DADLOSOPHIES: An Average Dad's Take on Life

Dadlosophies is Back!

2011-10-26T18:50:00.001-07:00

Hello long-lost friends! OK, you weren't exactly lost, I was. For the past year much of my time has been devoted to finishing my new book CAVEMEN IN BABYLAND: What New & Expecting Mommies Should Know About New Daddies (So That They Won't Kill Them).

The book is written from many of my own "near-death" experiences. It's meant to make readers laugh and hopefully provide moms with a legitimately helpful inside look into the hearts and minds of us dads. After almost 15 years of marriage and 5 kids, Lord knows I've learned a few things--most of them the hard way.

People sometimes ask me, "Kindred, what is it like to have 5 kids?" I tell 'em that it's a lot like being Willy Wonka in the Chocolate Factory if all the oompa loompas were on crack. You're a little eccentric having been isolated from most adults, you're constantly surrounded by weird-behaving little people who'd love to have their hands on candy all day, and you don't really care how ridiculous your attire looks so long as it doesn't smell yet.

Anyway, the point is that I'm back. Ready to share my dadlosophies on life. Whether or not that's a good thing is for you to judge. Regardless, it will be fun for me and, with so many little ones running around, quite therapeutic.

Kindred's New Book, Cavemen in Babyland, is now available!

2011-08-13T19:09:00.001-07:00

Hello Fellow Dadlosophites!!
No, I have not fallen off the face of the earth-
Been working on my new book which is now FINISHED!

CAVEMEN IN BABYLAND: What New & Expecting Mommies Should Know About New Daddies (So That They Won't Kill Them)

The book is available on Amazon and other online distributors, but go to www.cavemeninbabyland.com to get $3.00 off (use discount code)

Would love to hear your reviews of my book once you read it- please post a comment when you are able.

Much thanks-
Kindred
www.cavemeninbabyland.com

Happy Holidays Dadlosophites

2010-12-19T10:24:00.000-08:00

Given that Christmas is now less than a week away, I wanted to use this post to wish everyone a joyous season. However, the phrase "Happy Holidays" just seems too general. No, in an effort to be more personable and yet remain politically correct (because we all know how horrible it would be if one failed to be politically correct), I just want to take a moment to wish all of you the best holiday season ever in the language that means most to you. So, here we go:

Merry Christmas!

Happy Hanukkah!

Rockin' Kwanzaa!

Blessed Eat a Red Apple Day (No kidding, it was December 1)

Joyous Ira Gershwin's Birthday (anyone named Ira could really use the encouragement)

Happy Frank Sinatra's Birthday (I plan on celebrating this one My Way)

Glorious Holy Crap You've Maxed Out Our Credit Cards Day

Prosperous I Spent All That Money to Watch My Kid Play with the Box Day

Happy Honey the Teenagers in the Neighborhood Rearranged Our Lighted Reindeer to Make Them Look Like They're Humping Again Day.

A Bearable I Think I'll Have More Vodka So I Can Tolerate My In-laws Day (This one is actually observed over an entire week.)

Joyful Oh Look, Uncle Fred is Burping Jingle Bells after Christmas Dinner as Usual Day

A Memorable Oh Great, My Kid Just Peed in Santa's Lap Day

A Relaxing Don't Put Your Freakin' Packages in Your Car and Make Me Think You're Pulling Out of Your Parking Space Only to Remain Parked and Return to the Mall Day

Festive Atheists Who Don't Believe in Anything But Still Want Someone to Give Them a Present Day

and the Hap-Hap-Happiest New Year you've ever had!

Joyous Holidays, Everyone! I hope it's a wonderful season for you and your family!

A Different Kind of Christmas

2010-12-06T05:26:00.000-08:00

"Daddy, can you help us find Sam?" Sam is the Elf on our shelf that arrives at our house every Thanksgiving and then proceeds to reappear in a different spot every morning through Christmas Eve. Every day, it's the kids' job to try and find where Sam is hiding.

At night, Sam flies back to the North Pole to report to Santa on the kids' behavior and enjoy a beer with his little elf buddies. I'd imagine it's a pretty good gig if you're an elf. At least it's better than being shut up in a workshop 24/7 and forced to crank out toys at a production rate second only to the Chinese.

Still, Sam has to sit still all day. I figure that's gotta be tough. However, I do have my suspicions that Sam doesn't really stay put. I'm pretty sure he gets up and moves around when no one's home. Just the other day, I came home to find that my laptop had been tampered with. Someone had been Googling pictures of Tinkerbell while I was out. I don't have hard evidence, but I'm pretty sure I know who the guilty party might be.

Anyway, Sam's mischief aside, this year looks to be a very special one for the Howard household and a very different kind of Christmas. As I mentioned a few weeks ago in my last post, Meredith and I are adopting twin baby boys from Ethiopia. Our initial trip to Africa was awesome! We stayed in the capital of Ethiopia, Addis Ababa, and had the chance to see much of the countryside as we drove five hours to Hawassa, site of our sons' orphanage. Meredith and I absolutely loved the Ethiopian people. Despite the fact that there is much poverty and most of the people there have 100Xs less than even your poorest Americans, the Ethiopian citizens we encountered seemed happy, full of faith, and very grateful.

Most encouraging, our sons, Samuel and Asher (their Ethiopian names are Abenet and Afework)appeared happy, healthy, and well-cared for by their nannies. When we arrived at the orphanage, we were warmly welcomed, presented with a gift, and honored with a "coffee ceremony." (Ethiopia grows some of the best coffee in the world, and coffee is a part of many Ethiopian ceremonies).

Then, we met our boys. It was an amazing moment. Finally, our sons were no longer merely photos sent to us over the Internet. They weren't simply stories we were told by an adoption agency caseworker or official forms to be signed as part of an administrative process. At last, they were real. They were little hands to be held, little cheeks to be caressed, little smiles to laugh at the sight of, and little ears in which to whisper the words, "I love you." After thousands of miles and countless prayers, we were holding our boys. We were finally kissing them, tickling them, and making ridiculous goo-goo faces at them. All the while, Samuel and Asher kept looking up at me wide-eyed, as if thinking, "Holy Crap! Dad's white!"

One of the most moving parts was when the director of the orphanage told us Samuel and Asher's story. They had been born in a hut in rural Ethiopia. Their mother, sadly, died giving birth to them. Their father, a very poor man who suddenly found himself facing the prospect of raising his two older children without a mother, could not raise the twins. Distraught by his wife's death, he relied on an uncle to call the orphanage and ask them to take the boys. Born premature and fighting just to stay alive, Samuel and Asher arrived at the orphanage at a mere 4 lbs. each, with umbilical cords still attached. Rushing against time, the orphanage got them to the hospital as quickly as possible. The nannies blew on the babies' faces to keep them awake, lest they fall asleep and never awake.

Samuel and Asher's last name in Ethiopia means "God is with us." The care givers at the orphanage told us that they cried out to God collectively for days, reminding God of the meaning of the babies' name, and calling on Him to be with them. God heard their prayers! Miraculously, Samuel and Asher survived. They are the orphanage's miracle babies--and ours. Surely, God must have something very special planned for these boys.

The only downside of the trip is that we could not yet bring Samuel and Asher home. That privilege is reserved for later this month. Meredith will return to Ethiopia with my father and our seven year old daughter Emerson (a.k.a., Assistant Mommy). There they will appear at the U.S. Embassy to sign paperwork and bring my sons to the United States. I'll stay back with William, Carson, and my mom.

Unfortunately, we'll be apart on Christmas Day. But whenever we're tempted to get a little sad about not being together on Christmas, we remember the reasons. Our kids remember that Mommy is going to Africa to bring home the best Christmas gift ever: their new baby brothers. Meredith and I remember that loving an orphaned child (or children) makes Jesus smile; and what better way to celebrate his birthday than to do the very thing that would make him happiest. And we all remember that the separation is only for a few days. God-willing, we will all be together again by New Year's Eve.

Yes, it's going to be a very different kind of Christmas. But it's going to be the most memorable and blessed one we've ever had too. So please say a prayer for Samuel and Asher. Pray that they will continue to grow healthy and strong. Pray that Meredith and I will have the wisdom and spirituality to raise them the way they deserve. And pray that my new young sons can somehow deal with the fact that, "Holy Crap! Dad's white!"

Ethiopia, Here We Come!

2010-11-14T12:16:00.000-08:00

Hello friends and loyal dadlosophites! I am writing this entry rather quickly from a coffee shop in Washington, D.C. Meredith and I arrived yesterday on the first leg of a long trip. In a few hours we will board a plane for Ethiopia. We have a twenty-hour flight ahead of us as we go to Africa to meet the twin baby boys we are adopting.

If all goes as planned, we will make a seven-hour drive from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia to the orphanage where our sons are living on Tuesday. Then, on Friday, we go before an Ethiopian judge, hopefully to be awarded custody. Unfortunately, we do not bring our boys home right away. Next begins a month-long process of paperwork, during which Meredith and I will return to the states until time to return and pick up our sons in late December.

It's crazy! It's exciting! It can even be challenging. You go through a lot when you're trying to adopt. There's a ton of paperwork, a massive amount of financial expense, and (when adopting from Ethiopia) quite a bit of distance one has to travel to bring home their child/children.

"So why do it, Kindred," you may ask. "You and Meredith already have three beautiful kids. You have a great family. You're happy. Why spend all that money? Why put up with all the administrative headaches associated with gathering paperwork, passports, tax records, and so on? And, for goodness sakes, why get all those shots to protect you from diseases you usually only hear about on National Geographic or the Discovery Channel? Most of all, why risk it? Aren't you worried that you might mess up the kids you've got? Don't you think you should devote your full attention to them and that this will only take away from all you and your wife should be doing to ensure they have a fulfilling childhood? Shouldn't all that money you're spending on an adoption go towards Emerson, William, and Carson's futures? And what about possible issues? What if these kids you're adopting have inherited diseases, mental problems, don't adjust well, and so on? C'mon, man; what are you thinking?"

Well, I'm sure I'll get deeper into our reasoning in the weeks to come as I get to know my new sons and have more time to write (fighting the clock a bit today). But here's some short answers.

1)Why do it? -- It's right. God is described in Psalm 68 as a "Father to the fatherless." Jesus tells us in Matthew 25 that "as we do unto the least of these, so you do unto me." The Bible repeatedly tells us to remember the orphans and widows. And, let us not forget, of all God's kids, only one is begotten. The rest? All adopted if you believe the Bible. Oh, and any distance we're having to travel or trouble we're encountering is a lot shorter and easier than the distance Jesus had to travel to reach and save us so that we could be part of his family.

For me, the answer to "Why do it" goes back to the fact that I'm a Christian. I claim to be a disciple of Jesus Christ. 'Nuff said. Of course, many Christians say that they "don't feel called to adopt." Hey, it ain't my place to judge; especially since many of these people exhibit Christ-like qualities that far outshine my sinful example. But I will say this: The math doesn't seem to add up. God calls all Christians to remember the orphans, but most Christians don't feel called to give an orphaned child a home. Something to ponder, eh?

2) Why Spend the Money? -- Trust me, I've asked this one more than a few times. But the truth is, I believe this is why God gives me money. God hasn't blessed Meredith and I so that we can read monthly statements showing a growing IRA or other retirement account (although I do believe in saving). No, he has blessed us so that we can put the money towards His purpose. "A Father to the fatherless." I think God wants us using our resources to adopt these orphaned boys, not planning our dream home or the trips we'll take one day when we retire (although it will sure be cool if we get to enjoy those things too.)

3) What About the Kids We Already Have? -- What about them? They're excited about 2 new brothers from Africa. And you know what I've seen? They are more selfless and more conscious of God and what it means to care about and love others since we started talking about the adoptions. Yep, lots of money saved for college is nice (and is still a goal of mine). But I'd rather my kids value the lives of these two Ethiopian boys and see parents who live out their convictions, not just talk about how much they admire other people who do.

4) What About Health and Other Issues? -- What? Our twin sons don't need a mom and dad if they have health issues? In fact, wouldn't they need the love and support of a family even more if they have health concerns. And, if they are going to have health issues, how much more does God expect Meredith and I to be there for these kids. As for issues, the fact of the matter is this: We all have issues! Heck, I hope the twins do have issues. If they don't have issues they won't fit in with our family. In fact, don't give us kids with no issues--we'll only mess 'em up.

There's tons more I want to, and eventually will, say. But for now, so long. We're off to Africa. I'll shoot out my next post when I return (probably just before Thanksgiving) and give you an update. Take care and, if you're a prayer warrior, say one for us. We'd really appreciate it. In the meantime, look for ways to remember the orphans and widows (and sick, and poor, and hurting...) Don't forget, your adoptive Father is watching.

Parenting Style? More Like Parenting Philosophy

2010-11-11T15:46:00.000-08:00

This week's dadlosophy is a bit different. Rather than sitting at my own kitchen table, in my office, or at the local coffee shop, I'm sitting in a room full of fellow bloggers at Atlanta's WXIA television studio. No, I haven't been called here to be interviewed on live television (hard to believe they would miss such an opportunity, I know). Nope, I've been invited to participate in a blog off.

What is a blog off? Well, it basically involves a bunch of mommy and daddy bloggers sitting around and blogging about our parental lives. After an hour and a half, judges will come around, read our blogs, and judge us. What happens if our blog falls flat? Personally, I think the losers should have to take the winners' kids for a week. Now that's a blog off!

We've been given several topics we can choose from. Topic one, My Scariest Moment as a parent. That's kind of like blogging about my goofiest moment as a teenager. Too many to choose from--next topic.

Next, How My Child Surprised Me. Again, hard to narrow down. Throw in the fact that many of those "surprising moments" nearly resulted in my needing therapy, caused me to have a life-threatening rise in blood pressure, or cost me enough money to bring tears to my eyes, and I'm pretty certain that I don't care to relive any of them again for fear that it may lead to the need for some really expensive medications. Pass.

The topic I've chosen is HOW I FIRST REALIZED MY PARENTING STYLE. Hmmm... interesting question. First of all, what is a parenting style? I'm not totally sure. Haven't really thought about it before. I would describe what I have as more of a parenting philosophy. I realized pretty early on that it is important to be my kids' dad, not their buddy. Don't get me wrong, I love hanging out with my kids and having fun together. I get a kick out of playing games, wrestling on the living room floor, throwing the ball in the backyard, and doing silly dances with my daughter to whatever is playing on the kitchen radio. But, at the end of the day, what my kids need most from me is leadership, not another pal.

I can't necessarily think of one moment at which I came face-to-face with this realization. Rather, it's more like a series of moments that continue to occur. Take, for instance, the other night. The kids and I had just finished dinner and were engaged in one of our fairly common post-meal wrestling smack downs. They were winning, but they also cheat. They call for Mommy every time Daddy starts to win. Anyway, they were laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves when my supervisor (a.k.a., Mommy) walked in and announced, "Okay everyone, time for bed." Noticing that the kids didn't seem to notice, Meredith gave it another go. "Did you guys hear me? I said the wrestling match is over, time for baths and bed." This time, my kiddos jumped up and proceeded running around the house, thinking that it would be funny to tease mommy.

It's at moments like these that a parent has to ask him or herself a question: What do my kids need me to be right now? The answer (as I see it)is AUTHORITY FIGURE. Not that my wife wasn't more than capable of corralling this rowdy herd of little Howards, but since I was the one who'd gotten them so wound up, I felt that I needed to be the one to reel 'em back in. I stood up and, in a calm but firm voice, called my kids. Realizing Dad meant business, Emerson, William, and Carson, stopped their running and, still smiling, made their way into the living room. Were they scared of me? No. Did they know Daddy was serious? Yes. They could tell that Daddy had just flipped the switch. I had transitioned out of "let's have fun" mode into "Authoritative Leader" mode. After apologizing to Mommy, my kids went upstairs.

That's a good illustration of my parenting style/philosophy. In a word, it's leadership. More specifically, CONFIDENT LEADERSHIP. I believe kids need parents to be comfortable in their role as an authority figure. Sadly, many parents today don't feel confident. They feel that they are doing something wrong or destructive by being in charge. But kids need direction. They need firmness. They need discipline (which entails a lot more than punishment). And, yes, they need Mom and Dad to decide for them what is best--at least when they're as young as my kids.

Be confident leaders Moms and Dads. Be comfortable being in charge. Believe it or not, your kids want you to clearly define the boundaries. They don't need an adult buddy, and you shouldn't over concern yourself with whether or not your kids always like you. Nope, in fact, being a good parent often means loving your kids enough to let them NOT like you for a while. The coolest part is that, if you do fulfill your authoritative role, you'll probably find that your kids are so secure and happy that you're all having more than enough fun to go around. And that's a pretty good prize too, even if some blogger won't take your kids for a week.

Your Child's Greatest Need

2010-11-01T07:13:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I arrived home after a long day at a seminar in Atlanta. I'd left early in the morning, before my wife and kids were up, and returned roughly around dinner time. As I pulled into the drive, my children rushed to the car to meet me. They were excited to see Dad and immediately started bombarding me with information. I was glad to see my kids. I gave them all hugs and listened with "fascination" as William described how he'd skateboarded down the sidewalk without falling and Emerson shared about the sleepover she'd been invited to that weekend.

As my little paparazzi followed me, begging for my attention and expecting me to stop, I slowly kept moving as I said things like, "Really?... That's wonderful, Buddy..." and, "Sounds awesome, Emerson..."

Entering the house, I found my wife, Meredith, cooking dinner. She was wearing a sweatshirt and pajama pants. Her hair was pulled back in her customary "mommy pony tail." It was obvious from her appearance that she'd been tending to household responsibilities and kids all day. In other words, she looked beautiful as always.

It's then that I did the most important thing any father can do when he gets home at the end of the day. I turned to my children (whom I dearly love) and said, "Guys, I want all of you to go outside and play while Daddy and Mommy talk for ten minutes." That's right; I sent my children away so that I could have a few moments alone with my wife.

Why? What deep thing did I need to discuss with Meredith? What important issue demanded that we talk right away without the kids around? Absolutely nothing. The fact of the matter was, I just wanted to see my wife and have some time alone with her. I hadn't seen her all day, and I wanted to find out how she was doing.

Often, when I write 'Dadlosophies,' I make reference to how important it is that we spend time with our kids and not let the concerns of life crowd out what's most important--our families. I especially think that this is valuable advice for dads, who are often busy pursuing careers and have a tendency to define themselves by what they do for a living. We're usually the ones who can most easily make the mistake of defining what it means to provide for our families in material rather than spiritual, emotional, and developmental terms.

But even parents devoted to spending time with their children can fall into a dangerous and potentially destructive pattern (destructive for the marriage and the kids, themselves). If not careful, our homes can become kid-centric rather than marriage-centric. One of the dangerous trends I often see developing in families is when our households all-to-easily end up revolving around the children instead of the marriage. Before we know it, we parents wake up and realize we've become mommy and daddy first and husband and wife second. Mom's life is more about caring for the kids than being what her husband needs. Dad comes home and immediately engages the children rather than first making sure his wife is okay and connecting with her.

Here's the deal: Your child's greatest need (outside of a relationship with God) is a strong, loving marriage between Mommy and Daddy. Nothing--ABSOLUTELY NOTHING--makes a child feel safer and more secure than seeing that Mommy loves Daddy more than anything or anybody, and absolutely no one (not even his own child) holds a candle to Mommy in Daddy's heart. As my new friend and nationally renowned parenting expert, John Rosemond, puts it: "Mommy and Daddy HAVE A RELATIONSHIP with their child, but they are IN A RELATIONSHIP with one another." Translation: I'm my wife's husband first and my kids' dad second. Meredith is my wife first and my kids' mommy second. Our home must revolve around our relationship as husband and wife, not our kids' schooling, extracurricular activities, children's "needs" (which often are just wants), and so on.

Yes, I take time every day to spend with my children. Of course there are times when the kids get and even require our full attention. But Meredith is number one. In fact, it's no contest. When Meredith is talking to me, the kids know that they are not to interrupt. When I come home at the end of the day, I want to (and will) see my wife first. I'll take some time to play with my kids, but not until after I get quality time with Mommy. And when there is an issue that involves disobedience or requires discipline, the kids know that Mommy and Daddy stand united. We back each other up and trust each other's judgment. Trying to play us against one another is a crucial and, as my children have learned, potentially fanny-painful error.

Does that mean Meredith and I always agree? No. But we act like we do in front of the kids, then discuss any differences of opinion behind closed doors. In short, the most important relationship in the home is NOT parent-child, it's husband-wife. Our children are NOT the center of the household universe, Mommy and Daddy are.

What about your home? Is it kid-centric or marriage-centric? Does your kids' world revolve around your marriage, or do you and your spouse continually neglect each other because of the kids' activities, the children's "needs," or some unhealthy cultural standard you've bought into that erroneously suggests your worth as a parent is gauged by how much time you devote to your children or how much you've helped them accomplish in comparison to other kids?

If your kids are the center of things, then you're setting them up for failure. What happens when they get out in the real world and are met with the harsh realization that things don't revolve around them? What happens when your child, who is used to being waited on, catered to, or given precedence over everybody and everything gets married one day and is disappointed to learn that his or her spouse falls short of adequately "meeting their needs?" Can you say 'divorce after only a year or two of marriage?'

Nope, best thing you can give your kids is a strong marriage and a sober realization that they aren't the main player. Trust me, they'll be more secure and comfortable in that role, and it will provide them with a good, realistic assessment of themselves. One that will better equip them to interact with others, have strong relationships, and do well in life once all is said and done.

And moms, don't buy the lie that the best mothers pour tons of time and attention into their kids. No, the best moms are the ones who teach their kids to be people of character, to care about others, and to fend for themselves because they'll have to in the real world. This means occasionally REFUSING to do for your children, insisting they solve certain problems on their own, requiring them to do some chores around the house, not being afraid to lead and discipline your kids, and sometimes reminding your precious little angels that they aren't anything special rather than constantly shining a spotlight on every little thing they do as if it were some earth-shattering accomplishment. (A dose of humility will serve kids well, don't you think?)

So parents, show your kids some love. Send them away while you hug each other, kiss each other, compliment each other, and ask each other about your days. Chances are, there's a little kiddo who'll be peeking in, smiling, and feeling happy and secure in the knowledge that Mommy and Daddy love each other more than anyone else in the world--even the kids.

* THIS PAST WEEKEND, I SPENT TIME WITH PARENTING EXPERT, JOHN ROSEMOND. WHILE I HAVE LONG HELD THE CONVICTION THAT THE MOST IMPORTANT RELATIONSHIP IN ANY FAMILY IS THE MARRIAGE AND PUTTING THE KIDS BEFORE A SPOUSE CAN BE EXTREMELY DETRIMENTAL, MUCH OF WHAT JOHN HAD TO SAY SERVED AS A GOOD WAKE UP CALL TO REASSESS HOW I'M DOING IN THIS AREA. I CHOSE TO FOCUS ON THIS SUBJECT THIS WEEK IN LARGE PART TO SOME OF HIS REMINDERS. THANKS, JOHN.

Life's Hectic--Take a Break

2010-10-24T17:09:00.001-07:00

Life's hectic. There's work, life's daily odds and ends, marriage, and--if you are as blessed as Meredith and I--the parental bliss of children all requiring an adult's time and energy.

As a freelance writer, I'm constantly either engrossed in a project or immersed in the pursuit of the next available job. I don't have the security that comes with knowing an employer is depositing a paycheck every 2 weeks. Nope, I don't make any money until jobs are done. Oh, and did I mention that there are no jobs unless I go out and round 'em up? Given that my family has grown accustomed to eating, living in a house, and using electricity pretty much every day, you can imagine how much work and the pursuit thereof can--if left unchecked--totally dominate my schedule.

In addition, Meredith and I just learned last week that we have officially been approved to adopt twin boys from Ethiopia. They're 4 1/2 months old and handsome little guys (nice to know they'll fit right in). But with all the joy and excitement that comes with knowing our family is about to expand, there also comes additional worries about finances, the future, and how to be a dad to five children. At times, I'm tempted to feel overwhelmed. One minute I'm looking at my new sons' pictures and thinking, "This is SO cool!" The next I'm sitting on the corner of the bed, rubbing my temples and trying desperately to go to my "happy place."

