A Day in the Fatherhood

The Fatherhood is a chaotic place. It's a place where daytimers, calendars, and the best laid plans are filed under FICTION at the local library. The Fatherhood's not dull. It's often enjoyable. It's at times frustrating. It's life shot from the hip. Kids keep life full of unanticipated twists and turns. Fortunately, most of the unforeseen swerves aren't major (although some are). Usually, they're minor bumps in your day. But still, even relatively small bumps can damage your car and bruise your butt. As a dad, you just have to choose to have an attitude that doubles as a good set of shock absorbers.

Take, for instance, the other day. I was home alone with the kids while Meredith was working at a client's office. While playing with my two boys in the backyard, one of the little girls next door, Mae, decided to come over for a visit. Mae is a sweet, well-behaved little five-year-old. She and her sisters are best friends with our kids, and we love her to death. Mae is energetic, strong-willed, and never shy about demonstrating her impressive ability to ask 122 questions per minute. She also believes that she must be standing within at least six inches of any adult with whom she is having a conversation. One thing's for sure, she'll never be accused of flying under the radar.

Having just finished throwing a ball to my lunatic dog, Zoe, I turned to see Mae climbing over our fence to join me and the boys. Afraid she might fall, I rushed over to help her. I didn't make it more than a few steps before I stepped in a big pile of dog poop. Slipping and sliding the last couple of feet, I reached the fence and helped Mae down. Irritated that the crevices of my right sole were now filled with doggie doo-doo, I sat down, grabbed a stick, and proceeded to clean my shoe as best I could. All the while, Mae stood less than a foot from my nose asking me questions: Mr. Howard, why are you rubbing your shoe with a stick? Mr. Howard, why does your shoe smell like that? Mr. Howard, is that dog poop on your shoe? Mr. Howard, why do you have dog poop on your shoe? Did you know I have a hula-hoop? Did you know I'm almost six? Mr. Howard, are you ever going to wash your car? How long will your shoe smell like that? Do you always say bad words when you step in dog poop, Mr. Howard?

Finally, having survived an interrogation the Obama administration would have labeled as torture, I turned and hopped up the stairs with my poop-covered shoe in hand--my lovable little visitor right behind me. On entering the house, I soon discovered that the door to the garage was wide open and that both my two-year-0ld, Carson, and my dog were gone! A wave of panic rushed over me. Already I could envision the next day's headlines: "Father Loses Son! Unleashes Cujo on Neighborhood!" I rushed outside as fast as I could, Mae following in my tracks, still asking questions. No sign of Carson! My dog, Zoe, on the other hand, was gleefully running from yard to yard as if screaming the words "I'm free!" through interpretive dance. Confident that Carson had gone next door to Mae's house, I commissioned my other son, William, to rush over and check. Fortunately, Carson was there. I then spent the next fifteen minutes pursuing Zoe back and forth through the neighborhood and screaming "Zoe, come!" while passing drivers turned to get a look at the crazy dog chaser wearing only one shoe.

At last, having somehow captured my rebellious canine, I grabbed Zoe by the collar and limped back to the house. Mae kept pace, the whole incident inspiring yet another onslaught of questions. Mr. Howard, how come Zoe didn't come? Mr. Howard, how come you're wearing only one shoe? Isn't your foot cold, Mr. Howard? Mr. Howard, when we get inside, can I have a snack? Did you mean it when you said you were going to sell Zoe to a Chinese restaurant, Mr. Howard?

