Even though I was asleep, I knew the heater had kicked on. I could feel the room warming up and the gentle hum reassuring me that I could sleep in comfort for several more hours. Since it was Saturday morning my only plan was to stay in bed a little longer than usual. Then it happened. I wasn’t surprised because it happens every day at this time.
The gentle, yet familiar kick to my leg told me that my night was over. The kick, as always, was subtle but it conveys a message. She doesn’t have to say anything really because I know what it means. “I’m growing your next child inside of me and it’s your turn to take care of the ones we already have.” I glanced at the clock. 5:37 a.m. He’s three minutes early, I thought to myself.
The truth is I knew the kick was coming because I had heard the rapid pitter-patter of a two-year-old in footie jammies sprinting down the hall moments before. There has been very little deviation from this routine for the last several months. Maybe he knows a baby is coming and he’s getting up early to get a head start on Mommy-hogging before anyone else has a chance to climb on her sleeping body and sit on her head.
Being the dutiful husband that I am, I ignored the kick for as long as possible. When it became apparent that neither the child, nor the kick would go away any time soon, I reluctantly drug myself out of my warm bed only to be assaulted by the bright light of the refrigerator as I squinted to find a gallon of milk and pour it into a bottle. Then, as usual, I spent the next hour trying to keep him quiet and out of Mommy’s bed with only limited success.
The little guy has a radar of sorts. He knows that once I sit down to eat my bowl of cereal with the morning news on my laptop, my guard is down. Without even looking at me the slow pitter-patter of pajama-clad feet quickly accelerated to full speed. As I hurried to swallow the first bite, I could hear the bedroom door flinging open, the doorstop absorbing the force of the blow as the familiar twaaannnggg echoed down the hall.
Though I was only steps behind him, the damage was done. No sense in tip-toeing around now to keep the kid quiet since Mommy was awake. For a two-year-old, a time out chair is usually equated to a place to sit and wait while the tears run their course. Over the course of the next ten minutes several things happened: The little guy made multiple visits to the chair, tears came and went and came again, a giant pile of Legos ended up on the living room floor, and my cereal got soggy. The result of all this tragedy was that he finally learned, at least for today, that Mommy’s bed is off limits when the door is closed.
We’ll see what happens at 5:40 tomorrow morning.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Daddy Shirts
There are moments in the life of every parent that we wish we could capture and relive over and over again; moments when our kids do something unforgettably cute or amaze us with their simple perspective on life. These moments come more often than we realize, but we still crave more of them. In the same way children crave rituals. We all want more of a good thing. It is when we blend our craving for unforgettable moments with our child’s craving for ritual that we get priceless memories.
My four-year-old daughter provides me with memories on a daily basis. She is one of those kids who has a zeal for life that inspires. She thrives on attention, yet loves to play alone with her ponies. Her quiet voice often echoes in song as we drive down the road and her toys are never at a loss for words.
A few summers ago while on a family camping trip, necessity forced us into a situation that has evolved into a tradition which bonds us together time and time again. That year the evenings were particularly hot and my girls were having trouble sleeping. I tucked them into their beds and propped open the trailer window. The fan above the bed was running, but air conditioning was not an option as we had no power.
“Daddy, I’m hot,” I heard my oldest daughter moan. Not wanting my precious girls to suffer, I thought through my options. The coldest place in the trailer was the freezer. Anything from there would melt and either get ruined or make a mess. But the refrigerator was fair game.
“I’ve got something that will help,” I told the girls as I presented each of them with their own can of ice cold Diet Coke. “Snuggle up with this,” I said. With the cold can pressed against their cheeks, the girls quickly faded off to sleep. Needless to say, the ritual was repeated again the next night and the next. As a matter of fact it continued throughout the rest of that summer.
When fall rolled around, though, things changed. Temperatures dropped and the need for the Diet Coke was gone. Without that reminder of Daddy, my youngest daughter had a new enemy attacking her each night: lions.
“Daddy, the lions are going to get me again tonight,” she would say. Thinking fast, I told her that lions never attack daddies because they don’t like their smell.