Just the other day I experienced such an anxious moment. I was working from home, running late on a deadline and thinking about the huge check I was about to write for our adoptions. The instability of our finances and the uncertainty of our future combined with the demands of work almost left me paralyzed. "What's the use?" I thought. "I just can't do it all. There's no way."

That's when my 3-year-old, Carson, came wandering into the kitchen where I was busy writing. Holding a half-eaten yogurt tube, he shuffled over to the table, totally oblivious to the fact that Daddy was working and had a few things on his mind.

"Daddy," he said, "will you swing me?"

At first I didn't answer, my mind was too busy dividing its time between focusing on the project at hand and worrying about where all life's twists and turns might be taking me.

"Daddy, will you swing me?"

"Huh, what's that, Buddy?"

"I asked you if you will swing me?"

Feeling a bit frustrated by the interruption, I looked up from my laptop, removed my glasses, and was about to politely inform my son that Daddy was very busy and that I might have time to push him on the swing later. Only, when I glanced down to see my little man looking up at me with a ring of yogurt around his lips, something in me clicked. Despite all the work to be done and worries I could choose to dwell on, I knew in that instant that the absolute best thing I could do was get up from the table, give my son a hug, wipe the yogurt from his grinning mouth, and take fifteen minutes to push him on the swing.

And that's what I did. I made the work and worries wait. It was a beautiful day outside. The sun was shining and the early fall breeze was blowing just enough to cause a few of the leaves above us to drift down from the multi-colored tree tops. My two older children were in school, so there was no one else there. It was just me and Carson.

With every "Higher, Daddy," that came from Caron's mouth, I pushed a little harder. I thoroughly enjoyed the morning with my son. We talked about all kinds of things. I tried to explain as best I could why birds fly, why dogs bark, and how come Mommy won't let Daddy talk whenever The Bachelor is on. Conversely, Carson explained to me why Iron Man is so cool, why he wants to be Lightning McQueen when he grows up, and why he thinks it should be socially acceptable to pee in one's pants if one is engaged in a fun activity and doesn't want to stop to use the bathroom.

After the swinging was over, I still had (or, should I say, made) a few minutes to spare. Carson and I walked around the yard, looking at leaves and bugs, kicking the soccer ball, and talking a bit more. All my attention was on my son. It was awesome taking a few moments to listen to what was on his little mind, talk to him about the simplest of things, and just connect with my little buddy.

When the fifteen minutes was over, we went inside. Carson gleefully returned to what he'd been doing, and I went back to my work. But my attitude was totally different. Instead of feeling stressed or anxious, I felt at peace and happy. The moments with my son reminded me that my life is going just fine. I'm married to the woman I love the most in the world. My children love me and are happy and healthy. And Meredith and I are about to fulfill our years-long dream to adopt. Sure there are some unknowns. Aren't there always? But, overall, my life is pretty awesome. Truth is, most of the time when I get anxious it isn't because of any actual problem. Rather, it's because I'm not trusting God enough to take care of me and my family--even though He's never failed to do so. (Go figure.)

I share this simple account simply to make this point: Life will always be hectic. You have to MAKE YOURSELF TAKE A BREAK! Slow down and spend some simple but meaningful time with your kids in the backyard. We run ourselves nuts, bouncing from job to home and to activity, after activity, after activity. Why? Because we're concerned about the future? Because that's the way our culture tells us parenthood is supposed to be done?

Yes, we need to be responsible, work hard, and do our best to provide for our kids' futures. But what about today? If we're waiting for the schedule to let up so that we can play with our kids or talk about why Iron Man is cool, then guess what--you're going to be waiting a long time. Maybe too long. Maybe so long that, by the time you decide you're ready to take a break and push your kid on the swing, you'll turn around to find that he or she has already grabbed the car keys and is out the door.

Slow it on down, guys. There's likely a little boy or girl looking up at you and saying, "Daddy, will you swing me?" He or she might not be saying those exact words. In fact, he or she may not even be asking the question audibly. Maybe they're asking it with their eyes. Maybe they're asking it with that picture they drew for you at preschool. Maybe they're asking it as they kick a football or play in the sandbox all by themselves, hoping Daddy will emerge for even just a few minutes to throw them a touchdown pass or assist them in building the world's greatest sand castle.

Yes, I've got a lot to do. I've got responsibilities that require me to work and market my business. I've got bills that need to be paid and financial concerns that sometimes weigh on me. But I've learned that I will always have responsibilities and things to be concerned about. I owe it to my kids--and myself--to put them aside for a few minutes every day so that I can play a quick game of baseball, push someone on the swing, or marvel at a trick one of my kids has been practicing just so they can show Daddy. If we're not careful, we parents might get so distracted by the fact that life is hectic, that we forget to enjoy the fact that life's pretty good too.

The Big V

2010-10-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

In a couple of weeks, I'll turn 42 years old. I have a beautiful wife and three awesome kids. Add the fact that Meredith and I are currently in the process of adopting one (possibly two?) children from Ethiopia, and I will soon be the father of four.... possibly five. Yes, I said FIVE!! How can we afford it? Well, for starters we'll just have to draw straws to see who gets to go to college. Blue straw, you go to a state-supported university and pursue a career. Red straw, you learn to wait tables and say things like, "Thank you, please come again."

But seriously, given that our soon to expand family seems to be nearing completion (although with the Howards you never know), I finally had to acknowledge that the time had come for Kindred to take a huge step. Knowing that we would still want to have sex but not wanting to cast our own production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Meredith and I decided that yours truly should get the Big V--a vasectomy! And so, last Friday morning, I dropped my daughter off at school and set off to the doctor's office to break ties with my little swimmers.

Why a vasectomy? Well, there's a few reasons. First and foremost, a vasectomy is a lot safer and offers a much easier recovery time for a man than other procedures offer for a woman. Plus, my wife has already experienced three miscarriages, carried three children to term, and undergone three C-sections; so any suggestion by me that she be the one to undergo surgery could very well have led to a physical assault and the implanting of a large object up one of my bodily cavities. Thus, I decided to do the considerate (and safer) thing; I agreed to the vasectomy.

Just in case you're wondering, vasectomies aren't fun. In fact, I'd put them right up there with that exhilarating prostate exam your doctor performs every time you go in for a check-up. You know, the one where your physician puts on a latex glove, douses his finger in petroleum jelly, then tells you to bend over and "try not to move." He then proceeds to ask you how your weekend was while going the wrong way up what God definitely intended to be a one way street. All the while you're trying not to sing like Julie Andrews and praying it will soon be over.

Anyway, my appointment started out easy enough. I filled out the normal paperwork, answered the normal questions, flashed my insurance card... all the usual stuff. Then, the doctor came in. He asked me a couple of questions to make sure I understood the permanency of what I was about to do. He then told me to disrobe from the waist down and promised he'd be back soon.

There I was, lying on the table, my little buddies left hanging. I felt like a sentence with dangling participles. Then, without a word, a nurse walked in carrying a tray of surgical instruments. She set down the tray, marched straight to the table, grabbed my special places, and began spraying them with something cold. "Whoa!" I thought,"How about a little conversation first, Honey. At least tell me if you like moonlit nights and walks on the beach." Then, once our 'first date' was over, the nurse told me to wait on the doctor who would be in shortly. (Like I was going anywhere.)

I then proceeded to lie on the table for over thirty minutes waiting on the doctor to arrive. At one point, a tiny Hispanic woman I'd never seen before walked in the room, looked right at my testicles and said, "I here to get cotton balls." She then rambled something off in Spanish while searching the cabinets above me. Looking for her supplies, she seemed totally undaunted by the fact that my little Taco Bells were jingling just a few feet away. Trying to play it cool, I just hummed something while wondering to myself where a guy goes to apply to get his dignity back.

Finally, the doctor arrived. Of course, thanks to modern medicine, I didn't feel any of the cutting. The tugging and squeezing, however, were another story. At one point, I thought the doctor was under the impression that he was rolling dice in Vegas. I kept expecting to hear him yell, "C'mon seven!" at any moment. A couple of times, my toes curled up so tight that they could have broken a drum stick in half.

Still, overall, the procedure went well and only took about ten minutes. No unusual side effects. On the up side, getting the Big V at least afforded me a built in excuse to lie on the couch all day Saturday watching college football. Sure I had to do it with a bag of ice on my balls, but hey, no scenario is perfect.

And so I've crossed over. Meredith and I have closed the door on having biological children. Any future kiddos will arrive via adoption. Yes, it was a big decision and one we didn't make lightly, but it was the right one for us. We've been blessed with beautiful children. But there's a whole world of kids out there who've already been born but are in desperate need of a loving family to claim them, love them, and call them their own. As we prepare for a soon-to-be-taken trip to Ethiopia, we realize that this isn't the end of our new parenting adventures. Nope, it's just a change in course.

Some Assembly Required... Noooooooo!

2010-09-27T05:10:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since my last dadlosophy; over a month in fact. My apologies to anyone who regularly reads my blog. I should have at least posted something to let you know what was going on.

The truth is, there's been a lot of activity in the Howard household over the last 6weeks. We've experienced sick kids, the start of a new school year, the arrival and departure of two foster children, a slew of deadlines for my writing business, and a wave of paperwork associated with our pending adoption from Ethiopia. In short, I've taken a few weeks off from writing Dadlosophies with one simple objective in mind: to maintain a shred of sanity.

But now I'm back! Yes, I can hear the sighs of relief and shouts of joy ringing across the blogisphere from the parental masses who wait anxiously every Monday for my words of wisdom. Okay, maybe not. But still, whether you care or not, I'm back on task and ready to share what I'm experiencing (and hopefully learning) as a modern-day dad.

The highlight of this past week was my son William's 5th birthday. Since William naturally gravitates towards sports, I decided to get him a basketball goal. You know the kind; one of those adjustable goals you can lower to seven feet so that five-foot-eleven white guys can dunk the ball as they show off their 4 inch vertical leap. Anyway, Meredith did her research and found a good one online. We ordered it and, fortunately, it arrived in plenty of time for William's big day.

There was just one problem. Like most products you order online, this basketball goal came in a box labeled with three words that typically strike feelings of dread or overconfidence into the hearts of dads like myself: SOME ASSEMBLY REQUIRED.

I'm not a natural assembler, so I definitely fall into the "dread" camp. Truth is, I have trouble putting a sandwich together without good instructions. I know that many dads are great at making things, assembling things, and fixing things. Not me. I take on building projects as a matter of necessity only. I find that my blood pressure, use of profanity, likelihood of throwing things, and tendency to threaten inanimate objects as if they were living beings, all increase significantly when I try to put things together. But, as a dad, you have little choice other than to occasionally construct things. Unless you've got enough money to buy everything pre-assembled or hire folks to do it for you, a young father quickly learns that it’s build or perish.

And so, I tackled putting together the basketball goal. Right away I knew I was in serious trouble. I emptied the box to find more bolts and screws than are normally kept in stock at your local Home Depot. It looked like R2 D2 had exploded in my garage. Remembering that you can only eat an elephant one bite at a time, I opened up the directions and got started. Only the directions didn't make much sense. The pictures weren't clear and the wording was slightly less understandable than the current U.S. tax code. Add the fact that I couldn't find half the tools I needed because they'd been commandeered by the children or my wife for purposes totally unrelated to their intended use, and you can imagine all the fun I was having.

As the evening progressed, my frustration grew more and more evident. Parts that wouldn't fit; steps I did wrong, then had to undo and redo; directions I couldn't understand; tools I didn't have... it was a regular fiesta. All that was missing was the tequila, a pinata, and a band of middle-aged Mexican guys doing their mariachi rendition of Olivia Newton John's "Let's Get Physical" to make the evening complete. (I would have settled for just the tequila.)

Despite my prayer to remain cool and in control, it wasn't long before curse words began to fill my mind and,eventually, my mouth. It started out mild; a few d-words, a couple of "hells." After about an hour, however, I had moved on to the more advanced levels of profanity. I'm ashamed to say it, but I'm pretty sure I broke the world's record for the number of F-bombs launched at a partially assembled basketball goal within a three-hour period. All the while, I continually threatened to hunt down and kill the manufacturer who thought it was a great idea to sell people a "some assembly required" basketball goal with 8,000 parts (most of which are smaller than your thumbnail and perfectly designed to roll away unnoticed while you're busy throwing your screw driver and yelling "Where the hell is the spring that looks like the one in the picture!")

Meanwhile, because it was definitely a two-person job, my wife had to help me once the kids were in bed. With every wrongly attached screw, misinterpreted reading of the instructions, and difficulty holding a backboard steady so that the next bolt could be tightened, the strain on our marriage increased exponentially. While Meredith grew tired of my profane outbursts and enraged tirades against a basketball goal that couldn't even hear me threaten it with physical harm, I became resentful of Meredith's correction and couldn't understand why she kept messing up by doing what I said instead of reading my mind and doing what I actually meant.

After hours of frustrated labor, marital friction, and enough cursing on my part to make Whoopi Goldberg uncomfortable, Meredith and I finally got William's goal put together. No, it wasn't my finest moment. I'm ashamed of many of the things I said and the way I acted. A dad needs to be more mature than that. Still, the work, struggles, and effort it took to put my son's basketball goal together were worth it. After all, when you're a dad, that's what you do. You do things you normally wouldn't do simply because you love your kids and you want them to have the best 5th birthday ever. Next time, however, I think I owe it to God and my wife to make sure I buy something already assembled. Then maybe I won't curse or have to wonder what all these extra parts are for.

First Braves Game

2010-08-15T12:43:00.000-07:00

A couple of Friday nights ago, I took my son, William, to his very first Atlanta Braves baseball game. William loves the Braves. At just shy of five years old, he's too young to know all the players or understand all the ins and outs of baseball. But he loves playing catch in the backyard or hitting a few "home runs" with his plastic bat whenever Dad pitches him a few. All summer he'd been asking, "Dad, will you take me to a Braves game?" So, about a month ago, I called William into my office, sat him on my lap in front of the computer, and, together, we ordered tickets online for a Friday night game.

Part of me had reservations about going to a night game. I knew how badly it would mess up William's bedtime routine. One thing you learn as a parent: Don't screw with routines! Today's missed bedtime is tomorrow's emotional meltdown. Still, despite the risk, I elected to get tickets to an evening game. I wanted no part of sitting outside at Turner Field on a ninety-degree day. Atlanta summers are brutal. Satan himself won't visit Georgia in the summer time. Charlie Daniels doesn't bother to tell us what month the Devil actually went down to Georgia, but I'll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul that it wasn't in August. And so, I rolled the dice and bought tickets for a Friday night.

I've never been a huge Braves fan. In fact, I'm not a big baseball fan, period. I'm more of a football and college basketball kind of guy. But I knew it would be great to go to a Major League game with my kid. After all, what dad doesn't live to take his son (or daughter) to the ballpark, buy him (or her) a hot dog and a Coke, and then sit back and enjoy as the two of them watch the hometown team play baseball?

The night before the game, I ran by Wal-Mart and bought William a Braves hat. I could have waited and bought it at the game, but given that my son is too young to care, I decided I'd rather pay $7 than take out a second mortgage to pay stadium prices. I did, however, buy William his first Braves shirt at the game. After searching the racks to find something small enough to fit, we finally found a Brian McCann jersey that didn't totally engulf him. Donning his new Braves apparel, William strutted proudly alongside me as we made our way from the souvenir store to our seats along the first base line.

Unfortunately, there was a rain delay. Then, once the skies cleared, the Braves held a 1/2 hour ceremony to retire Tom Glavine's jersey. The first pitch wasn't thrown until after 9:30pm. Despite the rain and late start, William and I made the most of the down time. We ate pizza and hot dogs. I pointed out to William different features on the field and explained to him the significance of the retired jersey numbers that hung across the way. I also tried to answer some of his deeper questions like, "Why do catchers wear their hats backwards?" and "What do baseball players do when they have to poop during the game?"

Eventually, the game got under way. We lasted into the bottom of the 5th inning before William finally fessed up that he was tired and ready to go. We left with the Braves and Giants tied 1-1 and the vast majority of what appeared to be a sold out crowd still sitting in their seats, waiting to see how the game would turn out.

As we walked back to our car, the streets much less hectic than they were a few hours before, William reached up, took my hand, and said, "Thank you, Daddy, for taking me to the Braves game."

"You're welcome, Bud," I answered.

Once in our car, we listened to the game on the radio and recapped the best parts of the evening as we made the 45 minute trek back to Powder Springs. To my surprise, William DID NOT fall asleep on the ride home. I guess he was just too pumped. When we got to the house, Meredith walked out to meet us in the driveway. Although it was fast approaching midnight, she refused to go to bed without letting William have the chance to tell her all about his first Braves game.

Eagerly, William ran to his mother to display his new Brian McCann jersey. "See, Mom," he said, "I'm the Braves' catcher." Seeing William so happy and proud, Meredith couldn't help but get a little emotional. Her eyes actually teared up (much like mine did when I discovered that beers at the ballpark costs over $6). For the next fifteen minutes, Meredith and I sat in the kitchen and listened while William told his Mom all about the rain, the view from our seats, Chipper Jones hitting the ball, and how William, himself, is going to be an Atlanta Braves baseball player when he grows up. Then, it was off to bed.

As I helped William pull his sheets back and climb into bed, my son looked up at me and asked, "Daddy,can I sleep in my Braves shirt?"

"Sure, Sport," I answered. Then, taking William's Braves hat and placing it on his dresser next to the now used tickets, I tucked "Brian McCann" into bed, kissed my little baseball player on the forehead, and told him "Goodnight."

"Sleep, well, Bud," I said. Then, I turned to leave the room. Turning out the light I heard a small, tired voice say, "Daddy, can we go to another Braves game one day?"

"Sure, Son," I said, "We'll definitely go again."

"Good," William said, "I like going to Braves games with you."

"I like going with you too, Sport."

And, with that, I closed the door and we called it an evening--our first Daddy-William baseball game in the books. Unfortunately, we discovered the next day that Atlanta had lost to San Francisco 3-2 in extra innings. But that's okay. It was still my son's first Braves game. It's a night I'll always remember. I hope he'll always remember it too. And, who knows, maybe the next time we go, the Braves will win, the rain won't fall, we'll finally know what baseball players do when they have to poop during a game, and I'll be more emotionally prepared to pay over six bucks for a ballpark beer.

Let the Little Children Come (Just Don't Put 'em on the Front Row)

2010-08-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

According to the Bible, there was an episode in which the disciples tried to prevent a group of little children from reaching Jesus. The scriptures say that Jesus rebuked the disciples, telling them to "let the little children come to me and do not hinder them."

Yesterday, as I sat in church with my wife and kids, it occurred to me why Jesus wasn't afraid to let the little children approach him. It's because Jesus had the power to cast out demons and banish them to hell. I, unfortunately, do not. Thus, unlike the Lord, I find it rather challenging to maintain a spiritual focus, resist sin, and stay close to God while being climbed on, clinged to, cried to, and screamed at by "unhindered" little folk who, based on every biblical description I've ever read, show all the signs of being possessed by spirits bent on destroying a father's righteousness.

How else do you explain the fact that I can read my Bible, pray, and feel enthusiastic about trying to live as a disciple of Christ first thing in the morning, only to find myself mumbling curse words and losing my patience before the clock even strikes noon. Jesus maintained his sinlessness after forty days in the wilderness being tempted by Satan. I can't even make it through one breakfast during summer vacation.

Church, itself, is always an interesting adventure. Take, for instance, yesterday's worship. We got to church shortly after the service had started. By the time we arrived, the only seats left were on the front row. Just a heads up to anyone who serves as an usher at their church. If you're looking for a way to totally disrupt your church service and mess with whoever is speaking from the pulpit, make sure you reserve the front row for couples with four kids under the age of seven. Few things "encourage" a public speaker more than the sight of a four-year-old picking his nose or the sound of a tiny voice screaming, "My toy! My toy! My toy!" as one tries to welcome the congregation or help people commune with God in prayer.

Then, there's always the fun the song leader has as he attempts to lead the singing of "Blessed Assurance" while cheerios fly from the front seats. If you look closely you can see the beads of sweat forming on the poor, insecure soul's forehead as he mistakes the flying cereal of a toddler for the cruel heckling of some dissatisfied parishioner.

Perhaps the most fun was yesterday's Communion. As the young man doing the Communion message stepped to the mic to share thoughts intended to focus our hearts and minds on the sacrifice of our Lord, I tried to separate and scold arguing siblings as subtly as possible. While a more spiritual man than I was reminding the church of Christ's grace and forgiveness, I was preaching Old Testament to my kids, assuring them of the wrath and judgment to come if they didn't quit arguing, complaining, and pulling on one another's hair.

To my children's credit, they pulled it together--at least as much as kids that age can. After all, let's face it, while Communion is important and very meaningful to an adult Christian, it's basically a confusing snack time to small children. As a parent, I do my best to explain that Communion is when we symbolically partake of the body and blood of Jesus. But kids often don't get it. Once, when my son, William, saw how small the crackers and servings of juice were, he looked at me disappointed and said, "Jesus must have been really small."

Eventually, the length and the structure of the Communion service was too much for my three youngest. Despite their best efforts, the "demons" began to return, so I exited with them as unnoticed as I could into the foyer before the "bread and wine" were actually served.

Once out of the room, my boys and their little sister began running crazy, my calls of "Calm down!" going unheeded as rambunctious little gremlins zigged and zagged in and out of tables set with food for the post-service potluck lunch . Envisioning the lasagnas and chocolate cakes that would soon be on the floor if I didn't do something, I chased down my little ones while four-letter words that weren't "Amen" raced through my sinful mind. (Hey, I'm just being honest.) Then, finally cornering my kids at one end of the room, I maneuvered back and forth like a soccer goalie at the World Cup, preventing anyone under four feet tall from scooting past me until Communion was over and it was finally time for Sunday School.

In short, Church is not a relaxing, meditative, or reflective time when you have small kids. In fact, at times, you're tempted to wonder if it's counter-productive. The effort and stress of getting four kids fed, teeth-brushed, dressed, and out the door, combined with the energy and anxiety involved in trying to keep them in check during the actual service, often means that, by the time the sermon starts and my kids are in class, my heart and mind are actually filled with ten times more sin than when I woke up that morning. At the very least, it's enough to make me wish we served real wine during the Lord's Supper.

Still, I think church is worth it. It allows my wife and I to fellowship with friends and other parents like ourselves. It provides a place where we can get much appreciated help raising our children to know about and love God. Most of all, it's a family--God's family. We don't go and participate because it's easy or convenient (it's not). We also don't participate because of what the church can do for us or our family (although we do benefit, we occasionally get hurt too). No, we go because it's a place where God wants us to give. Just like I desire my kids to want to be around one another and show kindness and love to each other, God wants his children to do the same. The purpose of church is to go and serve others, encourage others, and be available to others. In a crazy way, even our struggles as parents help serve the church. For all I know, some other young couple with kids witnessed the madness we were dealing with yesterday and thought, "You know what, if they can do it, then we can too."

So we'll keep going to church. I'll keep trying to be more spiritual. We'll do our best to hold it together during Communion. And--God willing--the ushers won't put us on the front row.

Forget Relaxing, Just Build Memories

2010-07-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

Ah, summer vacation. That much anticipated time of year when we pack up our kids,our bathing suits, enough beach toys to entertain even your larger Mormon sibling groups, and as much sunscreen as Mommy thinks necessary to prevent any sunlight from actually touching her children's flesh. This past week, the Howard clan embarked on just such an adventure. Longing to smell the salt air and feel the sand under our feet, Meredith and I piled our four kids into the minivan and took off for a week on the South Carolina coast.

One thing I've learned since becoming a dad: When you have small kids, vacations are about building memories--not relaxing. Before Meredith and I had children, vacations at the beach involved little more than sleeping, sunbathing, sipping drinks by the sea, and late night romantic dinners. Now they consist of trying to find a screaming child's lost flip-flop, prying a terrified three-year-old off your leg because you were dumb enough to take him too close to the ocean, and keeping vigil to make sure your children don't pee in the pool.