Returning to the garage, I soon learned that the fun was not over. Unable to turn the door knob, it immediately occurred to me: I'VE LOCKED MYSELF OUT OF THE HOUSE! My only hope was that, in my panic, I had left the backdoor open. I led Zoe around to the fence, then, picked up my sixty-five pound boxer and lifted her up, gently dropping her over the side. I then climbed over myself, every bone and joint in my forty-one-year-old body creaking as I went. Jumping from the top of the fence to the ground, my shoeless foot landed on a pine cone, sending a surge of pain up the leg I'd just skinned while scaling the fence. Conscious of Mae's presence and not wanting to yell any words that could be used against me later, I simply grimaced and bit my lip. Why are you making that funny face, Mr. Howard? Did it hurt when you landed on that pime comb? Did you know that I can paint a pime comb to make it look like a Christmas tree? Do you like Christmas trees, Mr. Howard? What's your favorite part of Christmas, Mr. Howard? Making my way up the stairs of the deck--again--I was relieved to find that the backdoor was, indeed, open. Knowing that my boys were safe next door, I dragged my muddy, pine-cone-punctured foot indoors. Then, I unlocked the door to the garage, let Mae in, and fixed her that snack. (It's hard to eat and ask questions at the same time.) A little while later, my daughter, Emerson, arrived home from school and all the kids went next door to join William, Carson, and Mae's sisters.

And so goes life as a dad. What started as a seemingly simple plan to spend time with my sons and dog ended in one poop-plastered shoe, a mud-stained sock, a briefly escaped dog, and one near missing child emergency. Yep, your typical bump in the road. Just an average day in the Fatherhood.

Hello, loyal Dadlosophites! Thank you, again, for your support and taking time out of your busy schedules to hopefully get a laugh or two reading Dadlosophies. Sorry, but there's no new post this week. You can catch my next entry next Monday, Feb 8, starting at 12noon. Have a great week.

Kindred

SCROLL DOWN TO READ ALL PREVIOUS DADLOSOPHIES!

Good Fellas, Whiners, and the Occasional Bloody Nose

This is one of those weeks when nothing in particular is on my mind to write. At least nothing profound (not that I ever have much to say that's profound). It was just a typical daddy week. I guess the major event in our home over the last few days was when my four-year-old, William, bloodied my two-year-old, Carson's, nose. Of the two of them, Carson, has traditionally been the brute. He's the one who will push, hit, yell, and generally try to bully his big brother in order to get what he wants. Although older and bigger than Carson, William used to whine, cry, and come running to Mommy or Daddy whenever Carson took his toys, clothes, pop tart... whatever. I'm not someone who encourages violence in my household (unless it's me attacking the dog for chewing on my cell phone), but I definitely don't want William whining when someone picks on him (especially someone smaller and younger). I don't want him starting any fights, but I don't want him afraid to stand up and defend himself either. By the same token, I don't want Carson being a bully and thinking that it's okay to beat up anybody who won't give him what he wants. The last thing I need is a pint-sized "Good Fella" toddling about the house and threatening to whack anyone who won't hand over their Legos. If I don't nip this thing in the bud, I'm liable to come home one day to find Carson sitting in his booster seat wearing gold jewelry, smoking a cigar, and using phrases like "forgetta 'bout it."

While spankings, time-outs, and lost dessert privileges proved to be effective short-term fixes--eliciting tearful (if less than sincere) apologies from Carson to his brother and providing a day or so of non-violent interaction before the next punch, push, or blindside hit--they failed to permanently change Carson's pattern of behavior. So, about a month ago, I had a talk with both my sons. I told Carson that, from that point on, William would be allowed to respond in kind if Carson hit him. I also made it clear to William (or, at least, tried to) that he was not allowed to hit Carson first; however, if Carson hit him, he could defend himself.

It quickly became evident that Carson did not take the talk very seriously. Unfortunately for Carson, it just as quickly became evident that William did. It wasn't but about a half hour later that I heard William yell from another room, "No Carson, you can't have it!" To which Carson responded, "Gib it ta me!" The next thing I heard was a loud THUD! The thud was soon followed by wailing and crying. Only, this time, it wasn't William. Carson had grabbed William's toy truck and tried to take it. William said no, so Carson hit him. William responded by punching Carson and knocking him into the wall. Stunned and unsure how to handle this new reality, Carson came running to Daddy. I picked him up, hugged him, and told him I loved him. When I asked him what happened, he said, "Willy K hit me." When I asked if he'd hit William first, he said "Uh, huh." When I then explained to him why William was not in trouble, Carson just stared at me as if to say, "Are you kiddin' me?"

