Safety First

You can't be too careful these days. Modern parents are constantly drilling safety into their kids' heads. We expect them to be in car seats until they are almost old enough to start dating. We strap them into shopping carts only after we wipe them down with disinfectant wipes. We line playgrounds with rubber splat mats so the kids just bounce right back up when they fall. Schools even run drills so the kids will know how to respond when someone comes on campus with a gun. In many ways safety is a great thing, but it can have its drawbacks. 

The risk of too much safety inevitably leads one to believe that we can prevent every disaster, tragedy, or consequence from happening and when something does go wrong, the person who should have prevented is blamed. As a matter of fact, six scientists in Italy were recently convicted of charges that they failed to accurately predict an earthquake that resulted in 309 deaths. 

Given the emphasis that is placed on safety these days, I shouldn't have been surprised to see safety equipment appear at the dinner table last night. My two oldest girls have been taking horseback riding lessons and the headgear of choice is no longer the traditional cowboy hat. The loaner helmets that they were given were ill-fitting and not so stylish, but Mommy had a solution. Since no price is too great when it comes to protecting your kids' noggins, she did what any parent would do and logged into her Amazon Prime account, surfed around a bit, added a few helmets that made fashion statements and had good reviews to her shopping cart, and checked out. 

Two days later the new helmets were on our front porch. That also happened to be the same day she went to Costco for her weekly excursion. With summer knocking on our door, she couldn't help but notice all the swimming accessories that the giant warehouse had on display. As a result, she came home with a hybrid life jacket/floatie contraption for our two-year-old. It looks a little silly, but when you're two, silly is the new suave, so she loved it. 

And that brings us to last night's dinner. As we ate, the older girls had their stylishly new helmets securely strapped to their heads, Ellie had her life jacket/floatie contraption, and Justin had found a pair of floaties in the garage to wear. Eighty percent of our kids were the safest kids in town at that moment. The last 20% was holding out for something. "Hey, Zach," I said. "You aren't wearing any safety equipment."

I guess when you turn eleven, you aren't as easily entertained as younger kids. "I'm okay," he said. 

"Do you want me to go get you a bullet proof vest or something?" He wasn't interested and reassured me that he would be able to safely finish his meal without the use of any extra padding or restraint systems. That's good, because keeping kids safe can get expensive. "Okay," I said," just don't fall out of your chair."

Brotherly Love

Traveling with a two-year-old is a really fun experience. Just ask any parent who's ever done it. They will all say that there's nothing more pleasant than taking a long drive with a toddler, especially when she's fussy. Or maybe not. I fall in that maybe not category. Last weekend while heading out of town for a Memorial Day camping trip, our adorable little Ellie Bean grew tired of life in the car seat. 

Fortunately she was sitting in the car next to her big brother who is an avid reader. Realizing that his sister was getting grumpy, Zach decided to intervene. He knows that Ellie loves stories, so big brother quickly raided his arsenal of books and picked out one that was sure to soothe her fussy spirit. 

"Ellie, do you want to learn about the Periodic Table?" Zach asked enthusiastically showing her the book. 

Ellie, always one to trust her big brother, gave Zach her trademarked emphatic single-nod and said, "Mmmmm-Hmmmmm." So Zach started reading at Chapter One, which seemed like a logical place to start. As he read he introduced various scientific terms and explained to Ellie how they applied to the elements. Then he explained the difference between periods and groups as they pertain to the Periodic Table. Ellie really seemed to be tracking with him as she kept her eyes glued to the book. 

"Did you like Chapter One?" Zach asked a few minutes later. Another emphatic single-nod and grunted response confirmed to Zach that she was indeed enjoying herself. "What did you learn, Ellie?" he asked next. She gave some kind of indecipherable response that prompted Zach to give a more detailed explanation of what they had just read. 

Pointing to a picture of the Periodic Table he said, "This is the Periodic Table. It shows all the elements in the world." Ellie studied the picture and pointed to a blank box at the end of the Table. "That's an element that hasn't been discovered yet," Zach said acknowledging that the Periodic Table is a living document that changes from time to time. He even recounted to her the history of some of the changes that have been made over the years. 

Next Ellie pointed to a box labeled, "O." "That's oxygen," Zach replied. "You need it breathe. Can you breathe?" Demonstrating breathing, Zach inhaled deeply, held it, then let it all out. As any two-year-old would do, Ellie tried to copy her brother then she chattered on and on incessantly, asking unintelligible questions as she pointed at various boxes on the Table that Zach carefully and accurately explained to her. 

So often we talk to kids like they are just kids. We sell them short by not even considering that they can be entertained by a big brother and a scientific concept when the games or videos on mom's iPhone are so convenient. I'm glad Zach had that science book with him last weekend. Ellie learned a lot and will undoubtedly discover a cure for cancer someday because of it. 

Technology Flashback

My poor parents. I got to experience life last weekend as a parent without a cell phone and I can see now how rough my parents had it when I was young. It all started before I left the house on Saturday morning. 

I'm not a very analytical person when it comes to numbers. I guess that's why when someone handed me some money earlier in the week, I sort of forgot where I put it. When my wife asked me about it, I had no idea where the money was at. As a matter of fact, I forgot who had even given it to me. My wife, on the other hand, is very numerically oriented. That's why she handles the finances in our house. It was with this loss hanging over my head that I ventured out to get the oil changed in my car. 

"Where's that coupon you found for the oil change place?" I asked her. She went to her secret coupon stash, found it, cut it out, and handed it to me. "Thanks!" I said reminding her how wonderful she was so she wouldn't be too mad at me for losing the money earlier. 

To make things even better for her, I loaded 80% of the children into my car and took them with me. She was only left with Zach and he's pretty self-suficient, so she was in for a quiet morning. Somehow between fiddling with car seats and losing money, I forgot to pick up my phone. 

When I got to the stay-in-your-car oil change place, there was no line so we pulled right into the garage. One of the employees guided me in as I parked the car on top of the pit where the drain guy was positioned. Within seconds he was reaching up from his subterranean perch and loosened the drain plug. Soon the kids were unbuckled, crawling all over the car and asking all kinds of questions. 

Ten minutes later, after never even leaving my car, we pulled out with a coupon for a free car wash across the street. I glanced at the coupon and thought to myself, "A free car wash would help make up for the money I lost." There was a short line, but not too bad when we pulled into the car wash, so I didn't worry yet about Mommy being concerned that we were gone too long. As soon as the car was done, I started to make a right turn out the parking lot when it hit me that I needed a two-dollar part from Home Depot. We were already half-way there so I might as well pick it up. I glanced left and right and saw an opening so I went ahead and made the turn. It was then that it first occurred to me that I should call Mommy and let her know that we would be home later than planned. I reached into my pocket for my phone only to discover that it wasn't there. "It'll be a quick trip," I thought to myself. "I bet we can still get home before she starts to worry."

