Faith Like a Child

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

"Where is it?" I asked in response.

"In the leaving room," he answered.

"The leaving room?" I asked.

"In the leaving room," he insisted.

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

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

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

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

Retirement Plans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parents' Rights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CALIFORNIA VEHICLE CODE SECTION 15620

Sometimes You Just Can't Win

Often, despite our best efforts, we still fail. Failure can be devastating, but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes we just have to step back, shake our heads, and laugh it off. Today was one of those days.

It all started last night when I attempted to put my girls into bed, but was thwarted by the maze of obstacles on the floor. After a brief discussion about the state of the room we reached an agreement that resulted in some fast cleaning. A few hours later as I drifted off to sleep, I thought about the what else the girls could do to learn some better housekeeping skills.

This morning before heading off to work, I presented them with a challenge listed on a Post-It note. “I’m going to make you a list of a few chores and you see if you can have them done before I get home,” I said in the most exciting voice I could come up with. “You can even put a check in the box next to each chore as you get it done!” Eager to please, they agreed to challenge.

At the top of the list was to vacuum their room followed by vacuuming the living room. The premise here is that if the floor is clean enough to vacuum, then there can’t be anything left on it. Right? The theory is true, the reality, however, is slightly different.

As soon as I walked in the door this afternoon, Maddie came running to meet me in the garage. “Daddy, come see my room!” she squealed taking my hand and escorting me down the hall. Her enthusiasm was was genuine and her room was indeed clean. I glanced at the carpet and saw the vacuum lines confirming that she had done exactly as instructed.

“What about the living room?” I asked.

“It’s vacuumed too!” she said. I went to investigate and confirmed that she had done that chore as expected as well. I lavished her with praise in hopes that we can turn her into the neat freak that her brothers appear to be.

An hour later I had to step back, shake my head, and laugh. The girls had been playing in the freshly vacuumed living room and I decided to check on them. Imagine my surprise when I peeked around the corner and found that they had decided to get into the mood of the season by creating a snow storm in the formerly clean living room. “What happened to the clean carpet?” I asked in disbelief staring at what must have been hundreds of pieces of torn up paper scraps all over the floor. Sometimes you just can’t win.

As the girls started cleaning up the snow storm, I instructed my youngest son to do some cleaning as well. “Can you go pick up the ‘B’ book?” I asked him gesturing to a book on the floor. The “B” book is part of a series of 26 books, each featuring one letter of the alphabet. Being an obedient two-year-old, he picked up the book and took it to the shelf.

“Good job, Little Guy,” I said, returning to the kitchen to help Mommy with dinner. It didn’t take him long to catch up to me. Glancing down as he toddled in, I looked in his hands. “What do you have?” I asked shaking my head, stepping back, and laughing.

“C Book,” he said with a grin. So much for getting the house picked up. Sometimes you just can’t win.

For years I have had a hard time buying my wife Christmas presents without her knowing I am doing it. The reason it has been so challenging is that I only worked a mile from home so it was tough to take a detour after work without getting caught. This year, I work a little further away and there are plenty of opportunities for stops on the way. Today I made arrangements to leave an hour early so I could stop for some Christmas shopping on the way home. I knew exactly what I wanted so the stop was quick and I was back on the road in only about twenty minutes.

Just before dinner, Mommy decided to make a quick run to the store. Not really thinking that she would take my car, I didn’t mention that she needed to avoid the trunk where her gifts were stashed. The minute she walked in the door I noticed a twinkle in her eye as she said, “Can you help me bring the groceries in? And don’t worry, Honey. As soon as I saw the bags in the trunk of your car I closed it and put the groceries in the back seat.” That makes me 0 for 3 for the day. Sometimes you just can’t win.

Breakfast in Bed

There are two things in this world that can make a mommy grumpy in a big hurry: a lack of sleep and pregnancy. Unfortunately for my kids, last week Mommy had to deal with both of those complexities at the same time. The pregnancy has been a consistent issue for the past 22 weeks, but the sleep thing come and goes depending on the whims of various children.

Last week’s challenges were brought about by one very cute two-year-old boy who refused to end his days without first testing every sleep inducing strategy known to parent-kind. Things only got worse each night as he taught himself to wake up sometime after midnight so that he could toddle down the hall and sleep on Mommy. By the time we diagnosed the problem as a massive influx of teeth, the damage had been done.

