Getting Old

I like to consider myself a pretty friendly guy. I am always on the lookout for strangers who I think will talk to me, especially if I can spot something that we have in common. I’m not talking about someone who has the same shoes as me or someone who is wearing an In-N-Out t-shirt. I look for bigger connections that show more evidence of a lifestyle. When I see a mom or dad out with four or five kids, I have an instant conversation starter. If I suspect someone is a teacher, I’ll chat for a minute or two. (They are really easy to find if you know how to eavesdrop the right way.) When I see someone wearing a Biola University sweatshirt, I always say hi. That backfired today.

I know that for the past several years my hair has been...changing. In order to really notice it, you have to be either behind me or really tall, because the biggest change is taking place in the back. Okay, maybe there is a little gray around the edges, but you have to really study it to see it. I don’t think I have any wrinkles and my belly is still well above my belt, so I can’t imagine how this happened.

It all started as I wandered around Sea World with the family today. I had my five young kids with me and my charming trophy wife. We looked like the perfect picture of a youngish family who clearly had two dogs back at home and more than one bunk bed in the house. How anyone could have mistaken me for old is beyond me, but it happened.

I spotted her approaching about 50 yards ahead of me. As we got near, I could clearly see that her sweatshirt did indeed say Biola University in large block letters. I’m guessing she was a product of a public school who had reformed and chosen to attend a fine Christian university as a way of cleansing her soul from all that she had lived through as a child because the mistake she made could only be the result of a poor education early in life. As we drew near, I turned to her and asked, “Do you attend Biola?”

She replied with a smile and said, “Yes.” But she didn’t stop there. Perhaps she should have because the next words out of her mouth were words that she probably wished she could have sucked back in, kinda like when you ask the heavy woman about her due date. (Brian Regan fans are no doubt pondering pandas at the zoo right now.)

There are countless things she could have said after informing me that she was indeed a current Biola student. She could have said, “Oh, did you go there too?” or “Do you know someone there?” She could have even said, “Yes, because Jesus loves me and has a wonderful plan for my life.” Anything would have been better than what she said. Keep in mind that I am not that old. My oldest son is nine. That puts him nine years away from college. So why did she respond to my inquiry by saying, “Yes, do you have kids there too?”

Kids in college! Me? Do I really look old enough to have kids in college? Notice she didn’t say “a kid.” She said “kids.” As in more than one. Of course, I wisely turned the inner voice off and instead used the outer voice to say, “Oh, no. My wife and I went there about 14 or 15 years ago.”

Of course, I never even slowed down after that. The damage was done so I just kept on walking and hoped she wouldn’t turn around to catch a glimpse of my “changing” hair.

The Best Thanksgiving Ever!

Like most grandmothers, my mom enjoys spoiling her grandchildren. When it became apparent that all 16 of her grandchildren would be coming for Thanksgiving, she pulled out all the stops. To get things started, the pool was heated and a bounce house was rented. Then she ordered all kinds of crafts for the kids to do over the course of the weekend. She was intent on making this the best Thanksgiving ever for all of her grandkids and nothing could stop her - until she got a phone call.

The first call was from my sister. "Uhh, mom. I don't think we're going to make it. I have four sick kids at home" As a matter of fact, she had finally thrown in the towel after cleaning up the fourth bed that had been splattered with vomit. "But I think Kevan will still make it," she added reassuring Mom that her husband would represent the family.

As my wife and I were driving into town, we called ahead and let my mom know that my in-laws, who frequently join us for Thanksgiving, had also called in sick and would be sitting this one out. With the count now at 12 kids and 9 adults, it would still be a full house, but just not quite the same.

As it turned out, there was more than enough food to feed everyone for the entire weekend and a great meal was enjoyed by all who were there. The next morning, my sister's kids were feeling better, so they decided to come over and join the after party. As they were preparing to get in the car, my 5-year-old nephew, who missed the original dinner but was nonetheless excited about seeing his cousins, looked up at his mom and said, "This is the best Thanksgiving ever!" Not wanting to ruin his enthusiasm, she decided not to mention the fact that he had completely missed the entire day and was instead on his way over to Grandma and Grandpa's to eat leftover turkey.

Prior to joining us on Friday, my sister decided to call ahead and let us know that Kevan would be missing the planned guys day out since he was now stuck in bed with the flu. That's okay. We could still have fun without him.

The guys day out involved lunch on the beach that included raw fish and oysters. Me, being more of a connoisseur of fine ground beef than delicacies of the sea, tried to avoid the raw fish, but finally gave into the pressure against my better judgement. After a fine lunch with my dad and brothers, we returned to my parent's house just in time for me to start feeling queasy. By nightfall, I was sick and by midnight, I was rushing to the bathroom as two days worth of eating was working its way back up. By two o'clock that morning, my wife had joined me and we traded off the rest of night vomiting. We did stop the cycle on a few occasions as we cleaned up the vomit from our middle daughter and oldest son who didn't want to be left out. By morning, we were all exhausted. By the time we inventoried all the sickness, we found out that my mom had also joined the fun, followed by my niece.

