, do not. Today was the first day of our five week vacation camping in a 25 foot trailer with the four kids and a dog.
We did everything just like we were supposed to do. After three days of packing, cleaning, laundering, and scheduling, we had the trailer packed and the route mapped out. To our surprise, we pulled out of the driveway only three minutes behind schedule. As our overloaded Suburban lumbered down the road dragging the helpless trailer behind, my wife and I reviewed our mental checklists of things we may have forgotten.
“Did you get your swimsuit?” she asked me.
“I got two,” I replied. “What about shaving cream? I didn’t pack any.”
“Don’t worry, I packed yours,” she said with a smug grin. After a few minutes we were satisfied that we had everything we needed.
“That’s strange,” I said as we slithered up the canyon leading out of the valley and toward the nearest interstate. “There are no cars coming down the hill.”
It soon became clear why the road was empty. Up ahead, we noticed a contingent of fire vehicles fighting a brush fire along the side of the road. The opposing lanes were closed. “Good thing we are heading north,” my wife said. And then it happened. All the planning in the world cannot compensate for the reality of living in Southern California traffic.
Without warning, all the cars around us came to a complete stand still. The cars heading southbound were forced to do u-turns in front of us, thus snarling the northbound lanes. My introverted wife was content to leave the windows up and hide in within the sanctity of the Burb. I, however, thought this would be a good time to strike up a conversation with the neighboring vehicles. Traffic was moving, albeit slowly. When a well dressed middle aged woman in a brand new Range Rover asked if she could cut in front of me so she would be in position to get on the freeway, I decided to see how badly she wanted the spot. “I take bribes,” I said.
“You can have my firstborn,” she shouted back through her open window. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I counted my own kids.
“I already have four. If that’s the best you can do, I guess I’ll just let you in,” I replied.
Once we finally got on the freeway, traffic was moving well and we were making up for lost time. Then it happened again. Traffic slowed to a crawl and we were stuck. This time it was a multi-car pile up on the 101 (so said the guy on the radio). By the time we got through that, it was the heart of rush hour and traffic again snarled. By this point, the baby is screaming and mom is doing her best to keep him quiet. “We’re not stopping,” I said as my wife crawled into the back seat to figure out how she could nurse an infant without unbuckling him. (It can be done!) Ahh, peace and quiet. Ahhhh! More traffic. But at least it is quiet.
The first leg of our trip was scheduled to last two and a half hours. Four hours later, we arrived at our destination. We’ll be here for a few days. Hopefully the rest of this trip goes better.
We did everything just like we were supposed to do. After three days of packing, cleaning, laundering, and scheduling, we had the trailer packed and the route mapped out. To our surprise, we pulled out of the driveway only three minutes behind schedule. As our overloaded Suburban lumbered down the road dragging the helpless trailer behind, my wife and I reviewed our mental checklists of things we may have forgotten.
“Did you get your swimsuit?” she asked me.
“I got two,” I replied. “What about shaving cream? I didn’t pack any.”
“Don’t worry, I packed yours,” she said with a smug grin. After a few minutes we were satisfied that we had everything we needed.
“That’s strange,” I said as we slithered up the canyon leading out of the valley and toward the nearest interstate. “There are no cars coming down the hill.”
It soon became clear why the road was empty. Up ahead, we noticed a contingent of fire vehicles fighting a brush fire along the side of the road. The opposing lanes were closed. “Good thing we are heading north,” my wife said. And then it happened. All the planning in the world cannot compensate for the reality of living in Southern California traffic.
Without warning, all the cars around us came to a complete stand still. The cars heading southbound were forced to do u-turns in front of us, thus snarling the northbound lanes. My introverted wife was content to leave the windows up and hide in within the sanctity of the Burb. I, however, thought this would be a good time to strike up a conversation with the neighboring vehicles. Traffic was moving, albeit slowly. When a well dressed middle aged woman in a brand new Range Rover asked if she could cut in front of me so she would be in position to get on the freeway, I decided to see how badly she wanted the spot. “I take bribes,” I said.
“You can have my firstborn,” she shouted back through her open window. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I counted my own kids.
“I already have four. If that’s the best you can do, I guess I’ll just let you in,” I replied.
Once we finally got on the freeway, traffic was moving well and we were making up for lost time. Then it happened again. Traffic slowed to a crawl and we were stuck. This time it was a multi-car pile up on the 101 (so said the guy on the radio). By the time we got through that, it was the heart of rush hour and traffic again snarled. By this point, the baby is screaming and mom is doing her best to keep him quiet. “We’re not stopping,” I said as my wife crawled into the back seat to figure out how she could nurse an infant without unbuckling him. (It can be done!) Ahh, peace and quiet. Ahhhh! More traffic. But at least it is quiet.
The first leg of our trip was scheduled to last two and a half hours. Four hours later, we arrived at our destination. We’ll be here for a few days. Hopefully the rest of this trip goes better.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Thankfulness
The stresses of each day,
The demands that come my way
Pull in ten directions
No time for reflections
And keep my plans at bay.
I fall into bed each night
Tired of the daily fight.
Wishing to sleep forever
Wanting to to wake up never.
Then all would be just right.
With eyes just closed
I hear the moan.
Baby wants to eat
And pitter-patter feet,
So I stifle my groan.
With a pasted smile
I fetch the child
And Mommy gets the baby.
Praying it’s quick, just maybe
We’ll keep the night so mild.
Solve the problem, return to bed
Knowing that the last one’s fed.
Breathe deep.
Welcome sleep.
And thank God for the one I wed.
My mind is racing fast.
He’s given me more than I ever asked.
Kids and a wife,
A wonderful life,
And joy that will last.
I sometimes take it for granted
And catch myself having just ranted.
I am so blessed,
I could live with less.
This world is so slanted.
There is joy in my life
Despite all my petty strife.
Knowing the source,
It’s Him, of course,
And a wonderful wife!
The demands that come my way
Pull in ten directions
No time for reflections
And keep my plans at bay.
I fall into bed each night
Tired of the daily fight.
Wishing to sleep forever
Wanting to to wake up never.
Then all would be just right.
With eyes just closed
I hear the moan.
Baby wants to eat
And pitter-patter feet,
So I stifle my groan.
With a pasted smile
I fetch the child
And Mommy gets the baby.
Praying it’s quick, just maybe
We’ll keep the night so mild.
Solve the problem, return to bed
Knowing that the last one’s fed.
Breathe deep.
Welcome sleep.