When I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot, I saw that it was Customer Appreciation Day and that they were giving away free hot dogs and snow cones. "Mommy always appreciates free," I said to myself again. "But I sure would like to call her to tell her that we're running late." Keep in mind that the backdrop to all of this is that my brother had been in a motorcycle accident a week before and if I was late coming home and I didn't have my phone, she would probably flashback to that incident and become worried more easily than usual. 

No worries. It's a small town and I was sure that on a busy Saturday I would see someone I knew and would be able to borrow a phone. I rarely go out without running into someone, so I started looking around. I looked. And looked. And looked as the kids slowly chewed on their free hot dogs. With each bite I could feel Mommy starting to worry, but I didn't see any familiar faces. 

"Alright kids, let's get inside and do our shopping so we can get home before Mommy worries." After a few more bites we were inside the electrical section, through the self-checkout, and back in the car. Of course none of the lights worked in my favor as we cruised home, but we eventually made it. 

"Sorry, Honey," I said as I walked in. "I forgot my phone." I went on to tell her about all the free things and my two-dollar purchase at Home Depot. 

"You're right," she said. "I was just starting to worry that you had taken those kids out to lunch after losing that money and that I would have to kill you myself."

Okay, so we were on the same page about things. Just in a different book. 

Re-Tired

Believe it or not, I got another flat tire. This is my third one in three months. You can't blame it on my driving, because this one was on my wife's car while she was driving. I just inherited the problem. Fortunately it was a slow leak, so she didn't have to worry about a blowout or getting stuck on the side of the road. As a matter of fact she never even knew about it until I came home from school the other day and saw the car listing to the port side like a ship that had taken on too much water and was contemplating going down.

I don't normally use this blog to promote products, but every once in a while I have to make an exception. A few weeks ago I gave America's Tire a few shameless plugs (SP's) for the way they treated me while I was up in Reno and, doggone it, I think I have to do it again.

Upon finding the flat tire in the garage, I started to change it when my wife came out. "Why don't you just fill it up with air and drive it down to the tire shop?" she said. "You said it was a slow leak." I looked at all the tools that I would need for the job and had to agree with her.

"You know what?" I began. "You're right," and a few minutes later I was on the road with the driver's-side mirror pointed almost all the way down so that I could keep one eye on the rear tire while I drove. Of course, I arrived at the tire shop around 5:00 on a Friday afternoon, and all the guys at America's Tire were working hard to wrap up all the work that had come in that day, so the wait was predictably long. About an hour later, they had a chance to look at my tire and give me the news. "Come on in and take a look," the guy said. So I followed him into the garage and saw that the inside edge of the the tire had bulged out like a hernia. "We're going to have to replace it, but since it's a holiday weekend, we won't be able to get a new one until Wednesday." He reminded me that the replacement was covered under the warranty and that I would only have to pay about $25 for installation and a new warranty.

Fortunately my wife's Suburban comes with a full size spare, not one of those little donuts that you see so often on gas sippers. Unfortunately they couldn't put my spare on because it was over 10 years old and they didn't think it would be safe. I was starting to see that my measly $25 was about to balloon to $125. By now the manager had joined us. "Is this your daily commuter?" he asked.

"My wife drives the kids around in it," I said.

The manager's face showed concern when I said that and he turned to the other guy and said, "Go see if you can find a used tire that'll fit that rim."

Twenty minutes later I was on the driving down the road on a complimentary used spare tire that didn't really match the chrome rims, but worked perfectly fine and would allow us to drive the family around during the long weekend.

As I was getting into the car, I turned to the tire guy and said, "You guys have amazing customer service."

He replied by explaining to me that I had a bought a tire that should have lasted and its their job to make sure I'm safe until I get things back to the way they belonged.

Three flats in three months and three very good experiences at America's Tire. That's not a story I get to tell very often.

Dinner Bell

Every family needs a dinner bell. It simplifies life a great deal. If you have kids, I'm willing to bet that more than once you have  quietly asked one of them to go tell the others that dinner is ready only to have him turn around and yell, "Dinner's ready!" 

Then you respond by saying the most predictable thing in the world, "If I wanted yelling, I would have done it myself." We've all been there, but there's a better way. Bells have worked for years in school settings. The kids hear the bell and they know what it means. Why can't we use them at home? 

In our family we have a dinner bell. Sort of. Our dinner bell usually rings partway into the meal and it's usually initiated by one of the kids. It would be nice if they rang the bell a little bit earlier, but they're kids and kids don't always do things exactly the way we expect. 

Our bell is different than most. Every night at some point, one of the kids will inevitably drop their fork on the floor. As it chimes its familiar tune, somebody will announce, "There's the dinner bell." Sometimes the bell rings at the start of the meal and sometimes it rings in the middle. Sometimes it's one of the big kids and sometimes it's a little, but it always rings. 

The only time the ringing varies is when the bell-ringer is Ellie, the two-year-old. She's learned that if we give her a real fork, she can stab the table and leave pretty marks on it, so now she gets a dull plastic fork for dinner. When her turn to ring the bell comes around, it really isn't much of a ring at all. It's more of tick/splat, but we give her bell credit anyway. 

I used to get really irritated by the dinner bell, but it has kind of grown on me over the years. Now that I'm used to it, I try as hard as I can to pretend its a fun family tradition, but, try as I may it's hard not to imagine the food that was supposed to be on the fork splattering to the floor as the bell rings. 

I'm thinking maybe we should invest in a real bell that the kids could ring instead. That way whenever they feel that they are about to accidentally drop a fork on the floor, they can instead simply ring the real dinner bell and save the effort of having to clean the floor. Or better yet, maybe I should enter the next King of Wishful Thinking contest. I'd win it every time. 

Humility

The other day I was in my car meandering my way south on Highway 395 along the California and Nevada border. As I was leaving the scenery of the Eastern Sierras and slipping into the vast Mojave desert, I flipped the radio on to a local country music station. The first song I heard caught my attention as the voice sang about the relationship between a father and son and how that relationship remained strong even as the boy went his own way.

The songs recalls how the father tells his boy his own story of going off to fight in World War II and how when he returned he lived a life that he could be proud of. The refrain "That's something to be proud of/that's a life you can hang your hat on" is repeated throughout the song and it got me thinking. Am I living a life I can be proud of? Am I really raising my kids to be the kind of adults that I envision?

As I pondered these thoughts, it occurred to me that while I'm proud of my kids, I'm equally humbled that God would give me the responsibility of raising them. Me? Really? I'm the one He chose to raise five kids in this world? What was He thinking? As I started to question God's sanity, I realized the absurdity of the thought and instead started to think about each little life individually and how honored I am to call them my kids.