A second niece added her name to the ranks on Saturday night as well as my dad who woke up Sunday morning feeling under the weather. Who knew that raw fish disease could spread so fast? Can't wait for next year.

PS: Just before leaving Mom and Dad's tonight, our 3-year-old threw up twice. Then he added six more to his total while we were in the car. The only good news about this is that the dog, who usually pukes in the car, held it all in!

PS 2: By the time the week ended, the final count stood at 20 kids and adults sickened by the bug. All but three threw up. Of those 17 who puked, the average number of heaves stood at 3. That means that there were approximately 51 sessions of vomiting that occurred as a result of one family weekend. If only there was a market for the stuff...

Rained Out

The smell of sizzling bacon early in the morning. Lazy afternoons spent sitting in a chair surrounded by tall trees as sunlight bleeds through the shadows to light up a good book. Campfires with marshmallows turning slowly above the flames. These are things I think of when I think of camping and that is why we decided several months back that we would spend the long Veterans Day weekend camping with my sister and her family and my wife's parents.

What we got, however, was slightly different. Friday night started things off with a gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof of the trailer. I knew that rain was in the forecast, but the last report I had seen said showers in the late afternoon on Saturday. Nothing said rain Friday night. Soon the pitter-patter turned into a steady drumming and my mind raced to think of all the things I had left outside exposed to the rain. Not wanting to get wet, I decided that there was nothing that needed immediate retrieval and I eventually drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, the rain continued off and on. The kids played outside as much as they could, but there is only so much that can be done without creating a huge mess, so Plan B was put into motion. "Hey, kids!" I yelled. "Who wants to go play at the McDonald's playground?" Needless to say, the response was unanimous and we loaded five kids into our car while my sister and her husband took four. (No one really paid attention to whose kids were where as long as the numbers added up.) With all nine buckled up, we hit the road and invaded the unsuspecting McDonald's.

After returning to the campground several hours later, the rain began to come down much harder than before and the wind picked up. With the question of how to get a dry lunch answered, the topic inevitably shifted to dinner. No one really wanted to go out again and no one really wanted to spend hours cooped up in small trailers either with passels of young children clamoring at our feet. Since our house was only 40 minutes away, we suggested heading home for dinner and returning to the campground later in the evening once the rain died down.

The idea sounded great to the adults, but the kids took some convincing. "You can't go home in the middle of a camping trip," my oldest son complained.

"I know it is a little unorthodox, but it will be fun," I insisted. He eventually agreed, but only after he realized that using the word "unorthodox" in various sentences was actually the fun part.

Dinner was tremendous and the various catastrophes that fell upon our home during that time were all remedied before we left. This story isn't really about the catastrophes, but I will summarize them for your reading pleasure: 1) "Uhhh, Honey. Is the liquid laundry soap supposed to be spilled all over the floor of the laundry room?" 2) "Aaron, Elijah just spilled your dinner all over the floor!" 3) "Hey Aaron, do you have a plunger?" 4) "I think the leaky roof just got worse. Get me a bucket!"

During the course of dinner, the storm passed and by the time we returned to the campground a full moon was breaking through the clouds. With the kids in bed, the adults gathered around the campfire to enjoy what camping is all about.

Growing Pains

When we first bought our house almost nine years ago, it was perfect for our little family. There was an extra bedroom and closets galore. I even remember commenting to my wife as we were unpacking, "I don't think we will ever be able to fill all these closets. Look at all the extra space!" I was young. I was naive. I was a father to one 11 month old baby boy.

Something happened over the last nine years that changed things. I don't think it was the birth of our daughter. It wasn't the birth of a second daughter either. Maybe it was when the fourth kid came along. Or possibly even the fifth. I'm not exactly sure, but at some point things changed. The closets filled up. Extra cabinets appeared in the garage. They filled up too. A shed popped up out back. It filled up with bicycles of every shape, size, and gender. The attic that was once home to noting but Christmas decor now contains 20 boxes of neatly labeled children's clothing.

While we have managed to keep up with the demands for space and have even updated the interior of the house somewhat, the outside has done nothing but deteriorate. Over the past several years, the lawn has been behaving much like my hair. At first it was only a little thin in spots, but then somewhere between baby 2 and 4, it surpassed my own hairline and completely disappeared. I went out back to look for it a few times, but only found dirt.

And this dirt was not very well behaved. It liked to crawl off the former lawn space and get comfortable on the patio. The flower bed that once boasted of vibrant hydrangeas somehow turned into a dog bed and a series of moats and canals for kids' buckets, cars, and boats. This dirt joined the other dirt on the patio and a never-ending cycle of moving dirt became the norm.

A few months ago I got tired of it. On a sleepless night, I devised a plan to section off the yard into thirds. One third would be for the kids and dogs, one third for the beautiful lawn and flowers, and one third for the trailer and other things that Daddy wanted outside where kids and dogs wouldn't get them.

Last weekend, the biggest part of Operation Normal Yard was completed. Thanks to the help of some friends, (one with a tractor and one with some sweat) a brand new lawn was laid down.