“If I give you a big hug and make you smell like me, the lions will stay away,” I told her. Never being one to shy away from one-on-one attention, she snuggled into my embrace, a contended grin telling me that she would sleep just fine. The next night, she reminded me again of the lions and what I needed to do, only now there was a need for a kiss component. Seven kisses to be exact. Cheek, cheek, nose, arm, arm, leg, leg. That was the only way to make sure the lions would stay away.
After a few weeks of this, I had to schedule a late night at work and knew that I wouldn’t be able to tuck her into bed the next night. “Remember what keeps the lions away?” I asked before bedtime.
“They don’t like Daddy smells.”
“Right, so tonight I want you to sleep with one of Daddy’s shirts. That way the lions will smell my shirt and stay away.” I then handed her my old In-N-Out Burger t-shirt. She snuggled up with it, that same contented grin on her face and drifted off to sleep.
Last night at bed time, the shirt was still in the dirty clothes where Mommy had put it earlier in the day. “Come here,” I said to my daughter, my hand extended out to hers. Together we walked down the hall to Daddy’s closet. “Pick a new one,” I said.
Her face lit up as she carefully studied her options. “I want this one,” she said a minute later.
“You want Daddy’s flag shirt?” I asked.
“Oooh, no. That’s the American one.” Her fingers continued working their way across the red section and past the blues. Finally she got to the black section and seemed to stop. “I want this one,” she announced.
“That one is from Daddy’s work. Do you want to sleep with that one?”
“Yes!” The grin returned. Together we walked back down the hall to her room, hand in hand. She crawled into her pink sheets and snuggled up with her black Daddy shirt. I gave her seven kisses, turned off the light and let her drift off to sleep.
What began as a necessity on a hot night has turned into a tradition. A moment turned into a memory. Over and over again.
My four-year-old daughter provides me with memories on a daily basis. She is one of those kids who has a zeal for life that inspires. She thrives on attention, yet loves to play alone with her ponies. Her quiet voice often echoes in song as we drive down the road and her toys are never at a loss for words.
A few summers ago while on a family camping trip, necessity forced us into a situation that has evolved into a tradition which bonds us together time and time again. That year the evenings were particularly hot and my girls were having trouble sleeping. I tucked them into their beds and propped open the trailer window. The fan above the bed was running, but air conditioning was not an option as we had no power.
“Daddy, I’m hot,” I heard my oldest daughter moan. Not wanting my precious girls to suffer, I thought through my options. The coldest place in the trailer was the freezer. Anything from there would melt and either get ruined or make a mess. But the refrigerator was fair game.
“I’ve got something that will help,” I told the girls as I presented each of them with their own can of ice cold Diet Coke. “Snuggle up with this,” I said. With the cold can pressed against their cheeks, the girls quickly faded off to sleep. Needless to say, the ritual was repeated again the next night and the next. As a matter of fact it continued throughout the rest of that summer.
When fall rolled around, though, things changed. Temperatures dropped and the need for the Diet Coke was gone. Without that reminder of Daddy, my youngest daughter had a new enemy attacking her each night: lions.
“Daddy, the lions are going to get me again tonight,” she would say. Thinking fast, I told her that lions never attack daddies because they don’t like their smell.
“If I give you a big hug and make you smell like me, the lions will stay away,” I told her. Never being one to shy away from one-on-one attention, she snuggled into my embrace, a contended grin telling me that she would sleep just fine. The next night, she reminded me again of the lions and what I needed to do, only now there was a need for a kiss component. Seven kisses to be exact. Cheek, cheek, nose, arm, arm, leg, leg. That was the only way to make sure the lions would stay away.
After a few weeks of this, I had to schedule a late night at work and knew that I wouldn’t be able to tuck her into bed the next night. “Remember what keeps the lions away?” I asked before bedtime.
“They don’t like Daddy smells.”
“Right, so tonight I want you to sleep with one of Daddy’s shirts. That way the lions will smell my shirt and stay away.” I then handed her my old In-N-Out Burger t-shirt. She snuggled up with it, that same contented grin on her face and drifted off to sleep.
Last night at bed time, the shirt was still in the dirty clothes where Mommy had put it earlier in the day. “Come here,” I said to my daughter, my hand extended out to hers. Together we walked down the hall to Daddy’s closet. “Pick a new one,” I said.
Her face lit up as she carefully studied her options. “I want this one,” she said a minute later.