And thank God for the one I wed.
My mind is racing fast.
He’s given me more than I ever asked.
Kids and a wife,
A wonderful life,
And joy that will last.
I sometimes take it for granted
And catch myself having just ranted.
I am so blessed,
I could live with less.
This world is so slanted.
There is joy in my life
Despite all my petty strife.
Knowing the source,
It’s Him, of course,
And a wonderful wife!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Free Chicken
I’ve heard it said that you get what you pay for. I have also heard it said that the best things in life are free. Tonight was a little of both. When you have a wife who actually stays home to raise her own four children, there are times when it behooves the parents to pile the kids into the car to take advantage of promotional events at local restaurants.
Today happened to be free chicken day at popular fast food place. Not only did each guest get two free pieces of chicken, but they also got two tortillas. To top things off, drinks and additional sides were discounted as well. Needless to say, lines were sure to be long. To avoid the rush, we showed up at the restaurant at ten to five and were surprised to see that the line was already beginning to wrap around the building. “It’s still early,” I said to my wife. “We might as well wait it out.”
And wait we did. Over the course of the next hour, we engaged in a mini sociology study as we observed the types of people who come out of the woodwork when things are free. Of the fifty to sixty people in line, ours was the only traditional family composed of a mom, dad, and kids. Perhaps other families were in tact, but only a few of the members wanted free chicken.
One woman in front of us looked as if she had lived a very hard life. The pain of years of bad choices was etched on her face. As she stood in the long line alone, puffing away on her cigarette, it was nice to see her smile when the man for whom she had been waiting finally arrived to join her. Despite the gaping hole where a tooth should have been, she greeted the fella with a disgusting version of a kiss that announced to the world that they were not married. No married couple would intentionally gross out a crowd in the way this man and woman did.
I could go on about the unruly children, incompetent parents, and other derelicts of society, but that’s not the point of this post. What amazed me as I waited in a long line for free food was how polite some of the people around us really were.
As we stood in line there were two young teenagers in front of us. Judging by their strikingly similar looks I surmised that they were probably brother and sister. I kept one eye on them periodically while we waited. It struck me that, despite their difference in age and gender, they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. They waited patiently, talking quietly so as not to become a nuisance to those around them. Once we got inside, they sat down and shared a meal together. How refreshing it was to see two siblings who were unsupervised get along so well in public.
The second person to catch my attention was a former student at the school where I teach. I noticed her and her younger sister arrive about 30 minutes behind us. The younger sister immediately jumped to the middle of the line to join a group of friends. The older sister, who had always been a very respectful student, refused to cut in line. Instead, she went to the back and waited alone. Again, what a refreshing sight. As an eighth grader, she knew right from wrong (even if some may consider this a gray area) and refused to take the easy way out.
A final example of good in the midst of bad became evident as a mom entered the restaurant with six kids of varying ages. I am not sure if they all belonged to her, but they were all quite polite as they squished themselves into the booth next to us. The youngest, a two-year-old boy, immediately struck up a conversation with me about my daughters. Once he had learned their names, the older siblings joined in the conversation and complimented us on our beautiful baby. The little guy continued talking to me as he pointed to my wife. “What is your mom’s name?” he asked. I explained that my mom was at home and the woman beside me was my wife. When he again asked her name, I simply said, “Mommy.”
“She’s pretty,” the little boy replied. By this point my wife was all ears and suddenly she found herself fond of this little guy.
“Don’t forget she’s mine,” I said.
Besides being polite, this family had a certain integrity that was lacking in many of the families at the restaurant. I can’t tell how many times I saw someone who had ordered their free chicken take a water cup to the soda fountain and fill it with stolen soda. Call it a pet peeve of mine, but it irks me to no end to see people who brazenly flaunt their criminal behavior by stealing drinks from a restaurant. This mom, however, carefully filled six water cups with water and set them down in front of the kids. “Mommy, can I have some Coke?” one of them asked. The mom replied by telling the child that they hadn’t paid for Coke so they could only have water. I glanced around the restaurant and counted several hot sodas, so clearly the restaurant staff was not enforcing its anti-soda theft policy. Impressively, despite the peer pressure, this mom maintained her integrity.
Even though, for the most part, I felt like an outcast in my own community, the positive examples of a small segment of society salvaged the evening. It really is amazing the difference an act of integrity or a moment of civility can go in impacting the lives of others.
One more thing. Did I mention that my four kids stayed quietly beside us without complaining even once for an entire hour while we waited in line? They deserve a nod too. Way to go kids!
Today happened to be free chicken day at popular fast food place. Not only did each guest get two free pieces of chicken, but they also got two tortillas. To top things off, drinks and additional sides were discounted as well. Needless to say, lines were sure to be long. To avoid the rush, we showed up at the restaurant at ten to five and were surprised to see that the line was already beginning to wrap around the building. “It’s still early,” I said to my wife. “We might as well wait it out.”
And wait we did. Over the course of the next hour, we engaged in a mini sociology study as we observed the types of people who come out of the woodwork when things are free. Of the fifty to sixty people in line, ours was the only traditional family composed of a mom, dad, and kids. Perhaps other families were in tact, but only a few of the members wanted free chicken.
One woman in front of us looked as if she had lived a very hard life. The pain of years of bad choices was etched on her face. As she stood in the long line alone, puffing away on her cigarette, it was nice to see her smile when the man for whom she had been waiting finally arrived to join her. Despite the gaping hole where a tooth should have been, she greeted the fella with a disgusting version of a kiss that announced to the world that they were not married. No married couple would intentionally gross out a crowd in the way this man and woman did.
I could go on about the unruly children, incompetent parents, and other derelicts of society, but that’s not the point of this post. What amazed me as I waited in a long line for free food was how polite some of the people around us really were.
As we stood in line there were two young teenagers in front of us. Judging by their strikingly similar looks I surmised that they were probably brother and sister. I kept one eye on them periodically while we waited. It struck me that, despite their difference in age and gender, they seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. They waited patiently, talking quietly so as not to become a nuisance to those around them. Once we got inside, they sat down and shared a meal together. How refreshing it was to see two siblings who were unsupervised get along so well in public.
The second person to catch my attention was a former student at the school where I teach. I noticed her and her younger sister arrive about 30 minutes behind us. The younger sister immediately jumped to the middle of the line to join a group of friends. The older sister, who had always been a very respectful student, refused to cut in line. Instead, she went to the back and waited alone. Again, what a refreshing sight. As an eighth grader, she knew right from wrong (even if some may consider this a gray area) and refused to take the easy way out.