When we first moved in nine years ago, I took the lawn for granted. I assumed that it would always be there. Now, having experienced its death and renewal I have a new appreciation for grass. I have invested money, hard work, and time and now I have a plan for watering, fertilizing, and even over-seeding it each year. I keep the kids and dogs off of my lawn and will use nearly lethal force if necessary to protect my lawn.

My dad used to say that his lawn was more valuable than his kids and I think he was on to something. His yard was always green and all five of his kids turned out great. There must be a connection.

Sin

Does sin still exist today? As a father, I am faced with this question on a daily basis. Do my kids sin? Do they at times push me to the point of sinning myself? Anyone who has ever been given the title of parent knows that we cannot raise kids who never disappoint us. In their own unique ways our kids will defy us, lie to us, treat their siblings unkindly, and, at times find unimaginable ways to drive us crazy.

So what are we to do with this misbehavior? Do we excuse it or correct it? If we excuse it, then there is no sin, no measure of right and wrong. If we correct it, we must believe in a standard of right and wrong that transcends culture.

In our post-modern world, the answer to the question of sin largely depends on your perspective. In order to more efficiently hash out my thoughts, I will have to make some assumptions. First of all I will assume there are three camps on this issue: Yes, No, and Sort Of. Before you shout out a definitive answer, pause to consider the ramifications of your beliefs.

If you are in the Yes camp then I can safely assume that you believe in an absolute moral truth that sets a standard of right and wrong. Those of you in the No camp subscribe to the theory that right and wrong are a construct of each individual person. The mixed group, the Sort Of camp, holds a mixed view that some acts are sinful, but others fall into a gray area. Let’s start by exploring each of these views.

Belief in an absolute moral standard of right and wrong demands that there must be a universal benchmark to gauge the “rightness” or “wrongness” of behavior. Again, for the sake of simplicity, I am going to assume the most commonly accepted benchmark is the Bible. If you find yourself balking at that statement, then perhaps you don’t fall into the Yes category. Only a true Christian can advocate this position since you cannot claim to believe the Bible is the ultimate standard of right and wrong without embracing it in its entirety. To choose only parts to believe necessitates falling into the Sort Of category.

To those for whom sin does not exist, the ramifications are very open ended. If there is no standard of right and wrong, then what I view as right is always right for me and what I view as wrong is always wrong for me. Someone else may have a different standard of right and wrong and that is their prerogative. Carried to the logical conclusion, chaos must reign and anger must abound. Under this premise, laws cannot be enforced and other acts such as lying, cheating, and infidelity cannot be viewed as wrong.

If you hold to a Sort Of position, you may agree that there is some degree of absolute morality but not all acts fall under its rule. The question that must be asked here is what defines your morality? Is morality defined by law? Can morality change? Is someone sinning if they don’t agree with your views of right and wrong? If someone is sinning when they don’t play by your rules, then you must believe in sin, but absent an absolute standard, your definition of sin has no grip and you then fall back into the mixed group and the cycle continues.

The Bible is very clear on the answer to this question. Romans 3:23 says “for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” If even a small part of you believes that God might be the creator and controller of all things, then you must wrestle with this topic. If God exists, then sin exists and we all fall in the sinner category. Fortunately that is not the end of the story.

Eavsdropping

One of the great joys of eating dinner is a small restaurant is the ability one has to unintentionally eavesdrop on the conversations of others. I make it a point to keep my conversations private in such settings by talking only loud enough for my voice to carry across the table.

My wife and I have a lot in common when it comes to being in the vicinity of loud talkers. When someone starts talking too loudly, we both stop talking. Rather than compete with the noise, we listen. Once the loud conversation ends, we immediately resume ours, however the topic inevitably shifts to what we have just heard.

Last night, in a quiet restaurant, a conversation began between two strangers at different tables. Both were alone, waiting for “to go” orders, so they had some time to kill. There was a younger man at one table and a middle aged man at the other. The middle aged man had clearly lived a hard life. This fact was made apparent by both his words and his appearance. The younger man, was vibrant and full of energy, just dying to talk to anyone who would listen.

After a brief exchange about the older man’s tattoos and their meaning, the conversation shifted to employment. The older man revealed that he had spent some time in the Navy and reminisced about his world travels. The young man responded by saying, that he worked as an intern at a local church and spent much of his time with junior high aged students.

My ears perked up upon hearing this. Visions of an enthusiastic young pastoral intern flashed into my mind. I assumed that in the next few minutes I would hear the beginnings of a sermon and an awkward exchange between the two strangers. The older man responded to the announcement of the younger man’s occupation with a very long silence. It seemed that the conversation was over, but the old guy surprised me when he picked it right back up after a minute or so.

Rather than pursue the religious angle, he went back to his Navy stories. The two men continued talking until their orders were ready. As they prepared to leave, the young pastoral intern got up and shook the older man’s hand. They exchanged names and went on their ways.

With them gone, my wife and I resumed our conversation. “Compare his form of evangelism to the other church,” I said. “Which do you think is more effective?” The other church to which I refer has gained regional, if not national, attention for its recent lawsuit against the state police. The lawsuit alleges that the police violated the first amendment rights of three church members who were arrested for reading the Bible in public. What the lawsuit doesn’t mention is the fact that the men had previously been told that if they wanted to preach to a captive audience on state property, they must first obtain a permit. The men refused and came back again to preach without going through the proper channels. The lawsuit, and the church lawyers, also failed to mention that another group had recently successfully obtained a permit to preach at the same site, never once violating the law.