“You want Daddy’s flag shirt?” I asked.
“Oooh, no. That’s the American one.” Her fingers continued working their way across the red section and past the blues. Finally she got to the black section and seemed to stop. “I want this one,” she announced.
“That one is from Daddy’s work. Do you want to sleep with that one?”
“Yes!” The grin returned. Together we walked back down the hall to her room, hand in hand. She crawled into her pink sheets and snuggled up with her black Daddy shirt. I gave her seven kisses, turned off the light and let her drift off to sleep.
What began as a necessity on a hot night has turned into a tradition. A moment turned into a memory. Over and over again.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Big League Bound
“Widen your stance. Keep your weight on your back leg. Step forward as you swing.” I went through our ad hoc checklist before I began pitching to my eight-year-old son, Zach. He’d shown tremendous improvement over the last few years, but he still wasn’t quite ready for the big jump from “coach pitch” baseball to the next level, where he’d face opposing players on the mound.
“Let the power come from your legs. Swing through the ball. You have to get your whole body into it.” I continued spewing out a string of what I considered helpful tips. My fingers loosely gripped the seams of the well-used baseball. I knew he could make contact, but I wanted to see it go farther. Today was all about power.
I glanced down as I prepared to let the first pitch fly and I could tell he was absorbing every word. I wound up and let the ball go. Contact, but not enough power. The next pitch sailed toward the plate. Better. I glanced down. My sidekick was nearly ready too. Although only 16 months old, Justin wasn’t about to be outdone by his big brother. He knew what I was saying.
The yellow plastic bat rested on the little guy's shoulder. “Ball, ball,” Justin pleaded repeatedly. I tossed one his way, careful to hit the bat right on the sweet spot. There was no need to swing; besides, his miniature size wouldn’t allow it. My pitch was right on. The ball deflected off the bat and trickled back toward me.
The grin said it all. Like it or not, he was ready. “Hold on,” I instructed as I wound up and delivered another pitch to Zach at home plate. A mighty swing, but no contact.
“Ball, ball.” The voice was cheerfully optimistic. I tossed another one his way, hitting my target once again. Turning my attention back to home plate, I recapped my earlier instructions. “Weight back, swing through.” The pitch was right down the middle, the hit equally impressive. I looked up as the ball sailed over my head and landed beyond second base. “That’s more like it!”
“Ball!” It was a demand this time, not a request. Another toss to the side, another gentle tap from the plastic bat.
“Well, Buddy,” I said to my eldest. “Looks like you're ready for the batting cages.” The next afternoon was a team practice at the cages. An outfielder started things off in the fast cage while our first baseman kicked it off in the slower one. The boys cycled through, each working on his own technique.
“Ball, ball!” I glanced down. The little guy was ready too. A pilfered batting helmet, complete with face mask, bobbled on his tiny head while a bat twice his size scraped along behind him. He toddled to the fast cage and began climbing the chain-link gate, reaching for the latch.
“Not yet, little dude,” I said. “Come with me.” The grassy area was small, but so was my batter. With the heavy aluminum bat propped on his shoulder and an entire girls’ softball team from the next set of cages as an audience, he waited for me to begin tossing balls his way. The first pitch was perfect, gently ricocheting off the bat and onto the soft grass.
The girls went crazy. “That is so cute!” they squealed as they cheered the little guy on. Their approval wasn’t lost on the junior all-star. Another pitch. Contact. A huge smile. Applause. A contagious laugh. A pitch. A smile. Applause. A bigger laugh.
“You’re doing great,” I said, as I pulled the helmet off his head. “Let’s just give it a few more years.” A high five. Another laugh.
“Let the power come from your legs. Swing through the ball. You have to get your whole body into it.” I continued spewing out a string of what I considered helpful tips. My fingers loosely gripped the seams of the well-used baseball. I knew he could make contact, but I wanted to see it go farther. Today was all about power.
I glanced down as I prepared to let the first pitch fly and I could tell he was absorbing every word. I wound up and let the ball go. Contact, but not enough power. The next pitch sailed toward the plate. Better. I glanced down. My sidekick was nearly ready too. Although only 16 months old, Justin wasn’t about to be outdone by his big brother. He knew what I was saying.