History has shown that power corrupts. Those who have it tend to abuse it. This is true of adults. Trust me, it's also true of four-year-olds. Allowing William to physically defend himself (while well-intentioned and, given Carson's brutish personality, arguably necessary) was like letting Hitler invade Austria: It would have been nice if that had been the end of the trouble, but it only led to more conflict. What started as William's last resort of self-defense, soon morphed into a "first strike" policy. Hence, this past week's episode. William was watching television. Ironically, he was probably watching some PBS show designed to teach kids how to play nice and share. Well, somewhere between Dragon Tales' lesson on sharing and Barney the Dinosaur's I love you, you love me... song, Carson decided it would be fun to grab the pillow William was lying on. When he did, William punched him right in the nose. So much for detente.

And so, I'm now trying to reel William back in. I'm glad he's chucked the whining for a more assertive approach. I'd rather have to tone down a wild man than rev up a whiner. But now things have swung 180 degrees. Now it's William who's learning the boundaries via the occasional spanking or stern talk. And so, gradually, the number of violent encounters between my boys are decreasing. Both know that, if they hit, the other is liable to clock him right back. Even if he doesn't, they both know that whoever starts the fight has to deal with dad when it's over. Thus, I think my boys are starting to figure out that their fights are a lot like a Georgia-Tennessee football game: Why kick-off when you know Florida is just gonna beat the winner's tail anyway?

So feel free to chime in, dads. Let me know what you think. How do you prevent your boys from being mommy-reliant crybabies who run to their parents every time someone picks on them, while at the same time making sure they don't turn into little brawlers who are prone to hitting and sporting tattoos that read Born 4 Timeout? Oh well, we're figuring it out as best we can. Hopefully we'll find the balance. In the meantime, we'll keep plenty of Kleenex on hand to wipe tears and bloody noses, just in case.

All Dadlosophies content is COPYRIGHTED, and any unauthorized use or reprinting without the consent of the author is prohibited.

Choose Contentment: It's Just More Fun

One morning last week, while taking a break from working, I stepped into the kitchen to heat up what must have been my fifth or sixth cup of coffee. While I waited for the beeping microwave to tell me that my drink was ready, I stood by the window and watched as my kids played happily with the children next door. It was an extremely cold day. Bundled up tightly by over-protective mothers, the children looked like Oompa Loompas working the frozen yogurt wing of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Despite their extreme arctic attire, the kids were obviously freezing. Above the collars of their puffy coats, I could see little lips turning blue and tiny teeth chattering all the way from the kitchen window. Wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some old jeans, I stepped into the garage in my bare feet, the cold air cutting through me the moment I set foot outside the door. "Hey!" I hollered to my frigid little munchkins, "aren't you guys cold?"

"No!" they all answered simultaneously (shaking and shivering as the word stammered off their frozen tongues). They insisted they were just fine. My daughter, Emerson, even went so far as to try and convince me that she was hot and needed to take her coat off--an idea I quickly vetoed. Then, happy, laughing, and energetically attempting to talk over one another as they played, the children resumed running aimlessly about like little Eskimos on speed. Believing they would be okay a little while longer, I decided to let them stay out for a few more minutes. It wasn't long, however, before they, themselves, conceded defeat to the elements and retreated to our basement to play a round of their favorite indoor game: Let's Wreck Mom and Dad's Basement, Then Escape Next Door Before They Realize What We've Done and Make Us Clean It Up!

Watching my kids play with their friends made me think about how special childhood is. I couldn't help but smile and take a moment to remember what it was like to be that little and care-free. I can still remember rushing home from elementary school, throwing my book bag in the corner, promising my mother I wouldn't argue about doing my homework later if I could just go and play with my friends first (always a lie), and spending the rest of the day pretending to be a superhero, a soldier, a sports star, or some ferocious beast from another planet sent to terrorize my little sister and her friends as they played with their baby dolls or started accidental fires in her bedroom via her Easy-Bake Oven.