Perhaps the most fun is the hour it takes to get everyone's bathing suits and sunscreen on each time you want to go swimming. Our typical day went something like this: After fighting a kicking 18-mo-old to get her swim diaper on, we then spent the next twenty minutes corraling naked little people who thought it was more fun to jump on the beds nude than to get ready to go to the beach. Once we finally did get them dressed, the next thirty minutes were spent trying to spray and rub sunscreen on squirming midgets as they screamed things like, "Daddy, it hurts!... Daddy, its cold!... Daddy, I'm blind!..."

Finally, once Mommy was satisfied that the last child had been doused in enough 50-block to repel gamma rays, I'd carry my mentally drained self into the bedroom to put on my own swimsuit and sun tan lotion. Of course, just as we were about to leave for the beach, our senses picked up on the fact that the 18-mo-old had pooped in the previously clean swim diaper, putting the whole expedition on hold another ten minutes.

With the swimsuit and sunscreen wars won (or, at least, survived), we then made our way to the golf cart that we drove daily to the beach. Let me assure you, it's not easy fitting a family of six and enough beach paraphanelia to supply most surf shops onto a golf cart made for four. Loaded down with inflatable floaties, plastic buckets, boogie boards, plastic shovels, play boats, snacks, bottled waters, umbrellas, fold-out chairs, towels, and a whole host of other beach "necessities," we took off on the half-mile trek to the beach. With body parts and beach toys hanging over the sides, we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies on Spring Break.

After parking and walking what seemed like miles, we finally found a spot in the sand where we could situate ourselves. Of course, the fold-out chairs were mostly there for show. There wasn't much sitting down. That's okay. Memories aren't made sitting down. They're made as you play with your kids. Constantly in rotation, Meredith and I alternated between playing with our older two children in the waves and goofing off with our younger two in the nearby pools that formed at low tide. After a few hours, we loaded up our supplies and walked back across the beach, each step making it more and more evident that sand had managed to reach parts of our bodies that God never meant to get sandy.

So went most of our week. No, it wasn't relaxing. There was always an argument to referee, a float to blow up, a breakable object in the condo to protect, or a child to make sure didn't drown. But that's not to say that it wasn't fun. We went dolphin watching and, yes, saw a few dolphins. We played "golf" with a play set of clubs I bought at a local store. We stuffed ourselves with crab legs and enjoyed having the grandparents join us for a few days. We saw lots of deer, lots of pelicans, and even one large alligator. We ate ice cream--too much ice cream. And there was the anatomically educational moment in which my four-year-old son explained to his sister that boys are different from girls because boys have "a penis and tentacles."

So here's to summer vacations. One day, years from now, maybe there'll be relaxing again. For now, I'll just keep building memories. Something tells me that a time will come when I'll wish I still had that three-year-old clinging to my leg.

Fireworks? Really?

2010-07-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the Fourth of July. Our nation's birthday. The day commemorating our founding fathers' adoption of the Declaration of Independence. Our family celebrated the day the way most probably did. After having the neighbors over for a cookout, we all set off for downtown Powder Springs to watch the traditional fireworks.

Many people love going to watch fireworks. Me, not so much. In fact, when someone first suggested that we make the trek into town to watch fireworks, my first thoughts were, "Fireworks? Really?"

It's not the fireworks, themselves, that bug me; it's the hassle involved. It's not as simple as grabbing a blanket or some chairs, having a seat outdoors, and then relaxing. No, for us, such outings involve corralling four small kids, getting them out the door, and keeping tabs on them amidst a crowd of people who've been drinking beer all day and are prepared to fight you for any patch of ground that looks like prime firework-watching real estate. (Yes, I said four kids. Meredith and I just became foster parents to a beautiful 18-mo.-old girl named Nancy. I'm sure I'll have more to say about her in future Dadlosophies.)

Still, I agreed to go watch the fireworks because the kids wanted to. So, along with our neighbors, we loaded up the minivan and headed into downtown Powder Springs to do our patriotic duty.

I love my town. Powder Springs is your stereotypical, southern patriotic community. It's tailor made for the Fourth of July. Arriving just before dusk, we steered in and out of slow-moving traffic in search of a suitable parking space. Having viewed more gun racks and "American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God" bumper stickers than most people see in a lifetime, we finally found a spot about a mile up the road from where we would eventually settle in to watch the display.

Hiking a mile while holding an 18-month-old, a 3-year-old's hand, and a fold-out chair is always a fun workout. It's especially entertaining when you do it on a hot, July afternoon in Georgia. Anyone who knows their history knows that the first shots of the Revolution were actually fired at Lexington and Concord during the spring of 1775. But the Second Continental Congress didn't adopt the Declaration until July 1776. I sure wish our founders had been either bolder or more patient. Why couldn't they have declared independence around early May. Didn't they consider how much more comfortable a cookout would have been in early spring as opposed to mid summer?

Or, if they weren't inclined to speed things up, why couldn't they have held off until mid-September or early October? Imagine how much more comfortable watching fireworks would be on a cool autumn evening. Oh well, I guess they signed the Declaration when they did because they wanted to adjourn and get home before football season started--a goal I can appreciate, so I'll cut 'em some slack.

As for our fireworks expedition, we somehow found an open spot near the center of the action with all our children present and accounted for. Of course, no sooner had we set up shop than my son, William, announced that he had to go pee. Apparently, William's bladder must have sent a text to his younger brother's because he followed suit and announced that he had to "pee willy bad, too." So, taking both my boys by the hands, I navigated further into the heart of the patriotic celebration.

I finally found the port-a-potties. Only, the line stretched about fifty people deep. Realizing that my boys would never make it, I led them off the beaten path to some woods a block or two off main street. Then, after giving them a moment to accidentally urinate on their own shoes and pull up their Lightning McQueen underwear,we headed back through the crowd. More bumping, pushing, navigating, and repeating again and again, "Excuse me." (Yay, what fun.)

Upon returning to our seat, we then began the fun task of trying to keep seven young kids entertained until the fireworks actually started. William kept begging to ride a ride. I didn't know there would be rides, so I'd brought no money. The people seated around us then got to enjoy being serenaded by William's cries of agony after I told him that there would be no ride. God bless America!

My daughter, Emerson, and her friend Joely passed the time arguing over a DS and taking turns informing us parents that they were bored and ready for the show to start. Carson, my youngest son, kept grabbing his private parts and asking,"Where's da fire walks, Mommy?" All the while, little Nancy sat in my lap eating popcorn and periodically spilling ice-cold water that inevitably reached Daddy's "special places." Yes, it was definitely a night that made me proud to be an American.

Finally, the fireworks started about twenty minutes late. It was a good show. Up until the grand finale when William and Carson dove under Meredith's chair terrified, everyone had a relatively fun time. Then, once it was over, thousands of viewers all packed up their belongings and made the hike back up the road to our cars. Again, we managed to keep everything together. Other than William not paying attention and running head first into a mailbox, we all made it back injury free.

After fighting more traffic, we finally got our little ones back home close to midnight. Both they and their daddy were beat. Oh well, at least it was a memory. All I can say is, I am grateful for my country and for the Founding Fathers who had the guts to declare independence--even if they did choose one of the hottest days of the year on which to do it.

A Trip to the Fishin' Hole

2010-06-30T06:25:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I took my boys, William and Carson, fishing for the first time. I’m not an accomplished fisherman. Most of the time, when I go on a fishing expedition, I return with little more than a few “the one that got away” stories and a bucket full of worms still grieving the fact that their brave comrades died in vain.
Still, I wanted to take my boys fishing.

So, last Friday, I loaded up my van and took William and Carson on a “guys’ weekend” to the North Carolina mountains. We stayed with my mom and dad, giving the grandparents some quality grandkid time. At night we’d sit around the cabin. As the grown-ups talked, William and Carson spent their time playing with the numerous toys Ma Ma and Pa Pa always keep on hand for them and begging Pa Pa to tell them stories about when he was a little boy.

During the day, while Ma Ma stayed back at the house, Pa Pa, the boys, and I would head out to tackle some nearby adventure. On Friday night we rode Pa Pa’s Gator up trails and around the mountain. On Saturday, we inner-tubed a portion of the New River that flows right by my parent’s property. Then, on Sunday, we loaded up the crew and drove an hour to Linville, NC, where my dad knew of a stocked trout pond.

Of course, a true fisherman is likely to scoff at the notion of fishing in a stocked pond. But keep in mind, my ultimate goal was to insure that my sons’ first taste of fishing was a successful one. They didn’t need to know that the game was fixed, I just wanted them to enjoy the thrill of pulling a fish out of the water.

We arrived just before noon. Already the sun was reaching its peak and beginning to beat down relentlessly. We doused ourselves in sunscreen, the boys donned their Spider-Man sunglasses, and we headed for the fishin’ hole. After grabbing a couple of miniature poles that seemed good fits for my sons, a bucket to hold the fish, a net, and some bait, we headed for the closest pond.

Looking into the shallow water, I could see that we were dealing with some sizeable trout. Part of me wondered if my boys would even be able to reel in such large fish. “Not a problem,” I thought, “Pa Pa and I are here to help.” I couldn’t wait to get the hooks in the water, hand off the poles to my sons, and enjoy watching the excitement on their faces as they landed their first fish.

Of course, one of the things you learn early on as a parent is that, while imagination is busy putting the finishing touches on your perfect plans, pending reality is often lurking somewhere in the background, laughing at you hysterically, and thinking to itself, "What an idiot!" No sooner had we taken up our position by the pond to cast our lines then William, my older son, suddenly became seized with horror. He’d seen one or two people pulling fish from the water as we made our way to the pond. The size of the trout coupled with their mad flailing was enough to make him fearful of these freshwater “monsters.” Taking his cue from his older brother, Carson also panicked and decided he wanted no part of this wildlife adventure.

And so, after days of exhibiting nothing but joyous anticipation regarding their first fishing trip, William and Carson refused to touch the fishing poles. Instead, what was meant to be their fishing expedition turned into me and my dad standing on the side of the pond casting Fisher-Price-sized fishing poles and trying to catch trout. Dad caught three large fish. I caught one and had one slip off my hook before I could get it in the net. William eventually did take the pole for a little while and rejoiced triumphantly when he managed to catch some moss. (Eat your heart out Captain Ahab.)

The funniest moment of the day came after my father had just caught his second fish. He unhooked what was the day’s largest catch and placed it in the bucket. Cautiously, but driven by curiosity, William and Carson approached to grab an up-close look at the large fish. No sooner had the two of them leaned their faces over to see Pa Pa’s latest capture, then that fish flopped up into the air, flailing wildly and almost flying out of the bucket. Terrified and no doubt seeing their short lives flash before their eyes, my boys unleashed screams that I’m sure echoed throughout the southern Appalachians. Startled, I turned from watching my fishing line to see William and Carson rushing for me in tears and yelling, “Daddy, Daddy, that fish was gonna eat us!”

No, it wasn’t the fishing outing I'd quite envisioned, but it was still a fun day and a great memory. Next year, maybe the boys will be up for casting a line, secure in the knowledge that trout are not flesh eaters. Oh well, good fishin’ or not, nothing beats time with my boys. To any dad who has a son, I would highly recommend taking a "guys' weekend." And, if you get a chance, hit a fishin’ hole.

Coffee Tastes Better in a #1 DAD Mug

2010-06-21T05:21:00.001-07:00

One of the best things about becoming a dad is Father’s Day. When you’re a little kid, Father’s Day is about making a card out of construction paper and giving your father a really ugly tie. As you get older, you buy the card and try to show Dad you appreciate him by not asking for money or playing your music too loud for a whole day. After you leave home, you mail the card and make a phone call to tell him that you love him (although, admittedly, I have to confess that I sometimes forget to mail the card--sorry, Dad).

That’s if you’re fortunate and still have your dad. For some, Father’s Day involves laying a flower on a departed father’s grave site or thinking about the dad they never knew because he just wasn’t around.

Regardless of one's past experiences, Father’s Day becomes very special for a guy once he has kids. Now he’s the receiver as well as the giver. He’s the one who gets to drink out of a mug that reads #1 DAD. It’s up to him to look at a pre-K finger painting and decipher if it’s a picture of himself, himself with his child, or the Blob attempting to eat a rabid chimpanzee. Best of all, he’s the one who receives the big hugs and gets to hear, “Happy Father’s Day, Daddy. I love you.”

One of my favorite traditions for Father’s Day is when my kids give me their gifts. I love it because they actually pick the gifts out themselves. Every year on gift-giving holidays, Meredith takes the kids to the dollar store or some other relatively inexpensive retail spot and lets them each pick out what they want to give Dad. Since the kids get to pick the gifts on their own, it’s always interesting to see what I’ll get. In my six plus years as a father, I’ve received multiple coffee mugs, pens, pencils, hi-liters, tape, and one bag of stickers. I’ve also covered my office in numerous, hand-drawn Father’s Day cards.

A couple of years ago, my daughter bought me a Spider-Man action figure complete with motorcycle because she remembered me saying that I liked Spider-Man as a kid. I have to admit, it was fun playing with it.

That’s one of the great things about being a father; you get to play with toys again without people thinking you need psychiatric help. Folks see you on the floor playing with an action figure or Hot Wheels cars, and they assume you’re just doing it to entertain the kids. They don’t realize that you’ve forgotten all about the children as you focus on your Lincoln Logs tower or build your army fort. As a dad, you know you’ve crossed the thin line between interactive parenthood and childhood digression when you find yourself getting angry at a child for presumptuously adding an unauthorized Lego to the wall you were constructing or rearranging the toy cars you just spent ten minutes organizing according to model and imaginary horsepower.

The catch is to make sure the kids don’t slip out of the room unnoticed while you’re busy making the world’s tallest building or flying the Millennium Falcon. Few things concern a wife more than the sight of her husband sitting on the floor of the living room alone, simulating crashing sounds as he flies toy planes into each other. When my wife noticed that I was still playing with my Spider-Man motorcycle ten minutes after all the children had left to play outside, she got a little worried. As a result, she established two new rules: No toys for Daddy on Father’s Day, and always keep a professional therapist on speed dial.

Eventually, I made William the official caretaker of my Spider-Man. But, occasionally, if I happen to notice it, I’ll give the Spider-cycle a spin and think, “Now that’s pretty cool.”

As for this year, well, it was special as usual. The kids showered me with hand-crafted gifts. My daughter, Emerson, even took the time to make a huge banner that read “Happy Father’s Day” and tied it to the upstairs banister. Overall, it was a great day. It reinforced what I already knew: Of all the roles I play in life and all the responsibilities I carry, there are none more special to me than those that accompany fatherhood. Make no mistake, coffee just taste better in a #1 DAD mug.

2010-06-14T04:42:00.000-07:00

SORRY. No new Dadlosophies this week. I'm off enjoying some time with my wife, Meredith. Today is our thirteenth wedding anniversary. Thanks, Babe, for the last 13 years. Who knows what the next 13 will hold. There's got to be a special place in heaven (or a mental health facility) for a woman who can put up with me that long.

Look for my next post a week from today on Monday, June 21, by noon.

HELP! Calling All Mommies!

2010-06-07T06:18:00.000-07:00

This morning's blog post is a bit different. Instead of using the opportunity as I usually do to comment on some aspect of parenting, vent like an emotionally unsettled patient spilling his guts to an online therapist, or share an account of Meredith and my adventures in Mommy and Daddy World, I'm taking the morning to put out a call for help to all the mommies who take time out of their busy and insane world to read Dadlosophies.

For over a year now, I have been working on a book that shares my experiences (and hopefully, a few insights) regarding parenthood. I guess you might consider it an extended version of my blog. But, to finish, I NEED SOME HELP FROM YOU MOMMIES! Specifically, I need to hear from you regarding any frustrations, emotions, feelings of appreciation, or feelings of confusion you felt towards your husband/baby's father during your pregnancy and/or during the first few months after baby arrived.

In other words, if you were sitting down with a bunch of your girlfriends as a pregnant or new mommy and the conversation turned to the things your husband does or doesn't do (or that you wish he would do or not do), what questions would you raise? What feelings would you vent? What frustrations or feelings of bewilderment might you share? What is it that you wish your soon-to-be daddy would get about you as an expecting or new mommy, but doesn't? If you could ask a group of husbands who would give you an honest answer, "Hey, why do you guys (fill in the blank) when we moms are pregnant or have just had a baby?", what would you fill in the blank with?

I know you gals are busy. You have minivans to drive, Cheerios to vacuum out of the crevices of... well... everything, and tons of other mommy responsibilities to attend to. But if you have a few moments to respond with a sentence or two, or even just a question you would love that group of honest dads to answer, that wold be awesome! Also, if you know any pregnant or new mommies, please forward them this link and ask them to respond. The more input the better. SIMPLY COMMENT ON THIS BLOG, send me an email through FaceBook, or shoot me an email at kbhwriter@gmail.com. Thanks in advance, ladies. I'm looking forward to what I'm sure will be a very eye-opening read.

Choosing Number Four

2010-05-31T05:18:00.000-07:00

As anyone who's read my blog is aware, my wife and I have three kids. Our daughter, Emerson, is now seven years old. William will turn five in the fall. And Carson, the youngest, is on deck to turn three this summer. Since 2003, Meredith and I have lived in a continuous mind scramble. I can vaguely remember a time when Meredith and I used to engage in adult conversations. We'd talk about religion, politics, our plans for the future, and what we wanted to do on a Saturday night. Over the last seven plus years, such conversations have become rare, surrendering to discussions about what diaper cream is best, whether or not we have enough butt wipes to last the weekend, whose turn it is to clean up the night before's bed-wetting catastrophe, and who's next up to wipe the poop covered backside of a recently potty-trained pygmy. We occasionally still argue about money, time, and whether or not I'm working too much. But, thanks to seven years of sleep deprivation and the ongoing depletion of brain cells that is parenthood, Meredith and I have also lowered ourselves to fighting over whether or not Carson should wear his Incredible Hulk or Lightning McQueen jammies, who put the Blue's Clues towel in the wrong drawer, who placed the tube of Desitin next to the toothpaste (yuck!), and who should have done more to keep half-eaten Dora the Explorer yogurt tubes out of Daddy's brief case.

Yep, parenthood has been a tiring adventure thus far; and we're still early in the game. I can't count how many times other people (even other parents) look at us with our three young kids and ask, "How do you do it?"

"It takes prayer and a lot of team effort," one of us will usually respond. (It also occasionally takes alcohol and prescription drug use, but we tend to keep that part to ourselves.)

Therefore, it's no wonder that many people's eyes bug out and their jaws drop open when Meredith and I tell them that we've decided to have a fourth child. THAT'S RIGHT! WE'RE GONNA DO IT ALL AGAIN! (Anyone got the number of a good psychiatrist?) Like Kevin Bacon in Animal House, we're willingly dropping our pants, bending over, and repeating the words "Thank you Sir, may I have another," as the paddle of parenthood whacks us in the fanny one more time. When people look at my exhausted expression like I've lost my mind, I simply tell them, "Look, as challenging as raising kids can be, we love being parents. There's no greater joy in our lives than our kids, and we both agree that we want another child. Besides, once you've been hit in the head enough times with a baseball bat, how much will you really feel it if someone else shows up and takes a few swings with a crow bar?"

Only this time, Meredith and I are going a different route. After much prayer and discussion, Meredith and I have decided that it is time to act on a dream we have had since before we were married: We've decided to adopt. This past week, we learned that we have been officially accepted by an agency that will help us adopt a little girl from Ethiopia. Why Ethiopia? There were various reasons why we decided to go international for now (I won't get into them here). As we researched and learned more, Meredith and I decided that Ethiopia not only has a great need, we believe it presents the best scenario for our family as well.

Why a little girl? We already have two awesome boys and a beautiful daughter. We would love a second daughter as well. Emerson is also longing for a sister. She's excited about us adopting. Her only request was that it not be a boy. "We've got enough boys," she asserted, "if it's another boy I'll just die." William has also gotten used to the idea of a little sister, although originally, if the child wasn't a boy, he asked if we could "sell it on eBay and get a dog?" As for Carson, he just wants someone in the house to be younger than him. As long as he can have that and remember to poop in the potty instead of his "big boy" underwear, he'll be happy. (Sometimes he doesn't even need the 'pooping in the potty instead of his underwear' part.)

Adoption is a long, challenging process. I won't get into all the details here, but let's just say that my wife has said several times that "adopting a child is a lot harder than having one biologically." And this is a woman who has undergone three C-sections and a two week stay in the hospital due to complications after the birth of her first child. It's worth all the hurdles you have to jump. After all, you know that your child is waiting for you in an orphanage somewhere in Africa--just waiting to come home. Whenever the paperwork gets burdensome or the personal intrusions into our lives become a little offensive, I try to remember that, out of all God's children, only one was begotten: Jesus. The rest were all adopted. I think about the "adoption process" God had to go through and how long and drawn out it sometimes was. But it was worth it because he loved us so much. He didn't love us because we were perfect, had no issues, or because there were any guarantees that we would turn out to be well-behaved kids (we aren't). No, he just CHOSE to love us. He CHOSE to want us. He saw that we needed a dad. He longed to give us a home. That's what adoption is about. When people ask me, "How can you love an adopted child as much as you love your own?" I just say, "Because we choose to. And besides, once she's ours, she IS one of our own."

So pray for the Howards as we set off on this new adventure. It's challenging, emotionally wrenching at times, and often frustrating as we wait for the process to unfold. It's also expensive--very, very expensive. In the coming weeks, I will be announcing the beginning of my new blog focusing on our adoption journey. Keep an eye out for it. Hopefully it will be a fun, informative, and inspiring read. I will also be posting links like the one below for any reader who might be interested in helping us finance our adoption. Perhaps you're not someone who feels called to adopt or who can't adopt right now; but you'd like to help an orphaned child reach a loving family. Please consider donating to our adoption cause and helping us bring our daughter home, at least with prayers or comments of support if not financially. Anyway, we'll keep you posted. And, yes, even though I will be starting a new blog, Dadlosophies will continue as well. Look for my next dadlosophy next Monday: same Dad time; same Dad web address.

http://www.justlovecoffee.com/Howardclan

Weekends Without Tarzan and Jane

2010-05-17T04:37:00.000-07:00

This morning, as a sit at my computer to write my weekly dadlosophy, I find myself suffering from a bout with writer's block. It's not that my kids suddenly stopped supplying me with material, it's just that I haven't had a moment to think all weekend. When you're a parent, weekends belong to kids' activities. Rare are the Saturdays when you can sleep in or have nothing to do but watch a ball game in the afternoon. If you do watch a sporting event, it's usually because you're sitting along the sidelines of a little league field and cheering your tiny athlete on from the comfort of your fold-out chair. There are birthday parties to attend, soccer games to coach, recitals to be at, and--in the case of this past weekend--Girl Scout ceremonies that demand your parental presence. Once your kids get old enough to become involved in sports, piano lessons, dance, or a barrage of other activities, make no mistake, your weekends are GONE!

Sometimes, when I have a rare moment to fix my mind on something other than trying to figure out who spilled juice on the living room floor, stopped up the toilet with an Incredible Hulk action figure, or left a melting ice cream sandwich in my sock drawer, I'll think back to what weekends were like before I had children. Like an old-timer recalling Sunday afternoons in Mayberry, I'll reminisce about a time when I knew who the players on my favorite sports teams were or could tell you what movies were playing at the nearby theater. I can vaguely recall a time when date night didn't involve leaving the house before six o'clock so that we could be finished and home by 10 p.m. to relieve the babysitter. I remember when Meredith and I used to double-date with other childless couples and conversational topics like baby bowel movements, leaking nipples, and the best ointment to apply to a butt rash never came up. (Except for one really awkward conversation in 2001 that resulted in Meredith and I never going out with that couple again.) And, of course, there was the post-date sex. I can still picture those days when romance and atmosphere mattered. My wife wanted a connnection. She wanted me to sweep her off her feet. Fulfilling sex required feeling and foreplay. Now, foreplay consists of rushing to get your clothes off as fast as possible so that you can finish before a child wakes up and appears at your bedroom door demanding a glass of water.