When Wednesday morning dawned, Mommy was found herself beyond exhausted. She hadn’t slept well in three or four nights and her body was aching from lugging a new baby around in her expanding belly. The night before, I had noticed that we were out of milk. No milk means no cereal. For me, this is a big deal. I love my cereal. It is quick and easy and leaves no mess behind in the kitchen.

For Mommy, cereal is a curse of convenience. When she is pregnant she needs real sustenance to start her morning, not some foo-foo flakes doused in milk. Upon awakening Wednesday morning, I mindlessly opened the fridge only to be reminded of the milk problem. Realizing that my wife would want a hearty meal after she woke up, I came up with a plan.

Stealthily as can be, I showered, got dressed, and headed for my car. The grocery store is only a few miles away so I arrived with just enough time to pick up some milk, eggs, and orange juice and then get home for a quick bite to eat before heading off to work. I knew that my over-tired, hungry wife would welcome some eggs, toast, and OJ for breakfast and I silently applauded my own thoughtfulness. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time to fix it for her, but at least the ingredients were now in the house.

With my cereal swimming in milk I lifted a spoonful of flakey goodness to my lips, only to see that Mommy had woken up and stumbled into the kitchen. I was mindlessly chewing and crunching on the flakes, savoring their simplicity when she erupted. “Why did you buy eggs?” she demanded waving the receipt in my face. “You paid way too much!”

I was a bit taken aback by her accusation, and it’s possible that my first reaction might have made things momentarily worse. After a few intense words, I realized that this was the tired talking, not the wife and mommy, so a change of course would be necessary. We continued the brief discussion, then Mommy headed back to bed and the kids took over.

As she lay in bed, my eight-year-old son, Zach, stopped by for a quick visit. I was busy gathering up the last few items I needed for the day, so he did what needed to be done. “Mommy, what do you want for breakfast?” he asked.

A minute later, I brushed past the kitchen on my way out, only to find my industrious eight-year-old with a cookbook in front of him. His finger buzzed through the table of contents and landed on the words, “French Toast.” I watched as he flipped to the correct page, and got to work.

“Daddy, can you get me the pig pancake pan?” he asked. Thrilled that he was showing such initiative, I pulled the electric griddle off the top shelf and placed it in front of him. He then pulled out a bowl and got to work cracking eggs, adding in some cinnamon and other ingredients before stirring it all up.

I glanced at my watch, tousled his hair and said, “I’ve got to go, Buddy. Have a good day,” and headed out the door.

As the door swung shut behind me, I heard the stirring stop and Zach say, “What are you doing up? You belong in bed.” By then, the grumpies were gone, despite the exhaustion, and a very grateful mommy helped her son make French toast.

Temp Job

Teachers where I come from are very well paid. The problem is that they are only paid for the days they actually work. While their daily rate is quite generous, the opportunities for work are limited to approximately 180 days per year. Compare this to other professions who work 240 to 250 days per year. A fair tradeoff exists between compensation and vacation, but some teachers would rather trade the vacation days for a little extra pay.

So what is the industrious teacher to do when a three week Christmas vacation is lurking just around the corner? He could take a seasonal job at the Christmas tree farm, but that would require him to work nights before the break actually begins. All the seasonal jobs are spoken for by the time school gets out. Without a friend or family member in a hiring position, a temporary Christmas job is probably not an option.

The solution to this dilemma hit me the other day as I sat in the comfort of my extra large SUV jammed full of kids and dogs. As I waited at a red light for my turn to enter the freeway, I glanced to my left and saw a man holding a cardboard sign. I don’t recall exactly what the sign said, but I do know that it ended with “God bless you.”

Since I hadn’t sneezed, I was unsure of the sign holder’s intentions, but I think he wanted money. That’s when the thought came to me. Starting at 3:30 p.m. on December 17 and continuing until the second Monday in January, I will technically be without the ability to work to support my family. Why couldn’t I claim a corner?

I thought a few moments about what my sign could say. It would definitely have to end with “God Bless You,” but everything before that is negotiable. My favorite signs have always been the honest ones. I especially like the ones that say, “I Need Money for Drugs. God Bless You.” Or what about the one that says, “I’m holding a sign and it makes me hungry. God bless you.”

My mind pondered the honest signs and I figured that would be the way to go. My sign would read, “I’m a teacher and the government won’t let me work for three weeks. God bless you.” I’d pick a busy corner, dress in tattered clothes, skip shaving for a couple of days and see what happens.

I shared this plan with my family, but my eight-year-old son immediately zeroed in on the holes. “Dad, that’s not going to make them want to give you money. That’s going to make them want to become teachers.”