I'm humbled to be Zach's dad. I'm amazed that he has learned so much in his 10 years without my help. I'm humbled to coach him through life when I can and I'm humbled when he knows more than I do about things. I'm amazed by his willingness to pitch in when there's a need and his dependability when it comes to the mundane.

I'm humbled to be Maddie's dad. How could God expect me to guide such a beautiful and caring girl through all that this world is going to throw at her. When she sees someone hurting, she can't help but do something to make them feel better. I know she will find both joy and pain in life as she travels down this road, but it's who she is and it's my job to help her through it. God hasn't made a mistake yet and I'm not about to be His first, so you'd better believe I'm going to do everything I can to do it right.

I'm humbled to be Cami's dad. She has such a zeal for life that you rarely see her down. Whether she's playing all alone or with others, she's content. I'm humbled that I get to hug her every morning as I sit in my chair and type this blog. I'm humbled that she always wants to be with her daddy and that she hates it when I leave.

I'm humbled to be Justin's dad. Even though he's a mere featherweight of a four-year-old, he still loves to knock me over. I can wrestle with him anytime, day or night, and he's on board with it. I'm humbled when I think of all he still has to learn and how much I have to teach him. It overwhelms me, but somehow I'm going to pull it off. I will never give up.

I'm humbled to be Elliana's dad. She's only two, but already she brings such joy to our lives. Whether she's singing in the car or running out to greet me as I come home, she knows how to make her dad smile. She, too, has so much to learn and I'm honored to be given the responsibility of teaching her all that I can.

And someday when I look back on these years I hope that I, too, will say, "That's something to be proud of." But more than that, I hope I never forget how much of a humbling honor it was to raise my kids into godly young men and women who use their gifts and talents to raise another generation of God-fearing children.

Crater Cream

I don't know what it is about ice cream that makes it such an amazing invention, but it is provided that it is taken care of properly. Proper ice cream care is a lost art in many families and I will fight with all my strength to ensure that my family treats ice cream with the respect it deserves. 

You can imagine my shock, then, last night when I went to get a scoop of Bryer's Chocolate from the carton my wife had just bought earlier in the day and I discovered that one simple rule of ice cream etiquette had been violated. I knew that the kids had already dug into the ice cream, but I didn't realize that they had mutilated it so badly until I opened the lid and saw the crater. You don't dig a crater in the middle of the carton when you scoop ice cream. You take thin layers off the top, ensuring that after each scoop a smooth, even surface remains on the top of the carton. That's why they call it ice cream. Ice is smooth and as long as the ice cream is in the carton, it should stay smooth. 

If it was supposed to have one deep, lonely hole straight down the middle, they would have called it crater cream, but they didn't. There's only one way to truly fix a crater properly and that involves removing large amounts of ice cream in layers until the surface reaches the same level as the crater, thus enabling the scooper to return the carton to its originally intended state. Now in order to do that, all the ice cream that is removed must be put somewhere. Since the kids were in bed and they had already destroyed the carton anyway and my wife wasn't planning on having any, that put the entire burden on me to find a suitable storage location for the removed ice cream. 

If I stored the removed ice cream in a separate container, I wouldn't have been able to achieve the desired level of smoothness in that container without first melting the ice cream and further ruining it. That left me only one choice really. With my ice cream scooper positioned at precisely a 65 degree angle, I started scraping the top layer of the non-cratered portion of the carton. Once my scoop was perfectly full, I removed it and squeezed the handle until the round ball of dessert fell into my bowl. I repeated this process several times, each time ensuring that I was scraping an even layer off the top. 

Soon my bowl was overflowing, and yet, the crater remained. I knew that was all I should eat for one night, so as much as it pained me, I had to concede my defeat, though it will only be for a short time. For tonight, I shall return to the devastated carton and resume my careful healing of its wounded spirit as a meticulously remove layer upon layer until the crater is minimized and the smooth, creamy surface of my Bryer's ice cream can again be appreciated by the world. 

Bonding

Yesterday was unusual. Mommy had plans to take the four  big kids to the aquarium for the day, leaving me with the littlest one. I didn't actually keep her all day since I still had to work, instead I did what lots of dads do everyday - I took her to grandma's house on the way to work. Going to Grandma's house is pretty normal. It's how we got there that strayed from that a little. If you read this blog very much, you will know that I tend to ride my bike to work several times a week and why should today be any different? 

After loading up my bike with a change of clothes and a lunch, I hooked up the bike trailer and went to find Ellie. She loves to see me ride my bike. As a matter of fact, she gets upset when I drive the car. "Bide bike," she likes to say as I leave every morning. "Ellie, do you want to ride bike with Daddy today?'" I asked. She replied with her usual single nod of the head and took off for the garage. 

With her little bag packed for Grandma's house, I pedaled down the road as she smiled and took in the scenery with a slight breeze blowing in her face. We arrived a few minutes later and I unloaded her and took off for school. 

After school, I picked her up the same way and headed home for an evening of one-on-one time with my little girl. I can't recall this happening with any of the kids for quite some time, so it was an unusual feeling to have only a two-year-old. First thing we did when we got home was to mow the lawn. That's a little problem, however, since she's scared of the lawnmower. Instead of helping, she chose to sit in a chair by the window and watch from the inside, which was fine with me since I could still keep an eye on her while I worked. 

What I didn't realize was that from my angle I could only see from about her waist up. That's why I didn't notice that she was naked from the waist down until I finished the lawn and caught her with a wipe standing on the couch saying, "Poo-poo." Lucky for me it turned out to be a simple vocabulary error and what she actually meant was that she had just peed in her diaper and was ready to change into a dry one. 

With that disaster averted I decided to call my brother and find out about his day in the hospital. As we talked, I heard the distinct sound of spitting coming from the bathroom so I got up to check it out. Yup, she was brushing her teeth. I knew that because there were mysterious blue speckles on the counter and bubbles in the sink. And her breath smelled like toothpaste and there was a toothbrush in her hand, but at least she had pants on. 

After we ate dinner and cleaned up the kitchen we went for a walk with the dogs then got Ellie ready for bed. She went down amazingly easy, provided I put her in Sissy's bed. She didn't even ask for a bottle, she just laid right down... for 15 minutes. Then she came out and found me, turned around and pointed her little, round tooshie my direction and said, "Poo-poo" and this time she was right as confirmed by both the sniff test and visual examination. 

I dutifully took care of the mess and returned her to bed without another peep. An hour later, my phone rang. I answered it and was greeted with a strange request. "Hi, this is Zach," I heard my oldest son say. He was in the car with Mommy on the way home from the aquarium while the other three slept in the back seat. "Can you saute Mommy some green beans?" 

"Mommy wants me to saute her some green beans? At 9:00 at night? Are you guys getting close to home?" 

"We're about 20 minutes away," he said. 