Yet, for all the ways we parents have had to modify our concept of a weekend, the truth is that most of us wouldn't want to go back. Oh sure, we often look back on our pre-kiddo Saturdays and talk about how nice it would be to have a weekend where all we did is veg, cheer on our team, hit the restaurant of our choice, and perhaps enjoy a little romance that doesn't involve phrases like "Are you almost finished, I think I hear the boys?" and "No, we can't play Tarzan and Jane, it will wake the kids." But like those high school days we often enjoy reliving through old stories or brief reunions with friends, we really don't want to do it again. Not if it means risking never having what we've got today: our spouse, our children... our life!

So I'll gladly sacrifice my weekends to the gods of soccer and Girl Scouts. I'll forego Friday nights having a drink or two and cutting up with childless friends in favor of ones spent getting to know fellow parents over a slice of pizza at a first-grade birthday party. It's all part of this stage of life. It's parenthood. Regardless of how hectic they are, my weekends are exactly what they are supposed to be right now. My advice to other dads who are where I'm at? Take a deep breath, remind yourself how special this time with your kids is, accept the fact that you may have to DVR the big game, and enjoy yourself. And don't worry. One day, maybe you can play Tarzan and Jane again.

The Jedi Knight of Motherhood

2010-05-09T17:36:00.000-07:00

It's now just after 8:30 p.m. on an unseasonably chilly but comfortable May evening. It's Mother's Day; the day we devote to expressing our special love and appreciation to those amazing women who devote every ounce of their being to making their house, apartment, condo, whatever, into the loving safe-haven their children will always remember as home.

I'm sitting out on my back deck as the sun gives way to dusk with just my laptop and my thoughts. Not surprisingly, I find myself thinking about my wife, Meredith, who is the wonderful mother of my children. Meredith never ceases to amaze me. She endures the sleep deprivation caused by the late-night cries of an awakenened child. She often stops what she's doing to answer the call of a two-year-old who's proudly pooped in the potty and insists that mommy be the one to wipe his little fanny. She prepares breakfast and lunches for our three children (hopefully having washed her hands thoroughly after that fanny-wiping episode). Then she fills her day with family errands, battles against ever advancing piles of dirty laundry, proofreading first-grade homework to ensure that its done correctly, and cleaning dirty dishes that seem to grow miraculously on their own out of the bottom of our kitchen sink. Oh sure, I do my part to help out, but my household efforts and stamina pale in comparison to Meredith's. She's a tutor, a maid, a manager, a chauffeur, a pharmacist, a child psychologist, a crisis-control specialist, a chef, a cheerleader, a bodyguard, and--during those times when the kids seem to be holding my sanity for ransom--a hostage negotiator. No doubt about it; in our family, Meredith is the hero and the glue that holds the Howard household together.

Mothers are an interesting creation. How God managed to fashion something so beautiful and feminine, yet so strong, tough, fierce, and occasionally terrifying out of one little rib I'll never know. My wife is a gorgeous woman with a smile and laugh that could capture any man's heart. But mess with one of her babies and you'd be better off mooning an unchained pit bull from three feet away. She's the protector; the gatekeeper between our kids and harm. God help the saturated fat that tries to sneak its way past her into our children's diet. I challenge anyone to find even an inch of skin on one of our kids that hasn't been slathered in sunscreen between May and mid-September. She's the Jedi knight of motherhood, wielding band aids, tissues, sandwich bags of cheerios, teaspoons of children's Tylenol, and packages of pull-ups with all the skill and mesmerizing speed of a maternal lightsaber.

I guess that's true of most mothers. Like Meredith, they can be stern and the disciplinarians when they have to. But even the lectures, time outs, refusals to give in to a child's request, and occasional spankings are always out of love and the deepest affection. There's a reason country music singers feel compelled to sing about "Momma." It's no wonder that Mary is mentioned in Christmas carol after Christmas carol while Joseph sits in heaven eternally thinking to himself, "C'mon, even the ox and lamb got a shout-out in The Little Drummer Boy." Everyone knows that Mom is the star of the show. Dad is important, for sure. But he's not mom. No one is.

Sometimes at night I'll tuck my children into bed while Meredith cleans up after dinner or just takes a much deserved break on the couch with her big bowl of popcorn, a glass of her favorite wine, and one of her reality TV shows. Emerson, my oldest, is usually okay with it. She's kind of a daddy's girl so she doesn't mind spending the last few moments of the day with me. She tells me a little about her day, reads me a book (now that she can read she likes to read to dad rather than the other way around), kisses me goodnight, and tells me that she loves me as I get her into bed.

My boys, on the other hand, are another story. Just the other day I heard on the radio that the South ranks as the nation's number one region for "Momma's boys." If that's true, William and Carson will only serve to solidify that ranking. Every time I tuck William in I have to endure a barrage of questions like, "Where's Mommy?"... "Is Mommy going to come tell me goodnight?"... and "Will you ask Mommy to come lie down with me?" Whenever I offer to be the one to lie down with William, he always asks, "Why? Did Mommy go to the gym?"

The scene is practically the same with Carson. He cries as I walk or carry him to his bed, the phrase, "I want Mommy," repeated over and over. When I finally get him calmed down and at least tolerant of the idea that Dad is the one putting him to bed, I sometimes will whisper in his ear, "Carson, do you want to hear a secret?"
"What?" he whispers back.
"I love you," I say.

He then usually smiles, leans close to my ear, and softly mouths the words, "I love Mommy" (except for once when he said, "I love chocolate"). Oh well, you can see where I rank on my sons' parental spectrum of affection.

Thus, this post is simply a "thank you" to my wife on this most special day for moms. Thank you Meredith for being a great mother and a sensational wife. Thank you for being a best friend and a partner in raising our kids. The love our children have for you and the devotion they feel toward you is a testament to what a wonderful mother you really are. I'm honored and fortunate to be your husband. I'll most likely never rank quite as high as you do. After all, no one kisses a boo-boo or makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich quite like Mom. As dad, I'm stuck playing second fiddle. But that's okay. What father can possibly rank as high as Mom if she's really doing her job right? I just hope that one day I can consistently edge out chocolate for second place.

2010-04-26T06:53:00.000-07:00

Sorry, no new Dadlosophies this week. Look for the next post by 11am on Monday, May 3. Have a Great Week!

Divas in Munchkinland

2010-04-19T05:51:00.000-07:00

This weekend featured my daughter's seventh birthday. This year, my little girl had a unique request for celebrating her special day--at least for a seven-year-old. A few months back, Emerson asked if my wife and I would rent a couple of rooms at a hotel with an indoor pool and let her and her friends have an overnighter that would involve swimming, fingernail painting, movies, popcorn, and more girlish screaming and giggling than the human eardrum is capable of withstanding. Our initial reaction to her idea was to say "No." Hotel rooms for first-grade girls? What is this, "Divas in Munchkinland?" But then we did the math. A couple of hotel rooms and some large pizzas actually priced cheaper than renting out one of those inflatable fun houses or reserving space at the parental hell-on-earth known as Chuck E Cheeses. So, having a change of heart, my wife did some research and found a good hotel that fit the bill. Last Friday, having secured a location, Meredith and a couple of mommy volunteers who had seriously underestimated the nerve-severing task they were taking on, headed off to a nearby Fairfield Inn with Emerson and her little posse.

Where was I in all this? I had two assignments. One, I was to look after my boys while Mommy and the mini-divas did their "girl thing." Two, I was in charge of pizza delivery. It was my job to make sure that pizzas arrived on time. I didn't disappoint. In fact, I was early. Much of the credit for my punctuality goes to my sons. Knowing that there would be a pool at the hotel, William and Carson were both dressed in their bathing suits by ten o'clock that morning. Carson even spent a good portion of the afternoon wearing a floatation device around the house. To my knowledge, no other human being has ever been so water-safety conscious while eating Graham Crackers on the couch and watching re-runs of Clifford the Big Red Dog.

The boys and I eventually arrived with our pizzas around 5 p.m. Going directly to the indoor pool, we entered to be greeted by the most overwhelming scene of chaos and ear-piercing screeching I've ever experienced. It's one thing to put ten screaming, hyper little girls in a room. It's quite another when you put them in a confined pool area that echoes like the grand canyon, multiplying the volume of each scream, yell, laugh, and "Look at me!" a hundred fold. I wasn't in the pool area more than five minutes before I was scanning my cell phone, hoping to find Dr. Kevorkian's number on my speed dial. No such luck.

Then came the real horrifying part: I had to get in the pool with my sons. Meredith and the other mom had not brought their swimsuits (cowards!). Meanwhile, any other adult who might have otherwise entered the pool area had fled for their lives rather than be crushed by the wave of birthday anarchy rushing in on the tide of Emerson's birthday entourage. That made me the only grown-up in the pool. No sooner had I descended into the waters of despair than I heard little voices screaming, "Get him!... Jump on Mr. Howard... Let's see who can climb to the top of his head first!..." Before I knew it, I found myself entangled amongst tiny arms from every direction. Six and seven-year-old girls hung from my arms, my shoulders, my neck. At one point I could only see from one eye. I felt like Jackie Chan trying to fight his way through an army of Kung Fu warriors. As my useless cries of "Let go of Mr. Howard's esophagus," went unheeded, I looked to see Carson and William standing on the side of the pool, wide-eyed and terrified by the carnage. Eventually, I was able to shake off my assailants and make it to safety. Like a soldier who had just reached a bunker after dodging fire on an open beach, I sat there on the side of the pool, breathing heavy and thanking God that I'd made it out alive.

Other than my near death experience, it was a great night. We eventually made our way up to the hotel rooms where I delivered the pizzas, rubbed my temples, and attempted to go to my "happy place" as the giggles, screams, and squeals continued through pizza-devouring, cake-eating, and gift-opening. I heard terms like "Silly Bands" and "Zhu Zhu Pets." I learned that necklaces made from bottle caps are cool, and that iCarly is now the coolest girl on television because Hannah Montana is "so kindergarten." All in all, it was an enlightening glimpse into the world of seven-year-old girls. Finally, leaving the girls to enjoy their sleepover, William, Carson, and I said our good-byes and headed back to the house to watch Kung Fu Panda.

After all the madness, another birthday is in the books. My little princess is growing up more and more. I've still got a few years before she's a teenager; even more before she's ready to leave for college. But I try to remember that it will come faster than I realize and that I'd better savor each day I have with her. Thanks mainly to Meredith, this year's birthday was clearly a success. It was also educational. I now know that a Zhu Zhu Pet is a mechanical rodent that often has an easier time winning your child's attention than you do. Silly Bands are cheap rubber bands that parents are forced to pay $5 a bag for because some marketing genius has convinced kids that they "just have to have some." And I learned that a part of the human brain dies when exposed to long periods of little-girl screaming within an echoing chamber. Oh well, happy birthday, Emerson. I love you. But next year, maybe we can go back to one of those inflatable fun houses.

SoccaDrama

2010-04-12T05:13:00.000-07:00

I never played soccer growing up. I was raised in a hometown where we stuck to the big three: football, basketball, and baseball. No one I knew played soccer. My high school didn't even have a soccer team until I was a junior in college. If you had asked most of my friends about Pele, a few would have known that he is a soccer player from "some country in South America." Most thought Pele was a game played on horseback. Today, things are different for my kids. Soccer is gaining popularity. I hear more parents talk about their children playing little league soccer than I hear say anything about pee wee football. Whenever I mention this fact in a group conversation, some mom or dad inevitably informs me that they won't let their little boy play football because he might get hurt. What? You gotta be kidding! How much damage can two first-graders sustain running into each other at the break-neck speed of .02 miles per hour? If you ask me, nothing says "good ole American Saturday morning" quite like the sight of six-year-olds racing up the field in over-sized pads, their helmets bouncing about so as to resemble a collection of bobble-head dolls.

But I digress. The point is, I don't know a thing about soccer because I never played it. Well, that's not entirely true. I do know that only the goalie can touch the ball with his hands. I also know that the World Cup is soccer's biggest event. And I know that, internationally, soccer fans can become very violent when their team loses (or even if it wins). I'll never forget watching highlights of a game between Colombia and Italy on ESPN. After the game, Latinos and Italians stormed the field and began engaging one another in hand-to-hand combat. It was like watching West Side Story--only with much less singing and dancing. In other countries they call such a scene passion. In the States, we call it a race riot.

Given my lack of soccer knowledge, it is somewhat ironic that I find myself coaching this sport I know very little about. My kids wanted to play soccer, so I let them play. Then they asked me to coach. "How hard can it be?" I thought, "It's four and five-year-olds kicking a ball." That was three years ago when Emerson started playing. The past two seasons I've coached her team. This year, I'm coaching William's. More than that, I'm coaching by myself. That's right, no one volunteered to be an assistant. It's just me and a bunch of pint-sized soccer players. Their noses run faster than their feet and they enthusiastically kick at everything that moves (soccer balls, each other, grasshoppers, water bottles, Coach Kindred's shins, innocent spectators who aren't paying attention, elderly people too slow or feeble to get out of the way... you name it). How hard can it be? Pretty darn hard! I'd say it ranks somewhere between passing a kidney stone and eliciting an intelligent political opinion from a Hollywood actor. I don't know that you can really say you've earned your Daddy Badge until you've tried teaching the concept of teamwork to a group of preschoolers as they cry, chase butterflies, steal each others' soccer balls , and continually interrupt you with phrases like I have to go poo poo... Jeremy pushed me... are we almost finished?... and I think someone farted. (Aah, the camaraderie of sports).

Still, I love my kids. Each one contributes to the team in their own way. William, Macy, and Beckett are my three best players. They go after the ball with reckless abandon. If we ever do score a goal (no such luck the first two games), chances are good it will be off the foot of one of those three. Then I have my role players. Michael has taken it upon himself to be the team's designated crier. If the ball hits him, he sits on the ground in the middle of the field and cries. If the ball rolls past him he cries. If no one kicks the ball in his direction he cries. If Coach Kindred yells, "Michael, get up, buddy; here comes the ball," he cries. No doubt about it. Thanks to Michael, crying is covered. Then there's Tuesday. Her job is to stand in the middle of the field terrified, wishing she were somewhere else. A couple of my kids are great at running off the field impulsively, leaving our team two men down just as the other team is about to score. Meanwhile, each of the kids who has played goalie has brought their own special touch to the position. Macy boldly dares opposing players to take a shot by standing off to the side of the goal with her back turned while she eyes the concession stand two fields over. Austin ruthlessly attempts to stare down the ball. Watching it intently, never bothering to move, as he follows it with his eyes into the goal. And then there's the one or two goalies who have mastered the art of ducking and squealing with horror as the ball races past them into the net. Yep, make no mistake. Each player brings his or her own bag of talents to the table. I just haven't quite yet figured out how to mesh all the crying, squealing, and genuine disinterest into a winning combination.

And so, Saturday cometh. And with it my little soccer warriors will once again don their tiny shin guards, drape themselves in black uniforms, make sure they've peed before hitting the field, and take to the turf in pursuit of four-year-old soccer victory. Will we win? Maybe, provided the other team has just as many issues as we do and their coach is equally as overwhelmed. Regardless, we'll have fun. We'll kick the ball up and down the field. Our goalie--once again under the mistaken impression that we are playing dodge ball--will avoid the other team's shots, no doubt allowing multiple goals. But in the end we will be satisfied. Because, win or lose, there will be snacks after the game. And, as long as there's Sun Chips and juice, who cares what the scoreboard says. Everyone will be happy. Everyone, that is, except Michael. He'll be crying.

2010-04-05T07:29:00.000-07:00

Happy Belated Easter! No new dadlosophies this week due to the Easter holiday. Read my next post next Monday, April 12. It will be online by 11am.

Kindred

SCROLL DOWN TO READ ALL PREVIOUS DADLOSOPHIES.

Daddy Bracketology

2010-03-22T05:31:00.000-07:00

I grew up in North Carolina. Therefore, as you might expect, I love college basketball. Carolina basketball in particular. Yep, I'm a Tar Heel--a 1991 grad of Chapel Hill. This past basketball season was rough. Being a Carolina fan in 2009-2010 was kind of like living through the real estate crisis all over again. After experiencing the seemingly endless prosperity and euphoria of a national championship last April, the basketball market suddenly collapsed around us this year. Our value dropped drastically. We lost eleven conference games! ELEVEN! What's next? Locusts? Famines? Cats and dogs living together in an Animal Planet version of Sodom and Gomorrah? Will the Chattahoochee suddenly turn to blood? Will a meteor strike the earth causing global death and destruction? Will Wham reunite? God, Himself, only knows. All I can say for sure is, my Carolina-blue beating heart can't take another year like this one.

Still, despite my beloved Heels' failure to make the tournament, I'm a March Madness nut. I fill out the brackets. I pull in vain for Arkansas Pine Bluff to somehow defeat the evil that is Duke University. I scream in agony at the television as some school I've never heard of hits a prayer at the buzzer to defeat the team I picked to go to the Final Four. And I do most of it while sitting with other middle-aged guys, drinking beer, downing hot wings, and critiquing players and coaches who, if only they possessed our wisdom and basketball insight, would have avoided defeat and advanced to play another round.

As a married man with kids, my love for March Madness has not faded. It has, however, morphed. Daddy bracketology is very different from man with no kids bracketology. Watching the tournament is no longer as simple as sitting on the couch or heading to a sports bar whenever I feel like it. No, these days, NCAA basketball mania is mixed with a healthy dose of pint-sized Saturday soccer games, munchkin swim lessons, and multiple requests to play in the backyard. And those are just the kid-induced distractions. That doesn't include the times my wife has something we "need" to talk about just as a tie game is entering the final two minutes. Some kid with a Polish last name is bringing the ball up court for Purdue or Wisconsin, trying to orchestrate a final shot to win, and Meredith picks that moment to tell me that she needs to talk to me about the kids, our plans for the week, a financial decision, or (and this is when I know I'm going to miss the next game too) her feelings. Oh, I could tell her that I'm watching the game and that I'd like to talk about it later, but then I'd hear about how I never have time to talk and find myself sleeping in the living room and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. So, reasoning that the Polish kid at Wisconsin (or Purdue) probably can't help my marriage, I try to give my wife my attention.

Of course, in reality, I only give her half my attention. The other half is still on the game. My brain dances back and forth between the game clock and my wife telling me how she sometimes doesn't feel listened to (or something like that--I'm not totally sure--again, I'm watching the game). Don't get me wrong. I want to be a good husband and listen. My desire is to be a pillar of support for my wife--even in March. But this is the tournament for cryin' out loud! It's one and done! My wife is likely to forgive me if I appear a bit insensitive for one more minute. But there's no forgiveness for the team that misses the last second shot. And so, like a house divided, my mind bounces back and forth. I'm aware that my wife is talking, I just don't catch all the words. She could pick that moment in time to confess that she's having an affair, and my only response would likely be "Holy crap! Northern Iowa just beat Kansas!"

And so, I'll settle in as best I can and watch my March Madness. No, I don't have my Tar Heels to cheer for this year. But I can cheer for whoever plays Duke. And I'll do it all with kids crawling on me and a wife shooting me frustrated glances over her inability to steal my attention away from the tube. The good news is, come April, I'll be a better husband. I just hope Meredith doesn't leave me for the Polish kid at Wisconsin (or Purdue) before that.

Yo Adrian, Where's My Popsicle?

2010-03-15T02:01:00.001-07:00

Surely, there is no lack of material to expound on when you've got kids. Take, for instance, the trip to the emergency room I made with my youngest son, Carson, about a month ago. Emergency room runs aren't unusual when you're a parent. I have one friend who I'm pretty sure has his own parking space at Kennestone Hospital by now. But fortunately, for Meredith and I, other than one time when Emerson got really sick as a toddler, we haven't had to make the all-too-common emergency room dash--until a few weeks ago.

Meredith and Emerson were out of town. I was alone with my boys over Valentine's weekend. It was Monday night. The end of an adventurous guy weekend shared by the Howard men. About an hour before Meredith's scheduled return, I had just finished bathing the boys and was preparing Carson's bed to tuck him in. All of a sudden, I heard it--BANG!!--a thundering thud coming from William's room. After only a second of silence, Carson started crying. It wasn't an unusual cry. I figured it was just another bump or bruise; par for the course when William and Carson play together. Given that William's tone seemed rather casual when he called to me down the hall, "Daddy, Carson hit his head," I didn't expect to find much more than a red spot and a few tears. Only that's not what I encountered. When I stopped what I was doing and turned to make my way down the hall, I was met by Carson holding his forehead with one hand, half of his face covered in blood. The little guy had discovered the hard way that if you are going to run and jump into your brother's bean bag, you better make sure you actually hit the bean bag rather than sailing over it and slamming head-first into the bedroom wall. Immediately, I knew it was a bad injury. Trying to stay calm, I slowly peeled back Carson's hand. What I saw made my heart sink. Carson had cut his little head open all the way to the bone. Knowing I had to appear calm so as not to worry my dazed little guy, I grabbed a towel out of the bathroom, wiped away the blood, and began applying pressure. Then my mind started racing. "OK," I thought, "I'm alone with two small boys, one of which now has to go to the hospital. I need to keep applying pressure to this cut. My wife is out of town. And, in the midst of all the blood and mayhem, William won't stop asking me if he can have some Goldfish. What do I do next?" Knowing I just needed to keep moving, I picked Carson up, told him he'd be fine, and instructed William to follow me. All the while, William kept wanting to play twenty questions:

"Where are we going, Daddy?"
"I've got to take Carson for a little ride."
"Do I get to go for a ride, Daddy?"
"I don't know yet, William, let's just go."
"I want to go for a ride, Daddy. It's not fair if Carson gets to go for a ride and I don't"
"William, your brother is hurt. Let's go."
"Where are we going? Huh, Daddy, where are we going?"
"Next door to the Stuteville's, William."
"Do I get to play with Lucy?"
"Maybe."
"Do the Stewdabills have Goldfish?"

And so it is with fatherhood. You're kind of like a hostage negotiator or someone who tries to talk prospective suicide jumpers off of a ledge. You have to master the art of carrying on conversations and working out details in the midst of crisis. Defusing a four-year-old's feelings of exclusion from what he views as a late-night joy ride without drawing any more attention to the severity of his wounded brother's injury is a tricky, but necessary, daddy skill.

Fortunately, my life-saving neighbors, Joel and Terri, were home. They allowed William to spend the night. Terri stayed with the kids while Joel gave up his evening of relaxing at home to drive Carson and I to the hospital. I held Carson, kept pressure on his cut, and talked calmly and encouragingly to him the whole way. All the while he looked back up at me with his swollen little face. He looked like the lead role in a toddler's production of Rocky. I half expected to hear the words, "Yo, Adrian, I got blood on my footie pajamas" come out of his mouth at any moment. Of course, the highlight of the ride to the emergency room was when Meredith called. Amongst the excitement I heard my phone ring. Given that Joel was driving, Carson's bleeding was under control, and I had a moment to catch my breath, I decided to answer it. It was Meredith. "Hey, how's it going?" I heard her say. The moment created an interesting dilemma. Do I tell her the truth and let her know that her baby boy is hurt, I've got it under control, and we're on our way to the emergency room? Or, do I lie and say, "Oh, it's going fine?" Lying is obviously not right. But the truth was going to cause great concern for Meredith, who still had roughly another hour of road trip ahead of her before making it home. Knowing her son was hurt and she couldn't get there was liable to drive her nuts. Heck, I was already going to have some serious explaining to do when she got back regarding how I could let such a thing happen on my watch. Did I really want to get into it on the way to the ER? Given that I probably wouldn't beat her home anyway, I opted for truth. At first Meredith thought I was lying. "You're kidding," she said. Once I convinced her that making up stories about my son gashing his head open and spilling blood all over his brother's wall was not my idea of good humor, Meredith's mommy instincts kicked in and she started grilling me with questions (not accusingly, but simply wanting the details). I finally convinced her that all was under control and got her to table her inquiries until later when I got home. All things considered, she took the news about as calmly and understandably as any mommy could.