The yellow plastic bat rested on the little guy's shoulder. “Ball, ball,” Justin pleaded repeatedly. I tossed one his way, careful to hit the bat right on the sweet spot. There was no need to swing; besides, his miniature size wouldn’t allow it. My pitch was right on. The ball deflected off the bat and trickled back toward me.
The grin said it all. Like it or not, he was ready. “Hold on,” I instructed as I wound up and delivered another pitch to Zach at home plate. A mighty swing, but no contact.
“Ball, ball.” The voice was cheerfully optimistic. I tossed another one his way, hitting my target once again. Turning my attention back to home plate, I recapped my earlier instructions. “Weight back, swing through.” The pitch was right down the middle, the hit equally impressive. I looked up as the ball sailed over my head and landed beyond second base. “That’s more like it!”
“Ball!” It was a demand this time, not a request. Another toss to the side, another gentle tap from the plastic bat.
“Well, Buddy,” I said to my eldest. “Looks like you're ready for the batting cages.” The next afternoon was a team practice at the cages. An outfielder started things off in the fast cage while our first baseman kicked it off in the slower one. The boys cycled through, each working on his own technique.
“Ball, ball!” I glanced down. The little guy was ready too. A pilfered batting helmet, complete with face mask, bobbled on his tiny head while a bat twice his size scraped along behind him. He toddled to the fast cage and began climbing the chain-link gate, reaching for the latch.
“Not yet, little dude,” I said. “Come with me.” The grassy area was small, but so was my batter. With the heavy aluminum bat propped on his shoulder and an entire girls’ softball team from the next set of cages as an audience, he waited for me to begin tossing balls his way. The first pitch was perfect, gently ricocheting off the bat and onto the soft grass.
The girls went crazy. “That is so cute!” they squealed as they cheered the little guy on. Their approval wasn’t lost on the junior all-star. Another pitch. Contact. A huge smile. Applause. A contagious laugh. A pitch. A smile. Applause. A bigger laugh.
“You’re doing great,” I said, as I pulled the helmet off his head. “Let’s just give it a few more years.” A high five. Another laugh.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Burger Gift
When my wife shops, it is not unusual for her to be gone for several hours at a time. Her lengthy trips are not because she spends money frivolously, but rather they take a long time because she is always trying to get the best deal possible. The other night she was on one of these trips while I stayed home with the kids. I don’t usually start to worry until she has been gone well over an hour, so when the phone rang a half hour into her trip, I was a little concerned that something had gone wrong. “I’m getting some hamburgers and I need you to stay on the phone with me,” she said as soon as I answered.
“Okay,” I replied, not sure why my voice needed to accompany her on a burger run. I was confused, however, since I had taken the kids out for burgers the day before. It wasn’t like we were in any kind of burger slump at the moment and we really didn’t need more for dinner.
“I ran into this guy in the parking lot and he asked if I could buy him some food or let him follow me home and do some work on the house,” she began. “Since I had just gotten a bunch of stuff for free at the store, I thought that God was checking to see if I could turn my bargain into generosity.”
“So where are you now?” I asked.
“I’m in the drive thru. He had his wife and two little kids with him so I thought I would get them some burgers”
“I’m glad you chose the food option over the follow-you-home option,” I reassured her. I listened as she placed the order and then added, “I’m proud of you.” My wife is not exactly a people-person. She is actually quite shy in social situations and to step out of that comfort zone and do something nice for strangers was a really big step for her. As I mentioned before, she is also very careful with money. To spontaneously give money to a stranger without figuring out where in our budget it will come from was another big step.
She explained to me that the family was in a red car and they would meet her in the parking lot after she got the food. It seemed that she was handling things in a safe manner and as long as she stayed in the car, I wasn’t too concerned. I did, however, stay on the phone to make sure she was safe. Not only was I impressed that she was stepping out of her comfort zone, but she was also listening to God’s prompting. As she made her way through the line, I heard her pay for the meal and pull out to the parking lot.
“I don’t see the car,” she said.
“Look around for a minute,” I replied.
“They were going to drive over from the store and meet me here,” she responded. After several minutes there was still no sign of the red car, the man, or his wife and kids. “Do you want a burger?” she asked.