A final example of good in the midst of bad became evident as a mom entered the restaurant with six kids of varying ages. I am not sure if they all belonged to her, but they were all quite polite as they squished themselves into the booth next to us. The youngest, a two-year-old boy, immediately struck up a conversation with me about my daughters. Once he had learned their names, the older siblings joined in the conversation and complimented us on our beautiful baby. The little guy continued talking to me as he pointed to my wife. “What is your mom’s name?” he asked. I explained that my mom was at home and the woman beside me was my wife. When he again asked her name, I simply said, “Mommy.”
“She’s pretty,” the little boy replied. By this point my wife was all ears and suddenly she found herself fond of this little guy.
“Don’t forget she’s mine,” I said.
Besides being polite, this family had a certain integrity that was lacking in many of the families at the restaurant. I can’t tell how many times I saw someone who had ordered their free chicken take a water cup to the soda fountain and fill it with stolen soda. Call it a pet peeve of mine, but it irks me to no end to see people who brazenly flaunt their criminal behavior by stealing drinks from a restaurant. This mom, however, carefully filled six water cups with water and set them down in front of the kids. “Mommy, can I have some Coke?” one of them asked. The mom replied by telling the child that they hadn’t paid for Coke so they could only have water. I glanced around the restaurant and counted several hot sodas, so clearly the restaurant staff was not enforcing its anti-soda theft policy. Impressively, despite the peer pressure, this mom maintained her integrity.
Even though, for the most part, I felt like an outcast in my own community, the positive examples of a small segment of society salvaged the evening. It really is amazing the difference an act of integrity or a moment of civility can go in impacting the lives of others.
One more thing. Did I mention that my four kids stayed quietly beside us without complaining even once for an entire hour while we waited in line? They deserve a nod too. Way to go kids!
Friday, March 6, 2009
Customer Service - Part II
May I help you? Are you finding everything you need? It looks like the tag was marked wrong, but I can go ahead and honor the lower price anyway. Statements like these are what attract people to a business. Most national chains have very specific guidelines for customer service, but those guidelines are not always sufficient to compensate for every arrogant teenager who dons their cap. If a business really could anticipate what every teenage employee was going to do, they could start a new business selling their secret.
Last night my wife and I stopped by a widely recognized nationally branded coffee shop that for some reason thinks the terms small, medium, and large are inadequate, so they coined new phrases that mean exactly the same thing, but confuse those of us who don’t drink coffee.
In an effort to keep our marriage strong, we go out on a date once a week. In an effort to keep our dates cheap, we use gift cards that we have collected for various reasons whenever possible.
Last night happened to be a gift card night, so we ended up at a coffee shop and ordered some kind of tall venti hot chocolate. (Whatever that means.) As we sat down in one of the overtly trendy lounge chairs I noticed that, with the exception of one other couple, we were the only customers in the store. The drive-thru line was even quiet, so in my head, I envisioned excellent customer service. Then came the bearded high school barista. Shortly after we were nestled into the enveloping cushions of the overtly trendy lounge chairs, our order was ready. Given the sparse clientele, I assumed that the bearded high school wonder would either bring us our drinks, or at the very least, say something like, “Sir, your drinks are ready.”
Apparently, company protocol trumped common sense for the moment and I heard someone call out something about a grande venti hot chocolate or something along those lines. Whatever it was that he said, it was clear that he was describing the drink he was setting on the counter at the opposite end of the store from where we were sitting. After placing the hot beverage on the counter and shouting out its name, he walked back toward the counter area next to us and began to wipe off some imaginary coffee drips from some sort of silvery looking apparatus.
“I think that must be ours way down there,” I said to my wife.
“Must be,” she said looking around to see who else could have ordered something with a concocted name that involves a vent. After the long walk right past the helpful barista, to retrieve our drinks, we once again settled in for some quality time together. After I had sipped my drink down to about a tall status, I glanced out the window and saw a car drive up and park in the closest spot to the door.
Must be a customer, I thought to myself. As she walked through the door, I expected to see her step up to the counter and order some sort of exotic coffee-type beverage with a shot of grape soda, but she had other plans. Stepping behind the counter, she squealed and giggled as she hugged each of the three male baristas before donning a green apron and acting like she was going to do some kind of work. “Did that employee just take the closest parking spot to to the front door? I asked myself in disbelief.
Now granted, I’ve never worked in a coffee shop, but shouldn’t common sense dictate that employees not park in the best spot? That should be saved for the paying customers. Maybe the reason so many of their ubiquitous stores are closing has nothing to do with the economy and everything to do with a lack of common sense among giddy, self-absorbed teenagers who do their bosses a disservice by showing up to work each day.
Last night my wife and I stopped by a widely recognized nationally branded coffee shop that for some reason thinks the terms small, medium, and large are inadequate, so they coined new phrases that mean exactly the same thing, but confuse those of us who don’t drink coffee.
In an effort to keep our marriage strong, we go out on a date once a week. In an effort to keep our dates cheap, we use gift cards that we have collected for various reasons whenever possible.
Last night happened to be a gift card night, so we ended up at a coffee shop and ordered some kind of tall venti hot chocolate. (Whatever that means.) As we sat down in one of the overtly trendy lounge chairs I noticed that, with the exception of one other couple, we were the only customers in the store. The drive-thru line was even quiet, so in my head, I envisioned excellent customer service. Then came the bearded high school barista. Shortly after we were nestled into the enveloping cushions of the overtly trendy lounge chairs, our order was ready. Given the sparse clientele, I assumed that the bearded high school wonder would either bring us our drinks, or at the very least, say something like, “Sir, your drinks are ready.”
Apparently, company protocol trumped common sense for the moment and I heard someone call out something about a grande venti hot chocolate or something along those lines. Whatever it was that he said, it was clear that he was describing the drink he was setting on the counter at the opposite end of the store from where we were sitting. After placing the hot beverage on the counter and shouting out its name, he walked back toward the counter area next to us and began to wipe off some imaginary coffee drips from some sort of silvery looking apparatus.
“I think that must be ours way down there,” I said to my wife.
“Must be,” she said looking around to see who else could have ordered something with a concocted name that involves a vent. After the long walk right past the helpful barista, to retrieve our drinks, we once again settled in for some quality time together. After I had sipped my drink down to about a tall status, I glanced out the window and saw a car drive up and park in the closest spot to the door.