When we finally arrived at the ER, I rushed Carson to the front desk... only to be told that I needed to take him down the hall to the pediatric ER. So, running faster than most middle-aged white boys on a Monday night, I headed down the hall with my son to the children's ER. I arrived at the window and told the attendant, "My son cut his head all the way down to the bone. He needs stitches."

"You'll just need to fill out these papers," the woman replied.
"I'm sorry," I responded, "but are you going to step out from behind your little counter and come hold my bleeding child while I write my name on your little form and check off whether or not my kid has a peanut allergy?"
"Oh," she said. "Just have a seat and I'll fill this out for you as best I can."
"Thank you."

I have to say, other than that duh-huh request, the staff at the emergency room did a pretty good job. Due to the nature of Carson's injury, they bumped us to the front of the line and got us in fairly fast. The doctor was also decent with Carson--not great--but decent and well-intentioned. I've encountered some doctors that, while brilliant, make you feel about as comfortable as an inflamed hemorrhoid on a transcontinental flight. This guy wasn't bad at all. He did a good job of explaining things, saw us relatively quickly, and tried to be understanding of how my son was perceiving everything. After about a half-hour in the ER, Carson didn't even seem to notice that he was hurt anymore. He sat there on my lap in the examining room with a bandage wrapped around his head, waiting for his stitches, watching The Incredibles, and wondering when he was going to get that Popsicle the nurse had promised him. During the actual stitching, I held Carson's hand and talked to him while the doctor worked his sewing magic. I'm not a guy who normally likes to witness surgical procedures. I wasn't sure how I would react to the sight of my son's wound be stitched up. But when it's your kid, it's amazing what you'll do and what doesn't bother you. My focus was solely on my little man. I could tell he was scared and confused. But I just kept smiling, reminding him of that Popsicle that awaited him, and told him he was doing great.

A few stitches and one orange Popsicle later we were out of there. It only took about 90 minutes from the time we arrived until the time we were released. Pretty good for an emergency room experience. And so, one of the last parental rights of passage has been crossed in the Howard home. We've had our first (and probably not our last) batch of stitches. Given Carson's personality and bold nature, I fear he might become a regular at the ER. He'll probably even get one of those discount cards like they give out at coffee shops (after ten serious injuries, the eleventh is on the house). Hopefully, though, we can catch him before he parachutes out of a window or decides to answer the ever persistent young boy question: What DOES happen when one hits a large hornets' nest with a plastic baseball bat? Regardless, two things are for sure: (1) With three kids, life never gets boring; and (2) You should never live too far from the nearest emergency room.

2010-03-08T05:26:00.000-08:00

Hello Everyone!

My apologies, but there's no new Dadlosophies post this week. My next post will be up and online next Monday, March 15, by 12 noon, and each week thereafter. Feel free to scroll down to read all previous Dadlosophies.

Have a Great Week,
Kindred

Boogie While You Can

2010-02-22T06:52:00.000-08:00

Last Friday night, I had a big date. I showered up, ironed my best dress shirt, picked out a tie, and donned my sharpest dress coat. Then, I headed out the door for an evening of dinner and dancing in the company of a beautiful young woman. And she wasn't my wife! No, the young woman I'm speaking of is my six-year-old daughter, Emerson. This past weekend, Emerson and I hit the annual Valentine's Day Daddy-Daughter Dance at Emerson's school. My little princess looked gorgeous. Watching her descend the stairs in her little black dress, just a touch of make-up, and a Shirley Templesque hair style compliments of her mother's talent, my heart melted. Thoughts of, "My gosh, she's becoming a little woman," rushed through my mind. Fortunately, I was quickly reminded just a few moments later that, for now, she's still my little girl. While Meredith removed her digital camera from its case, I barely had time to utter the words "Where'd Emerson go?" before I looked outside to see Emerson zipping up and down the driveway on her scooter in a formal dress and heels. I was just about to yell, "Emerson, be careful," when, WIPEOUT!--she hit the concrete, skinning her knee, flipping backwards, and nearly ripping her dress. Unable to see if she was hurt because of the skirt that now covered her face, I rushed over to make sure Emerson was okay. "I'm fine," Emerson said. "I just skinned my knee." After taking a moment to brush her off and add a Hannah Montana band aid to her ensemble, Emerson and I took our place in the front yard and posed for pictures before we departed for our big event.

The evening was a blast! It will always live on as one of those precious memories I'll treasure. Upon arrival, I presented Emerson with a corsage. She smiled and said, "Thank you, Daddy." Then, being a clumsy man and not wanting to cut the evening short by accidentally impaling my daughter, I enlisted one of the young ladies on hand to help with the actual pinning. "You look beautiful," I told Emerson. "This flower itches my neck," was her only response. We then made our way into the ballroom (a.k.a. the gym). After treating ourselves to a delightful meal of Chick-fil-A chicken nuggets, barbecue meatballs, and Little Caesar's Pizza, it was time to hit the dance floor.

Accompanying your six-year-old daughter to a dance can be a little tricky. She's right at that borderland between wanting daddy close and wanting daddy to back off so that he doesn't embarrass her in front of her friends. I'd barely finished my last meatball before Emerson spotted a group of her little pals and bolted from the table. Wiping some sauce from my lip with my napkin, I couldn't help but grin as I watched them huddled together in a little group, giggling, talking, and dancing together to some song I'd never heard of. Sitting there with three or four other dads who'd been ditched just as quickly, I watched my daughter and her pals in between my own conversations with the other fathers about work and sports. Emerson and her girlfriends looked like miniature teenagers hanging out at a high school homecoming dance, while me and my fellow dads sat there dateless like members of the Chess Club.

Then, suddenly, things changed. The DJ began blasting KC and the Sunshine Band's "Boogie Shoes." It's a song the kids and I sometimes sing and dance to at home when we're goofing off. Immediately, Emerson's face lit up, she began jumping up and down and motioning to me like crazy to join her on the dance floor. Finally noticed, I jumped up like the geeky kid in science class who'd somehow won a wink from the head cheerleader and rushed to join my daughter. The other dads soon followed, and we all put on our boogie shoes and shaked our booties. We danced to KC and the Sunshine Band, Cool and the Gang, the Jonas Brothers, and more than a couple of Miley Cyrus songs (And the Jay-Z song was on y'all). Of course, when you get a bunch of dads in a big room dancing, it's not always a pretty sight (especially when most of those dads are middle-aged white guys). Some of the dads there were pretty good dancers. I'd even go so far as to say that a few had rhythm. But, for the most part, the dancing wasn't good. Some of it was even downright disturbing. There were a couple of times when I almost called 911 to report men having seizures. But, since the shaking and flailing always stopped when the music did, I eventually figured out that the only medical condition we guys were suffering from was an incurable case of severe Caucasianitis.

And that's pretty much how the night went. It was a balancing act in which I did my best to read my daughter. After a little while, I got pretty good at knowing when it was time to jump in and boogie and when it was time to take a step back and let her run with her little crew. Emerson gave me a tight hug and a big "I love you, Dad," when the night was over, so I guess I did okay.

But the evening was encouraging for another reason too. It was encouraging because it reminded me that there are a lot of awesome dads out there. In this day and age, when we hear of fathers who neglect their families for work or who just aren't around, it was inspiring to look around the room the other night and see fathers dancing, laughing, and being silly with their little princesses. I couldn't help but notice that every single father I saw looked like he was having fun and that there was nowhere else on earth he'd rather be than right there, in that moment, with his little girl. One guy in particular, my friend Andy, had to fly out early the next morning because he'd broken up a business trip just so he could be home to take his girls to the Daddy-Daughter Dance. "It's not the most practical thing," he told me, "but I wasn't going to miss this." Now that's what fatherhood is all about. Ten years from now, Andy won't remember the deals he made on his business trip, but he'll remember that dance--and so will his daughters.

We dad's have a precious, but oh too narrow window with our kids. We are blessed with a short amount of time in which our daughters want us to be their date for the evening, want to hug us and sit on our laps in public, and aren't embarrassed to say "That's my dad," when people see us dance. We get a few years in which our sons want to be Dad's best bud, hang out with him all the time, and brag to his friends about how his dad is the biggest, strongest, and smartest dad in the world. It's a special time. But it will one day end. So my advice, dads: boogie while you can! Dance while the music is still playing and your little girl is still jumping up and down, waving to you, and calling at the top of her lungs, "Come on, Dad! This is our song! Let's dance!" You'll always be glad you did. Even if you suffer from Caucasianitis.

Little Guys Time

2010-02-15T06:19:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, my wife, Meredith,took our daughter, Emerson, on a road trip to visit Meredith's grandmother in Virginia. That meant that I was alone with my two small boys, William (age 4) and Carson (age 2), for four full days. It's an adventure any time I'm alone with my boys. But I knew going in that playing single dad for that many days would be quite a challenge. Still, I welcomed a little guy time with my little guys.

The highlight of the weekend was the snow that arrived Friday afternoon. Powder Springs received around three inches. That might not sound like much if you live in Minneapolis, but in the Metro-Atlanta area, three inches of snow is enough to shut down schools, close businesses early, and send every mom within a hundred mile radius racing to the store to buy milk and bread. I'm not sure why southern moms have to hoard milk and bread when it snows. It seems to me that the most important supply to stock up on would be toilet paper. After all, I can drink water and eat Spaghetti O's if I have to. But the idea of having to wipe tender fannies with Brawny paper towels for three or four days really makes me cringe. Apparently, however, moms know that if you get snowed in without milk and bread, your chances of survival rank somewhere just below the Donner Party's.

As the flakes continued to fall most of Friday, my sons' excitement grew as the ground became less and less visible under the freshly fallen blanket of snow. Although I had planned to work most of the day from home, I knew that my writing would have to wait. How often does it snow in Powder Springs, Georgia? I had to put my work aside and take William and Carson outside to play. So, sliding my laptop aside and making a conscious effort to NOT think about how far behind I was falling on my projects, I gathered together the boys big coats, gloves, and hats, and prepared my little men for an afternoon on the great white tundra.

It wasn't a quick process. First of all, I had no idea where the boys' snow boots were. Meredith would have known in an instant. She's equipped with the standard mommy data base that tracks the location of everything from winter clothes to summer bathing suits. It doesn't matter where it's stored. If it belongs to the kids and is in the basement, garage, a closet, a car, hidden in the wreckage of the Titanic, or buried with Jimmy Hoffa, then Meredith knows where it is. Not me. Most days, I can't even find matching socks or my own razor. I knew the boys' snow boots were probably in the garage--but everything's in our garage! Fortunately, after a long search, I found William's snow boots (half-way home, one pair to go). But despite my best efforts, I could only find one of Carson's. Unable to convince my youngest son that pretending to be a one legged elf hopping around the North Pole would be fun, I had to come up with a different plan. Since I couldn't find his second snow boot, I bundled Carson's feet up as warmly as possible and slipped on his rain boots. Combined with his puffy jacket and winter hat, he looked like a Teletubby about to go in search of the deadliest catch.

Secondly, dressing small children for a day in the snow is not easy. It's not like most days when I just make sure they're wearing a warm coat and then let them run outside to play with their buddies. No, there are winter hats to pull down over little ears. There are layers of clothes to put on to keep little bodies warm and dry. The process was made even more challenging by tiny appendages unable to grasp that only one of them is supposed to go in each finger of a glove. When all was said and done, getting just two little boys ready to play in the snow took nearly forty minutes. Given the amount of time and effort it took to get dressed, I made the executive decision that we were going to remain outside until our lips turned blue and ice sickles hung from our tear ducts.

Playing in the snow was fun. We hooked up with our friends and had a blast. Somehow, I became the target of a snowball blitz. William and Carson got a kick out of hitting their old man with all the snow balls they could make. Meanwhile, cries of "Get Mr. Howard!" rang consistently from the mouths of the little girls next door. I don't know how I became the object of all the little people's snowball wrath, but I guess there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. Plus, I have to admit, I got in a couple of good shots myself. Oh sure, I mostly let the kids hit me and then giggle as they ran away. But, on occasion, my evil side took over and I couldn't help but unleash a direct hit, busting William in the head or whacking a neighbor's child in the back as she unsuccessfully tried to retreat to cover. The kids loved it. Even if the initial jolt left them a little stunned, I'd cover my tracks with words like, "You okay, William? Daddy didn't mean to hit you in the face," or "Oh, I'm sorry sweetie. You'll be able to see again as soon as that snow melts." All the while, I was giving myself internal high fives and thinking, "Eat snow, Pee-Wee! There's more where that came from!"

At night, the boys and I lived off of pizza delivery or dad's culinary skills (which consist primarily of reading a box and following directions regarding how to heat frozen dinner entrees). We watched a couple of movies and stuffed ourselves with popcorn. I even let William and Carson skip baths a couple of nights. After all, we're guys. Who cares if we smell a little bit when we're having a guy's weekend.

Today, thank goodness, Meredith and Emerson are coming home. The three of us are anxiously waiting. After all, even on a good day, Daddy still can't hug or make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich quite like Mommy. And, as much as I love my boys, I miss my girls. I also need some help. For four days I've refereed twenty-seven fights, given ten spankings, cleaned one pair of pooped-in underwear, and unclogged one toilet incapable of flushing cardboard despite Carson's multiple attempts. Yep, despite my deep affection for my sons, with each passing moment I find myself growing more and more understanding of species that eat their own young.

I'm grateful for the little guys time I got this weekend. I'd wish it on any father with sons. I know that I will always appreciate it as a special time I got to spend with William and Carson. But I also take it as a reminder of how much I need to express appreciation for my wife. If I have even a shred of sanity left, it's because of all she does to keep things running at home and to help take care of the kids. I hope my sons appreciate her too. After all, she's often the only thing standing between them and being eaten.

A Day in the Fatherhood

2010-02-08T06:04:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-02-01T07:32:00.000-08:00

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

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Good Fellas, Whiners, and the Occasional Bloody Nose

2010-01-25T06:12:00.000-08:00

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.

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Choose Contentment: It's Just More Fun

2010-01-18T04:14:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-01-11T06:09:00.000-08:00

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.

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Santa, Kids, and an Elf on My Shelf

2009-12-21T05:22:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-14T04:39:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-12-07T07:28:00.000-08:00

THANKS for visiting Dadlosophies: An Average Dad's Take on Life at www.dadlosophies.com. Sorry, but due to a heavy workload there's no new post this week. You can scroll down to read all previous Dadlosophies. New posts will appear after 11am next MONDAY, DECEMBER 14th and the following MONDAY, DECEMBER 21st. After that, I'll be taking a break for Christmas and will begin posting again MONDAY, JANUARY 4, 2010. Thanks again and we'll see you next week.

Kindred

SCROLL DOWN TO CHECK OUT ALL PREVIOUS DADLOSOPHIES.

Thankful in Munchkinland

2009-11-30T06:44:00.000-08:00

Remember the story of The Wizard of Oz? It's the magical tale of a Kansas farm girl named Dorothy. Longing for something beyond Kansas, Dorothy finds herself transported to a place "somewhere over the rainbow." Carried away by a tornado, Dorothy's house finally comes to rest in Munchkinland, an enchanted place inhabited by energetic little folk who resemble elves on speed. Emerging from her battered house with Toto (a wiener dog with whom she has a semi-creepy relationship), Dorothy suddenly finds herself surrounded by rambunctious little people known as munchkins.

As a father, I feel I can identify with Dorothy. No, I've never been a Kansas farm girl. Nor have I ever donned a pair of ruby slippers, clicked my heels together, and chanted "There's no place like home" over and over again (except for one episode in college that involved a bet, a bottle of Jose Cuervo, and a really awkward encounter with the Chapel Hill police department). What Dorothy and I do have in common is this: We both know what it's like to occasionally find ourselves overrun and overwhelmed by needy little people. That's why I often refer to life with small children as living in "Munchkinland." You're constantly surrounded by little munchkins. Only, unlike Dorothy, there's no yellow brick road out of town... at least not for a few years.

And yet, despite the craziness and chaos that often reign in this suburb of OZ, I'm truly grateful for my time in Munchkinland. In fact, there's no place on earth I'd rather be. Sure, it would be nice to slip back to Kansas once in a while for a nap and a TV show that doesn't require counting to ten out loud; but truth be told, Kansas is just too quiet. While the madness of Munchkinland is sometimes enough to make me run for the hills, I always come back to the fact that my life is blessed and wonderful because of my beautiful wife and kids.

During this season of thanksgiving, it's especially fitting that I remember to be grateful. There was a time when Meredith and I didn't know if we would ever see the city limits of Munchkinland. Despite all our storm chasing, Meredith and I had a difficult time catching the tornado. Prior to our oldest child's birth, Meredith had three miscarriages. The first happened very quickly; Meredith miscarried just a day or two after we learned she was pregnant. The second miscarriage was the hardest. Meredith carried the baby for twelve weeks before we learned that our child had died. I'll never forget the experience. For the first few weeks everything seemed normal. We talked about the nursery. We argued over baby names. We wondered which Ivy League school the child would eventually attend. Then came Meredith's twelve-week check-up. When the nurse called her name, Meredith and I made our way back to the examination room. The nurse had Meredith lie down on a table, then ran a strange device over the top of her stomach in search of the baby's heartbeat--she couldn't find it. The nurses then moved us to another room where a specialist gave it another shot. She couldn't find a heartbeat either. Removing her latex gloves, the specialist calmly said, "I'll just be a moment," then excused herself from the room. A few minutes later the doctor entered to tell us what we already knew: Our baby was dead. Somewhere around the seven or eight week mark he or she simply stopped growing. After breaking the news, the doctor stepped out to give Meredith and I a moment alone. Saddened and in shock, I turned to my wife. Unable to hold back her tears any longer, Meredith broke down as she stammered the words, "I'm sorry." Eventually, I would cry my own tears of sorrow. But at that moment, all I could think about was how much I loved my wife and how much I wanted to comfort her. It broke my heart to see her so devastated. I rushed across the room to where she was seated, put my arms around her, told her I loved her, and assured her again and again that it wasn't her fault. Sometimes, bad things just happen. Sometimes, disappointments occur for no reason we can understand. Sometimes, mommies have miscarriages.

A few months later, there was a third miscarriage. Like the first, it was relatively quick. It wasn't as traumatic as the second miscarriage, but it was extremely disheartening and seriously challenged (but didn't destroy) our faith that we would ever become parents. Thankfully, God used friends in Atlanta to hook us up with a fertility specialist. He diagnosed some problems and performed a surgery that apparently fixed the problem. Meredith finally gave birth to our daughter, Emerson, in 2003. Not surprisingly, we decided to give her the middle name Faith.

And so, as I sat in church on Sunday listening to someone share about how grateful they are for their family, I took a few moments to watch my own little munchkins as they colored, fiddled with a toy, or did whatever else they could to remain quiet in the service. I thought about how fortunate I am to have them. It reminded me how important it is to take time to give thanks to God and to cherish the people that He has blessed you with. Even on its craziest days, Munchkinland is the best place on earth. So grab those little munchkins. Give them a huge hug. Play with them. Listen to them as they share with you Spiderman or Hannah Montana's coolest attributes. And allow yourself to enjoy the excitement of the holiday season as you stay close enough to your kids to see it through their eyes. Before you know it, the day will come when you'll wake up to realize that you're no longer in Munchkinland; your munchkins have grown up and headed off down the Yellow Brick Road to hang out with friends, date a guy (or girl) with tattoos, go to college, and so on. But for now, they're still munchkins. So hold them close, make the most of your time on this side of OZ, and give God all the thanks.

In the spirit of this Thanksgiving Season, here are ten more things that I'm thankful for:

1. Prozac (I don't use it, but it's good to know it's there)
2. My beautiful wife ('nough said)
3. The fact that even God hates Duke (Cameron Indoor Stadium is located on a site that used to be Sodom and Gomorrah)
4. Barack Obama's bailout plan (I was afraid that my kids and I wouldn't be taxed enough in the future)
5. Carolina basketball (because it represents all that is good)
6. My beautiful wife (it was worth mentioning again)
7. Good cigars (do I need to expound?)
8. My parents (for making the most of their own time in Munchkinland)
9. American Idol (because nothing says "wholesome family entertainment" quite like watching other people's dreams get crushed week in and week out)
10. Did I mention my beautiful wife?

K-9 Invasion

2009-11-23T05:33:00.000-08:00

A number of people who've read my blog and newspaper articles have told me that my writing reminds them of the movie Marley and Me. It's a film based on the autobiographical book by writer John Grogan. The book describes everyday life during the thirteen years Grogan and his family lived with their out-of-control dog, Marley. I have to admit, I haven't seen the movie. I'm at a stage of life where the only movies I get to see are in computer animation or involve Hannah Montana singing hip-hop-ho-down songs in the midst of an identity crisis. But from the way people describe the film, I can understand the comparisons. I don't mean to put myself in the same league with Mr. Grogan as a writer (I'll wait until someone pays me millions of dollars to make a movie out of my book before I do that). Still, there are some similarities. We both write about real life--beginning in, and inspired by, the home. I've found that the people who enjoy my writing do so mostly because they can relate to it. They think many of the things I write about are funny because I focus on the things they deal with too. They understand the frustration of trying to fasten a car seat while your wife stands nearby saying things like "Why is it taking so long?" and "It's supposed to attach easily." They get how disheartening it can be to just finish filling the bath with water, only to notice the ripples around your two-year-old's private parts that tell you he's peeing in it. They know how hard it is to pull a Spiderman action figure out of a clogged toilet when you're already ten minutes late for work. Yes, people relate to writers like Grogan and myself because... well... we put into words the things they themselves feel and encounter. Hopefully, we do it in a way that makes them laugh at the otherwise maddening realities that make up family life. Laughter, after all, reminds us that the very moments that seem so upsetting at the time, often are the endearing memories that make us smile and reminisce fondly later on.

I mention the comparisons I've gotten to Marley and Me because, if true, then my writing is about to become even more Marleyesque. That's because the Howards have a new family addition. Last week, like so many pansy fathers whose resolve is no match for the sweet, persistent "please daddys" of their little children, I gave in and agreed to getting a dog. "How disruptive could it be?" I thought. "We have a fenced yard now. I won't have to walk the dog or follow it around with a pooper scooper." Yeah, let me be the first to admit it: I'm an idiot! I didn't consider the fact that my wife would adopt a dog in desperate need of an exorcism. I haven't actually witnessed it yet, but I'm pretty sure that when the dog isn't eating the kids' shoes, vomiting on my new rug, or attempting to make passionate love to my leg while I'm in the middle of a business call, she's probably in the next room levitating above the floor, spinning her head all the way around, and speaking to my children in Lucifer's voice.

I should have known I was in trouble when Meredith started researching dogs. I love my wife desperately, but we often aren't on the same page. Meredith will say something like, "We should buy a new house." To which I will respond, "Yeah, we could possibly do that." BOOM! The next thing I know, I'm hitting grocery stores in search of empty boxes and figuring out which moving company to use. What I often consider an idea, Meredith considers a plan. The same thing happened with the dog. The kids had been begging for one, so Meredith asked me what I thought. What I said was, "I'm open to it." What Meredith somehow heard was, "For the love of God woman, get us a dog now!!" Within twelve hours, Meredith had researched and found out that boxers are great with kids. She neglected to tell me that boxers also apparently do crystal meth. Before I knew it, Meredith had found a pet rescue center that specialized in boxers.

Something told me I was about to bite off more than I could chew when Meredith informed me that someone from the center was coming over to do a "home visit." I kid you not; we had to submit to a home visit before we could get a dog. "You've gotta be kidding me," I thought. "What, are we adopting a child or a dog?" Every ounce of me wanted to mess with the "doggie social worker" when she came over. I couldn't help but think of things I wanted to do or say to freak her out. I could just picture how fun it would be to answer the door wearing a Michael Vick football jersey, then ask her questions during the interview like: "So, which parts of these dogs are the meatiest?" and "Hypothetically speaking, how well can boxers be trained to fight?" Of course, I didn't do or say any of those things; Meredith would have killed me. So I bit my tongue, submitted to the "home visit" (I'm still shaking my head even as I write the words), and did my part to help our family attain the highly-sought-after status of "Boxer Approved."