“I’m always up for a burger,” I replied. “Come on home.” As she drove home we speculated about what might have happened to the family. The most logical explanation was that it was all a scam and the family wasn’t really hungry, they just wanted money. When my wife offered to buy them food, they pretended to be polite, then went off in search of someone else who would just buy their way out of a good deed. With her confidence in mankind shaken, she drove home with one eye in the mirror to make sure the creep wasn’t following her.
Despite the fact that her good deed was not appreciated, there is still a valuable lesson in this story: Never waste a good burger.
“Okay,” I replied, not sure why my voice needed to accompany her on a burger run. I was confused, however, since I had taken the kids out for burgers the day before. It wasn’t like we were in any kind of burger slump at the moment and we really didn’t need more for dinner.
“I ran into this guy in the parking lot and he asked if I could buy him some food or let him follow me home and do some work on the house,” she began. “Since I had just gotten a bunch of stuff for free at the store, I thought that God was checking to see if I could turn my bargain into generosity.”
“So where are you now?” I asked.
“I’m in the drive thru. He had his wife and two little kids with him so I thought I would get them some burgers”
“I’m glad you chose the food option over the follow-you-home option,” I reassured her. I listened as she placed the order and then added, “I’m proud of you.” My wife is not exactly a people-person. She is actually quite shy in social situations and to step out of that comfort zone and do something nice for strangers was a really big step for her. As I mentioned before, she is also very careful with money. To spontaneously give money to a stranger without figuring out where in our budget it will come from was another big step.
She explained to me that the family was in a red car and they would meet her in the parking lot after she got the food. It seemed that she was handling things in a safe manner and as long as she stayed in the car, I wasn’t too concerned. I did, however, stay on the phone to make sure she was safe. Not only was I impressed that she was stepping out of her comfort zone, but she was also listening to God’s prompting. As she made her way through the line, I heard her pay for the meal and pull out to the parking lot.
“I don’t see the car,” she said.
“Look around for a minute,” I replied.
“They were going to drive over from the store and meet me here,” she responded. After several minutes there was still no sign of the red car, the man, or his wife and kids. “Do you want a burger?” she asked.
“I’m always up for a burger,” I replied. “Come on home.” As she drove home we speculated about what might have happened to the family. The most logical explanation was that it was all a scam and the family wasn’t really hungry, they just wanted money. When my wife offered to buy them food, they pretended to be polite, then went off in search of someone else who would just buy their way out of a good deed. With her confidence in mankind shaken, she drove home with one eye in the mirror to make sure the creep wasn’t following her.
Despite the fact that her good deed was not appreciated, there is still a valuable lesson in this story: Never waste a good burger.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Manhood
Do you ever wonder if you are doing your job as a parent the right way? Are you teaching your sons what it means to be a man and your daughters what it means to be a woman? Are you a good role model for them? All of these questions have been running through my mind lately, so I decided to take the kids out to Dad’s favorite restaurant and have a little heart to heart with them. I started with my seven-year-old son. “Hey, Buddy, I have a question for you.”
“What?”
I lobbed him a softball to get things started. “What is the difference between a man and a boy?”
“A man is old and a boy is young.” Makes sense.
“What does a man do that a boy doesn’t do?” I asked.
“A man has a job.” Simple enough.
So let’s follow up on this, I thought. “What are some manly jobs?”
He rattled off a surprisingly predictable list that included policeman, “war guy,” and fireman. What did impress me, however, was that even at his young age, he was aware of what it means to be manly. I must be doing something right.
As an elementary school teacher I sometimes wonder what kind impression of manly I am giving to my kids. While I enjoy my job, the only time I really feel manly is when I break up a fight between two ten-year-olds or nail a hot-headed punk with a dodge ball. From day one, my son has been a very cautious kid. He hates to take risks or try new things. Academically he is brilliant, but when it comes to doing the rough and tumble boy things, he would rather read a book about it than actually do it. The fact that he was aware of what real men do was refreshing to me.
I followed up on the manly jobs question by asking him if he would rather drive a big tractor or work at Del Taco. He responded with a giggle and said, “Drive a tractor!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that is what a man does,” he said. Score another point for the cautious kid.
“Where do you think men like to shop?” I asked.
“Home Depot!” he shouted. Oh, yeah!