"Okay," I said. "But tell Mommy she's weird." What an odd thing to crave late at night.  

The Call

As a teacher I don't usually answer my cell phone when it rings during class, so when it rang last Wednesday, I pulled it out of my pocket to silence it when I noticed that it was my mom. She knows my schedule and wouldn't usually call me during the day unless it was important. I let the call go to voicemail and moments later the, phone chimed indicating that I had a message.

Then it hit me that my sister was very pregnant and was expecting to deliver any time. "I bet my sister is having her baby," I said to the class. "I'm going to check and see." I called up my voicemail to hear my mom's concerned voice give me some very different news. This was not about my sister, but my brother.

"I need you to be praying," she began. This can't be good, was my first thought. Mom wouldn't start with that unless it was serious. She went on to explain that my brother, Andrew, had crashed on his motorcycle and was being airlifted to a hospital in Reno. He lives about 30 miles from Reno and there is a hospital not far from his house, so the only reason they would take him down the mountain was if it was serious.

You can't prepare for a call like that. You can't run drills where you practice teaching a class of fourth graders when your mind and emotions are blazing new trails to all kinds of unknown places. When all you know is that a motorcycle crash has led to a helicopter ride, the prospects don't look good. I stepped outside for a few minutes, leaving the class with my aide and tried to figure out how I was going to go back inside and be the one in control of a challenging group of nine-year-olds.

Before going back in the room, I called my mom back to let her know that I got the message, then I stood outside feeling nothing. A strange numbness consumed me as I began to pray, not even knowing what to pray for. After a few minutes I took several deep breaths and walked back in, but I didn't even know what to say. My aide took one look at me and said, "Do you want me to take the class to lunch early?"

At first I told myself that I should just stay busy so I wouldn't worry, that I could use my job to distract me, but I knew that wouldn't work. I thought about eating lunch, but I wasn't hungry. As a wandered aimlessly on campus, I ran into my principal. The class had told him that I was upset about something so he was coming to tell me to go home. I knew he was right. I couldn't teach, especially if I got another call with worse news.

It was as I was getting into my car, when I realized that I had to start driving and not stop until I had driven the full 500 miles from Southern California to Reno. A brief moment of clarity hit me when I turned left instead of right coming out of the parking lot. I was going to be gone at least one night and I should probably tell my wife what I was doing, so I headed home to pack a bag before hitting the road.

As I was driving, I got several updates on Andrew's condition, which kept changing as information trickled to us. The first bit of news was that he had broken his pelvis, among other things. By the time I arrived at the hospital around 10:00 that night, my parents and brother and one sister were there waiting. Andrew was still in surgery, but the prognosis for making a full recovery was good, especially since the broken pelvis was actually his femur, just below the hip joint.

His ribs were also broken and a lung had been punctured, but many of the other injuries that had been discussed, turned out to be false alarms.

Looking back now, I realize that although I didn't know how to pray during those first moments, prayers were being answered anyway and new prayers were being prayed by people Andrew didn't even know. At the start it was simply a prayer that he would live and that his wife would be strong. Fortunately, we got the news rather early on that that prayer would be answered. Then it switched to his recovery. There was a chance that a full recovery might not happen. The news at the hospital after the surgery reassured us that the second prayer would indeed be answered in time too. Finally, prayers switched to those of thanksgiving as we realized just how close Andrew had come to death and permanent injury. With ribs broken on either side of his spine it was clear that God had protected that vital area from injury.

The drama may be winding down, but the story is not over. Andrew still has a lot of recovering to do, but at least the recovery has begun, and for that we are thankful.

Tire Shop

For the second time in two months I walked out to my car to find that I had a flat tire. The first time it happened it was raining and I wasn't in the mood to get wet, so I did what any able-bodied man would do in that situation. I went back inside and called AAA. 

That was irritating since the tires were brand new. The last thing I wanted to do was deal with tires that I had already replaced. Fortunately, they came with a free repair and replacement service, so I immediately hobbled down to the local America's Tire shop (How's that for a shameless plug?) to cash in on the deal. Unfortunately, the tire was not repairable and had to be replaced. 

I try to take advantage of a good deal when I see one, so months earlier when I bought the tires and there was a close out special on a new set of Goodyear's, I took out. The drawback to buying close out tires is that when you need to replace just one of them, you have trouble finding a match. And that is what happened to me, but the guys at America's Tires (another shameless plug) were relentless and didn't give up until they had tracked down a match and installed it for free. 

When I left the hospital last night after visiting my banged up brother, who incidentally is the proud owner of a new titanium femur plate, I was greeted by my second flat. Since it was after hours and I was in a cozy parking garage, I decided that I was man enough to change it myself. With the itty-bitty spare in place, I called it a night and headed back to the hotel near the hospital. 

This morning, I went back to the nearest America's Tire shop. (Third shameless plug. Lets just start calling them SP's for short.). This one was made for men. They had something in this tire shop that I have never seen before. Since most men like to know what is going on in the garage as their tires get tended to, this store had a huge window overlooking the work area. In front of the window was a counter with bar stools where we could see and read the morning paper while we made sure our tires were correctly installed. After all, us laymen at the counter knew more about tire installation than the guys in the garage actually doing the job.

Fortunately, this time the tire was salvageable. The guys in the garage, under the supervision of those of us at the bar, were able to patch the tire, rotate the others and get me back on the road in no time. 

Hopefully I'll be back on the long road home soon to see my wife and kids. FaceTime can only last so long. 

Rodents

Whether its fair or not, there is a hierarchy of rodents in this world. Some are deemed more worthy than others. Certain rodents are considered expendable. We even have professionals who specialize in the extermination of these rodents. Take the rat, for example. If you ever saw one in your house, you'd probably take some steps that would ultimately result in its death. You might set traps, or call in a specialist who would take care of the problem for you. Very few people ever look at rats and think to themselves, "What a cute little rat that is!"

I live in Squirrelville. There are ground squirrels in every open field and in every park in town. They can be seen by the hundreds in school yards and greenbelts, but no one ever seems to chop their heads off with a shovel. That's because squirrels rate higher on the rodent hierarchy than rats.  Squirrels are cute and rats are ugly. That's all there is to it. 

Chipmunks rate even higher than squirrels. We esteem chipmunks so highly that we have even made movies about them and let a few record a Christmas album. No one ever screams and runs away when they see a chimpunk. They stop and watch it as it nibbles on a nut and stuffs its cheeks full. 

Going back to the other end of the spectrum we have a Southern California favorite - the infamous gopher. They don't rate too high on the cute scale. That may be because they are so destructive that no one would like them even if they were cute, so God decided to make them easier to hate by making them ugly. 