Darn it. He’s right. I guess I do have it pretty good.

Toy Guns

"Daddy, may I please have some more bullets?" The question came from my four-year-old daughter and it was music to my ears. When you stop and analyze the request you will see why I was so proud. First of all, she was so darn cute and polite when she asked that I couldn't say no. Secondly, she wanted ammo to fight off the boys who were attacking her. I was so proud of her for standing up to the boys that I had to give in. I made a quick sweep of the house and found a few extra bullets laying around.

"Here you go," I said handing her the nerf darts and helping her reload her gun. Just then, Justin, my two-year-old came around the corner with a gun of his own.

"Shoot Dada," he said with a smile. Then he pulled the trigger. I survived with only minimal suction marks on my forehead, but at least the kids had the time of their lives thanks to some overnight guests who smuggled the guns across state lines to share with us.

"Hey watch this!" I said as I loaded the little red gun. I then aimed it toward the skylight on the vaulted ceiling and fired. The suction dart struck the window and glued itself into place. "Now let's get it down," I said. With another suction dart in place I aimed carefully at the first one and let another shot fly. "Darn it!" Now there were two suction darts on the skylight. "Give me another one," I said to the kids. Four darts later, I decided that I needed to change my approach. With a little piece of scotch tape, I covered the tip of the next dart so it wouldn't be able to stick to anything. I then aimed and let another shot go. Missed. Try again. Missed again. Try again. Missed again. This went on for several minutes before I realized that I needed another new plan

Then it came to me. Hidden on top of the refrigerator was one of last year's Christmas presents that hasn't seen much action. After a few minor repairs it was ready. I carefully positioned the small remote control helicopter under the skylight and slowly eased it up. I quickly realized that the up and down features worked great, but the horizontal controls left a lot to be desired. Let's just say that it was a good thing there was no pilot because if there had been, he would have been so dizzy he'd have never made a safe landing. As it was, my first landing was a bit ugly anyway. With the chopper lifting up toward the ceiling, I tried my best to minimize the spin and aim it toward the darts, but the task was more difficult than I had anticipated given the limited control. Moments later the rotor smashed into the ceiling and the helicopter plummeted to the ground. Good thing it was a kid's toy and was made for hard landings.

With about six kids watching the action, I again lifted the helicopter skyward. "Shoot Dada."

"Not now, Buddy, Daddy's concentrating." Ignoring my plea and with a determined look in his eye, he pulled the trigger. At the same time the rotors clipped the ceiling and the chopper again fell to the floor much to everyone's delight. "I can do this," I said and set things up for a third attempt. This time, I got close enough to knock one dart down as the helicopter made its dive toward the carpet. Try as I may, I could not hit the next three, so we had to make the decision to wait them out. If only I hadn't licked the suction cup on the first one before I shot it.

The next morning, our friends had to hit the road in order to reach their Thanksgiving destination on time. "Red gun?" Justin inquired as their car pulled away.

"They had to take their guns with them," I told him.

"Blue gun?"

"That one too, Little Guy." Fortunately, this all happened the day before his second birthday. The delight in his eyes was unstoppable as he tore through the wrapping paper to reveal his very own nerf gun.

"Gun," he shouted, anxiously waiting for me to remove all the dad-proof packaging. We let him have some time to play with it before starting in on the other gifts. Once he realized that there was another present, his eyes lit up as he shouted, "More gun!"

"They're not all guns," I explained. "Some will be clothes and you need to be just as excited." And he did love the new sweater from Grandma and the other toys, but they could never compare with the joy of reveling in his second amendment rights.

A few nights later, he handed me the gun and pointed to a picture on the wall. "Shoot Gapa."

"You want me to shoot Grandpa?" I asked.

A big smile. "Shoot Gapa!" Not wanting to let the poor kid down I cocked the gun and aimed it right at the picture of my father-in-law's face. The suction dart stuck him right between the eyes. Justin squealed with delight as he handed me another dart. "Shoot Gama!" Before long, we had moved all the way down the wall of pictures and shot every family member at least once. The dog watched all this through the sliding glass door, wondering what the commotion was about and Justin noticed her pathetic stare. "Shoot HeeHee!"

"You want me to shoot Dacey?" I questioned.

"Shoot HeeHee!' So I aimed the gun at the glass and stuck one right on her nose. Needless to say, that present was a big hit.

Chances are the gun will be broken and the helicopter will be in for repairs next time you stop by, but you are always welcome to bring your own toys.