Must be a customer, I thought to myself. As she walked through the door, I expected to see her step up to the counter and order some sort of exotic coffee-type beverage with a shot of grape soda, but she had other plans. Stepping behind the counter, she squealed and giggled as she hugged each of the three male baristas before donning a green apron and acting like she was going to do some kind of work. “Did that employee just take the closest parking spot to to the front door? I asked myself in disbelief.
Now granted, I’ve never worked in a coffee shop, but shouldn’t common sense dictate that employees not park in the best spot? That should be saved for the paying customers. Maybe the reason so many of their ubiquitous stores are closing has nothing to do with the economy and everything to do with a lack of common sense among giddy, self-absorbed teenagers who do their bosses a disservice by showing up to work each day.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
My Wife
I have an amazing wife. Despite my best efforts, it is easy for me to take her accomplishments for granted. Fortunately I am frequently reminded of just how well she compliments me. She fills in the gaps that I leave in my wake while juggling a mountain of responsibilities.
As a junior in college, it became abundantly clear to me that this woman who had trickled into my life was worth vigorously pursuing. I had always known that a checkbook should be balanced, and bank statements were a handy tool for doing so, but I had never actually combined the statements with the balancing act. Instead, each month I carefully filed my statements, in their sealed envelopes, intending to one day make sure all my numbers jived. After dating my future wife for several months, she discovered my file cabinet and shook her head. “Why don’t I come over this weekend and straighten out your records for you,” she suggested. There was no harm in that, so the following Saturday, I pulled my truck out of the garage and spent a couple of hours getting it cleaned up while she crunched numbers.
“I found a few mistakes,” she said once she was done.
“Uh-Oh,” I thought.
“You have about $500 more in your account than you thought,” she said.
That’s it, I thought to myself. This one is a keeper. And instantly I had the first $500 saved up to buy her a ring.
A year later when we got married, we determined that she would stay home and raise any kids we may someday have. We both agreed that this would provide a loving and nurturing environment for our children that would easily surpass the level of care and consistency available through commercial means.
Now eleven years and four kids later I couldn’t be prouder of the commitment my wife has to our kids. In addition to providing a loving and nurturing environment each day, she fills the role of a home-school teacher whose students far out-perform their public school counterparts.
The house is usually clean, but not perfect. While I can appreciate a perfect house, I struggle with what that means in the life of a child. My wife has found perfection, however, in striking a balance between maintaining cleanliness and order, while also allowing our kids to creatively express themselves through hours of building, arranging, and playing with simple toys.
While I am inherently a neat person, I have come to appreciate the days I walk in the door and find the couch cushions arranged on the living room floor with blankets draped across chairs and stuffed animals grazing on the carpet. Those are the days when our kids had the chance to be kids and mom got the chance to tend to some of her other motherly duties.
Sure, there are times she gets frustrated. After reading countless blogs written by self-proclaimed perfect mothers who hide their imperfections behind their keyboards, my wife threatened to start a blog about real moms. “Today I sobbed in my cereal while one of the kids pooped on the floor,” she laughed as she contemplated the text of her hypothetical blog.
Regardless of whether it has been a good day or a bad day, my wife makes it a point to learn from her experiences. After years of evaluating herself as a mom, talking to other moms, reading countless books, articles, and perfect-mom blogs, she has come to one logical conclusion. The only ideas worth trying are the ideas that fit within the mold God used to create her. To try and function outside of that mold would be to deny who she is. And it is that mold that I love.
My wife stays at home and raises our kids. She has a master’s degree and the ability to obtain a great job, but her current occupation is something only she can do. No one could love our kids like she does. No one could care for them like she does. No one could meet their needs the way only their mom can. Other working parents wonder why we would give up so much to have her stay home. I wonder how they can give up so much.
As a junior in college, it became abundantly clear to me that this woman who had trickled into my life was worth vigorously pursuing. I had always known that a checkbook should be balanced, and bank statements were a handy tool for doing so, but I had never actually combined the statements with the balancing act. Instead, each month I carefully filed my statements, in their sealed envelopes, intending to one day make sure all my numbers jived. After dating my future wife for several months, she discovered my file cabinet and shook her head. “Why don’t I come over this weekend and straighten out your records for you,” she suggested. There was no harm in that, so the following Saturday, I pulled my truck out of the garage and spent a couple of hours getting it cleaned up while she crunched numbers.
“I found a few mistakes,” she said once she was done.
“Uh-Oh,” I thought.
“You have about $500 more in your account than you thought,” she said.
That’s it, I thought to myself. This one is a keeper. And instantly I had the first $500 saved up to buy her a ring.
A year later when we got married, we determined that she would stay home and raise any kids we may someday have. We both agreed that this would provide a loving and nurturing environment for our children that would easily surpass the level of care and consistency available through commercial means.
Now eleven years and four kids later I couldn’t be prouder of the commitment my wife has to our kids. In addition to providing a loving and nurturing environment each day, she fills the role of a home-school teacher whose students far out-perform their public school counterparts.
The house is usually clean, but not perfect. While I can appreciate a perfect house, I struggle with what that means in the life of a child. My wife has found perfection, however, in striking a balance between maintaining cleanliness and order, while also allowing our kids to creatively express themselves through hours of building, arranging, and playing with simple toys.
While I am inherently a neat person, I have come to appreciate the days I walk in the door and find the couch cushions arranged on the living room floor with blankets draped across chairs and stuffed animals grazing on the carpet. Those are the days when our kids had the chance to be kids and mom got the chance to tend to some of her other motherly duties.
Sure, there are times she gets frustrated. After reading countless blogs written by self-proclaimed perfect mothers who hide their imperfections behind their keyboards, my wife threatened to start a blog about real moms. “Today I sobbed in my cereal while one of the kids pooped on the floor,” she laughed as she contemplated the text of her hypothetical blog.
Regardless of whether it has been a good day or a bad day, my wife makes it a point to learn from her experiences. After years of evaluating herself as a mom, talking to other moms, reading countless books, articles, and perfect-mom blogs, she has come to one logical conclusion. The only ideas worth trying are the ideas that fit within the mold God used to create her. To try and function outside of that mold would be to deny who she is. And it is that mold that I love.
My wife stays at home and raises our kids. She has a master’s degree and the ability to obtain a great job, but her current occupation is something only she can do. No one could love our kids like she does. No one could care for them like she does. No one could meet their needs the way only their mom can. Other working parents wonder why we would give up so much to have her stay home. I wonder how they can give up so much.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Subtle Messages
What is invisible, comes in infinite varieties, and can be made by anyone? If you said anything other than “smells” your critical thinking skills probably stink. Smells really are an amazing way of conveying information in very subtle ways.