I got to get to know one of these not-so-cute rodents the other day. We knew he was in our yard shortly after our suburban homeschool kids planted the obligatory homeschool garden. First it was a missing strawberry plant. Then is was a series of mystery mounds that popped up around it.  Then another strawberry plant turned up missing. We got even more curious when none of the seeds we had planted even sprouted. Fortunately none of this took place anywhere near my lawn, so I decided to let the little guy have a few days of fun before I hunted him down. 

But eventually, his time came. For this particular hunt, I chose the hose method and flooded the little guy out into the open. A small handful of my kids were there watching this real-life homeschool lesson unfold. Buttercup, one of the cats, even seemed intrigued by the prospect of catching a gopher, but she soon got bored and wandered off. 

As soon as Mr. Gopher succumbed to the subterranean flood and emerged from beneath the soil, the kids started screaming and running in all sorts of directions. Remember, had this been a chipmunk, no one would have screamed or run in any direction. Mixed in with the screams I heard multiple kids shouting, "Go get Butter!" and "Where's Buttercup?" 

"Wait a minute," I thought to myself. "I'm the dad. Aren't dad's supposed to protect their children from vicious critters?" Why were my children calling on a cat to save them, when I was right there? Before I go on, I have to confess something. I've never killed a gopher before. Or a rat, or even a mouse. I helped thin out an overly large rabbit population once, but that was with a pellet gun from 50 feet away. This was different. This was hand to hand combat. No guns, just a man and a gopher. And I hadn't really devised a plan ahead of time. I just assumed the water-in-the-hole trick would either drown the guy out or scare him into the neighbor's yard. I never planned to actually see the gopher. 

So when he popped out and started running around the garden, I was a bit surprised. When my kids started calling for the cat to save the day, however, I decided right then and there that it was time to man up and take care of business. No cat was going to do this dad's job. And so I did what I had to do before the cat even knew the gopher had come out to play. 

Now I can sleep peacefully at night knowing that, although the garden may be barren, it is safe to fail another day. 

Floor It!

There are a lot of uncertainties in life. You never know for sure if your favorite team will win the game. You're never quite sure if the weatherman is right. Sometimes you even doubt that your children will behave when you need it most. Some things, however, are guaranteed and gravity is one of those things.

Isaac Newton must not have had kids because if he had, he would have never needed a silly old apple tree to figure gravity out. All he really needed was a kitchen table. If he had kids, he could have simply looked at the floor after dinner and realized that it was dirty. Then he could have looked up at the ceiling and seen that it was clean. That in itself should have made the guy realize that everything fell down and not up.

It certainly works that way in my house. Another thing that's a guarantee in life is that a clean floor will always increase the effects of gravity beyond its normal capacity. Actually a freshly mopped floor will only increase the gravitational pull of certain objects like sticky liquids, butter, and white rice. Non-sticky objects, for some reason, are not affected by the clean floor phenomenon.

Apple juice is a classic offender. Once the kitchen floor is clean, apple juice is drawn to it by some inexplicable force. When a child witnesses an apple juice spill, he will inevitably make every effort to wipe up the mess with a dry towel and he will feel as if he succeeded. Parents, however, will discover the spill when they walk over the "clean" spot only to discover that their shoes have momentarily stuck to the floor. Upon removing the shoe from the sticky spot, it begins to stick to other parts of the floor, thus creating an even bigger mess, eventually requiring that at least 800 square feet of tile be re-mopped and dried at a minimum cost 45 minutes.

Another frequent victim of increased gravitational pull is white rice. Inevitably it ends up on the floor underneath 80% of the children's chairs. Have you ever tried sweeping up white rice? It sticks. I guess that's why they call it sticky rice. If you are lucky enough to get the rice to even move with a broom, it leaves a trail like that of a slug in its wake, thus requiring the aforementioned re-mop and requisite investment of time.

The best strategy for rice removal is the wait-it-out method. Using the wait-it-out method requires a lot of patience. To carry out this plan, one simply needs to wait about two hours for the rice to completely dry. Once it is dry it is easily swept sans slime trails. Of course, during those two hours of waiting, somewhere between 40 and 60% of the kids will step in the offending rice and track it around the rest of the tile, thus mandating a re-mop. You'll probably even find some in a bed the next morning resulting in an indicator that sheets need to be washed even though its not their scheduled day.

Other classic gravitational offenders include grape juice, butter (in the glass butter boat), cooking oil, and bread crumbs. No matter how hard a parent tries, these things will always find the floor in spectacular fashion.  Has anyone invented the Roomba mop yet?

Eggs

There is only one thing that can be used in pancakes, salads, and pie. Eggs. Heck, my grandma used to even put them in her tacos. Eggs have got to be the most versatile food in the world. If in doubt, throw an egg in it.

All the many uses of eggs can make cooking them complicated. To help simplify this process we have come up with names like over-easy and scrambled. Still, getting the name of the egg matched with the desired outcome can be tricky.

My 10-year-old son, Zach knows exactly how tough the egg name game can be. The other night we went to a 50's diner with my parents. The kids sat at one booth while the adults sat in an adjacent one. As the menus were passed around, Mommy went to the kids' booth to make sure they all knew what they were going to order. It was pretty simple. There were four rounds of mac and cheese and one order of bacon and eggs.

With the adults all settled into our booth, the waitress came over and started taking the kids' orders. Everything was going perfectly as one child after another politely requested a plate of macaroni and cheese. Then came Zach's turn. He placed his order for bacon and eggs and the waitress responded by asking how he would like his eggs cooked.

Zach cooks himself an egg for breakfast several times a week, so he knows exactly how he likes it. What he doesn't know is what his favorite style of egg is called so when the waitress asked how he wanted it, he simply pointed at the picture on the menu and said, "Kinda like that."

What he meant by that was that he wanted it with white on the edges and yellow in the middle, not scrambled. The waitress looked at the photo and said, "Oh, you want it sunny side up."

Zach is a very logical thinker. Everything is black and white to him so he responded the way any logical guy would respond. With a perfectly sincere face, he said, "It doesn't matter if it's up or down, I just don't want it to run." In his mind, he could easily turn it over if the egg was served to him upside down. That wasn't really important. Somehow the waitress kept a straight face and narrowed down his order to somewhere a couple of notches past over-medium.

Eggs confuse me sometimes as well. That's why I just stick with the classic scrambled style when I order at a restaurant. At least I know exactly what I'm getting and I don't look confused when my order arrives.

Blueberries

A bag of peas is pretty cheap. So why is a box of blueberries so expensive? They aren't much bigger than peas, but they seem to cost a whole lot more. There are times when an itty-bitty box of blueberries costs more than a full meal. It must have something to due with the fact that I'm willing to pay a small fortune for blueberries, but I would never pay for peas unless my wife guilted me into being a good roll model to my kids. 