A couple of days later, Meredith and the kids arrived home with our new family member: a thirteen-month old, somewhat lovable, yet certifiably crazy boxer named Zoe. There are moments when I really like Zoe. When I have the time to wrestle or play, I enjoy rough-housing with her in the backyard. But my life is hectic enough. I'm doing all I can to keep the plates of marriage and parenthood spinning. I can't do it with a boxer constantly nipping at my feet. To make matters even harder, my wife is overly concerned about the psychological well-being of this dog. Every time I attempt to put Zoe in the backyard alone for a while so I can get some work done or just watch a game without being jumped on, Meredith is quick to point out how much boxers don't like to be alone and how they need human contact. I'm sorry, I thought she got enough human contact when she was humping my leg. Or how about the twenty times an hour I have to wipe the snot off her face so that she doesn't get it on my new couch. I have three kids for cryin' out loud. I'm over my daily snot-wiping quota already without a dog. I don't need a dog with sinus-related issues. Certainly canine mucus removal must count for some kind of human contact.

Then there's the at least once a day that my daughter, Emerson, rushes into the house screaming, "Daddy, Zoe's attacking William! Zoe's attacking William!" I drop what I'm doing and rush outside to find my four-year-old traumatized son curled up in a ball, crying, and screaming "Daddy, Zoe's eating me!" Meanwhile the dog stands over him, nipping and licking in an attempt to play. William's not hurt, he's just scarred for life. Later, when he's older and watches the movie Cujo for the first time, he'll probably wet himself, flashback to those episodes in the backyard, and plot ways to kill the father who failed to protect him from this maniac dog. Yep, make no mistake: Zoe is the anti-Lassie. If Ole Yeller was a Jedi knight, then Zoe is Darth Spayeder. She doesn't mean to be the embodiment of canine mayhem, it's just worked out that way--at least sometimes.

So why haven't we gotten rid of Zoe? Well, don't think we haven't thought about it. In fact, don't think I haven't considered it as recently as this morning. But the fact is, Zoe is a lot like me. Just when you think she's been a big enough jerk to warrant excommunication from the family, she does something just heart-warming enough to redeem herself and make you think, "Well... maybe she's worth keeping." The kids love her. My wife wants to give her a chance (although Zoe overwhelms her at times, too). In between the mad attacks on my furniture or the "quality play times" Meredith insists that I have with the dog in the backyard, I catch glimpses of a sweet pet that could very likely grow to be one of my children's best childhood memories. Even William, God bless him, loves Zoe. And so, for now, we'll hang in there and see how things go. At the very least, Zoe will keep me supplied with material. Who knows, maybe there's a Doglosophies blog somewhere in my near future.

Let's Hear It for Buffets and Chinese Delivery

2009-11-09T05:26:00.000-08:00

(This post is a modified version of an earlier article)

I love to eat out. Food is definitely my weakness. God forbid that I ever end up under a mountain of insurmountable debt. But if I do, people will likely find me comatose under a pile of credit card bills filled with charges to Ruby Tuesdays (awesome ribs), Mexican restaurants, and enough Chinese delivery to put me in the running to be our nation's next ambassador to Beijing. Still, as much as I love it, there's no getting around the fact that eating out changes drastically once you become parents. No more hitting restaurants around 7pm for a slow-paced and enjoyable meal. Appetizers and intelligent adult conversations as you wait for your dinner become things of the past. Now you find yourselves battling senior citizens for the best seats at places that offer early bird specials. With kids, going out becomes a major logistical operation. there are diaper bags, bibs, strollers, and hand wipes involved. The word buffet takes on a whole new meaning. Buffets mean no waiting. No waiting means less screaming, fewer emotional meltdowns, shorter periods of scrutiny from bothered co-patrons, and less money spent on sedatives to calm your parental nerves. If you're lucky, you can be in and out before your kids ever realize that they've missed the opportunity to become a public spectacle.

Oh sure, Meredith and I occasionally attempt to eat at a restaurant where the waiter or waitress actually takes your order and brings your food to the table. But with three small kids, such outings are far from fun and relaxing. Loaded down with diaper bags, collapsible strollers, booster seats, and enough hand sanitizer to sterilize an operating room, my wife and I lead our tiny troops out of our minivan and into the unsuspecting establishment. Once inside, we immediately see the hostess' face turn white with dread as I utter the words, "Howard, party of five." The five to ten minutes that we wait for our table seems like an eternity as we try to keep our impatient little bunch together. Like alternating goalies in a Stanley Cup final, Meredith and I take turns attempting to keep our crew in check between our dancing bodies and a corner of the all-to-small waiting area. Finally, just when we can't deflect another puck, the hostess leads us to our table. Passing young dating couples, friends enjoying an evening out together, and various others just trying to savor a quiet meal, I can see the look of Dear God, No!! in their eyes as they spot our boisterous brood heading for their area.

Once seated, Meredith and I zip through the menu as quick as we can. Our waitress barely has time to say, "Good evening, my name is..." before we hit her with a whole list of drink and entree orders. Sorry, no time to order drinks, appetizers, and main dishes separately in our parental world. After ordering, we try in vain to manage the madness of spilled drinks, overturned salt shakers, multiple bathroom trips, and little people enamored with the sound a metal spoon makes when banged repeatedly against a restaurant table. All the while, the restaurant's liquor and beer selection grows more and more appealing with each passing moment.

Finally, our food arrives. Meredith and I get the kids served as fast as we can. Then we proceed to down our meals at a rate rivaled only by starving refugees. It's not that we're hungry, it's just that we know the window for escaping without a major kiddie meltdown is rapidly closing. Once finished, my wife and I grab our macaroni and chicken-finger covered children and break for the door.

One paid check and a hectic journey across a busy parking lot later, our little platoon is back in the minivan. Mission accomplished. Troops fed. On the surface, Operation Meal Out was a success. But it will be hours, if not days, before Mom and Dad recover from the traumatic ordeal. I still love eating out. But since my current insurance plan doesn't cover emotional therapy, I think I'll stick to the buffets and Chinese delivery until the kids are older.

Somewhere Between Bigfoot and Donald Trump's Tears

2009-11-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

I'm a schedule kind of guy. There's a lot going on in my life. I've got my own business. I've got a marriage. I've got three awesome but inevitably demanding children. And, with mid-November nearly upon us, I'll soon have North Carolina Tarheel basketball to watch. In short, there are a lot of demands on my time. To make things even more challenging, I usually work from home. On the surface that sounds like a great gig--and in many ways it is. But you'd be surprised how slow production goes when you're working within shouting distance of the fam. It's hard to stay on schedule when you're breaking up arguments over who gets the Incredible Hulk cup at breakfast, or trying to calm down a child you can't understand because they've burst into your office scralking (screaming, crying, and talking at the same time). Throw in the three or four times a morning my wife breaks my concentration with screams of "Calm down, your father is working!" or interrupts me with requests like "Can you take a break to help me with just one thing?" and you've got the potential for some mounting frustration.

The point is, when you've got a hectic life, routine helps. Daytimers can be like second Bibles. Scheduling well and sticking to a plan can be the all-important difference between accomplishing what must be completed in a day or finding yourself behind the eight ball because today's unfinished tasks have overflowed into tomorrow's already full plate. That's why, every morning after I get my daughter off to school and spend some time praying, I open up my daytimer and lay out a strategy for getting things done. I love getting it down on paper. On paper, my plan always works--I can fit everything in.

There's just one problem. When you're married with kids, unaltered plans rank somewhere between sightings of Bigfoot and Donald Trump crying on the list of rare occurrences. Jimmy Ray Jimbob's claim that a spaceship of aliens "come along and snatched me outta my deer stand cuz they said they was wantin' to study intelligent life on earth" is far more believable than any father claiming to work from home without familial disturbances.

Of course, I love my family more than work. Any writing project I'm involved in is not as important as my wife and kids. It's not that I don't want to be available to deal with all the situations or help with family demands that arise during the day. It's just that, last time I checked my direct deposits, my kids don't pay me very well. In fact, they're takers. My first-grade daughter has been living rent-free under my roof for over six years now. Except for a two-year phase in which she wanted to become a princess, she hasn't even offered to get a job and help with the family expenses. Her two younger brothers, William and Carson, seem content to simply play and watch Sesame Street. No ambition. No vision. No asking themselves, "What am I doing with my life?" Nope, they just want to have fun and bother their sister. Other than breaking the world's record for most questions a four-year-old can ask his father in a ten-hour period, William has no real goals. Carson, meanwhile, just wants to eat, hide half-eaten lollipops in clean laundry, and sit for as long as possible in poopy diapers. My wife works as much as she can, but she and I agree that we want her devoting most of her attention to being a mom (a role she's gifted at). That means that family income falls predominantly to me. I don't want to put work before my family, but I've grown accustomed to making sure we have electricity and enough food to eat too.

And so, flexibility becomes everything when you're a dad--especially if you work from home! At home, the snares and conflicts of family life can catch you even during the work day. You still have to meet all the demands of your job; you've just got to learn to be okay with the fact that it won't all go according to plan. That project you were going to be wrapping up by 6pm so that you could relax and watch the ballgame at eight, often has to become the task that you're still working on at 11pm because--well--daddyhood called somewhere during the day. Yep, as a father, you have to know ahead of time that, while your daytimer might make for a fun read, it still belongs in the fiction section next to Cinderella and Barak Obama's My Life as a Moderate.

If you're a work-at-home dad who sometimes deals with the frustrations of trying to run your business or please the boss while simultaneously answering the call of scralking little people and a wife who expects you to have time for "just one thing," then take heart! You're not alone! We're in this together, brother. Just take life where it's at. Pray for wisdom to pick your battles. Hopefully, you'll know when it's time to step out of the office to help with family matters and when it's time to lock the door and pretend you can't hear Armageddon occurring in the next room. And talk to your wife--A LOT! Meredith and I have drawn boundaries, only to cross them and have to talk and redraw them again. The key is communication. Keep sharing feelings and expectations, and make sure your wife feels free to do the same. Don't let the frustrations that often accompany the conflicting demands of work and parenthood spark arguments between you and your wife. Just keep trying. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll come across Bigfoot on a camping trip or find yourself passing a Kleenex to Donald Trump.

2009-10-26T06:28:00.000-07:00

Hello weekly dadlosophites! Sorry for the late notice, but no new post this week. Been busy hanging out with the guys (see last week's post). Look for the next Dadlosophies post next Monday, November 2nd, by 11am. Have a great Halloween guys!

SCROLL DOWN TO READ ALL PREVIOUS Dadlosophies!

Kindred

Guy Friends: I Need 'em

2009-10-18T12:57:00.000-07:00

My wife says I need more friends. I suppose she's right. The guys I feel closest to still live in North Carolina, where I spent most of my life. Here in Georgia, I really don't have close friends. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of guys I know. A lot of them I like and would enjoy hanging out with. But when it comes to people I feel like I can totally be myself around or have a natural inclination to hang out with, I really don't have those kinds of friends. I know some guys from church and in my neighborhood that I think I could potentially be close to, but at this stage of life, it's difficult to build new friendships. I think most guys feel the same way. Once you have kids, life becomes consumed with work and family. It's all you can do to make sure your wife doesn't feel neglected, much less have any time left over to hang out with the guys.

Women are different. They're naturally more social than men are. My wife can strike up a lifelong friendship with someone in the car line at my sons' school for cryin' out loud. Just the other morning, she met her friend Sylvia for coffee at 9am. She called me at noon to tell me that they were just finishing up and that she was running to the store on her way home. How the heck can you have coffee and just talk for three hours? Guys can't hang out that long unless they're watching a ballgame, playing golf, dealing cards, or tracking something they intend to kill. Even then, we don't say that much to each other. Words aren't that important. We bond just being together while we do something. Women bond through talking, expressing emotions, and validating each other's feelings. If one of the guys asks me how my day was, I usually respond with something like, "It was good; you?" To which he will likely respond, "It was good." Boom! Conversation over. Pass me a beer and a bag of nachos, and turn the game on. If, however, you ask my wife or one of her girlfriends how her day was--trust me--you better have already peed; it ain't gonna be a brief conversation.

Don't even get me started on telephone conversations. With the exception of business calls, my longest phone talks last between thirty seconds and two minutes. I'm on the phone just long enough to know who I'm talking to, relay or receive any relevant information, find out if I am expected to be anywhere at a later time as a result of the phone call, and, if so, when and where I am supposed to be. Beyond that, I have no reason nor desire to stay on the phone any longer. It's short and sweet; a cell phone company's nightmare; no going over my minutes.

Women, on the other hand, are the reason cell phone company CEOs own vacation homes in Europe. They can talk on the phone for hours--ABOUT NOTHING! I can get off the phone after a forty-five second exchange and tell you exactly what has been or will be accomplished because of my talk. My wife, by comparison, can walk in the house on her cell phone, remain engaged in the same conversation while she unpacks her groceries, keep talking as she prepares an entire dinner, and not hang up until food is on the table and the kids have washed their hands. After which, if I ask her what she and her friend were discussing, she's likely to say something like, "Oh, Mary (or Sylvia, or Angela, or Stacy...) was just telling me about her day."

Yep, women have a whole different outlook and expectation of relationships. Men want someone they can hang with. He doesn't have to be deep or ever discuss a single human emotion. Heck, it's not even essential that he has any emotions. As long as he owns power tools we can occasionally borrow, we're good. Women, on the other hand, want someone to talk to, connect with, know on a deeper level. It's two different definitions of friendship.

All that being said, I'm seeing as I get older that it is important to make time for friends. Being married with kids is a high-pressure life. You're responsible for making sure your wife and kids feel loved and secure. You struggle to provide for their future as well as their present. All the while, you want to be a great example for the little ones you know are looking to you to learn how they should behave and what kind of people they should grow up to be. I need guys I can talk to. Sometimes, I just need to vent while they listen. Other times, I just need to shut up and listen to their stories so that I realize I'm not the only one struggling to try and be the man I should be. We're all baffled by our wives, tested by our kids, and stressed out (at least at times) by the daily concerns of life. I don't just need friends, I need the right kinds of friends. I need guys I can respect, who I know share my passion to be a godly, faithful, and loving husband and father. Those are the kind of men who can help me with their words, while inspiring me with their example.

Yes, I want to enjoy watching the game or cutting up over a tall cold one; but I need the occasional meaningful talk and good advice too. So, as a husband and a father, I'll make more effort to build the relationships I need here and now. I have no intention of listening for an hour while you tell me about your relatively uneventful day. But if you can help me be a better husband and father, I'm all ears.

The Slower Moments

2009-10-12T05:13:00.001-07:00

Normally, when I sit to write my weekly Dadlosophies post, I have a specific topic in mind. Maybe it's the state of my minivan, the materialism and expense of modern-day birthday parties, or the discouragement of discovering that the second sock I just spent twenty minutes looking for was hijacked and made into a hand puppet days earlier. To be sure, when you're a dad (or a mom) there's no shortage of material. But today, as I sit at a local coffee shop, sipping my $2.39 cup of mediocre coffee and listening to a CD by someone who sounds like a graduate of the Bob Dylan linguistics academy, I have no particular topic on which I feel the urge to expound. Instead, I just want to share a little about my weekend. After all, while fatherhood is certainly a fast-paced existence--full of dips, climbs, zigs, and zags--it also has its slower moments; times when, if you're lucky enough to catch yourself and realize that you need to soak them in, make for the simple but special memories that make all the challenges of parenting worthwhile.

My two oldest children spent last Friday night at their grandmother's. My wife's mom is always great about wanting to spend time with the kids. Occasionally, when she's feeling really bold, she'll invite the two older ones to sleep over. It's always interesting to notice the transformation that just twenty-four hours can bring. My mother-in-law never fails to pick the kids up in her usual, "Oh, aren't we going to have so much fun at Nana's house" demeanor. There's talk of the popcorn they'll pop, the movies they'll watch, the park they'll go to, and so on. The kids cheer and jump up and down with excitement. My mother-in-law smiles with delight at the joy on her grand kids' faces. How could such happy people ever have anything less than non-stop fun? Then, less than a full day later, my mother-in-law returns, her car riddled with McDonald's fries, her hair slightly less kept than the day before, and the words can I please have a sedative? written all over her face. Meredith and I emerge from the house to see Nana unstrapping two angry midgets who have taken the place of the delightful children who left the day before. Tears and yells abound as the two continue their heated exchange over a Happy Meal toy, each desperately trying to be the first to present their case to mom and dad that the toy is rightfully theirs. Sometimes we convince Nana to stick around for a while. Other times, she doesn't even turn off the car.

But Nana's continual willingness to voluntarily be alone with small kids for extended periods of time--while a fascinating study in human behavior--is not the main point of this article. No, I want to focus on the time I got to spend alone with my youngest, Carson, on Saturday, and the time I spent with my family on Sunday. Carson is only two years old, but he's old enough to feel left out when the older ones get to do things he's not yet ready for. So, to make Carson feel special, Meredith and I took him to a family festival in Atlanta Saturday morning. It was cool for Meredith and I to have some time with just Carson. Sometimes, the little guy gets lost in the madness of the Howard household, so it was nice that he got to be the center of attention for a while. The highlight, for me, was walking beside a pony while Carson took his first ever "horsie ride." My little guy grinned from ear to ear as he rode round and round, his tiny legs barely spread wide enough to straddle his mighty steed. It was awesome seeing how happy he was and hearing him say "nice orsie" over and over again as he pet the pony's mane. Later that day, Carson and I sat on the couch together to watch a college football game. I don't even remember the score of the game; I just remember I couldn't have been more content. I was right where I wanted to be. Sitting on my couch, my little buddy snuggled up to me in his baseball cap, my arm around him while we watched the game. Sure, he was there largely because he wanted some of the chips I was eating, but so what. I could tell by the look on his face every time I squeezed him close and told him that I loved him that he was kinda glad to just be close to dad too.

By Sunday morning, the Howard household was back to normal. Emerson and William were home. Despite the hectic pace of getting ready for church, we all made time to sit and have breakfast together at the kitchen table. William chose that moment to display his newly discovered talent: the ability to cross his eyes. What made William's performance even more hilarious was how badly it freaked out his mother. Once William knew he had Meredith on the hook, he refused to let her go. With every "Hey, Mom, look at me," that William threw Meredith's way, he elicited screams, cringes, and comments like, "William, stop it before you ruin your eyes!" Meanwhile, Emerson, Carson, and I couldn't help but die laughing at the sight of Meredith squirming uncomfortably as a giggling William continued to shoot her cross-eyed looks.

Later that afternoon, while Meredith and Carson napped, Emerson and William helped me clean up their toys. Then Emerson asked me if I would teach her to play chess. I'm no chess guru, but I know enough to show a six-year-0ld the basics. So, for the better part of an hour, Emerson and I played chess. The TV was off (when it comes to my daughter, football has to wait). The sun was shining through the windows to the kitchen. We could hear a few birds chirping outside. Work that needed attending to sat untouched the entire day on my desk in the office. All in all, it was a great day.

Life's crazy. As a self-employed freelance writer, it's easy for me to let work and the pursuit of an income crowd the time with my family. School activities, daily errands, and trying to keep a house full of rambunctious little people in relative order, could easily keep Meredith and I going non-stop. But you know what? Sometimes, you just need to stop anyway. If you're waiting for a convenient time--or even a practical time--to stop and take a break to enjoy special times with your kids, then you're likely to miss many of the priceless moments you could have experienced. Most of the really awesome memories I'll enjoy looking back on later are just simple things. They're first-time "horsie" rides, cross-eyed looks over a couple of scrambled eggs and a pop tart from the other side of the table, and a beginner's game of chess on a Sunday afternoon. Thank goodness for the quieter, slower times. Feel like you need a break from the craziness of work and the daily routine? Block out a day just for the family. Make the work, the cleaning, and the errands wait while you laugh together in the living room or at the kitchen table. Trust me, the craziness of life will be waiting for you the next day when you return.

Where Were These Kinds of Birthday Parties When I Was a Kid?

2009-10-04T16:29:00.000-07:00

Just over a week ago, my son, William, turned four years old. Birthdays are always a special time, especially when it's a small child's. I'm a forty-year-old, married father of three. My own birthdays aren't that exciting for me. Each one means I'm one year closer to that unfortunate day when I don a pair of Bermuda shorts, throw on some black dress socks with an IZOD shirt, grab a metal detector, and delusionally think to myself, "Oh yeah,... I look good." Nowadays, all I want for my birthday is a nap, the chance to watch what I want on television for one day, and the knowledge that my prostate is okay. I usually don't even remember it's my birthday until I enter the kitchen the morning of to find my beautiful wife greeting me with a cup of coffee, a soft kiss, and a pleasant, "Happy Birthday, Honey." Then, I proceed to dish out kisses, hugs, and expressions of appreciation for the hand-drawn cards the kids have made me. All the while, I pray under my breath that the two younger ones won't ask me to tell them what the scribbling on the front of their cards are pictures of. One year, I seriously hurt some feelings by suggesting that a picture intended to be me and my son playing baseball was, instead, a portrait of two blobs of Jello fighting for space in the same bowl.

But, as I said, kids' birthdays are much different. A child's birthday usually ranks second only to Christmas in terms of excitement and anticipation. William is certainly no different. For several months leading up to his fourth birthday, he asked almost daily, "Daddy, is today my birthday?" Each time following up his question with the same request: "Daddy, when I turn four, can I have a skateboard?" Fortunately, my relentless bargain-hunting wife found just the perfect sized skateboard on one of her consignment sale safaris. I wrapped it the night before William's birthday and left it on the kitchen table. Meredith and I couldn't wait to see the look on his face the next day when he ripped into his special gift. The moment certainly didn't disappoint. William was so ecstatic that he even let his sister play with his other birthday gift (an almost unheard of gesture in Kids Who Can't Yet Read world ). My little buddy beamed with pride as he coasted up and down the driveway, still dressed in his choo-choo train jammies and wearing his studly, one-size-too-big, Spiderman skateboard helmet. All day long, the skateboard never left his side. If William wasn't riding it, then he was confidently carrying it under his arm, helmet still on, strutting like an old pro who'd just kicked some serious butt at the Munchkinland X-Games.

Of course, the highlight of William's birthday was his party. We reserved one of those places with all the jumpy things. The kind where you pay, take off the kids' shoes, and then let 'em run wild. The kids love it. They don't even notice the floor burns from all the sliding until you get them home and put them in the bath. They even like the overpriced cardboard-like pizza. Heck, when you're a four-year-old, life just doesn't get any better than running and jumping on giant, inflatable, jungle animals.

Which brings me to my question: Where the heck were these kinds of birthday parties when I was a kid? Oh sure, we had parties; but the birthday parties I went to normally consisted of cake and ice cream at someone's house, a couple of goofy party games, and some poor kid going home crying because he inadvertently wound up with a cut-out donkey tail tacked to his ass while playing an otherwise uneventful game of pin the tail on the donkey. Try passing that off as a birthday party today and you're liable to find yourself labeled the lamest parents in the subdivision (your only rival being the dad who still wears his 'Frankie Say Relax' T-shirt to the community pool and the Mom down the street who hands out fruit at Halloween). Today, a child's birthday party requires serious event planning. Instead of hosting one in your own backyard, parents are expected to rent out inflatable amusement parks or places with giant, dancing mice who cause the birthday boy or girl's younger siblings to have nightmares for at least two weeks. And if that weren't enough, moms and dads are also expected to provide gift bags for every child that attends the party. When did this start? I never got a gift bag when I went to one of my friends' birthday parties. No, in my day, we went bearing gifts and got nothing in return. Instead, we just watched the birthday boy or girl tear into their booty. All the while, we sat giftless off to the side, sucking the last remnants of Betty Crocker icing off of our paper plates and trying to act nice so that we wouldn't get our butts spanked for being rude when we got home. Now everyone who comes to the party has to get something. What is this, communism?