As a father of young children, one smell tells me that it is time to change a diaper, while another smell tells me that last week’s missing sippy cup of milk is very close by. The kids never have to say a word, yet I know so much about them just by sniffing. And if I know that much about my kids just by absorbing their aromas, imagine how well my dogs must know them. Poor guys.
My wife uses smells to communicate with me as well. She has one smell that says, “I just brushed my teeth, you can kiss me now” and anther smell that says, “my hands are dry and I just put lotion on them.” One of my favorite spousal smell scenarios is the “Welcome home, Honey. Dinner’s ready!” smell.
Outside of the home smells abound as well. One way that I communicate with my neighbors is by running by their houses at dinner time. Last night I was out for a jog just as the sun was setting and dinners were coming out of the oven. As I jogged past, one neighbor told me that he was grilling steaks for dinner. Another informed me that they would be having something spicy with an ethnic flare to it. As I ran, I breathed in the diesel fumes of a passing truck and hoped that guy found a new smell soon. Around the corner, another family was definitely dining on the Mexican side of the menu while another had their trash cans out a day early, and for good reason.
I picked up my pace as I raced from house to house sampling their sensational smells. Soon the sweat was building up on me and dripping down my back. My body responded by giving me a smelly message of its own, “Good thing you put that deodorant on.”
A few miles later, I trotted up my driveway and paced up and down it for a few minutes to cool off. The second I opened the door, my two-year-old daughter, in her usual fashion, squealed out for joy as she exclaimed, “Daddy! Did you take a run?”
“Yup, I took a run.”
“Hold me,” she pleaded, her short arms stretched up longing to cling to her daddy.
“But Daddy’s all sweaty right now.”
“Oooh, you're stinky,” she replied and stepped back. Apparently my non-verbal cues had resonated with her and she suddenly lost her need to be held.
Sometimes smells not only send messages to others, but they can bring back memories as well. Have you ever been stuck at a red light behind an old car? I had that opportunity just the other day. Shortly after flipping a U-turn to compensate for the turn I had just missed, I found myself stuck behind an old Volkswagen with 40-year-old fumes dumping out of its tail pipe. The smell, however, was not much different from the smell of the old Ford station wagon that my mom had when I was young. Oh, the good old days were flooding back. Suddenly I was riding backwards in that flip-up jump-seat, my sweaty legs sticking to the black vinyl as my 1981 vintage shorts stretched only an inch or two below my 6-year-old cheeks.
Then before I could start playing with my game watch, the light turned green and I was all of a sudden thrust back into the reality that I was now driving a modern-day wagon of my own with all sorts of kids in the back wanting to go to the zoo where a whole new array of smells was no doubt awaiting me.
As a father of young children, one smell tells me that it is time to change a diaper, while another smell tells me that last week’s missing sippy cup of milk is very close by. The kids never have to say a word, yet I know so much about them just by sniffing. And if I know that much about my kids just by absorbing their aromas, imagine how well my dogs must know them. Poor guys.
My wife uses smells to communicate with me as well. She has one smell that says, “I just brushed my teeth, you can kiss me now” and anther smell that says, “my hands are dry and I just put lotion on them.” One of my favorite spousal smell scenarios is the “Welcome home, Honey. Dinner’s ready!” smell.
Outside of the home smells abound as well. One way that I communicate with my neighbors is by running by their houses at dinner time. Last night I was out for a jog just as the sun was setting and dinners were coming out of the oven. As I jogged past, one neighbor told me that he was grilling steaks for dinner. Another informed me that they would be having something spicy with an ethnic flare to it. As I ran, I breathed in the diesel fumes of a passing truck and hoped that guy found a new smell soon. Around the corner, another family was definitely dining on the Mexican side of the menu while another had their trash cans out a day early, and for good reason.
I picked up my pace as I raced from house to house sampling their sensational smells. Soon the sweat was building up on me and dripping down my back. My body responded by giving me a smelly message of its own, “Good thing you put that deodorant on.”
A few miles later, I trotted up my driveway and paced up and down it for a few minutes to cool off. The second I opened the door, my two-year-old daughter, in her usual fashion, squealed out for joy as she exclaimed, “Daddy! Did you take a run?”
“Yup, I took a run.”
“Hold me,” she pleaded, her short arms stretched up longing to cling to her daddy.
“But Daddy’s all sweaty right now.”
“Oooh, you're stinky,” she replied and stepped back. Apparently my non-verbal cues had resonated with her and she suddenly lost her need to be held.
Sometimes smells not only send messages to others, but they can bring back memories as well. Have you ever been stuck at a red light behind an old car? I had that opportunity just the other day. Shortly after flipping a U-turn to compensate for the turn I had just missed, I found myself stuck behind an old Volkswagen with 40-year-old fumes dumping out of its tail pipe. The smell, however, was not much different from the smell of the old Ford station wagon that my mom had when I was young. Oh, the good old days were flooding back. Suddenly I was riding backwards in that flip-up jump-seat, my sweaty legs sticking to the black vinyl as my 1981 vintage shorts stretched only an inch or two below my 6-year-old cheeks.
Then before I could start playing with my game watch, the light turned green and I was all of a sudden thrust back into the reality that I was now driving a modern-day wagon of my own with all sorts of kids in the back wanting to go to the zoo where a whole new array of smells was no doubt awaiting me.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
A Hairy Day
What do you get when you mix a hair, a toe, and four hospitals all together? It’s hard to even know where to begin, but the short answer is: A very long day. Such a day belonged to our family yesterday. The story is complicated and may seem to last forever, but the majority of these events occurred within a twelve hour period.
The morning had been hectic. We had been packing, cleaning, and scurrying about since the crack of dawn. It was the Saturday of a three day weekend and we were preparing to head out of a town for a camping trip. Since we would be camping, dirty kids were inevitable, so we decided to make sure they were all clean before we left. The three older ones were all bathed sans incident. As I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, my wife bathed the baby.
“Honey,” my wife called to me from the bathroom. “Come look at this.” Not really wanting to be distracted from my task at hand, I reluctantly made my way toward my wife. Upon arrival in the bathroom, I saw one very clean baby boy wrapped in a towel with his little feet sticking out. “Look at his toe, I think there is something wrong,” my wife said.