During the summers, we often head up to Oregon where the blueberries are plentiful. As a matter of fact, they are so plentiful that the farmers almost pay you for picking their bushes. There's one farm that we visited where the owner greeted us personally as we drove in. He then gave us a tour of the farm, carefully pointing out where to find the different varieties of blueberries and explaining their different uses. He let us know that as long as we picked our own, the cost was one dollar per pound. He also insisted that we try out the berries as we were picking them and that there was no cost for anything we ate on-site. 

Usually when I eat blueberries I'm very cautious, knowing that the quantities are limited. I'll eat two or three in one bite and slowly work my way through a small handful. Not at the blueberry farm. That day I ate berries by the handful. I mixed the mild ones with the tart ones to create different flavors. Other times I'd pick one great big one right off the bush and pop it in my mouth never even worrying about how much the bill wold come to. By the time my wife and I and the kids finished picking an hour later, we had several pounds of blueberries and a tab of about five bucks. 

Yesterday for Mother's Day we took Mommy to the local Southern California blueberry farm. The berries were equally delicious and the kids had fun picking them. The setting was pristine. You would never guess that we were only a few miles from the nearest major shopping mall. The biggest differences between Southern California and Oregon were that it was 102 degrees outside and the final bill came to 15 dollars after only about 15 minutes of picking. 

As I looked around at the farm, it occurred to me that the real difference between these two experiences is not the price, but the perception. In Oregon, we were doing the farmer a favor by saving him the expense of hiring someone to harvest his crops. In California, we were visiting an attraction, like a mini theme park. There were chickens and pigs off to the side to make you want to come back and see them again. There were fences and lots of cute signs with rules and directions. There was a counter where you could buy jam and drinks and other concessions. 

In Oregon, there was a a farmer who handed you a bucket and had a jar on a table where you could leave some money when you left. As you picked, he tinkered with his '56 Nomad that was parked on a patch of grass beside the barn. 

Regardless of the price, the kids had fun both times. And to make up for the higher prices in Southern California, we just drove down the street to the neighborhood Costco and pigged out on free samples afterwards. I'd call that a win-win. 

Bored Games

Board games got that name for a reason. They're boring and when I'm playing them I get bored. God knew this about me when he gave me my oldest son. He was probably up there laughing as he was weaving Zach together in utero and inserting the board game chip into his brain. That's the only explanation for why God would give me a son who loves to play these boring atrocities.

I realize that playing games with him is a great way to bond with the boy, so from time to time I set aside all rational thought and sit down for an evening of bonding. Tonight he showed me a new game called Dominion. Although there is no board involved, it's still a board game. Just in disguise. This game consists of about a billion cards that you have to accumulate until you have enough money to buy the world and end the game. For those who have a neurotic obsession, you can even buy expansion kits which add another billion cards to the game. Zach has already bought his first expansion. Fortunately, he let me start with just the simple single-billion version.

It's interesting to watch his mind work as he plays the game. It actually reminded me of my childhood. I never played video games as a kid, so whenever I went to a friend's house, I would watch for 20 minutes as he played his favorite video game without ever dying. Then I would get a turn and die within the first 30 seconds and then it would be his turn again.

That's kinda what happened tonight. I played the safe route, basically buying the equivalent of mutual funds. Zach, on the other hand, invested as aggressively as possible, making expensive investments that promised high yields. As a result, he accumulated more money to spend which took more time. In short, his turns lasted three minutes and mine lasted three seconds. It was a lot of fun.

Despite the agony, I couldn't help but smile as I watched Zach execute highly complex, yet carefully planned maneuvers over and over again. He was a shrewd businessman in a board room negotiating complicated deals before the opposition even had time to consider disagreeing. The speed at which his brain processes information is truly dizzying. While I was still celebrating the three cards I had just played, he was bus busy tallying up the effects of the 25 cards he had laid out.

In the end, one of us was elated that the game was over because victory had been attained. The other was making plans on how to spend his son's income during his retirement. Guess which one was me.

Perfect Timing

Car accidents happen all the time. How often have you driven by a wreck and thought to yourself, "I'm glad that wasn't me?" How often have you regretted not stopping and lending a hand because you figured someone else would do it? We've all done it.

Yesterday afternoon I was riding my bike home from school when I came upon a fresh accident in the middle of a major intersection. Since I was on a bike, I figured the excuse of not having a place to pull over was irrelevant, so I pedaled on past the stopped up traffic and right into the middle of the scene. The accident had just occurred and there were no emergency vehicles in sight, so I and a few other passers by jumped into a action.

As I approached, I found four children in the street with a grandmother and another adult. Another witness was holding one of the infants, and a second infant was held by an adult who had been in the car. An older child was lying in the street wailing loudly and the grandmother was clearly injured. In the middle of this chaotic scene sat a four year old girl. I'm a dad and my daddy senses kicked into high gear. Although the girl wasn't crying, she was clearly scared so I just reached into the pile of people and picked her up. She immediately wrapped her arms around my neck, laid her head on my shoulder, and started crying.

Not for a moment did I think how crazy it might look to some that a sweaty white guy with a bike helmet and gloves was holding a crying black girl in the middle of an intersection. All I knew was that it didn't matter who she was or why she was there. Nothing could have felt more right at that moment. I knew that our relationship would be very short and that I would leave soon and never see her again, but for those 30 minutes the easiest thing I have ever done was to treat that child as my own.

As she clung to me, I began to explain to her that everyone was going to be okay. I then told her that in just a few minutes a fire truck would come to help her grandma and her sister. She told me that she liked firemen, so that would be okay. I then started talking about anything I could think of just to keep her mind off the accident. I found out her name and that she was in preschool. I asked her what her teacher's name was. She told me, then she added very matter-of-factly, "I have a white teacher."

That was great news. We now had something in common. "I'm a white teacher," I told her. "Only I'm a boy. Have you ever seen a boy teacher before?"

She looked at me with a perplexed look and said, "No."

"We'll I'm a white boy teacher. And I have a little four-year-old boy at home." We continued talking as three fire trucks, a few police officers, and an ambulance rolled onto the scene. Since my new friend was uninjured, the paramedics had me hold on to her while they tended to the others.

After a while, a firefighter came over to me and took the girl. I could tell that my part of this drama was over, so I hopped on my bike and pedaled off into the sunset, grateful that I had decided to stop this time and lend a hand.

Glaring Omission

Several years ago after losing multiple pairs of sunglasses I vowed never to buy an expensive pair again. I kept that vow for a few years, until my wife read an article about cheap sunglasses and the fact that they can sometimes do more harm than good. After that, she insisted that I buy some shades with the proper UV ratings, so I compromised and bought a mid-priced name brand pair at Costco and my eyes have been very happy with them. Of course, just because I'm happy with them doesn't mean I haven't lost them.