As I sat there thinking about life as a kid, it suddenly occurred to me why being a child is so great. It's because kids (most kids, anyway) are content! They don't know that there's another option. Oh sure, they have their occasional periods of unhappiness. They get upset when mom or dad doesn't buy them the candy bar they want or they finally open the big Christmas gift they've been eyeing since it was placed under the tree, only to discover that it's a box of socks and knitted sweaters. But those are brief emotional episodes, not outlooks on life that define who they are or how they feel most of the time. For the most part, one moment's crying child is the next moment's giggling youngster.

For various reasons, however, as we grow older, contentment becomes a moving target. For many people, it slips away without them even realizing exactly when it happens. One day we're running in the backyard, happy enough to have our favorite toy and know that Mom is making tacos for dinner. The next, we're comparing our acne-covered face to the good-looking athlete at school and wondering why God has it in for us. And that's just the beginning. As we become more and more aware of people's criticisms and expectations, we stop seeing ourselves as the superhero able to vanquish the forces of evil over recess, and become extremely conscious of our own shortcomings and limitations amidst the challenges of the real world. The comparisons don't end as we emerge "maturely" from our teen years. Gone might be the days of comparing how fast, strong, or good-looking we are compared to the other guys in gym, but there are new things that we allow to attack our sense of self-esteem. As dads, we still too often compare: Do I make the money society dictates I should make? Am I giving my wife and kids a good enough life? (By the way, what defines a "good life?") How does my job, my education, my position at work or in the community compare to others? Am I saving enough money? Am I doing enough to get ahead? How do people view my house, my career, my cars, my kids? Am I somebody people respect? Then, once we achieve what we thought we needed in order to feel secure, a whole new barrage of concerns arise: How do I take care of this money? What if I lose this great job? Sure, things are great now; but how do I ensure my family will be okay tomorrow? Far too often, staying content is like trying to catch jello shot out of a t-shirt launcher--you have it in your hand long enough to experience what it feels like for an instant, only to have it splatter through your fingers before you can get a good grip.

I know all this because I wrestle to remain content. Although I am incredibly blessed with a beautiful wife who loves me, gorgeous kids with whom I get to spend time and all of whom are healthy and happy, a nice house, the chance to be self-employed doing something I love, and with many other things I selfishly take for granted everyday, I still waste tons of time worrying about tomorrow or wishing this or that was better. But all of my emotional ups and downs have taught me one, important thing. Contentment is not found in changing circumstances, it's found in appreciating what you have regardless of the circumstances. People who are content determine their own priorities and set their own goals. They don't let society dictate to them what is or falls short of "success." Content fathers master the art of doing what they can without wasting time worrying about things beyond their control. Most of all, content fathers allow themselves the luxury of appreciating what they have here and now no matter what anyone else thinks. Yes, they can dream big and set ambitious goals, but they don't define themselves by whether or not those dreams become realities or those goals always get met. The phrase "I'm content" isn't an excuse to be lazy and do nothing. Instead, contentment is an attitude about life that allows us to pursue our ambitions free of the worries that steal our joy and cause us to miss the awesome life we have right now.

In closing, I've come to the following conclusion: Contentment is a choice! That's right, you have to choose to be content. As dads, it is easy to be ungrateful. It's easy to get resentful of that jerk at work who isn't half as smart or doesn't work nearly as hard as you, yet got the promotion you wanted anyway. It's tempting to sulk over financial burdens. Who among us wouldn't struggle with feelings of failure if we suddenly found ourselves unable to pay the mortgage or find work? But why do we struggle with such feelings? Could it be that it's because we've quietly surrendered the right to determine our own contentment to what other's around us have told us it is that should make us feel happy, successful, important, and so on? Have we let the culture we live in define what it takes to make us feel we're a real man and a good father, rather than deciding along with our wife what our own priorities and ground rules for happiness will be?

Choose contentment, dads. It's just more fun. Finding and keeping it means consciously taking time to appreciate your kids, your health, your gorgeous wife, your friends, and your talents (even if society doesn't pay well for them). Even if, God forbid, you're not healthy, your spouse is no longer with you, or one of your kids is sick, contentment is still there for the taking--more challenging to grasp, to be sure; but still there. So give yourself a break. Allow yourself the luxury of being content. Only, don't forget that it's a decision you may have to consciously make ever day--perhaps every minute--until you learn to catch jello without it splattering all over your hand.