This particular church is somewhat notorious for its loud in-your-face style of evangelism which comes across as offensive to most who hear it. The young intern, however, left an impression as well by simply revealing that he was a Christian in a very non-offensive manner and then listening to a man as he relived some of the highlights of his life in the Navy.

Someday, the middle aged ex-sailor may begin to see Christianity as a desirable option because of this encounter with the intern. He may also learn to see Christianity as a frightening option if he reads the newspaper and hears about the arrogant church who feels the need to ignore the law and shove the Bible down the throats of anyone within earshot. Both churches preach the Gospel, but only one of them reaches the lost.

* For a very thoughtful analysis of the church situation mentioned in the post, please see http://mayheincrease.com/2011/05/thoughts-on-the-arrest-of-calvary-chapel-hemet-pastors/?doing_wp_cron

Dating

My wife and I have always been pretty good about squeezing regular date nights into our busy schedules. A typical date lasts around an hour and a half and consists of Mexican food and a trip to Target. Any longer than that and the babysitting money would dry up too quickly. Any shorter than that and the Mexican food would have to come from the drive thru window instead of the inside counter. Last weekend we had the rare opportunity to to replace Target with a comedy show and extend the date time to about seven hours. The Mexican food, although from a different counter, is a non-negotiable.

Thanks to an overnighter with Grandma and Grandpa, four-fifths of the kids were taken care of. The last fifth stayed with us, but picked a perfect window for her seven-hour Saturday evening nap. As Sunday morning dawned, the simplicity of life with four kids gone slowly sunk in. We only had to get one kid ready for church and we didn't even have to fix breakfast for any of them since babies don't require any preparation. Blessed with infinite amounts of wisdom when it comes to these kind of situations, I quickly realized an opportunity when I saw it. My wife loves a big breakfast, so I scored a point and a half in her book (400 in mine) by obliging her with a huge homemade breakfast burrito.

Then the reality of what we had done sunk in. "Whose going to clear the table?" I asked.

"The kids usually do it," she replied.

"But they're at Grandma's," I said. Fortunately I am blessed with infinite amounts of wisdom when it comes to these kind of situations, so I quickly added, "So I'll do it today." Then I noticed that the dishwasher was full of clean dishes. "I guess Zach's not going to unload the dishwasher this morning?" Wandering over to the trash can I noticed that it was looking full. Glancing around I noticed that there was once again a glaring absence of children in the home.

"Honey," I said. "We need kids." As if on queue, one of the dogs started barking. Guess whose job it is to feed them? Apparently mine on this fine morning.

All this talk of dating got me thinking. With five kids of my own, the subject is bound to come up sooner or later. Using my infinite blessing of wisdom I decided to take things into my own hands rather than wait to deal with it after the fact. My oldest girl is seven and she seemed like a good place to start. Not just because she is a girl, but because she is a flirtatious girl. Allow me to illustrate. Although home schooled, she occasionally takes a class or two at the local charter school. It was about a year ago when the teacher told us that she spent the morning holding hands with a boy. That was the last time we let her out of the house.

Tonight, though, I wanted to make sure things were clear. "Maddie," I said. "How old do you have to be to have a boyfriend?"

"I don't know," she replied.

"Eighteen," I said. "You can't have a boyfriend until you are eighteen."

"But, Daddy," she said with the most innocent smile you've ever seen, "I already have like ten of them."

"Ten is fine as long as you have all ten at the same time," I wisely replied knowing that all those jealous boys would end up doing something to make her think men are pigs. "Then when you are eighteen you can narrow it down to three or four."

On second thought, I'd have to let her out of the house to do that. That leaves me no choice. Please submit all applications for arranged marriage to me no later than next Thursday. I will then review the applications, verify the gene pool, eliminate all candidates with back hair in the family since the grandkids will get that from my side anyway, watch how you raise your child, then make a decision for her when the time is right.

Breakthrough

Potty training, teaching a child to ride a bike, filing for a child’s first patent. These are all small milestones in the life of a parent. Small victories that collectively add up to the great joy of being called Mommy or Daddy.

As with all victories, there must be a series of defeats as one masters an art or learns a skill. Some of the lessons and values we hope to instill in our children gently slide out of our mouths and are reflected through our actions only to slither past the unsuspecting child unnoticed. For my oldest daughter, the notion of swiftly doing anything has been elusive for many years.

If you have read this blog from the beginning, you may recall my post about Slowpoke She. In this allegorical story, I describe the pace of my momentumly-challenged daughter as she moseys her way through each day. Suffice it to say, speed is not her forte. Now, as a healthy, vibrant seven-year-old, it has become of critical importance that she learn to pick up the pace. (So says Mommy with the familiar “You-deal-with-your-child” look on her face.)