Oh well, what are you gonna do? I guess the most important thing is that William had a great day. As a dad, that's my job: to make sure that my kids' birthdays are memorable. The truth is, it doesn't take a jumpy place or an expensive party. As Meredith's consignment sale magic shows year after year, it doesn't require the newest, most expensive, or state of the art gifts. All it requires is being there and making your little boy or girl feel like the day is just as big a deal to you as it is to them. My kids' birthdays aren't about making sure they have the nicest or newest stuff. It's about reminding them that they are one of the most precious blessings in their daddy's life (along with their mother and siblings). Happy Birthday, William. We look forward to your fifth birthday next year. I just hope it doesn't get here too fast. And while we're on the subject, tell your sister and brother to stop growing up so fast too. I've still got plenty of room in my office for more of those hand-drawn cards.

2009-09-27T19:01:00.000-07:00

Hello loyal dadlosophites! Due to our family's recent move, the worst flooding Georgia has seen in a century, and a bit of traveling over the weekend, I've not been able to prepare a new Dadlosophies entry this week. I'll be back next Monday with a new post. Please continue to remember in your prayers the many families who lost loved ones and suffered tremendous financial loss during the recent flooding. See you next week.

Kindred

The Pain of Moving

2009-09-20T16:34:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday evening, just after 7:30pm. Tonight, I write my dadlosophies post from the public confines of a relatively quiet Books-a-Million. Normally, I would be sitting at my office desk or outside my house. But, this week, I don't have Internet access at home. No standard high-speed; no convenient wi-fi. That's because, just a few days ago, my family and I tackled a commonly undertaken, yet always dreaded endeavor. Hundreds of thousands of Americans do it every day. Almost all of whom find themselves pushed to the point of insanity and struggling against urges to turn to alcohol or narcotics for comfort before the task is complete. I am talking, of course, about moving. Packing up an entire household and moving to a new home is nothing short of a hellish experience that ranks just below unanesthetized castration and listening to George Michael CDs on the list of human suffering.

Meredith and I have moved many times. Before we had kids, we moved from apartments, to town homes, to houses. In 2002, we moved from Charlotte to Atlanta. A year later we moved with our baby daughter to Marietta. Then, buying our first home in Georgia, we set up shop in Kennesaw, where we've lived for the last five years. It was while living in Kennesaw that our two boys were born. And now we've moved to Powder Springs. It's only twenty minutes away, but--short distance or long--having to move all your crap is still having to move all your crap. It takes a lot of time, a lot of energy, and a whole lot of cardboard boxes.

This is the first move we've made with three kids. Let me tell you, as children multiply, so does the crap; and I'm not just talking about the kind you find in their diapers. The items that must be packed and transplanted are unending: Clothes, toys, cribs, beds, games, bikes, thousands of sippy cups, coloring books, barrels of play-dough, and so on, and so on, and so on. And God help you if you "accidentally" throw away a plastic toy that's been sitting behind a couch unplayed with for two years. I learned the hard way that deciding to discard such objects on the basis that they haven't been missed in twenty-four months is almost as brilliant as General Custer's "I'm sure there's not that many Indians over there," line of reasoning. Nope, if your kids see it, you're most likely packing it. And that's just the children's stuff. It doesn't even include all of your wife's stuff, your stuff, appliances, pictures, furniture... The list is overwhelming. It's enough to make a man reject worldly possessions and move to a Tibetan monastery. (Yak's milk, anyone?)

Thank goodness for the professional movers we hired. Sure, some of them weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer (when I pointed out to them that they had forgotten to load my television, they looked at me like I had just rushed through explaining a calculus problem). But, overall, they were nice, respectful, and did all the heavy lifting. So I'm grateful for the job they did.

Long story short, we survived the move. Now begins the challenging process of unpacking. Who knows what long lost items or undiscovered bodies will turn up. Right now, I'd just settle for finding my can opener. Staring at a pantry of canned goods and having no clue where your can opener is while three kids chant, "We want Spaghetti O's, we want Spaghetti O's!" is a cruel torture right out of a Twilight Zone episode. Anyway, wish me luck. Books-a-Million is closing. So, as much as I hate to rush, I've got to wrap it up this week. Take care my fellow dads. I'll be back next week. Provided I can find my router.

Children of the Corn

2009-09-14T03:17:00.000-07:00

It's been a couple of weeks since my last entry. A lot has happened since then. Labor Day has come and gone. Football has returned to rescue Saturday and Sunday afternoons. And my wife and I have endured the always fun process of closing on a new home and packing to move. I also did something I'd never done before. Just over a week ago, Meredith and I took our three kids and my mother-in-law to visit a North Georgia corn maze. A corn maze is just what its name suggests. It's a maze cut out of a field of ten to thirteen-foot-high corn. People (of their own free will mind you) pay their hard-earned money for the "privilege" of getting lost in and trying to find their way out of a field of corn. If you think about it, a corn maze is really a monument to rural capitalism. Where else but in America can a down-on-his-luck farmer look at a field of corn, say to himself, "Hey, I bet if I took my big John Deere and cut a maze in that son of a gun they's people from Atlanta dumb enough to pay to walk through it," and proceed to rake in big bucks from folks who, because they've heard that this is what families do during the fall in Georgia, are eager to spend a Saturday meandering through corn. Somewhere, the agricultural entrepreneur who came up with this idea is sitting at a table, counting his money, and laughing it up with the guy who got rich proving Americans are stupid enough to buy water.

I can honestly say that I have never had a burning desire to go to a corn maze. But one of the magazines I occasionally write for asked if I would check one out in exchange for them flipping the bill for my family. So, my wife and I loaded up the minivan and headed up highway 400. After picking up my mother-in-law, we arrived at our destination about an hour later. Being a small-town boy from North Carolina, I'm a country guy. I love rural settings, country folk, and the quiet, simple life. But even for me, this place was out in the boonies--the kind of place where Deliverance is considered a romantic comedy and folks are shunned for marrying outside the family. Nevertheless, as we pulled up, I saw people smiling and laughing, apparently having emerged from the corn maze alive, so we parked and unloaded our crew.

One thing I learned fast: Don't go to a Georgia corn maze in early September. It's too freakin' hot. If you're just dying to navigate crops, hold off until October when the weather is more bearable. We entered the corn maze just after the sun reached its noon time peak (a tactical mistake on my part). As I led my children into the agricultural labyrinth, I was handed a map that, in theory, was supposed to insure that we found our way through without any problems. It proved useful for all of ten minutes before my family and I found ourselves lost in a Stephen King horror story. As sweat poured out of our rapidly dehydrating bodies, our tiny band wandered aimlessly among the ears of corn. Our only remaining connection to civilization was the occasional sound of another father somewhere in the field calling out in anguish, "Where the hell do we turn left! The map says we should turn left!" All the while, I'm certain that Vietcong soldiers are hiding in the jungle-like rows, waiting to ambush and kill us. The last time a group got so lost trying to find where they were going, an entire sea parted and their leader was given ten commandments.

As Meredith and I grew more and more frustrated (each blaming the other for failing to correctly read the map), my children proceeded to add to the "fun" with comments like: "Daddy, I'm tired... Daddy, I'm hot... Daddy, please carry me... Daddy, I'm scared... Daddy, can I pee in the corn..." (By the way, as a side note, before you eat corn on the cob again, you might want to find out if it came from a corn field near Dawsonville.) Of all people, it was my six-year-old daughter, Emerson, who finally led us out. Relieved to escape the dusty heat of Hee-Haw hell, we rushed the lone concession stand and loaded up on Gatorade and water as fast as we could. A few snacks and one hayride later, and we were back in our minivan--our first (and possibly last) corn maze experience in the books.

There were some good moments. Sitting with my arms around my sons and daughter as we rode on the hayride was one of those moments that, at the time, seems almost unnoticeable; but you know that when you look back one day it will be one of those special memories you always treasure as a dad. Even the corn maze, itself, had some endearing moments. Hearing my youngest son, Carson, laughing hysterically as he rode on my shoulders and stopping to take a few photos here and there as we traversed the corn-husk-laden trails made for some fun moments too. Come to think of it, I guess the trip wasn't a total bust after all. Anything that provides a few precious memories with your family can't be all bad.

So, if you're going to head out to a corn maze this fall, be my guest. Just be prepared. Go when the weather is cooler and take enough provisions to survive three or four days in case you get lost and don't have my daughter to lead you to safety. As for me, I think I'll spend my Saturdays playing with my kids in the backyard or in some other place where Deliverance isn't a love story.

2009-08-31T03:50:00.000-07:00

Sorry everyone. No new Dadlosophies post this week. Also, I'll be taking next week off for Labor Day. Look for my next post on Monday, September 14th, by 10am. Have a great two weeks!

Scroll down to read all of my previous entries.

Praise God, School is Back!

2009-08-23T18:41:00.000-07:00

Last week, my daughter went back to school. She's now a proud first grader. It seems like just the other day I was picking her up from preschool, her Little Mermaid backpack lightly grazing the ground as she shuffled off to class, holding her teacher's hand. Now she's no longer into Disney Princesses. Ariel, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty have surrendered their thrones to Hannah Montana and the cast of High School Musical. My little girl is growing up fast. Before I know it, she'll be wanting a cell phone and texting messages. Next comes boys. Talk about frightening! I can hear the theme from Halloween growing louder as I think about it. Already, while in preschool, she's had one little boy ask her to marry him. Emerson told him that she would, but first she wanted to finish kindergarten and get a horse. That's my daughter, a romantic perhaps, but with a practical side. Since then she's completed kindergarten, but given that I still haven't bought her a horse (nor can I find a law enforcement agency that does criminal background checks on six-year-old boys), I can just about guarantee that Emerson won't be getting married any time soon.

Yes, if my wife and I stop to contemplate the swiftness of time, we can become a little sad at how fast the years move. However, truth be told, last week we were too busy being fired up that summer was drawing to an end and that the little ones were heading back to class. This year, for the first time in our parental lives, all three of our children will be in school at least a couple of days a week. A few days ago, it was Emerson. Next week, her little brothers will follow. My wife and I feel like a couple of inmates recently put on work release. Sure, we'll still be incarcerated first thing in the morning and again after 2pm, but in between we actually get to live adult lives. I can work without having to stop every ten minutes to yell things like, "Get Elmo out of the toilet!" or "Take your underwear off your brother's head!" As my wife does house work she can actually watch TV shows that don't involve singing dinosaurs, numbers of the day, or five rather creepy Australians called The Wiggles. (I don't know how they got the name The Wiggles, but whatever they're wiggling, they better not do it anywhere near my kids.)

Finally, Meredith and I can talk to one another for at least a few hours out of the day without having to out yell a three-year-old. No more sitting on the commode ten minutes longer than I have to and pretending to have an intestinal virus because it's the only place I can escape screaming, whining, and emotional meltdowns over who got the bigger pop tart at breakfast. At least until next year, I won't come downstairs every night to find my wife crouched in the corner of the kitchen, an I'm one spilled sippy cup away from insanity look in her eyes as she marks the refrigerator with a crayon, counting down the days until school starts like a prisoner tracking time until freedom. We've survived summer with three kids! Along with army ranger training and a couple of Asian religions that require you to beat yourself with bamboo, that's about as tough a test of endurance as you'll find.

Funny how life changes. When I was a kid, I lived for summer. I celebrated the last day of school and mourned the summer's end. I basked in the freedom of no school, no responsibilities, and as many trips to the pool as I could maneuver. Now, summer just means it's hot when I go to work. My wife and I frantically search for any art camp, gymnastics class, Bible school, or sport that will keep little people too busy to sit around the house all day with nothing to do but pout, complain, and take issue with the amount of crust left on their peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Heavy scheduling gets us through early July, but that's a month too short. We try to set up play dates, but all our kids' friends' parents are at their wits end too. The last month before school is turbulent. Vacations are over. Summer camps and classes are done. Play dates are few and far between. The little people are restless, discontent, and rebellious. It's like living in Munchkinland during the 1960s.

And so we begin another school year. Another year of attending meet and greets, school productions, chaperoning field trips, and scrambling to clean the minivan enough so that an avalanche of crackers, Cheerios, and discarded Happy Meal toys don't bury some poor, unfortunate teacher during car line. So goes life with kids. It's not bad. In fact, its right where I want to be. And, yes, summer's can still be fun (for a while). But, believe me, fall is sooooooo much better.

So off to school, little people. Mom and Dad are going to take a nap as soon as you're out the door. After that, who knows. Maybe we'll get crazy and watch the news--maybe even Sportscenter. Praise God, school is back! Where's the clicker.

Reelin' in with Friends

2009-08-17T02:36:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday night, I did something I haven't done in a long time: I went to a concert. A couple of my old friends from Charlotte, Patrick and Chris, drove down with their families early in the day and crashed at our place. It was a packed house. Six adults and seven kids made sure that the weekend was anything but quiet or boring.

We had a blast! The wives caught up with one another, sipped wine, and exchanged mommy stories. In between beers, the guys talked about the upcoming football season, pushed kids on the swings, and played a rousing game of boccie ball. Trust me, nothing says fun and excitement quite like three beer-drinking dads throwing rock-hard spheres in a yard full of frantic children. Fortunately, there were no concussions, although it was fun watching Chris chase his four-year-old around the swing set while yelling, "Let go of Daddy's balls!" After grilling out and downing a few hot dogs, the guys and I headed off to catch Steely Dan. Meanwhile, our angelic wives stayed behind to look after the kids.

I've never been a huge Steely Dan fan. But I like their music and was up for anything that would get me out of the house on a Saturday night, especially if it meant hanging with two of my best friends. Plus, Steely Dan puts on a pretty mellow show. At age forty with three kids, that's the only kind of concert I want. There was a time when I went to concerts to yell, scream, and be an obnoxious jerk, but now I reserve such behavior for little league soccer games ("That's a trip ref!"). All I want is a relatively comfortable place to sit, talk with friends, and listen to some good music.

We arrived about a half-hour before the show. After parking the car and hiking a good quarter of a mile in flip-flops, we made it to the ticket window. Patrick approached the window first and asked for three of the cheapest seats available. "The cheapest thing I have left is $70 each," the young man replied. For a moment, the three of us just stared at one another. Seventy bucks is steep for a concert. Heck, that's at least three trips to Monkey Joe's including the overpriced pizza. Ever resourceful, we asked if we could get in for $35 a pop if we just saw Steely and left Dan for another time. The ticket guy said, "No," all the while giving us a they don't pay me enough to put up with idiots like you glare. So much for thinking outside the box.

Fortunately, the seats were decent. We sat back, popped some long-necks, and settled in for the show. It was great. The band played most of their best: "Reelin' In the Years," "Hey Nineteen," and so on. I was disappointed that they didn't play "Rikki Don't Lose that Number," but after thirty-five years, I guess they figured that if she hadn't lost it by now they didn't need to keep reminding her.

In addition to the band, the evening also featured the standard really drunk girl sitting next to you that comes with almost any concert package. At the beginning of the evening she seemed extremely nice. An attractive young blonde out on a date with her boyfriend. The two of them struck up a conversation with the three of us over, of all things, garlic. Don't ask me how a night out to hear Steely Dan results in an impromptu garlic conversation. All I can tell you is, once you have kids, your brain falls into a state where any subject can arise at anytime. Nothing is off limits. We could have just as easily ended up discussing circumcision or the Jesuit priesthood. Regardless, garlic turned out to be a great ice-breaker (if only I had known this during my single days: "Hey Beautiful, what's a nice girl like you doing eating garlic in a place like this?")

In less than an hour, however, this "friendly young lady" digressed into an intoxicated mess. When she wasn't talking Patrick's ear off in unintelligible slurs and babbling, she was yelling "Woooooo! Steely f...in' Dan!" and dancing like a girl in search of her long-lost pole. At one point, Patrick leaned over in the middle of a guitar solo and asked me to kill him. I told him that I thought it was adorable that he had managed to make a new friend.

Fortunately, we and our marriages survived the drunk girl debacle. Other than that one low point, it was an awesome evening and weekend. As dads, our lives are hectic. Work, family, and daily life can make it hard to get time with friends. Relationships can drift or get lost all together in a sea of well-intentioned but unfulfilled pledges to get together. But we need times like the evening I spent with Chris and Patrick. We need other guys in our lives that we can talk with, kid around with, fend off drunken concert goers alongside of , or just catch a ballgame together. Sometimes Patrick, Chris, and I will talk about deep stuff. We'll share concerns or challenges we face as dads. We don't just tell each other what we want to hear, we tell each other what we need to hear (even when it's unpleasant or means realizing we're the one who needs to apologize instead of our wife). Most of the time, we just enjoy hanging out and joking around. Serious or laid back, such times are always therapeutic.

So, dads, make time for the guys. Certainly, the needs of our wives and children come first. But getting some good guy time keeps life fun, reminds you you're not the only one fighting the daddy battles, and helps you be what you need to be for your family. Provided you're hanging out with the right kind of men--men who love their families as much as you love yours--guy time is often the place you find just the encouragement and boost you need to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and return home a stronger and better man. My only suggestion: avoid the drunken pole dancer at all costs. Trust me, Steely Dan or boccie ball is a whole lot easier to explain when you get home.

Diaper Wars

2009-08-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

When my daughter was born, I was horrified to learn that a new baby craps eight to ten times per day. This fact still amazes me. As a forty-year-old man, most days I'd pay good money for just one good bowel movement. How something so small can produce so much waste in a twenty-four hour period is beyond my comprehension. A baby's bowels are like the Free Fall ride at Six Flags. They're not full for more than a few seconds before WOOSH! Down everything goes at a hundred miles per hour.

The rapid pace of infant poopage makes changing diapers a lot like playing paintball unarmed. Often you know when the baby is pooping. You see the unmistakable Oh my gosh, I think I'm squeezing a banana out of my rectum! look in their eyes as their face turns red and tiny grunts of satisfaction escape their lips. Other times you're holding the child and suddenly feel a quaking down below. Still, other times, you aren't aware that anything has transpired until that dreaded smell you've come to know all too well hits you square in the nostrils. Regardless of how you're made aware, you know what you have to do. It's time for battle. You've got to enter the combat zone. You've been dropped square into the middle of the diaper wars.

Cautiously, you open the full diaper to be greeted by things no human being should ever have to see. Even worse, you're well aware that the child may not even be finished. Chances are, it's a trap--a cruel hoax meant to get you to remove the diaper so that your precious angel can pummel you with even more baby waste the moment you're within range. The chamber of the gun isn't empty. It's merely cocked and reloaded, awaiting the moment fresh air hits your baby's bottom and alerts him or her that they are free to fire when ready. Don't shoot until you see the whites of Daddy's eyes!

As a first-time dad, you're a sitting duck. It takes time to master the art of the rapid diaper change. Sure, you did all right on that doll you practiced with in parenting class. But that doll didn't flail, scream, and kick the petroleum jelly out of your hand every time you tried to gift-wrap its loins. Like a lone soldier sprinting across open terrain, all the while knowing enemy snipers are somewhere on the hill, you rush against time. You pray to make it to safety before being fired upon. You get the baby's butt clean and fasten one side of a fresh diaper around his or her little hip. Almost there! The safety of camp is in sight! Then, just yards away from home base: rat-tat-tat-tat-tat. You're hit! Dad down! Like a slow motion scene from a Rambo movie, you can hear yourself screaming "Noooooooooooo!" You look to see yourself, the changing table, and the deceptively peaceful picture of your infant sleeping that sits on the nearby shelf all covered in infant excrement. Like a wounded combatant dragging himself to a nearby trench, you frantically scramble for wipes as brownish-yellow goo runs down the sleeves of your formerly favorite shirt. You manage to clean the child enough to finally get a fresh diaper on. But it's an empty accomplishment. You know you've been defeated. You made a valiant effort, but the enemy still took the hill.

Over time, you become a more experienced warrior. Your skills and speed improve. As children grow older and become squirmers, you master the skill of fastening diapers with one hand while keeping a resisting toddler pinned to the mat with your other. If you have multiple kids, you even learn to wield diapers and butt ointment while refereeing fights over Oreos and answering questions like Daddy, can Batman beat up a dinosaur? and Daddy, how can Mommy really love us if she's always making broccoli for dinner?

Eventually, the battles change as well. My youngest, Carson, is the only one still in diapers. Just having turned two, he's reached a stage where he wants to remove his diaper whenever he feels like it. He's not learned to go potty yet, mind you, but apparently Carson doesn't consider that a prerequisite. The other morning I entered his room to find my son standing in his crib, holding his diaper in his hand, and towering over a pile of his own doo-doo like a victorious gladiator over a fallen opponent. All the while he grinned back at me as if to say, "Screw you and your rules!" He was clearly bucking the system--rejecting traditional institutions of authority. The smell, the statement, the anti-authoritative display... throw in a couple of doobies, some signs that read "Make Poop, Not War," and a Jimmy Hendrix version of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm," and you'd have had a toddler's Woodstock on your hands.

And so the diaper wars continue. March on young dads. Stay strong fearless moms. One day soon, the diaper wars will end. Until that time, keep plenty of hand sanitizer around. And the next time you enter your baby or toddler's room to be met by smells too foul to describe or the sight of a child finger painting with his own bodily excretions, take heart. Never forget, it's supposed to be this way. After all, war is hell.

Illusions of Control

2009-07-26T05:35:00.001-07:00

I like to be in control. I rarely am, mind you; but I like to feel like I've got things taken care of. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a control freak. It's not essential to me that I be in charge of every event, call all the shots when involved in a group activity, or even be the main planner of a family outing. In fact, after a week of running my business, paying bills, playing with the kids, dealing with unforeseen problems, and managing finances, I'm more than happy to have a seat, drink a beer, talk to a buddy, and let someone else be the boss.

When I speak of the need to control, I'm speaking more of the everyday things most dads are concerned about. As fathers, we tend to carry a great deal of pressure on our shoulders. Our minds are always occupied with something of importance. Moms, without question, are under the gun too. But their concerns are often different. Moms tend to worry about whether or not the kids are eating right, did they finish their homework, is the house clean enough to avoid investigation by the CDC, and will there actually be enough time to hit the drive-thru at Chic-Fil-A so as to provide life-sustaining sustenance for the children somewhere between swim lessons and gymnastics.

As a dad, my concerns tend to lie elsewhere. I'm not overly concerned about the kids' menu. I love my kids, of course, and I care about their health. But I also feel like God made frozen dinners for a reason. I'm not a label reader. If it's on the store shelf, I figure the FDA must have given it the go ahead. I suppose I shouldn't be too quick to trust my children's well-being to the same government that gave us toys with lead-based paint from China, mad-cow disease, and poisoned peanut butter, but heck, nobody's perfect.

I'm more occupied with questions like How are we going to get all the bills paid? Am I saving enough money? How can I invest more wisely? What if my business doesn't generate enough income this month? Are we making the right decisions regarding the kids' educations? Will my daughter grow up to be president or a pole dancer? These are the worries that can so easily dog a father. We shouldn't let them weigh on us, but they often do. We love our families, we want to feel like we are being providers. We want to know that we are taking care of our wife (even if she works and makes more money than us). We want to know that we are giving our kids everything they need. In short, we strive to provide security. We long to be a shield between our family and the pitfalls of a difficult and insecure world. Even if the walls are cracking and appear that they could crumble at any time, we don't want our little ones to have a clue. We just want them to be kids. We want them to run, play, pretend, and learn to argue over who got to the swing first without anybody kicking anyone else, hitting someone, or throwing a toy, a stick, or the neighbor's wiener dog (sorry, Paul).

The irony is that, if we allow our hearts and minds to be burdened by all the insecurities that the present and/or future hold, we fathers can find ourselves failing the very people we long to take care of. If we aren't careful, financial concerns, family worries, stresses at work, etc. can occupy our thoughts, steal our attention, and conquer our emotions. Our kids don't really care how much money we make or whether or not we got a promotion, they just want our full attention for a game of baseball in the backyard or a pillow fight before bed. Our children don't need to know how tight the bills are (unless you have a teenager with a cell phone), they just need dad to laugh with them, tickle them, pray with them, and read them a bedtime story.