All Dadlosophies content is COPYRIGHTED, and any unauthorized use or reprinting without the consent of the author is prohibited.

Who Needs Norman Rockwell?

Well, a new year has begun. The fun and festivities of Christmas and New Year's bowl games are over once again. Now it's time to start fulfilling those new year resolutions you came up with in order to ease your conscience as you downed your twentieth sugar cookie or blew off any semblance of exercise to watch Christmas movies and football. Yep, this is the time of season when gyms fill to the brim with well-meaning, yet soon-to-be-gone by mid-February, workout warriors who have vowed that this is the year they finally drop twenty pounds and learn to run thirty minutes without losing control of their bodily functions and falling to the floor in need of a cardiologist. It's both a dreary and an exciting time. Dreary that the Holidays are over; but exciting because of the possibilities a new year brings.

I don't know about you, but this past Christmas reminded me of a very important truth that I need to keep in mind as I head into 2010: FLEXIBILITY IS KEY TO SUCCESSFUL FATHERHOOD! As a dad, you have to be able to roll with the punches. Few things demonstrate the need for such versatility more than Christmas with the family. It's good to establish and carry on family traditions. You should plan festive times over the Holidays. Have parties. Visit loved ones. Take the kids to see Santa. Enjoy decorating the tree together as a family. But you also have to be careful. As a dad, you can't become a victim of your own expectations. If you get too locked in to your own vision of what the holiday will be, you could very easily find yourself experiencing a holiday far more reminiscent of Clark W. Griswold's than of any Norman Rockwell Painting.

Take our Christmas, for instance. In a moment of temporary insanity, Meredith and I suggested to my parents that it would be a good idea if we packed up our belongings, all our presents, and Santa's cargo, and took a road trip to visit them in the mountains of North Carolina. Thus, we committed the cardinal sin of parenthood. When you have small kids, you have a huge bargaining advantage. If grandparents want to see the looks on their grandkids' faces Christmas morning, then they have to drive to your house. It saves us parents a lot of headaches and chaos. To those without children it might seem heartless and cruel to hold your own children as Yule Tide hostages, but parents with children understand. We're not trying to be mean or deny grandparents access to their grandkids at Christmas. In fact, we'd kind of like to have them there so that we can take a nap. Rather, we're just trying to keep our sanity.

For some reason, Meredith and I chose to forfeit this invaluable home-court advantage and packed up our little crew for six hours of road trip "fun." After packing our minivan to the brim with gifts and luggage, I found what bungee cords I could and strapped what remained to the top of our over-packed vehicle. My kids were barely visible amidst the suitcases and packages as we backed out of our driveway and headed for Carolina. Every few miles I'd ask my daughter to raise her hand from the backseat just so I could see her and know that she was still alive.

Twenty minutes into the trip, my four-year-old, William, began asking every two miles when we would get there. An hour later he began whining and insisting that the trip to my parents' house was "taking forever." By the time we reached Boone, NC, William was screaming in my ear that he was "going to die if we don't get to MaMa and PaPa's house right now!" Meanwhile, Carson joined in by crying and Emerson announced every five minutes from the rear of the van that her back hurt. As for Meredith and I, we just stared out the front window of the minivan at the dark mountain road before us--envying with every passing mile those lucky CIA agents who keep cyanide capsules on hand for just such occasions.

After over six hours, we finally arrived after dark, only to realize that we couldn't make it up my parents' frozen drive. After twenty minutes of trying in vain to reach my folks' house, I finally had my dad shuttle Meredith and the kids to the house in his 4X4, while I stayed behind with the van. Too frustrated and worn out to even put on a coat, I stood there in 15 degree weather attacking the frozen tundra with a pickax, hoping to make a path for my van. It didn't work. Finally, Pop returned and suggested that he back the van onto a side road. I agreed. He then proceeded to back my van into a snow bank. We spent the next 45 minutes trying to dig the van out of the snow so that we could back it off of the main drive. I don't know what was more fun, wallowing in the snow holding a flashlight and a pickax with my private parts so cold that my testicles felt like Siberian BBs, or the exciting rush of knowing that a wild animal could emerge from the surrounding woods at any time to mangle us. Yep, it was a wonderful experience--a regular Donner Party Christmas.