I glanced down at the questionable digit and quickly deduced that she was indeed right. The best way to describe what I saw was a toe that was falling off. A closer examination revealed a fine strand of hair wrapped in a figure-eight pattern around two toes. On one of the toes, the hair was digging in so tightly that it had sliced through the skin and was nearly to the bone. The brave little guy had never uttered a peep about it to this point, so we had no idea how long it had been in such a condition, but the situation was dire. Parts of the toe were the wrong color and it looked as if the toe would be lost.
Grabbing a pair of scissors and a flashlight, I tried to snip the hair, but the scene was complicated. “I can’t tell exactly where the hair starts and the toe ends,” I said. “It’s too deep. I’m going to call the doctor, but I think we need to get this guy to the ER.” After a brief conversation with the nurse hotline, I was instructed to get to the nearest hospital, as long as it wasn’t Hemet hospital. “But that is the nearest one,” I said.
“That’s not good,” she replied. Hemet’s reputation in the local community is less than stellar, and clearly our health insurance plan agreed. After pecking around on her keyboard for a few seconds, the nurse advised me to go to Rancho Springs, about 40 minutes from our house. Our home hospital, Kaiser Permanente, was about an hour drive and the nurse clearly agreed that time was of the essence.
Fortunately the older kids were mostly dressed, so we threw them in the car and took off for a friend’s house around the corner. As I unloaded my two daughters from the car, I realized that neither had bothered to put shoes on as I had instructed them, but that was the least of my concerns. The beauty of having friends with kids is that there was sure to be an extra pair of shoes laying around the house that would fit them. I pushed my speeds as far as I thought I could without getting pulled over and causing a delay and arrived at the hospital in just under 40 minutes. Fortunately, it was a Saturday morning which also happened to be Valentines day, and the weekend of President’s day. All of these factors combined to create an empty waiting room in the tiny hospital. We were quickly ushered into triage and then assigned an open bed. When the doctor arrived, he asked about the situation and I quickly summed it up. He responded by saying, “Ahh, a hair tourniquet. Well, let’s cut the hair.” That seemed simple enough, so a team quickly assembled to provide light and to restrain the baby. Within seconds, the shrill sounds of a baby in agony filled the small emergency room. The doctor snipped and picked at the injury for about 10 excruciating minutes before informing us that he was going to give the little guy a break and then go back in. “I got a lot of it out and released some of the pressure, but there is still more,” he informed us. After a second round of digging and snipping, he turned to address me and my wife. “Sometimes in these cases,” he said “we have to take them in to surgery and open it up further to make sure we get it all out. It looks like it has gone all the way to the bone and there is a possibility that the tendon has been cut.” Surgery for a hair and a toe? This was indeed getting bizarre. “Since you are with Kaiser, we’ll need to send you there for the surgery,” the doctor informed us. “The good news is that at least it’s not on his pee-pee.”
Soon enough, we were on our way to Riverside, another 45 minutes away. Upon arrival there, we were again quickly given a room and a team of doctors, nurses, and P.A.s all gathered around to see the kid with the hair tourniquet. The orthopedist who had been contacted by the first hospital evaluated him and came to the conclusion that surgery was the best option. “Unfortunately,” she said, “we don’t have a pediatric anesthesiologist on staff here, so we are going to need to transfer him to Fontana.” Okay, another 40 minute drive won’t kill us.
Thirty minutes later, she returned again and informed us that Fontana didn’t have the necessary team of a pediatric orthopedist, pediatric anesthesiologist and pediatrician, so instead we were being transfered to Loma Linda. “I know he is hungry, but don’t feed him anything until after the surgery,” the doctor said before leaving the room one more time.
By this point it was around 2:30 in the afternoon and the last time he had eaten was 1:00. For a two-month-old, this was going to be a long time without so much as a snack. “Does he take a pacifier,” a nurse asked?
“He does now,” I replied. And amazingly, for the first time, he didn’t reject the cork and gladly sucked away. As Justin enjoyed his newfound plug, our wait as interrupted by an announcement on the hospital PA system. “Code Blue, First Floor, Podietry.” From my vantage point, I could see the ER nurse’s station and I have never seen so many confused looks in one place before. “Did they say ‘podiatry’?” they took turns asking each other. “How can you have a code blue in podiatry?” “Sounds like someone’s foot fell asleep again,” one of them said as they all rushed out the door toward the podiatry unit. “Does anyone know where podiatry is?” another asked as the door closed behind him.
An hour later the ER had settled back to normal and Loma Linda had rejected our case. Now the doctor was trying to find a team at Kaiser’s facility in Los Angeles and at Children’s Hospital in L.A. as well Children’s Hospital of Orange County (CHOC). “As soon as we hear back from one of these hospitals, we will send you over,” the nurse told us. Another hour passed and CHOC finally accepted the case.
By now the shift had ended and we had a new nurse. “The ambulance will be here within an hour,” he told us.
“But it is only a 30 minute drive,” I said. “Can’t we just take him ourselves?”
“It’s faster by ambulance,” he replied. I’m good at math, but not a genius, but I think thirty minutes is less than an hour. Fortunately, this guy did have a sense of humor. A few minutes later her returned to the bedside with two cups of red Jell-O. It was close to dinner time, and he must have sensed that we were hungry. “Happy Valentine’s day,” he said. “I figured red was appropriate.”
As with most hospital timelines, the ambulance arrived promptly an hour and forty minutes later. The baby and car seat were strapped to the gurney and my wife went along for the ride while I took our car. After beating the ambulance to the next emergency room, I proceeded to park on the fourth floor of the parking structure and still made it to the ER doors before they took the baby in. So much for the ambulance being faster.
CHOC has an arrangement with a neighboring hospital, so the emergency room and operating rooms are actually at St. Joseph’s hospital. After a brief evaluation by numerous doctors, nurses and residents, each proclaiming the one before a nut, the pediatric orthopedist finally arrived and wheeled little Justin off to surgery. The procedure itself was only about 30 minutes, so it wasn’t long before we were rolling the little guy through an underground tunnel connecting the operating room at St. Joseph’s hospital to the recovery room at CHOC. In case you are counting, this is the fourth hospital of the day, not counting the other four that rejected the case.
Of course, given that our two-month-old son had just been completely knocked out for surgery, they wanted to keep an eye on him overnight. Hospitals are notorious for one thing: not letting anyone sleep. In addition to the baby on the other side of the room crying and nurses coming in and out, someone thought it would be fun to play loud piano music on the PA system from 12:10 a.m. until 12:20 a.m. Sleep was apparently not on the agenda for the evening.