My wife is frugal. You have to be when raising five children on a single income. So when Daddy loses a pair of sunglasses, Mommy has been known to shift into super detective mode to avoid the wasting of a single dollar. As a matter of fact, she put those detective skills to work for me recently. Twice.

The first time was when we went out to dinner one night. Though she's frugal, we manage to get out for a kid-free date night once a week. We're careful about where we go and what we order. We've even been known to get away with a full meals for both of us for a grand total of five bucks. One night a few months ago we decided to splurge and spend a little over $20 by going to Chili's for dinner. That night I was wearing a nice dress shirt that my mom had bought me for my birthday. If you saw me in it, you'd have to admit that it makes me look pretty dang good, but it does have one small problem - there's no pocket. Since I always keep my sunglasses in my shirt pocket when I take them off I have to improvise each time I wear the birthday shirt.

My improvisation technique must have been off that night because as I set the glasses on the table, I thought to myself, "I'm gonna leave them there." Then I thought to myself, "Since I just thought to myself that I'm gonna leave them there, that will remind me not to leave them there, so I won't leave them there." Then I left them there. It was dark when we left the restaurant, so I never even thought about sunglasses as we drove home. It didn't hit me that I had left them behind until the next morning when I went to grab them on my way out the door. So much for twenty-dollar date night. 

I sheepishly mentioned my error to my wife and reassured her that I would call Chili's later in the day after they opened. When I made the call that afternoon, the manager answered and informed me that no one had turned anything in and even if they had, she wouldn't know where to look. A very helpful lady. I harassed her a little, but she didn't budge. Apparently I was interrupting something. I called my wife and gave her the update and she did what any frugal wife would do. She happened to be driving by Chili's at that moment so she pulled right over prepared for a fight. Fortunately, she was greeted by a minimum wage hostess who had an intellect far beyond that of her manager. "One of the bus boys found those last night," she said. "We have a place where we keep lost things. I'll be right back." And a few minutes later she reappeared with my glasses in hand.

Knowing my wife as I do, I shouldn't have worried a few weeks later when my beloved glasses turned up missing again, but  I have to admit I wrote them off as lost for good. I was riding my bike to school as I often do wearing my favorite In-N-Out sweatshirt. It was a cloudy morning, so I put the glasses in the sweatshirt pocket and took off. When I got to school I realized that they were gone. Hoping that I had taken them out and left them at home, I called my wife and asked her if she had seen them anywhere. She looked around but couldn't find the glasses anywhere at home.

It's a six mile bike ride on busy streets, so the odds were against ever finding them in one piece, but that didn't stop Detective Mommy. Shortly after school had started I got an e-mail entitled "You'll never believe this." Sure enough, Detective Mommy had hopped in the car and started driving my route. About four houses down, she caught a glare in the gutter and pulled over. She picked up the glasses and noted a slight scratch on the frame, but no damage to the lenses. As she got back in the car, she glanced in the mirror and saw the trash truck dumping a can at our house. Three minutes later, that same truck would have run over my glasses had the detective not gone to work.

She's a good wife and earns her keep in many ways, but I'm always grateful when she finds ways to avoid spending money wastefully. Sorry NYPD, I know she's good, but I think I'll keep her.

Freedom and Salad

Last weekend was a taste of freedom…and salad. I’ll start with the freedom part and end with the salad. On Friday night, my wife and I dropped the kids off at Grandma and Grandpa’s house so we could spend a couple of days together without them. We stayed at home, but went out for most of our meals so there wasn’t a lot to clean up.

On Saturday to show my wife how much I love her, I even took her to Sea World for the afternoon and rode on the new roller coaster. You’d understand the depth of my sacrifice if you knew how much I enjoyed being in a crowded amusement park with the sun beating down on me relentlessly searching for that one little patch of skin that didn’t get covered in sun screen while I recover from the severe motion sickness that inevitably accompanies a ride on a roller coaster.  To compensate for a day at an amusement park, I always insist on getting good food on the way home. That always makes me feel better. And that is where the salad comes in.

I am a bit of a blueberry muffin aficionado and one of my favorite places to get blueberry muffins is Souplantation. Not only are they good, but, since its a buffet, the supply is limitless. It was as I was filling my plate at the salad bar that I realized how much you can learn about a person from their salad.

I'm not a huge risk-taker, but I do enjoy an occasional trip to the edge of safe. That's why I do things like put jalepenos and onions on my salad. Of course, I mix in a lot of the traditional things like cucumbers and carrots as well, but to have a salad that wows, you've got to include a few zesty additions. 

My wife is much more cautious than I am. I was reminded of that fact as I watched her put garbanzo beans and beets on her salad. Though odd choices if one wishes to actually enjoy the salad, the flavor of those toppings is much safer than onions and jalepenos, especially when it comes to the aftermath of such a meal. 

That got me thinking. What could I learn about other people by watching their salad habits? Perhaps someone who eats a Caesar Salad harbors secret feelings of world domination? What about someone who opts for spinach over Romaine? Does that person feel weak and is hoping to have a Popeye-like reaction to the dark leaves? Maybe someone who tops things with Italian dressing has a deep desire to travel abroad. 

I bet I could start a business telling people all about their business. All you would have to do is buy me lunch and I could give you a complete psycho-analysis as I observe your eating habits. I'd call it Psycho Salads. I better check Go Daddy to see if that domain's still available.

Dress Code

I have a little girl who thinks that little girls should wear dresses everyday. While this was common practice a hundred years ago, it's really not that practical today. Cami doesn't own thick warm dresses for cold days and she can't ride her bike side saddle. We have been trying to teach her modesty and there are just some times when she needs to wear pants.

To help encourage the wearing of pants, my wife stumbled across a brilliant idea. While out shopping the other day, she saw a pair of hot pink shoes that would look good with jeans, but clearly not with a dress. They were on sale for $3, so she picked up a pair. Now, if Cami wants to wear her new shoes, she would have to wear pants with them. What we learned from this is that kids are really smarter than us sometimes.

As we were preparing to go a a family bike ride to the park one evening, I looked at Cami and said, "You can't ride a bike in that dress. You need to change before we leave." It was a warm evening, so I assumed she would put on a pair of shorts and we'd be on our way. While she was changing I went out to the shed to pull the bikes out and hook the trailer onto mine so I could tow the littlest ones.

It wasn't until after we arrived at the park that I realized that Cami had done what I asked. As she was running around and having a good time, I noticed that the dress was gone and the hot pink shoes were on. They even matched the hot pink shirt that she had picked out. I shouldn't have been surprised when I saw that she had found the perfect denim skirt to complete the ensemble, but somehow I was. While she looked adorable with her long brown hair blowing in the breeze as she played with her sisters, I couldn't help but think that she had missed the point of the new outfit. I don't have any experience in this area, so correct me if I'm wrong, but I would imagine it is quite difficult to maintain modesty in a jean skirt while riding a bike or swinging on a swing. Fortunately, the makers of the skirt anticipated the quirky fashion desires of a free-spirited six-year-old and sewed a pair of shorts inside just for this occasion.