“Girls like to shop at the mall and at Henry’s (a local farmer’s market),” my daughter interjected.
Time for the next question. “What does a man do when he is not at work?”
This time my five-year-old daughter again chimed in. “He comes home and plays with his kids, then eats dinner and puts his kids to bed then spends time with his wife.” I am feeling pretty good about the impression I am leaving on my kids by this point.
“What are some things a man does after he puts his kids to bed, but before he gets tired?”
Once again, my daughter answered, “He goes to Bible Study.” Still feeling pretty good. I must be leaving a good impression.
Now I really wanted to get to the heart of the little guy’s manhood. “Do men like to do safe things or dangerous things?”
“Dangerous things.” I breathed a sigh of relief. He really does get it.
“What are some dangerous things you like to do, Buddy?”
“Play baseball,” he replied.
“That is dangerous. The ball might hit you in the face and hurt you,” I said adding to the conversation.
Now it’s time to find out if my son thinks I am a man. “What are some dangerous things Daddy does?”
Without even thinking he said, “You teach kids!”
So much for my manly impression.
“What?”
I lobbed him a softball to get things started. “What is the difference between a man and a boy?”
“A man is old and a boy is young.” Makes sense.
“What does a man do that a boy doesn’t do?” I asked.
“A man has a job.” Simple enough.
So let’s follow up on this, I thought. “What are some manly jobs?”
He rattled off a surprisingly predictable list that included policeman, “war guy,” and fireman. What did impress me, however, was that even at his young age, he was aware of what it means to be manly. I must be doing something right.
As an elementary school teacher I sometimes wonder what kind impression of manly I am giving to my kids. While I enjoy my job, the only time I really feel manly is when I break up a fight between two ten-year-olds or nail a hot-headed punk with a dodge ball. From day one, my son has been a very cautious kid. He hates to take risks or try new things. Academically he is brilliant, but when it comes to doing the rough and tumble boy things, he would rather read a book about it than actually do it. The fact that he was aware of what real men do was refreshing to me.
I followed up on the manly jobs question by asking him if he would rather drive a big tractor or work at Del Taco. He responded with a giggle and said, “Drive a tractor!”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that is what a man does,” he said. Score another point for the cautious kid.
“Where do you think men like to shop?” I asked.
“Home Depot!” he shouted. Oh, yeah!
“Girls like to shop at the mall and at Henry’s (a local farmer’s market),” my daughter interjected.
Time for the next question. “What does a man do when he is not at work?”
This time my five-year-old daughter again chimed in. “He comes home and plays with his kids, then eats dinner and puts his kids to bed then spends time with his wife.” I am feeling pretty good about the impression I am leaving on my kids by this point.
“What are some things a man does after he puts his kids to bed, but before he gets tired?”
Once again, my daughter answered, “He goes to Bible Study.” Still feeling pretty good. I must be leaving a good impression.
Now I really wanted to get to the heart of the little guy’s manhood. “Do men like to do safe things or dangerous things?”
“Dangerous things.” I breathed a sigh of relief. He really does get it.
“What are some dangerous things you like to do, Buddy?”
“Play baseball,” he replied.
“That is dangerous. The ball might hit you in the face and hurt you,” I said adding to the conversation.
Now it’s time to find out if my son thinks I am a man. “What are some dangerous things Daddy does?”
Without even thinking he said, “You teach kids!”
So much for my manly impression.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Man Cave
I live in a house with a wife and four young kids. I work at an elementary school. My life is consumed by women and children. Consequently, there is very little “man time.” This weekend, all that changed when I reverted back to my prehistoric inner-self and became a cave man. Cave dwelling brings out the man from within the man and provide men like me who have no man time with a place to create man time.
It started quite by accident (but kind of on purpose) when I acquired some used couches that had resided in my parents’ house for well over twenty years. I was actually supposed to bring them back to my house and sell them, however, as soon as they landed in my garage, a strange thing happened. The couches arranged themselves into a cozy corner surrounding a scrap of old carpet and suddenly, without explanation, the man cave was born. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was here to stay. The couches had been a part of my life for so long as a child and now they were back. Their new duty is simple: to provided me an opportunity to rest my weary haunches upon their cushions. Their purpose, however, is infinite. They provide me a place where I can close the door and hide from the chaos within the house. My new cave is a place where I can sit and blog about having a man cave. It is glorious.