Finally, after a very long night, the doctor came back and gave the nurse permission to start disconnecting the wires and tubes and proclaimed our little guy fit to go home.
After this whole ordeal, I realized the Indians were on to something when they pick their baby names. Maybe it was time to make a slight change to our son’s name. My sister called him Justin Hairy Toes, but I kinda like Just-Ten Toes. I’m sure something will stick.
The morning had been hectic. We had been packing, cleaning, and scurrying about since the crack of dawn. It was the Saturday of a three day weekend and we were preparing to head out of a town for a camping trip. Since we would be camping, dirty kids were inevitable, so we decided to make sure they were all clean before we left. The three older ones were all bathed sans incident. As I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, my wife bathed the baby.
“Honey,” my wife called to me from the bathroom. “Come look at this.” Not really wanting to be distracted from my task at hand, I reluctantly made my way toward my wife. Upon arrival in the bathroom, I saw one very clean baby boy wrapped in a towel with his little feet sticking out. “Look at his toe, I think there is something wrong,” my wife said.
I glanced down at the questionable digit and quickly deduced that she was indeed right. The best way to describe what I saw was a toe that was falling off. A closer examination revealed a fine strand of hair wrapped in a figure-eight pattern around two toes. On one of the toes, the hair was digging in so tightly that it had sliced through the skin and was nearly to the bone. The brave little guy had never uttered a peep about it to this point, so we had no idea how long it had been in such a condition, but the situation was dire. Parts of the toe were the wrong color and it looked as if the toe would be lost.
Grabbing a pair of scissors and a flashlight, I tried to snip the hair, but the scene was complicated. “I can’t tell exactly where the hair starts and the toe ends,” I said. “It’s too deep. I’m going to call the doctor, but I think we need to get this guy to the ER.” After a brief conversation with the nurse hotline, I was instructed to get to the nearest hospital, as long as it wasn’t Hemet hospital. “But that is the nearest one,” I said.
“That’s not good,” she replied. Hemet’s reputation in the local community is less than stellar, and clearly our health insurance plan agreed. After pecking around on her keyboard for a few seconds, the nurse advised me to go to Rancho Springs, about 40 minutes from our house. Our home hospital, Kaiser Permanente, was about an hour drive and the nurse clearly agreed that time was of the essence.
Fortunately the older kids were mostly dressed, so we threw them in the car and took off for a friend’s house around the corner. As I unloaded my two daughters from the car, I realized that neither had bothered to put shoes on as I had instructed them, but that was the least of my concerns. The beauty of having friends with kids is that there was sure to be an extra pair of shoes laying around the house that would fit them. I pushed my speeds as far as I thought I could without getting pulled over and causing a delay and arrived at the hospital in just under 40 minutes. Fortunately, it was a Saturday morning which also happened to be Valentines day, and the weekend of President’s day. All of these factors combined to create an empty waiting room in the tiny hospital. We were quickly ushered into triage and then assigned an open bed. When the doctor arrived, he asked about the situation and I quickly summed it up. He responded by saying, “Ahh, a hair tourniquet. Well, let’s cut the hair.” That seemed simple enough, so a team quickly assembled to provide light and to restrain the baby. Within seconds, the shrill sounds of a baby in agony filled the small emergency room. The doctor snipped and picked at the injury for about 10 excruciating minutes before informing us that he was going to give the little guy a break and then go back in. “I got a lot of it out and released some of the pressure, but there is still more,” he informed us. After a second round of digging and snipping, he turned to address me and my wife. “Sometimes in these cases,” he said “we have to take them in to surgery and open it up further to make sure we get it all out. It looks like it has gone all the way to the bone and there is a possibility that the tendon has been cut.” Surgery for a hair and a toe? This was indeed getting bizarre. “Since you are with Kaiser, we’ll need to send you there for the surgery,” the doctor informed us. “The good news is that at least it’s not on his pee-pee.”
Soon enough, we were on our way to Riverside, another 45 minutes away. Upon arrival there, we were again quickly given a room and a team of doctors, nurses, and P.A.s all gathered around to see the kid with the hair tourniquet. The orthopedist who had been contacted by the first hospital evaluated him and came to the conclusion that surgery was the best option. “Unfortunately,” she said, “we don’t have a pediatric anesthesiologist on staff here, so we are going to need to transfer him to Fontana.” Okay, another 40 minute drive won’t kill us.
Thirty minutes later, she returned again and informed us that Fontana didn’t have the necessary team of a pediatric orthopedist, pediatric anesthesiologist and pediatrician, so instead we were being transfered to Loma Linda. “I know he is hungry, but don’t feed him anything until after the surgery,” the doctor said before leaving the room one more time.
By this point it was around 2:30 in the afternoon and the last time he had eaten was 1:00. For a two-month-old, this was going to be a long time without so much as a snack. “Does he take a pacifier,” a nurse asked?
“He does now,” I replied. And amazingly, for the first time, he didn’t reject the cork and gladly sucked away. As Justin enjoyed his newfound plug, our wait as interrupted by an announcement on the hospital PA system. “Code Blue, First Floor, Podietry.” From my vantage point, I could see the ER nurse’s station and I have never seen so many confused looks in one place before. “Did they say ‘podiatry’?” they took turns asking each other. “How can you have a code blue in podiatry?” “Sounds like someone’s foot fell asleep again,” one of them said as they all rushed out the door toward the podiatry unit. “Does anyone know where podiatry is?” another asked as the door closed behind him.
An hour later the ER had settled back to normal and Loma Linda had rejected our case. Now the doctor was trying to find a team at Kaiser’s facility in Los Angeles and at Children’s Hospital in L.A. as well Children’s Hospital of Orange County (CHOC). “As soon as we hear back from one of these hospitals, we will send you over,” the nurse told us. Another hour passed and CHOC finally accepted the case.
By now the shift had ended and we had a new nurse. “The ambulance will be here within an hour,” he told us.
“But it is only a 30 minute drive,” I said. “Can’t we just take him ourselves?”
“It’s faster by ambulance,” he replied. I’m good at math, but not a genius, but I think thirty minutes is less than an hour. Fortunately, this guy did have a sense of humor. A few minutes later her returned to the bedside with two cups of red Jell-O. It was close to dinner time, and he must have sensed that we were hungry. “Happy Valentine’s day,” he said. “I figured red was appropriate.”