Eventually, we did reach the house alive--FROZEN, but alive. A day later we were visited by a stomach virus that would have made Montezuma smile. While most people around the country were passing around the coffee and the pumpkin pie, my family and I were being visited by the Ghost of Christmas Dinner Past and adding projectile vomiting to our festive holiday itinerary. Add the three-hour power outage we enjoyed Christmas morning due to an ice storm, and it's safe to say that it wasn't the holiday I'd envisioned.

But that's the point. Things rarely go as planned. It doesn't matter if it's a Christmas gathering, a family vacation, a business deal, or a day off. What you imagine you'll have and what you actually get are usually different. This past holiday wasn't the memory I'd expected... but it was still full of good memories. In between the frostbite and sprints to the bathroom, we laughed, played bingo, enjoyed one another's company, and watched with enjoyment as the kids went nuts over what Santa had left them. Even when the van was stuck in snow on that first night I remember looking up at a beautiful, star-filled sky and thinking, "You know, once I get past the fear that I'm going to freeze to death and be eaten by my own father so that he doesn't starve before help arrives, it's actually kinda nice out here."

Be flexible dads. To find the good memories, sometimes you have to be quick to part company with the memories you anticipated walking away with. Who needs Norman Rockwell. All you need is your family. Whatever else happens, just roll with it.

All Dadlosophies are COPYRIGHTED, and any unauthorized use or reprinting of this material without consent of the author is prohibited.

Santa, Kids, and an Elf on My Shelf

After weeks of us all being bombarded by Christmas ads from retailers, Santa's big day is less than a week out. It's almost sad to think about. I've grown accustomed to at least three commercials a day in which a group of confused elves, unable to complete their Christmas duties, show up at a Wal-Mart, a Walgreens, or a Radio Shack (those guys are still in business?) in hopes of finding the supplies they need to save Christmas. (Man, those advertising guys are original, aren't they?) I'll certainly miss the endless cantata of sacred Christmas hymns originally written to exalt the birth of our Lord and Savior that have been re-worded to sell ipods, cell phones, hi-def TVs, and state-of-the-art appliances. In the last month, I've watched Santa buy car insurance, purchase jewelry, talk to M&Ms, and oversee U.S. automobile manufacturing (thank you for the bailout Mr. President--apparently you saved Christmas). If only Christmas happened every month. Given enough ads I'm sure I'd eventually find out where Santa gets his colonoscopy, what brand of underwear he prefers, which NASCAR driver he supports, and whether its Cialis or Viagra that Mrs. Claus prefers to sneak into the big guy's stocking every year.

Of course, once you get past the almost nauseating commercialism of the season, Christmas is still a special and priceless family time. It's a time when you slow down a bit and enjoy traditions with your loved ones. This year, we continued established traditions and started new ones. Yesterday, my wife and I made our annual trek to the mall. No, we don't do our shopping there (my wife is the guru of finding great deals online and on Black Friday). Rather, we just go each year to get a photo of the kids with Santa to add to our collection. I stood in line for two hours holding our spot while Meredith and her mother took the kids around the mall. I don't know what did more to put me in the Christmas spirit, people staring at me with concern to see a grown man with no kids in line to see Santa , or watching frustrated moms yell at Santa's helper after she performed the unpleasant duty of telling us that Mr. Claus was about to take a dinner break and we'd have to wait one more hour. God bless us, everyone.

We also started a couple of new traditions. The most meaningful was our inaugural Gift for a Child party. Gift for a Child is a non-profit that is dedicated to encouraging and meeting the emotional and material needs of kids in foster care. It was started a few years ago by a good friend of ours and a heroic woman named Rene Gunn. Rene is an incredibly humble and godly woman who, despite being successful in the business world and having her own family, devotes all the time she can to helping children. She and Meredith came up with the idea of having a Christmas party in which guests would bring a gift to wrap for a foster child who otherwise might not receive much for Christmas. It was awesome! We had neighbors, friends from church, classmates and teachers from our daughter's school, and many others come to the party bearing gifts. We had all the fun and socializing of a normal Christmas party, but with a purpose. It was incredibly uplifting and served as a refreshing reminder of what the season is supposed to be about. We hope it is the first of many such parties. If any readers are looking for a way to make an impact in the lives of young men and women who have hopes and dreams but lack much of the love and support most of us take for granted, please go to www.giftforachild.org and inquire as to how you might make a difference in one of these great kids' lives.