The official man cave initiation took place last night when I invited my wife out for a movie. This was no chick flick either. It was man movie night. As she snuggled in next to me I heard her remark, “This is kind of nice. It’s cozy.” And it was then that I knew she was hooked.
The next day it became even more apparent that she was digging my newfound manliness. As I I stood in front of my class of nine- and ten year-olds teaching them how to write a research report, an e-mail popped up on my screen. I glanced down and saw something about a babysitter so we could go to the gym together. Let me make sure you all read this right. My wife enjoyed a manly movie with me in my man cave and the next day made arrangements to come to the gym with me so I could impress her with my ability to sweat from places she never knew sweat could appear. Does a marriage get any better than this?
Unfortunately, there is a downside to all of this. Imagine a man cave in the home of a daddy. Now imagine what the man cave looks like when Daddy gets home from work. Now imagine Daddy wishing he could get his car into the garage, but there are so many toys overflowing from the man cave section of the garage that the car must remain in the driveway until the issue is resolved. Now imagine the man with the newfound manliness on his hands and knees picking up toys and bikes, and dolls with his three year old daughter gently reminding her that Daddy’s man cave needs to look manly by the time Daddy gets home.
That was how things panned out for me as I came home in great anticipation of my newfound zone. Later on that evening, I again retreated to the cave to write a blog about the manliness of my cave when the pitter-patter of little feet found their way into the garage. I kept on typing, never even looking up. The three-year-old cave invader marched right over to my couch, climbed up next to me, snuggled in close, and said, “Daddy, I need you.”
“What do you need,” I asked finally looking into her innocent eyes.
“I just need you,” she replied. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, but, I let her stay on the couch in the cave for just a few minutes. After all, being a daddy is part of being a man.
It started quite by accident (but kind of on purpose) when I acquired some used couches that had resided in my parents’ house for well over twenty years. I was actually supposed to bring them back to my house and sell them, however, as soon as they landed in my garage, a strange thing happened. The couches arranged themselves into a cozy corner surrounding a scrap of old carpet and suddenly, without explanation, the man cave was born. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was here to stay. The couches had been a part of my life for so long as a child and now they were back. Their new duty is simple: to provided me an opportunity to rest my weary haunches upon their cushions. Their purpose, however, is infinite. They provide me a place where I can close the door and hide from the chaos within the house. My new cave is a place where I can sit and blog about having a man cave. It is glorious.
The official man cave initiation took place last night when I invited my wife out for a movie. This was no chick flick either. It was man movie night. As she snuggled in next to me I heard her remark, “This is kind of nice. It’s cozy.” And it was then that I knew she was hooked.
The next day it became even more apparent that she was digging my newfound manliness. As I I stood in front of my class of nine- and ten year-olds teaching them how to write a research report, an e-mail popped up on my screen. I glanced down and saw something about a babysitter so we could go to the gym together. Let me make sure you all read this right. My wife enjoyed a manly movie with me in my man cave and the next day made arrangements to come to the gym with me so I could impress her with my ability to sweat from places she never knew sweat could appear. Does a marriage get any better than this?
Unfortunately, there is a downside to all of this. Imagine a man cave in the home of a daddy. Now imagine what the man cave looks like when Daddy gets home from work. Now imagine Daddy wishing he could get his car into the garage, but there are so many toys overflowing from the man cave section of the garage that the car must remain in the driveway until the issue is resolved. Now imagine the man with the newfound manliness on his hands and knees picking up toys and bikes, and dolls with his three year old daughter gently reminding her that Daddy’s man cave needs to look manly by the time Daddy gets home.
That was how things panned out for me as I came home in great anticipation of my newfound zone. Later on that evening, I again retreated to the cave to write a blog about the manliness of my cave when the pitter-patter of little feet found their way into the garage. I kept on typing, never even looking up. The three-year-old cave invader marched right over to my couch, climbed up next to me, snuggled in close, and said, “Daddy, I need you.”
“What do you need,” I asked finally looking into her innocent eyes.