True joy came a few weeks ago when we finally found something that motivated her. The simplicity of the system is amazing and its effectiveness astounding. With the birth of our fifth child, the need for the older ones to become more independent became very apparent. To help her move along, in a moment of frustration I put a Post-It note on her bedroom mirror. I then told her that every time she finished a job after the timer went off, she had to record how many minutes late she was. At the end of the week we would add up the numbers and if it was less than 10, she could watch a 30 minute video on Friday.

To sweeten the pot, I also told her that she could earn positive points by finishing jobs early. Each time a job was finished before the timer sounded, she could add two positive points that would work toward offsetting the negatives. The math may be a bit complicated when you are in the second grade, but she gets the gist of it.

Yesterday I came home and noticed that the table in our homeschool room, an area of the house that usually has clutter on it, was completely clean. “Wow, the table is clean.”

“We just put everything where it belongs,” Maddie replied.

“What I great idea,” I said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“It was all Mommy’s idea,” Maddie replied proudly giving credit where it was due.

“Your mommy sure is full of great ideas.” I responded chuckling at my daughter’s honesty. A week ago, that job would have taken over an hour. Now, after only a few minutes, the table was clean.

Tonight, my little girl proudly said to me, “Daddy, come look at my chart!” Her smile said it all as she showed me all the positives far outnumbering the negatives. For me, the math is easy. It used to be that my little princess would waste 15 to 20 hours a week completing tasks that should take mere minutes. Now she works fast all week then watches a 30 minute video on Fridays. And I like the way that adds up.

That's Not Great!

Years ago before we were married, I made a conscious decision to love my wife. Prior to that exact moment, I was confused about my feelings toward her. Though we had been dating for several months, there was a part of me that thought she was perfect and yet another part of me wasn’t so sure. I felt torn by my own indecision until one day I couldn’t help but realize that she was everything I was looking for. It was at a very specific defining moment that I decided to love her no matter what. Just over one year from that day we were married and I have never looked back.

The important detail here is that my love for my wife was not an instantaneous event. It didn’t start with a switch. Rather it came to fruition over a period of time. It grew (and continues to grow) on me as I daily commit myself to loving her.

Ours is not a dramatic love story, but we are committed to loving each other forever. It is that kind of commitment that seems so fleeting today. Divorce and single parenthood are now the norm. This sad reality was made apparent to me the other day as I sat in a meeting with a mom and another educational professional. The purpose of our meeting was to exit a student from a special education program due to his tremendous progress. As the meeting unfolded, a picture of this student was painted depicting him as a model student who worked hard to overcome adversity. The tone was overwhelmingly positive as the mom beamed with pride for her son.

Toward the end of the meeting, the mom smiled as she announced that her son had not seen his father in over a year and that he would get to spend two weeks with him this summer. Upon hearing this, the other educational professional in the room smiled and in the warmest, most sincere voice said, “That is so great.”

As soon as she said that, I felt a knot appear in my stomach and I wanted to jump out of my seat and shout out, “No! You’re wrong! That’s not great! It’s a horrible, horrible tragedy!” Divorce and awful parenting have become so normal in our society that we now view it as “great” when a child gets to see his dad for two weeks every other year.

The truth is that kids need the firmness of a father and the nurturing love of a mother. They need the fun that dad brings to the family and the routine that mom provides. Kids need a balanced perspective that can only come from two people who have a common goal seen from a different point of view.

Many absent parents today assume the role of coach rather than parent. A parent is present in the home and models life for his children. A coach meets with a child at a specified time to teach a specific skill. Parents show their children how to maintain a loving relationship throughout the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of life. Coaches discuss issues and try to prepare their team for the unknown, but can’t quite replicate reality. Parents respond immediately to issues, coaches respond at the next scheduled practice.

The greatest tragedy of our time is not that parents are divorcing. The greatest tragedy of our time is that we view the tragedy of divorce as normal. The shame of divorce is gone, replaced instead by a new normality. We now think it is great that a child gets to spend two weeks with his dad over the summer. We cheer when parents work out a 50/50 split of their children following the divorce because “It’s for the best.” Tragedies do happen, but they should be the exception, not the norm.

Mother's Day

There are some things that every mom can claim having done. They all change diapers and clean up messes. They all cook meals and do the laundry. Every mom drives kids around to various events and moms everywhere take care of little boo-boos and sick kids. My mom did all that, but she did something else that no other mom has done. She picked my dad. 

Her wisdom in that selection showed maturity beyond her 18 years. Times were tough at the start, but soon enough kids started making appearances in thier lives. First one, then another, followed by even more. This brings us to another of Mom’s unique accomplishments. She raised five kids. Sure other moms have raised five kids, but none have raised her five kids. And we are not just any five. We are five who have grown and matured through the years. Five who have followed our parents examples. Five who have claimed a faith in Jesus Christ as our own. We are five who have multiplied. We are five who have passed the faith of our parents on to our kids. 

We are five who get along. We are five who enjoy each other’s company. We are five who come back home as often as we can. And we have Mom to thank for that. Since she made such a perfect choice in husbands, all that Mom is, Dad is too. Together they meet the needs of many. They give without a second thought. They want the best for us and for everyone they meet. 