Our second new tradition involves Sam, our "Elf on the Shelf." Perhaps you have one too. Beginning on Thanksgiving Day, Sam sneaks into our house every morning before anyone is awake and finds a spot to hide in our home. The first thing the kids do every morning is try to find Sam and uncover his hiding place. Then, at night, Sam slips away while we're asleep to report to Santa how the kids are behaving before returning the next day. Sam watches everything we do. He knows what we have and what we don't have. He keeps a watchful vigil taking note of everything that comes in and goes out of the Howard household. In the off season, I'm pretty sure Sam works for the IRS.

We're not allowed to touch Sam. If we do, he'll lose his powers. Also, Sam's not allowed to talk; at least not to the kids. Once, he did talk to me for a while after the children were in bed. Before he took off to make his nightly report to St. Nick, Sam and I sat on the couch, watched a little of Sportscenter (he's a big hockey fan), and had a couple of beers. He's quiet most of the time, but once you get a couple of cold ones in the little guy, he really starts to open up. He told me that the highest honor any elf can receive is to ride with Santa on Christmas Eve. "You do a good job of being the big guy's wing man on Christmas Eve," Sam told me, "and you can pretty much count on renegotiating your contract when you get back to North Pole." Sadly, Sam told me there have been times when an elf has lost his or her privilege to ride with Santa. I close out this final Dadlosophies of the year by sharing with you the top 10 reasons Sam shared with me as to why an elf loses his or her spot accompanying Santa in his sleigh on Christmas Eve...

TOP 10 REASONS AN ELF LOSES HIS SPOT ON SANTA'S SLEIGH:
10. Got caught letting Rudolph play reindeer games
9. Forgot and took Prancer out for a joy ride in North Georgia during deer season
8. Guilty of switching the naughty and nice lists just for kicks
7. Overheard responding to one of Santa's commands with a crude hand gesture and the phrase "I got yer jingle bells right here!"
6. Angered Santa by releasing tell-all book entitled Santa's Sweatshop
5. Wore "Jack Frost: Change We Can Believe In" campaign button to work
4. Posted compromising pictures of Mrs. Claus at North Pole Christmas party on TMZ
3. Discovered moonlighting for Keebler
2. Caught selling advertising space for male enhancement products on Santa's sleigh
1. Resigned to become the president of Iran


Have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year everyone! I'm taking a couple of weeks off. I'll return with new dadlosophies Monday, January 11, 2010.

Back to Bethlehem Y'all!

When I was seventeen years old, my Spanish teacher made a comment that has always stuck with me. "Trust me," he said, "the first twenty years of your life goes by very slow, but the rest of it will fly by faster than you can believe." Well, I'd have to say that my teacher was right. Now in my forties, I'm finding that the years zoom by. Case in point, it's already Christmas 2009. It seems like just last week I was taking down our artificial Christmas tree from last year and watching Oklahoma lose yet another January bowl game. But make no mistake, the yule tide sounds of Christmas carols, beeping cash registers, Black Friday moms sucker punching one another over half-priced Wii systems, and grandparent-induced guilt trips designed to ensure that we visit them on Christmas remind us all that, indeed, the festive Holiday Season has arrived.

I've always loved Christmas. As a kid, of course, you look forward to seeing what Santa Claus will leave under the tree Christmas morning. I can remember when I was a little boy and still believed that Kris Kringle delivered all the toys in person, without any help from Mom or Dad. My siblings and I normally had to lie in bed waiting until my mother came to get us and tell us it was time to go down the hall to see what toys Santa had left. Of course, if you hadn't been good that year, Santa would supposedly leave a lump of coal or a bag of "switches" in your stocking. (For you northern transplants, a "switch" was a southern word parents used to describe a stick with which they would beat their disobedient children. They didn't have to feel guilty or worry about being arrested because... well... it was a switch, not a regular stick.)