“I just need you,” she replied. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, but, I let her stay on the couch in the cave for just a few minutes. After all, being a daddy is part of being a man.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Green Beans
Everyone knows that there are different cuts of meat. We have all heard of sirloins, t-bones, chucks, and even the tubular hot dog, but have you ever stopped to consider that other foods have different cuts as well? Some foods just taste better when they are cut right. Take carrots, for example. When was the last time you gnawed off the end of a root-shaped carrot? Chances are you have been getting your beta-carotene from those nicely rounded baby carrots that you find at the grocery store conveniently pre-packaged and ready to eat. So, why do people buy baby carrots instead of the full-grown rooty carrots? The answer is obvious: for the same reason they buy prime rib instead of the tempting hoof cut, because it tastes better.
When it comes to sources of greenery in my diet, nothing beats a good old-fashioned can of green beans. One must be careful when purchasing canned green beans, however, because they come in two different cuts. As a matter of fact, one cut is so lamely named, that there is no doubt it is the inferior of the two. Take a look at a can of green beans in your pantry and see if it bears the lame name “Cut Green Beans.” If it does, you need to take a serious look at the meaning of your life. Perhaps you are like the Amish, and have been called to a life free of the wonders of the modern world. Or perhaps you are like a priest or a nun who has given up worldly pleasures to pursue a life that is pleasing to God. If that is truly your reasoning for eating “Cut Green Beans” then you have my blessing to continue eating them.
If, however, you are simply lame as the lame name “Cut” implies, it is time to step it up a notch. There is a whole new world waiting for you just beyond the reach of your pantry. Next time you venture out to the local market, try picking up a can of luscious, delectable “French Style Green Beans.” These green beans are as different from their inferior cut friends as pot roast is from filet mignon.
After you gently pour the French Style Beans into a covered microwave safe bowl, place the dish in the afore-mentioned microwave and set it for two minutes. Just after the ding signals that your meal is ready, carefully remove the hot dish from the microwave and set the lid aside. Without wasting any time, add a quarter of a cup of French Fried Onions (they sell them in a can on the green bean aisle) and gently stir. Ahhhh, the aroma.
Lame “cut” beans could never compare to the luxurious taste that the romantic French have provided for our tired American palettes. Next time you think that France has taken a back seat when it comes to international events, consider this. Somewhere in America, somewhere in Canada, and yes, even somewhere in the Middle East, someone is enjoying a can of French Style Green Beans, savoring every long, stringy bite.
And, yes, in case you were wondering, French Style Green Beans were on sale today and my loving wife bought me ten cans!
When it comes to sources of greenery in my diet, nothing beats a good old-fashioned can of green beans. One must be careful when purchasing canned green beans, however, because they come in two different cuts. As a matter of fact, one cut is so lamely named, that there is no doubt it is the inferior of the two. Take a look at a can of green beans in your pantry and see if it bears the lame name “Cut Green Beans.” If it does, you need to take a serious look at the meaning of your life. Perhaps you are like the Amish, and have been called to a life free of the wonders of the modern world. Or perhaps you are like a priest or a nun who has given up worldly pleasures to pursue a life that is pleasing to God. If that is truly your reasoning for eating “Cut Green Beans” then you have my blessing to continue eating them.
If, however, you are simply lame as the lame name “Cut” implies, it is time to step it up a notch. There is a whole new world waiting for you just beyond the reach of your pantry. Next time you venture out to the local market, try picking up a can of luscious, delectable “French Style Green Beans.” These green beans are as different from their inferior cut friends as pot roast is from filet mignon.
After you gently pour the French Style Beans into a covered microwave safe bowl, place the dish in the afore-mentioned microwave and set it for two minutes. Just after the ding signals that your meal is ready, carefully remove the hot dish from the microwave and set the lid aside. Without wasting any time, add a quarter of a cup of French Fried Onions (they sell them in a can on the green bean aisle) and gently stir. Ahhhh, the aroma.
Lame “cut” beans could never compare to the luxurious taste that the romantic French have provided for our tired American palettes. Next time you think that France has taken a back seat when it comes to international events, consider this. Somewhere in America, somewhere in Canada, and yes, even somewhere in the Middle East, someone is enjoying a can of French Style Green Beans, savoring every long, stringy bite.
And, yes, in case you were wondering, French Style Green Beans were on sale today and my loving wife bought me ten cans!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)