They notice the little things but never force themselves into anything. They know we will come to them if we need them. That’s the way we were raised. Their advice is always sound, the encouragement welcome.  They revel in our joys and share in a piece of our pains.

Their home is still our home. The door is always open because it is more than a home, it’s a community. It’s a place where anyone is welcome. Family events often include those who were not born into the family, but arrived one day and never left. 

Our lives are rare, but not impossible to duplicate. The foundation is clear and that has never changed. Now, as a father of five myself, I strive everyday to create a home where my children feel about their parents the same way I feel about mine. 

Mom and I are alike in many ways, but the lesson I learned best is the importance of picking the perfect spouse. And that I did. I hope to one day look back and proudly say that together, we did as good of a job raising our kids as Mom and Dad did with theirs. 

Manners

There are many lessons we try to impart to our children as they grow older. Some stick the first time and others take a little more repetition before they are fully refined. Lessons involving manners are of utmost importance because they are a direct reflection on a parent's ability to raise a child.

My oldest son recently joined the cub scouts. At our meeting tonight, I was delighted to hear that the topic of discussion for the evening was about manners. Specifically, the boys had to learn how to introduce a friend to someone new. Along with that we worked on shaking hands with a firm grip and making eye contact. Each of the boys took turns shaking my hand and practicing saying, "It's nice to meet you."

My son is brilliant, but social skills are not always his forte. Fortunately things were easy on him tonight since his dad was the one playing the part of the new guy, but the real test came later just as we pulled into the garage and were getting out of the car.

Stanley lives a few houses down. He's in his sixties, but suffered a brain injury when he was young and never returned to his previous state. He lives with his elderly dad and likes to take walks around the neighborhood. He saw us pull in and wanted to stop and talk for a minute. As I was standing in the driveway talking to Stan, he said, "Hey, I want to meet your son." He's met Zach before, but I immediately realized the opportunity that had just been presented and decided to go along with it.

I called Zach over and said, "Zach, this is Stanley," just like we had practiced at cub scouts. Of course, Zach remembered the routine, but he had a slight problem. Glancing down at his fingers, he realized that it would be inappropriate to shake someone's hand with orange Cheeto dust all over his finger tips. Being a typical eight-year-old, he did what any boy in his position would do. He licked his fingers and took hold of the outstretched hand. And Stanley didn't flinch.

Next week's cub scout lesson: How to make better use of a pair of jeans when meeting someone new.

Pants

There are many things that I do everyday. My repetitive daily tasks span a very broad spectrum of colorful duties. There are, of course, the mundane things like waking up and brushing my teeth. There are also, the more complicated tasks such as reading and responding to countless e-mails that flood my in-box throughout the day. Some daily duties are pleasant while others -- well, not so much. 

Today I spent some time pondering one of life's daily necessities: putting on my pants. What really stood out to me was the design of my pants. I really don't know if women's pants are as absurdly designed as men's but if you are of the female variety, you may want to check. The issue I have with my trousers is this: Why must there be three different places for me to fasten them around my waist in order to prevent them from falling off? The next time you put on a pair of slacks take a look and you will see what I am talking about. 

The first button is hidden inside the pants on the front left side. In order to secure this fastener, the wearer of the britches must grasp the material from the right side of the fly, find the button hole, then pull said material to the left of the fly and slip it around the button that has been sewn to the inside of the pants. Keep in mind that this complicated maneuver is for a button that will never be seen and will only serve to impede access to vital areas when nature is calling following a large Diet Coke at lunch. If is sounds complicated, just wait. This is only the beginning. 

Step two for a man of my position to find himself firmly established in his trousers is to attach the hidden hook-like fastener over the small flat bracket. Most of you are familiar with this step. The fastener to which I am referring contains one small, flat silver hook on the left and a small flat bracket on the right. It is a simple maneuver, however, it still requires the use of two hands. Keep in mind, though, that at this point, with the exception of the open fly, your pants are already fastened in such as way as to hide any colorful undergarments and prevent the pants from succumbing to the pull of gravity.

Whoever invented step three must have had some embarrassing moments in life that led to the thinking that this was a necessary evil. Perhaps pants of long ago were stretchier than they are now and men needed extra fasteners. Or perhaps men's bodies were shaped differently. Regardless, step three appears to be here to stay. It involves the excess flappy thing that remains dangling from the front of the pants after step two is complete. This excess flap must then be buttoned off-center on the right side in order to complete the task. 

Once the fly is up and my trousers have been sufficiently secured one can begin to ponder the next step. Since two of the three fasteners and the zipper are completely hidden from view, they clearly have no fashion purpose. However, the third fastener, the off center one, remains in full view, although it serves no functional purpose. This problem must be addressed through the installation of a purely aesthetic belt. Clearly the belt has no functional purpose either since the pants have already been secured into place through the use of multiple layers of security. Despite its lack of functionality, most men would not dare step foot out the door without the aesthetic belt. 