I guess I'd better start being a little more specific when it comes to things like this.

Orange Juice

The best thing about breakfast is the cereal. The second best thing about breakfast is the orange juice. Cereal is actually good anytime of day or night. Orange juice, on the other hand, is good only in the morning. Somewhere around 10:30 a.m. orange juice goes out of fashion and Diet Coke comes in.

My oldest daughter, Maddie Rae doesn't seem to understand that simple rule of beverage consumption. As a matter of fact, last night at dinner, well after the 10:30 a.m. cutoff, she violated it.

Halfway through dinner, Maddie decided that she needed a drink, so she marched over to the refrigerator and retrieved the last carton of orange juice. Then she set it down on the table right next to me before pouring the last few swallows into her glass. I, of course, assumed that there was an endless supply of OJ in the garage fridge like there usually is, so I chose to overlook her transgression. "Maddie, that's the last of the orange juice," Mommy said. "What's Daddy going to have for breakfast?"

She took a great big sip, smacked her lips, looked up at me with an OJ mustache, and said, "I don't know. I guess we're out." Shocked at the thought of not having any orange juice in the morning, I gave her my best incredulous look as I began brainstorming possible consequences for her behavior. She giggled and kept the guilty grin on her face, but was quick to come up with a solution. "I'll tell you what," she began. "I will make you some fresh orange juice if you promise to be good." 

"Me be good? What about you?" I began. Then I started thinking about the orange juice and it hit me that we had a tree full of oranges in the back yard, so the odds were actually in my favor that this little idea of hers might actually bear some fruit. 

"What exactly do I have to do to be good?" I asked. 

She thought for a minute then said, "You have to take me to In-N-Out for my birthday."

I thought abut that for a moment. Since her birthday was last month, I'm sure I'll get her to In-N-Out long before her next one rolls around. "Done," I said knowing a good deal when I saw one. 

Now here it is morning and as soon as I publish this post I'm going to head over to the pantry and pour a bowl of cereal and a tall glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...if only Maddie Rae had lived up to her end of the bargain. Actually what I think I'll do is pour myself a glass of grape juice and pretend it's fresh squeezed orange juice. Then I think I'll take myself to In-N-Out for lunch and not invite any little girls. 

Double Hi

Neighborhoods all have different micro-cultures. Some are very tight knit and everyone knows everyone else. In other neighborhoods people may be friendly enough, but prefer to keep to themselves. I live in one of the latter communities and am a pathetic misfit. Most of our neighbors would never go out of their way to say hi to anyone on the block. I, on the other hand, love to talk to them, even if they don't feel like it. This habit isn't such a big deal, except for when I drag my wife along.

She is a perfect fit for a mind-your-own-business type of neighborhood. It's not that she's unfriendly. It's more that she gets nervous when she meets new people, so she tends to live within her comfort zone. Since none of our neighbors are really close friends, every conversation is superficial at best, but at least I try. Tonight I greeted a new neighbor whom I had met once and my wife had never met. We had both met his wife before and she seemed annoyed that we had interrupted her jaunt to the mailbox, so we haven't exactly tried to go out of our way to get to know them.

As we made our way down the street on our evening walk, I raised my hand, shouted out a greeting, and waved. Mr. New Neighbor, getting out of his car,  gave me an obligatory response consisting of a head bob and a grunt and moved along. "Why did you do that?" my wife asked, slightly embarrassed by the snub.

"Because it's more awkward to look right at the guy and ignore him," I said. "Besides it doesn't hurt to be friendly."

The art of greeting neighbors involves an ability to read social cues. In order to do that, you have to notice little things. For example, as we rounded the corner another neighbor was out jogging. We have known her from other circles as well, so she's not a total stranger, but we aren't close either. I saw her coming and knew that a "Hi" was inevitable. My wife, deeply engaged in her nightly conversation with me, didn't even notice Mrs. Jogging Neighbor approaching. Then came the social cue. The jogger reached up and pulled her iPod earbud out of her left ear, smiled, and said, "Hi, how are you guys?" as she jogged past. The earbud removal is a classic signal that the remover is at least willing to part with his or her music long enough to listen to you give a quick response, so I returned her smile and told her that all was well. "Enjoy your run," I added as she sped on by.

"You know, " I said to my wife after she was gone, "you could say hi too. She's not that scary."

"Why would she need a double hi?" she asked. "Your hi is good for both of us." For some reason that struck me as quite funny and I got to laughing for a minute. Once I settled down, I started thinking that I must have a pretty powerful hi if it can cover two people. As a matter of fact, if my hi can cover two people, why not three? Or four? Or more? Perhaps I could sell my hi's to other neighbors so they wouldn't have to verbally return the hi's I give them. They could just cash in one that they had already bought and continue minding their own business.

I'm even considering giving away hi's for free to help get my business launched. I think I'll start with a sign in the yard that says, "Get free hi's here!"  I'm sure some of the neighbors would stop by for that. Then my wife could get to know them on a more personal level. I'm sure she would like that.

Senior Discount

I've been a teacher now for 13 years. Compared to some of the old-timers, I'm still a baby when it comes to experience. Why, then, do things keep happening that make me feel old? I told you all about my breakthrough with the blue dress socks, but the other day I had two more firsts happen, both within a few minutes of each other.

A group of teachers and I went out to lunch. We placed our orders and sat down. As I was waiting for my food to arrive, I glanced down at the receipt and noticed that I had received a 10% senior discount. Now I realize that I am looking more distinguished as I progress through my 30's, but a senior discount? Really?

I asked the others if they had gotten the same discount and it turned out that I wasn't alone. Either "senior" was the code for the teacher discount or we all looked looked pretty haggard at the end of a long week.

A few minutes later a young mother with a toddler and another one on the way walked in for lunch. I glanced over at the expectant mom and thought that I recognized her, but I couldn't be sure. I kept trying to sneak a glance at her, but her back was to me and just couldn't quite catch a glimpse of her face. Just as she went to get a refill on her drink, I noticed that mine was empty too. "I'm making my move," I said to the teacher next to me. "It's now or never!"

And with that I marched over to the soda fountain, and waited right behind her for her to turn around. When she did, I called her by name and shocked her that I had even remembered her. Of course I remembered her. She had been in my fourth grade class and was a good kid. Those are the easy ones to remember.

We spent a few minutes catching up before it struck me that I was doing something I had never done before. I was talking to one of my old students about her kids while telling her about mine. I then realized that her oldest was less than a year younger than my youngest. We had kids that could one day be in the same grade in school.

I suppose that such is the cycle of life, but it sure seems to be spinning a little faster than it used to.