As with most hospital timelines, the ambulance arrived promptly an hour and forty minutes later. The baby and car seat were strapped to the gurney and my wife went along for the ride while I took our car. After beating the ambulance to the next emergency room, I proceeded to park on the fourth floor of the parking structure and still made it to the ER doors before they took the baby in. So much for the ambulance being faster.
CHOC has an arrangement with a neighboring hospital, so the emergency room and operating rooms are actually at St. Joseph’s hospital. After a brief evaluation by numerous doctors, nurses and residents, each proclaiming the one before a nut, the pediatric orthopedist finally arrived and wheeled little Justin off to surgery. The procedure itself was only about 30 minutes, so it wasn’t long before we were rolling the little guy through an underground tunnel connecting the operating room at St. Joseph’s hospital to the recovery room at CHOC. In case you are counting, this is the fourth hospital of the day, not counting the other four that rejected the case.
Of course, given that our two-month-old son had just been completely knocked out for surgery, they wanted to keep an eye on him overnight. Hospitals are notorious for one thing: not letting anyone sleep. In addition to the baby on the other side of the room crying and nurses coming in and out, someone thought it would be fun to play loud piano music on the PA system from 12:10 a.m. until 12:20 a.m. Sleep was apparently not on the agenda for the evening.
Finally, after a very long night, the doctor came back and gave the nurse permission to start disconnecting the wires and tubes and proclaimed our little guy fit to go home.
After this whole ordeal, I realized the Indians were on to something when they pick their baby names. Maybe it was time to make a slight change to our son’s name. My sister called him Justin Hairy Toes, but I kinda like Just-Ten Toes. I’m sure something will stick.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Little Helper
Help is a very valuable thing. We can all think of countless times when we have been in trouble and had to ask for assistance. I actually had this down to a science when I was in college. Our dorms came furnished with a two standard-issue metal framed beds, but no one ever used those. Instead we all built our own loft beds out of lumber from Home Depot. The beds usually consisted of four-by-four posts and two-by-six rails, so they were sturdy beasts.
The drawback to these monsters was that they had to be removed each summer. Predictably, disassembling the bed was often too big a job for just one person. Unfortunately, everyone was so preoccupied with moving their own things out that there was little time to help someone else. I quickly learned, that in order to get enough attention to warrant help, one had to create an emergency. So I would begin the process alone by propping my door open so that I could be heard in the hall and then I would take apart the heaviest, most cumbersome pieces first. Inevitably, I would get something heavy stuck over my head while another piece was tumbling down. This would create quite a racket. It was at this point that I would yell for help and wait for the entire floor to come running to my aid.
Other types of help are appreciated as well, but with trepidation. Perhaps the first time you offered to take your dad’s credit card and fill up the gas tank in his car for him, he was thankful, but nervous. Or maybe you were thankfully scared the time a neighbor got your car running for you with a hammer.
Today, I got some help help that caused me to fear. It all started while I was home from work to grab a quick bite to eat during lunch. I have two beautiful daughters and the four-year-old is quite the mother hen when it comes to her little sister. My ham sandwich had been delicious and I was just about to head out the door when the girls walked on by and Maddie announced that she was going to change Cami’s diaper for us.
“What did she say?” my wife asked me.
“I think she is going to change Cami’s diaper,” I replied. We both stared at each other as the same thought flooded both of our heads at the same time: It sounds nice, but is it a good idea? We must have reached the same conclusion because neither of us moved as we waited anxiously for the result. Deep down inside, we both wanted this idea to work. Just think of the possibilities that could follow if this endeavor were to be a success. We could never have to change another diaper again!
I really needed to get back to work, but I wanted to know how this whole episode would turn out. I didn’t have to wait long. Only moments after the announcement, a voice rang out down the hall. “Mommy! Cami’s poop fell out of her diaper and it’s on the floor!”
“Bye, Honey!” I said. “I really should get back to the office.”
“But, I have to hold the baby,” she stammered as she cradled our newborn and gave me an irresistible look that convinced me to stick around a few more minutes.
Carefully watching my step, I made my way down the hall and found the offending pile. “That was a lot grosser than I thought it would be,” Maddie said to me with a twisted face.
“You’ll get used to it with practice,” I said as I ruffled her hair and got out the carpet cleaner. “You’re a good little helper.”
The drawback to these monsters was that they had to be removed each summer. Predictably, disassembling the bed was often too big a job for just one person. Unfortunately, everyone was so preoccupied with moving their own things out that there was little time to help someone else. I quickly learned, that in order to get enough attention to warrant help, one had to create an emergency. So I would begin the process alone by propping my door open so that I could be heard in the hall and then I would take apart the heaviest, most cumbersome pieces first. Inevitably, I would get something heavy stuck over my head while another piece was tumbling down. This would create quite a racket. It was at this point that I would yell for help and wait for the entire floor to come running to my aid.
Other types of help are appreciated as well, but with trepidation. Perhaps the first time you offered to take your dad’s credit card and fill up the gas tank in his car for him, he was thankful, but nervous. Or maybe you were thankfully scared the time a neighbor got your car running for you with a hammer.
Today, I got some help help that caused me to fear. It all started while I was home from work to grab a quick bite to eat during lunch. I have two beautiful daughters and the four-year-old is quite the mother hen when it comes to her little sister. My ham sandwich had been delicious and I was just about to head out the door when the girls walked on by and Maddie announced that she was going to change Cami’s diaper for us.
“What did she say?” my wife asked me.
“I think she is going to change Cami’s diaper,” I replied. We both stared at each other as the same thought flooded both of our heads at the same time: It sounds nice, but is it a good idea? We must have reached the same conclusion because neither of us moved as we waited anxiously for the result. Deep down inside, we both wanted this idea to work. Just think of the possibilities that could follow if this endeavor were to be a success. We could never have to change another diaper again!
I really needed to get back to work, but I wanted to know how this whole episode would turn out. I didn’t have to wait long. Only moments after the announcement, a voice rang out down the hall. “Mommy! Cami’s poop fell out of her diaper and it’s on the floor!”
“Bye, Honey!” I said. “I really should get back to the office.”
“But, I have to hold the baby,” she stammered as she cradled our newborn and gave me an irresistible look that convinced me to stick around a few more minutes.
Carefully watching my step, I made my way down the hall and found the offending pile. “That was a lot grosser than I thought it would be,” Maddie said to me with a twisted face.
“You’ll get used to it with practice,” I said as I ruffled her hair and got out the carpet cleaner. “You’re a good little helper.”
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