Once my pants are locked up tighter than a hotel door, the rest of the day must be spent avoiding any snacks or beverages that might necessitate the calling of a locksmith to help me gain access to critical areas should an emergency arrive. A wise man in slacks, plans his day so as to allow time to reverse the security process, take care of whatever personal business is of pressing importance, then reinitiate the lock-up sequence. If he is busy, he may even schedule a break on his calendar to ensure that he doesn't miss the opportunity before stepping into an important meeting. The even wiser man, has an alarm on his iPhone, just in case. 

Now, if only I had an iPhone. 

The Chipotle Test

The United States has often been referred to as a melting pot of various cultures. Southern California's primary contribution has been that of the Mexican variety. Along with that south-of-the-border influence has come something that every culture needs: Mexican food.

I have never actually sampled the Mexican cuisine of, say, Wisconsin, but I can only imagine that it is not the authentic variety that is available in the border states. Good Mexican food can't be found in a national chain restaurant. If you want the fullness of the Mexican flavor palette, you have to find a local establishment that is owned by a genuine Mexican.

A few years ago a new chain restaurant moved into town. With a name like Chipotle, it sounded Mexican enough, however, I was immediately skeptical. As any connoisseur of Mexican cuisine knows, a Mexican restaurant must have one of the "big four" words in its name: "los," "las," "el," or "la." Absent those articles, Mexican food cannot exist. As I ventured inside Chipotle (not even El Chipotle) shortly after its grand opening, I immediately noticed two things. Thing one: the decor. Thing two: the music.

The inside of the restaurant is modern industrialist. No sombreros, no burros, no colorful blankets or festive scenes. Don't get me wrong, it was very trendy, but Mexican food is not known for being trendy. It is known for being steeped in tradition. Sorry, Chipotle, on the tradition scale you score a zero.

The music was equally modern and, horror of horrors, it was in English. If I want English music I will go to a burger joint. I expect authentic Mexican cuisine to be accompanied by equally authentic Mexican music. I want those big, fat guitars and trumpets and an occasional "Ayyyyy-yii-yii-yiii!"

Despite the fact that Chipotle serves tacos and burritos and uses words like "carne asada" and "carnitas," they are not Mexican. The most damning proof of this lies in one simple fact: they make you pay for tortilla chips and they charge extra for salsa! Mexican culture is hospitable by nature. No true Mexican would ever dream of charging a guest for chips and salsa. That would violate the traditions of their culture.

While Chipotle serves decent food, don't let it fool you. It is as American as Taco Bell and McDonalds. If you want good, fast Mexican food, find a place that has one of the big four in its name. Then evaluate the decor, music, and price of chips.

Faith Like a Child

One of the greatest joys of fatherhood is hearing the cute, insightful, and downright funny things that your kids say. Not a day goes by that one of my kids doesn't make me smile. As I tucked my two-year-old son into bed tonight, he looked up at me and said, "I need my Bible."

"Where is it?" I asked in response.

"In the leaving room," he answered.

"The leaving room?" I asked.

"In the leaving room," he insisted.

"Oh, the living room," I said as I went on the Bible hunt. Maybe he calls it that because that is where he goes to put on his shoes when we are getting ready to leave. Or maybe its because he's two and that's the way two-year-olds talk. Doesn't matter. It made me smile.

With the Bible in his hands, I moved on to the girls' room. As my four-year-old daughter prayed in her bed, I was struck by her profound faith. She began her prayer with a simple statement, "Thank you that the baby is safe when it comes out of Mommy's tummy." My older kids will pray that God will keep Mommy and the baby safe, but Cami thanks God in advance for keeping them safe, fully trusting that he has things under control.

How often do we try to control our own lives, when a simple faith that God is in control is all that we need? How often do we charge forward with our own plans without stopping and thanking God for guiding us through life's journeys, past, present, and future?

Colossians 2:6-7 - So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.

Retirement Plans

Every once in a while a great meal emerges from a lonely stove and an empty refrigerator. Other times great meals come as a result of careful planning and preparation. Other times, mistakes in the kitchen can be turned into edible entrees if the right combination of other ingredients is added. Tonight's dinner had a combination of all of these.

Frequently on Sunday nights, I take over the kitchen and make something out of whatever we have in the refrigerator. The first step is always to take inventory. Tonight I had a choice of three different meats. Mommy had cooked a turkey a few nights ago and I had grilled up some steak and chicken for lunch today. By dinner time, all three were waiting to be doctored to leftover perfection.

For tonight's entree, I selected the steak. It was a little more well done than I prefer, but it was tasty nonetheless. Scanning the fridge I located a lifetime supply of corn tortillas and enough cheese to satisfy the largest families in Mexico and Italy combined. Then I went to work. Before long, quesadillas were coming off the griddle as fast as the kids could eat them.

As I cooked, I realized that, although this dinner was comprised of some Mexican food essentials, it lacked the zing that so often stings authentic Mexican cuisine. It was then that I realized something. Just because I live in a town with a Spanish sounding name and two-thirds of my neighbors hail from the southern side of the border, I don't cook like a Mexican, so why fake it?