I remember only one year in which I really sweated it out, unsure if I'd find toys or a switch when I arrived at the Christmas tree. I was in the second grade. That's the year I discovered curse words. It's also the year I learned to cheat on homework. My buddy Ralph Canello and I would drop a few d-words and f-bombs over a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the cafeteria, then return to Mrs. Stephenson's class early to copy Kim Wilson's math answers. We didn't think about the consequences. We were living life in the fast lane at John J. Blair elementary school. Then, December rolled around. Right about Thanksgiving I cut out the cursing and started doing my own homework (at least until January). I then waited nervously for Christmas morning. To both my surprise and relief, Santa hooked me up that year. I never worried too much about that naughty-nice list again. I figured Santa was either slipping and not that on top of things, or he was a lot more lenient than I'd been led to believe. Either way, I couldn't wait for school to start again so I could tell Ralph about all the f-bombin' toys Santa had brought me for Christmas.

Now I'm the dad. In addition to hopefully using less profanity, I also see it as my role to make Christmas special and memorable for my kids the way my parents made it special and memorable for me. That means consciously pulling myself away from work and the craziness of Christmas preparations to spend special times with my family. Christmas, after all, is about traditions. More than any specific toy or present that they'll receive, my children will look back one day and appreciate the things we did together every Christmas.

Take, for instance, last Friday night. Meredith and I loaded up our minivan with our kids and three of their friends from next door. Fortunately, the little girls next door are awesome and always a pleasure to have over. We didn't mind taking them because their parents have done such a great job of teaching them manners and respect. Still, six kids against two semi-sane adults is a challenging ratio. Nothing says "Jolly Christmas spirit" quite like trying to shove multiple booster seats and one toddler's car seat into a cramped minivan. After nearly dislocating my fingers and verbally accusing the seat belts of having a canine heritage, I finally--somehow--got all the seats in. Then, the joyous process of loading little people into just the right spot so that we all had room began. My wife and I looked like U.S. soldiers trying to pack fleeing refugees onto a helicopter during the Saigon Airlift. It was like a living version of that game psychologists make you play--the one where you have to see how quickly you can place different shapes into the right holes. Meredith would hand me a child, then I'd try in vain to fit him or her into a given spot. Eventually, after enough tears and screams of "Something's pinching my fanny!" I'd concede defeat, hand the child back, and tell Meredith to give me another kid. Finally, with all the refugees squared away and bundled up like midget adventurers on a Himalayan expedition, we headed north to Canton to visit Hopewell Baptist Church's "Back to Bethlehem."

I have to give kudos to Hopewell, the experience was really cool. Each Christmas they re-create ancient Bethlehem. Church members dress up as residents of the city or Roman guards, then do their best to make visitors feel like they're in Bethlehem the night of the Savior's birth. It's a lot of fun and very educational. I never realized "y'all" is a Hebrew word, but it obviously must be because all night long I heard phrases like "Shalom y'all" and "How far'd y'all come for the census?" Meanwhile, my kids had a blast. They learned about the synagogue, watched Roman soldiers parole the streets, and got to pet goats and see a live camel. Best of all, the experience got the kids thinking about Jesus. It was heart-warming hearing William ask when he could see baby Jesus, only to have his six-year-old sister, Emerson, explain to him that Jesus had actually been born a long time ago and that he had died on the cross and was already back in heaven. William thought about it for a minute and responded with the only words I guess a four-year-old could: "Then where's Santa?"

Aah yes, Christmas is busy. There are gifts to buy, plans to make, and work to rush to finish before taking a few days off for the Holidays. But most of all, there are traditions to be built and memories to make with your family. So I'll look forward to these next couple of weeks and do my best to savor them. Merry Christmas fellow dads. I hope you look back one day and realize that you took every advantage of making this one of the most fun and memorable Christmases your kids will ever know.