That is when my retirement plan began to develop. Being proud of one's white heritage is taboo in our backwards thinking society, but I embrace it. That's why when I retire I am going to open a restaurant called Cheese-a-dee-ya: Authentic Quesadilla Cuisine From North of the Border. On the menu you will find things like the Gringo Asada Cheese-a-dee-ya. For this delicacy, the white guy in the kitchen will start with the finest Carne Asada (pronounced Car-Nay Uh-SOD-Uh for my white friends) and smother it in the drippiest barbecue sauce this side of Kansas City. A few minutes on the grill will finish it off before before it is chopped up, covered in cheese and squished between two two tortillas. (Tor-TEE-uhs)

Another entree from north of the border would be the burger-dee-ya. Nothing beats a little ground beef, lettuce, tomato, and maybe a slice of onion and a few pickles nestled in a bed of melted cheese between two tortillas. And what could be more American than the doggy-dee-ya for the little guys? Throw some mac and cheese between a couple of flour tortillas and you've got a mac-a-dee-ya. The possibilities are endless.

We won't serve fries, but you are sure to enjoy the Deep-fried-a-dee-ya for an appetizer. Deserts will involve things like the ice cream-a-dee-ya. For this delicacy, you start with a deep-fried tortilla coated in cinnamon, then stuffed with the ice cream flavor of your choice. Toss it in the blender and you've got a shake-a-dee-ya.

If you ask me, this is one great i-dee-ya! Anyone want to buy the first franchise?

Parents' Rights

Have you ever had a well-meaning busy body step on your proverbial parental toes? If you have experienced this, you know exactly what I am talking about. The toe stomper disguises herself as a caring motherly type with far more parental experience than you could ever have. (Sorry ladies, I have yet to meet a male toe stomper.) As the proud parent of well-behaved children, you write off her advise because in all her years of experience, she has never actually met the children you are doing such a wonderful job of raising. Often these people have had far more opportunities than you to practice public discipline, although they have far fewer children. I'm sure you know the type.

As a father of four young children I have found myself on the receiving end of such treatment on several occasions. Ironically enough it has always occurred when my children are doing exactly what I have allowed them to do. When the toe stomper sees a daddy out in public with the four little ones, she immediately goes into rescue mode and thinks to herself, "That poor man will never survive a trip into the Home Depot with all those children. He needs me."

She then looks for the opportunity when Daddy turns his back for three to four seconds and swoops in to save the day. By the time Daddy turns around, she is there with a plastered smile saying, "I noticed you weren't watching the kids so I wanted to make sure they were safe."

Am I supposed to thank such an obnoxious person? I hope not, because I never have. "They are great kids," I like to reply. The inner voice, however, says something more like, "Were my children in danger? Did they annoy other customers? No? Then back off!" Fortunately I have controlled that inner voice almost every time.

Today I encountered a toe stomper whose misunderstanding of the law caused her to overstep her bounds. Fortunately, I was simply a witness and was not the target of her behind-the-scenes attack, so it was easier for me to hold back the inner voice.

The setting was an elementary school parking lot just after the dismissal bell had rung. Temperatures hovered around 60 degrees and the sun was out with just a few clouds dotting the sky. A gentle breeze was blowing and hints of spring were in the air.

The issue at hand was that a very loving grandmother had left an infant and a six year old in the car while she went to pick up a kindergartner on the opposite edge of the parking lot, never once stepping out of a direct line of sight of her car. The toe stomper witnessed this alleged felony in progress and immediately realized that she had to act lest the children die as a result of over exposure to a beautiful day. Her concern for the helpless children at the hand of the cruel grandmother was more than she could bear. Most rational adults who see such atrocities might feel compelled to intervene.

Given that her concern had to do with the fact that the children were in imminent danger of death due to a lack of adult proximity, a logical response would be to do as the Home Depot toe stomper had done and stay by the car until Grandma returned just to be sure the kids were safe. A professional toe-stomper however prefers to be as dramatic as possible, so she marched into the school office demanding that someone do something about those poor children.

Moments later a call went out on the school radio and a swarm of school personnel surrounded the car to rescue the children from certain death only to find them in the car happy and healthy and eagerly awaiting Grandma's return.

By now, some of my readers are mocking my own sarcasm. Many of you are on the side of the toe stomper. You are also unaware of the law. According to "Kaitlyn's Law," children under the age of six are not to be left unattended in a car unless there is someone over 12 in the car with them. The law also indicates that two factors must be present in order for a parent to have violated the law.*

(1) Conditions must exist that present a significant risk to the child's health or safety.

(2) The vehicle’s engine is running or the vehicle's keys are in the ignition, or both.

In the case of this proverbial parental toe stomper, neither of these factors was present and the grandmother had done nothing to violate the law nor endanger her grandchildren. There was no risk of overheating nor a risk of freezing. The car was parked in a safe location and Grandma was close enough to keep an eye on things. There were no seedy characters in the area nor a history of abductions of children from unsupervised cars. Simply put, there was no obvious risk to the children's safety.

Fortunately we live in a state that, for the time being, has yet to completely strip parents of all their rights. Provided it is a cool enough or warm enough day, parents still have the right to decide for themselves what is best for the children they know and love. And love is something a state can never legislate.

*CALIFORNIA VEHICLE CODE SECTION 15620