Of all the challenges we face as fathers, one of the toughest is successfully disengaging our thoughts from the concerns we have so that the expressions on our faces, the tones of our voices, and the sincerity in our words communicate to our children that there is nothing more important to dad than them. Kids don't need designer clothes, the latest video game, or the biggest house. They just need to feel like when dad is with them that he's REALLY with them--not thinking about a big deal at work or mathematically trying to work out payment plans in his head as he mindlessly pushes his three-year-old on a swing.

Even when times are good, we dads can let worries intrude. If you have enough money this month, you worry about next month. If the kids are healthy today, you worry about how they'll be tomorrow. If your savings are growing and investments are doing well, you worry about what could happen to the stock market, real estate, the banks. If positive things are happening at work, you occasionally think about what would happen if you lost your job. The worries are always there for the taking. There's always a load to pick up and carry. And, as much as we don't want to, we often can't resist grabbing a few sacks and throwing them on our backs (backs that were meant for more important things, like piggy-back rides).

So what do we do? How do we continue to take seriously the role we have as fathers and caretakers of our families, without succumbing to the anxiety, stress, and ill-temperament that often accompany life's challenges? I think that we must recognize two very important things. First, we have to realize that, many times, CONTROL IS AN ILLUSION. Certainly, we control some things. We control our decisions. We control how we choose to respond to situations and circumstances. We choose our priorities, how we treat people, what behaviors we choose to engage in, whether or not to be men of integrity, and whether or not to put our faith in God or our own efforts and abilities. The problem is, we often make the mistake of spending much of our energy worrying about things we can't control while neglecting the things that we can. We worry about whether or not we have enough money, but even the best laid financial plans are ultimately at the mercy of the economy, an employer, the stock market, the price of real estate, and a government that changes tax laws and regulations at the whim of whatever political constituency is yielding the most clout during a given election year. We worry about our kids, but beyond our best efforts to love them, teach them, and meet their needs, their health and ultimate well-being will be out of our hands (just ask a parent who's had to watch their daughter cry over a broken heart, seen their son devastated by the news that he didn't make the team, or--God forbid--endured the heartache of watching their little boy or girl battle a life-threatening illness).

Most of the time, even when we feel like we are in control, it's a lie. Even when we feel like we are on solid ground financially, our family is healthy and happy, and the stars are aligned in our favor, we are still skating on a thin sheet of ice. Jobs are lost in a day. Stock markets crash. Real estate markets plummet. Businesses fail despite our best efforts. One visit to the doctor can yield news that totally changes your life. Trying to control everything is like trying to chase bubbles with my kids in the backyard. You run as fast as you can to get there, only to find that when you try to grab it, the bubble pops, leaving nothing in your hand. To keep "chasing bubbles" is to set yourself up for a life of stress and worry. You will never actually have the things you are fighting for. Even when you feel like you've got it, some circumstance will arise to blow the illusion out of the water and bring you back to the reality that certain things are simply beyond your realm of control.

Second, I think we have to recognize the boundary between being responsible and being in control. As I said, there are some things we can control. We can control our actions. We can control our responses to the things that happen in our life. BEING RESPONSIBLE is about recognizing what we can control and doing what we need to. I can't control what the economy will do. I can be responsible and live within my means, save what I can, make the best investments and decisions I can based on solid advice and reasoning. I can't control all the decisions my kids will make. I can be responsible and spend time with them, mentor them, love them unconditionally, and be the person I long for them to be. I can't control how my wife treats me, talks to me, sees me. I can control how I treat her, talk to her, and whether or not I will put her needs before my own. The big difference between striving to be responsible and grasping for control? Being responsible is about decisions. Being in control is about outcomes. We have to accept it, dads: We can't control outcomes; we only control our own decisions that we hope will result in certain outcomes.

The answer, then, is to figure out what we realistically can control, then do the responsible thing. Many times, things will go well. Sometimes, disasters and tragedies will arise despite our best responsible efforts. But that is where understanding the distinction between responsibility and control becomes so important. The man (or woman) who sees the boundary and respects it, can still find the peace that comes with knowing they did their part. They acted with integrity. They used the knowledge and means at their disposal and did what any reasonable, caring person would have done. Perhaps that's the key to finding the peace we long for as human beings. It's like the old prayer: "God, give me the courage to change the things I can, the faith to accept the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference." Let go of the illusion. Embrace the fact that there are things in your life that you simply can't control. Be responsible, but let go. Know that it is enough to do your part, and enjoy the freedom that comes with surrendering to life's "uncontrollables." Refuse to shoulder the burden of outcomes you can't predetermine. Drop that sack of worry and anxiety and free up your weary back. There's a little one right beside you who's been waiting patiently for that piggy-back ride.

Just a Heads Up! There will be no new Dadlosophy next week. Look for my next post on Monday, August 10, by 10am. -- Kindred

I Want My Daddy Rights!

2009-07-19T17:12:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, President Barack Obama authorized the release of formerly classified information. It revealed methods used by U.S. interrogators to question suspected terrorists held at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Members of Obama's administration, certain leaders in Congress, and many members of the media and public have described some of the actions used by these interrogators as torture. Included in this list of "atrocities" are methods such as sleep deprivation (not allowing suspected terrorists to get a good night's rest), constant exposure to loud noises, relentless questioning without breaks, and a denial of freedoms critics claim violate prisoners' constitutional rights. As I listened to the president and others condemn the use of such "un-American" methods, the ugly reality suddenly hit me: My children are guilty of torture! Sound ridiculous? Not really. Let's break it down according to the Obama administration's standard:

1. Sleep Deprivation:
Of my three kids, only my oldest can read. Yet, somehow, all three collaborated to write the book on sleep deprivation. When you have young children, you live your entire life in a haze of exhaustion. Sleep becomes almost as rare as an intelligent political opinion out of Hollywood. There’s always a diaper to change, a nose to wipe, a catastrophe to attend to, or a spill to clean up. You get the older kids naked for bath time, then, as soon as you turn your back to attend to the baby, they disappear out the bathroom door. You stop what you’re doing and chase them into the bedroom, only to be greeted by the sight of tiny butts and testicles flopping about in a pile of your previously clean laundry. Then there are meal times, story times, prayer times…all good stuff, but stuff that takes energy. Parental naps are experienced slightly less often than sitings of the Loch Ness Monster. Meanwhile, nighttime slumbers are usually interrupted by a screaming infant, a three-year-old's nightmare, a six-year-old's "need" for a cup of water, or a little Howard climbing into bed and wedging him or herself between Mom and Dad. Even if you're not initially awakened by the tiny intruder, you inevitably open your eyes around three in the morning to find your child's sleeping body lying perpendicular to yours. He or she takes up the whole mattress except for the foot and a half they've left for you and your spouse along the very edges of the bed. Unable to turn over without falling off or crushing the child, you lie there on one side, attempting to steal a few more Zs while trying to keep your teetering body from falling to the toy and cracker infested floor below. Then, after finally reaching a place of deep sleep, you're awakened moments later by rambunctious little people who are shaking you and chanting, "We want waffles! We want waffles!..."

Just like the prisoners at Guantanamo, you find yourself worn down by the lack of sleep. The only difference is that suspected terrorists can, at least, give up information that will bring an end to the suffering. With small kids, there’s nothing you can do. I’m more than ready to tell them anything they want to know, but the horrible reality is that they don’t want anything except more of my time and energy. They just keep wanting, needing, demanding. They don't care that Daddy is just one more sleepless night away from running down the street naked and yelling at the top of his lungs "I’m Batman!"

2. Loud Noises:
Likewise, the Obama faithful have stated that pumping loud music and other sounds into suspected terrorists' cells to help obtain information is also "torture." If this is true, then, once again, I must turn in my own kids. I especially feel compelled to turn them in given that I'm clearly the one they are torturing. You think its cruel to crank up a little Aerosmith or AC/DC? Try driving six hours in a minivan while your six-year-old continually hits repeat on the Hannah Montana CD. Talk about being ready to spill your guts. Now I know why spies carry cyanide capsules in case they're ever captured. Or how about the joy of driving around town while some mysterious, noise-making toy lost in the dark corners of your vehicle plays "Pop Goes the Weasel" every time you turn left. Then there's the singing Elmo your two-year-old can't get enough of, the sound metal spoons make when pounded against a table, and the Little Musicians drumset the kids' sadistic uncle gave them in an effort to get even with you for all the times you bugged him as a kid. And those are just the artificially produced noises. We haven't even discussed the cries, whines, screams, tantrums, and continual shouts of "Mine! Mine! Mine!" that consistently ring through my cell (oops, I mean house).

Obama calls cranked up rock music torture. I call it escaping for a few hours in my car. If the government really wants to prevent another terrorist attack, all they need to do is give a group of two-year-olds some silverware, a hard surface, a few singing toys, and a play area in one of their interrogation rooms. Trust me, if their prisoner isn't giving up the details to some planned attack within twenty minutes, he doesn't know anything.

3. Relentless Questioning:
Finally, there is the issue of relentless questioning. Once again, certain leaders and citizens seem very concerned about the way suspected terrorists are questioned. Many are worried that continual questions for hours on end without proper rest or a break could cause psychological damage. Well, let me put all doubts to rest and assure you that it most assuredly causes psychological damage! I know this because--you guessed it--I am a victim. As a parent, you are constantly hit with a barrage of questions, only a handful of which you have any idea how to answer. "Daddy, what are you doing?... Why are you doing that?... Can I have a cookie for breakfast?... Why can't I have a cookie for breakfast?... Daddy, who makes cookies?... How come they don't make any cookies for breakfast?... Daddy, can I have some milk?... Daddy, can I have some more milk?... Daddy, how come you said a bad word when you spilled the milk?... Daddy, how can Big Bird talk?... Can he fly?... Why do boys have penises?... Does Big Bird have a penis?... Daddy, are we almost there?... Are we almost there now?... How about now?... How about now?... How about now?..." After a few hours of such questioning, your brain has been turned to mush. Your ability to think or engage in rational thought has been totally depleted. Once able to discuss and analyze situations, you're reduced to a babbling, drooling, and thoroughly confused shell of the man you once were. Now, phrases like, "Because I said so," and "Go ask your mother," are the only intelligible words you can utter. Are such methods too cruel for Gitmo? Obama thinks so. All I know is, I've been subjected to such interrogations for years and I've never plotted to blow up anything.

The evidence is irrefutable. I rest my case. On behalf of fathers (and mothers) everywhere, I hereby call on the federal government to provide relief! Clearly, under the Obama administration's definition of torture, we, as American parents, have had our civil rights trampled on. How can it be said that we have freedom of speech when we can't hear what we're saying above the screams, yells, and chaos within our own homes. Who can claim that we have been given due process when little people within our own families have taken simple freedoms from us like sleeping when we want, working when we want, or going out for a quiet dinner when we want? And don't even get me started on the whole "cruel and unusual punishment" thing. What have we done to deserve facing the odor of our diaper-wearing toddlers first thing in the morning (a.k.a. the gas chamber) or the torture of trying to install car seats on a ninety degree day? I believe I speak for all fathers when I say: WE WANT OUR DADDY RIGHTS! If people suspected of plotting to kill innocent civilians are entitled to sleep, consideration, and a number of other creature comforts, then, certainly, millions of law-abiding parents must be.

So the next time you hear Nancy Pelosi or some other so-called "leader" or political pinhead crying a river over the "violation of rights" at Gitmo, take a moment to think about it. We, after all, are fathers and mothers. We endure sleep deprivation, noise, questions, and sacrifice our freedoms for the people that we love more than anything in the world. Torture? I think not. So give me a break, Mr. President. I only hope that our current government's willingness to protect the "rights" of the people who would hurt my children doesn't interfere with my rights and responsibilities to protect them.

The Daddy Baton

2009-07-12T19:07:00.000-07:00

This past Fourth of July, I pulled a brave, if not insane, move. I voluntarily took all three kids on a six-hour road trip to visit my parents in North Carolina. Meanwhile, my wife, Meredith, stayed behind to take a few days to herself and get some projects done around the house. Fortunately, Meredith did help us pack. In fact, I believe she set a new world's record for speed loading a minivan. Carrying bag after bag from the house to our vehicle, she looked like a DVD on fast forward. The last time a woman in Atlanta loaded up her family's belongings that quickly, a general by the name of Sherman was right behind her yelling, "Burn it!" When the kids and I finally departed, we looked back to see Meredith waving from the open front door of our house, her face beaming with a look of jubilant liberation not seen since the fall of the Berlin Wall. As we headed over the crest of the hill, I'm pretty sure I heard KC and the Sunshine Band's "That's the Way (uh huh, uh huh), I Like It (uh huh, uh huh)" cranking from the CD player inside our house.

The trip had all the little challenges one would expect. There were the occasional arguments over who had what toy first, who got the bag with the most pretzels in it, and so on. William pounded me with the same question--"Are we there yet"--at least a thousand times as we made our way up the interstate and along back roads. And, of course, there was the joy of bathroom stops. Trying to help a three-year-old go potty in a public restroom while attempting to keep a two-year-old from sticking his hands in places even bacteria won't go is quite an undertaking. It's a lot like trying to block out for a rebound in basketball. You find yourself shifting from side-to-side with your back to the smaller child--your body being the only thing between him and a toilet that hasn't been cleaned since Clinton was president. Simultaneously, you try to help the older child pee in something made for a six-foot adult. The younger child tries to counter your every move, toddling back and forth, looking for an opening to the commode he's determined to investigate. All the while, you try to lift your other little man the extra inch he needs so that his pee will actually fly over the side of the toilet rather than hitting the edge and splattering all over the three of you. And if all that didn't create a tranquil enough atmosphere, a trucker named J.R. is in the adjoining stall, releasing odors that make you wonder if, perhaps, you haven't just located Saddam Hussein's missing weapons of mass destruction.

Despite the bathroom wars, occasional whining, and the challenges of keeping three little ones corralled at a fast food restaurant, the trip actually went very well. Emerson, William, and Carson were well-behaved (typical kids, but well-behaved). My brother and sister were both visiting with their families, which meant that my parents had all three kids and all six grandchildren under one roof at the same time. We went hiking, inner-tubed on the river, rode four-wheelers, roasted marshmallows, and watched fireworks on the Fourth of July. All in all, it was a fun week.

While I was there, my dad gave me something interesting. It was a typed copy of originally hand-written journal entries recorded by his father in 1944. My grandfather wrote about his time in the army during World War II. He described much of the training he underwent as "hell." He wrote about how glad he was to see his wife and kids on leave. He described his time in England, just before D-day. Finally, he wrote about landing at Omaha Beach and the horrors he witnessed in combat as he and his brothers in arms fought their way through France. In a time I've only read about, under conditions I can't begin to imagine, my grandfather wrote:

"We were in enemy territory... we were pushing them (the Germans) back slowly all the time... they were taking awfully bad losses with horrible sights that we could see along the way. Sights too horrible to mention. Some were French civilians who were unable to leave their homes and towns in time... killed in the wreckage... It was an awful sight which I hope I never have to experience again... For several nights after I couldn't sleep, for I was still seeing those sights and fighting those horrible battles in my dreams. No one will ever be able to understand just how it is or how a fella feels... for it is too horrible to be understood... There were some terrible sights. My sympathy is with each and everyone on the front lines, for if they are on the front with any infantry division they are catching plenty of hell."

I never knew my grandfather; he died before my parents were even married. But as I sat quietly on my parent's couch late one night after everyone was in bed, reading these words, it made me think about what kind of man my grandfather must have been. What did the world look like to him and the other fathers of his generation? I cannot imagine what it must have been like to live through the things he saw in WWII. I have no idea how such an experience affects a person. I can't begin to appreciate the sacrifices my grandfather made. Not only did many of his generation cross oceans to fight wars on foreign soil, but prior to that they struggled through the Great Depression to feed, clothe, and house their families. They fought for their country, yes. But more than that, they fought for their families. It was, no doubt, my father and his siblings for whom my grandfather valiantly marched into battle. It was, I'm sure, my grandmother's face he saw during those rare times when the fighting ceased and he had a moment to remember why he was going through "hell." For all the times my grandfather wrote about the horrors and hardships of war, I've not seen where he wrote anything about regretting his decision to go. I guess that was because of what and who he was defending.

My father also gave me a box of old family photos he'd set aside for me. Many of them pictured me as a small child or my father as a young man. These, too, made me think. I thought about my own father and how much I'm growing to appreciate the challenges and concerns that, no doubt, dogged him from time to time as he worked and struggled (along with my mother) to provide our family with a loving and secure home. Now that I'm a dad, I can understand and appreciate all the things he did for us much more than I once did.

It's funny, when you're a little child (about the age of my kids) your dad is your hero for things that he's really not. You think he's invincible. You think he can beat up any other guy in the world. You think he's superhuman. As you get older, you come to realize that this simply isn't the case. But when you grow up, your dad becomes your hero again--only this time, it's for the things he really is: a man who provided, spent time with you, shielded you from all the stresses he and your mom must have felt concerning money, job, health issues, and so on. As a father, yourself, you finally understand how hard it is to make your kids feel completely safe in a turbulent, unpredictable, and insecure world. A dad may not be strong enough to beat up every other guy around, but it takes an incredible amount of strength to spend time playing and laughing in the backyard with your children when, all the while, you're not sure how you're going to pay all of next month's bills.

Reading my grandfather's journal and looking at those photos made me think about time. I realized, if only for a few moments, how fast time flies. There was a time when my grandfather was a young man in the army. There was a time when my dad was just a young father trying to figure out how to take care of three small children. There was a time when all I cared about was playing Spiderman in my parents' backyard. It seems like just yesterday I was sharing a room with my older brother in our little house in Kernersville, North Carolina, riding my bike to school in Wilmington, or keeping a watchful eye to make sure that no one bothered my little sister on her first day of junior high school. Now I'm the young dad (or, at least, relatively young). I'm the one trying to make sure my kids feel safe, secure, and loved no matter what happens in life. Just like my grandfather and father no doubt did, I occasionally have my moments after the kids are in bed or when it's just Meredith and I when I feel like the world is caving in on me. I need my times to think, pray, run my hands through my hair, and just try to deal with the pressures of life. But overall, life is good. Moving too fast, perhaps, but good.

And so, the daddy baton is passed from generation to generation. The circumstances may be different. For my grandfather, it was a depression, a war, and the rise of a new world order that included nuclear weapons, the cold war, and the US as a world power. For my father, it was the social turbulence of the sixties and seventies, the nation's loss of trust in a government that bungled Vietnam, and the feelings of disappointment following Watergate. But whatever the external differences, the challenges of fatherhood remain fairly consistent. We, as dads, see ourselves as the protectors of our families. We seek to shield and take care of our little ones. Regardless of how insecure and afraid we might sometimes feel, we are bound and determined to make sure our kids feel safe and secure. And, just like my grandfather, we'll walk through "hell" to do it.

So here's to all the fathers, past and present, who have cared enough to lay down their lives (often in quiet, unnoticed ways) to protect, defend, and shelter their children. Brave and usually unsung heroes, we dads gladly sacrifice whatever is necessary for the benefit of our families. We're content with the fact that our sons and daughters don their walls with pictures of sports heroes and favorite stars rather than pics of their "old man." We even accept the fact that after all the games of football and catch in the backyard, it's the words "Hi, Mom" that they'll mouth into the television camera after they score the winning touchdown or the final goal. We don't do all that we do for our kids for accolades; we do it because we love our little ones more than life itself.

I guess what I'm saying is, "Thank you, Pappy." I never knew you, but the sacrifices you made for my dad were ultimately for me and my kids as well. And thanks, Pop, for all the little things (and the big ones) you did and continue to do for me. I'm sure that when I was little there were occasionally tough times, but I didn't know it because I was too busy having fun, feeling loved, and believing that all was right with my little world. And now it's my turn. God-willing, I'll never have to fight in a war like my grandfather. But, just like my dad, I hope and pray that I stand ready to do whatever it takes to provide my kids with everything they need emotionally as well as materially. My hope is that, one day, my kids and grand kids will look back on old pictures or read my old journals and feel the same sense of gratitude and responsibility that I feel. But for now, I hope they just have a blast riding their bikes, sharing a room, or playing Spiderman in the backyard.

Aaaah, the Power of Words

2009-06-29T04:01:00.000-07:00

Just the other day, I was sitting in my office writing as my 3-year-old son, William, was playing in a nearby room. Suddenly, I realized that he was repeating a phrase I couldn't make out. I stopped my typing, leaned towards the room where he was playing, and listened more closely. After a moment, it hit me what he was saying. William had gone to Bible School that morning at church. He and his classmates had learned the story of Zacchaeus, the tiny tax collector who climbed a sycamore tree so that he could see Jesus. William was obviously re-enacting the story. He was saying over and over again, "Ikea, come down from that sycamore tree!" In William's version, it wasn't a Jewish tax collector, but rather an international home products store, that was being called to descend from the treetops to have dinner with our Lord. While not exactly a word for word translation of Luke's gospel, it's not hard to see why William might have thought Ikea is in the Bible. After all, along with Wal-Mart and Sam's, the store comprises one-third of his mother's holy trinity of shopping. Given that my children often accompany Meredith on her weekly pilgrimages to witness first-hand the pentecostal-like joy with which she celebrates bargains or the bliss of buying in bulk, it's no wonder why they might view any one of these establishments as divinely sacred.

William's "biblical" reference to Ikea is just one of the latest additions to a long line of verbal gems I've heard from the mouths of my children. It's not only exciting and heart warming when your kids begin to talk, it's also hilarious and, at times, embarrassing. Take, for instance, my daughter, Emerson. Shortly after William was born, Meredith wanted to have a family photo taken. Emerson was only two years old. While the photographer was finishing her preparations, Meredith happened to share with her that we sometimes called Emerson "Peanut." Just before we were about to take the picture, the photographer leaned over to Emerson and sweetly said, "So, I hear you are a little peanut." Emerson got a somewhat irritated look on her little face, looked the photographer square in the eyes, and firmly replied, "I'm no peanut; I have a vagina!"

The letter L presented a linguistic challenge for both of my older children. Both Emerson and William loved American flags. Any time we would be out somewhere and see an American flag, the two of them would get very excited. The only problem was, when each were about two years old, neither of them could say the letter L. Whenever we would be out somewhere and pass a government building or an establishment displaying Old Glory, my little guy or gal would suddenly (and at a volume I'm sure everyone within a one-mile radius could hear) blurt out, "Look, Daddy, a fag!" I can distinctly remember one Veterans' Day in which William and I were passing a couple of older vets, each of whom had no doubt bravely and honorably served our country. Each was wearing his old military garb and carrying a miniature American flag. Imagine my embarrassment when, on a day when such individuals should be honored, my young son pointed at them and enthusiastically yelled, "Daddy, I see two fags!" All I could do was apologize, explain, and navigate our way out of the sea of giggles and shocked looks as fast as I could. All the while I could feel those two vets glaring at me like I was some sort of commie sympathizer sent to humiliate them on their special day. For at least three years, I couldn't take my family anywhere near midtown Atlanta on the Fourth of July for fear that we'd be arrested for a hate crime.

I love to sing to my kids. One of the songs I sometimes sing to them as I pick them up and fly them around the room is Steve Miller's "Fly Like an Eagle." As you might imagine, small children eventually try to imitate the words that a parent is singing. William, in particular, likes to try and sing "Fly Like an Eagle." Unfortunately, until he was almost three, every time William sang the words fly like an eagle, it sounded like he was saying "fall like a negro." Therefore, I was careful not to sing the song to William while we were out in public, lest he try to imitate me, be mistaken for a midget white supremacist, and get his little butt kicked.

Of course, not every memorable phrase has involved a racial slur or a homophobic reference. There are the times when William wanted to watch the "Grease" who stole Christmas, or Emerson wanted to ride a "neigh-neigh" (her original word for horse). Many of the words our children say are funny. Others melt your heart (such as when my youngest, Carson, tells me he loves me: "Wuv ooh Dayee"). A few tempt you to pretend that you don't know your children as you look around in public and ask, "Whose kids are these?" But each is a memory. Each is a reminder of how precious our children's first words truly are. You cherish, savor, laugh at, and shake your head over the phrases that escape your children's lips because they are part of the journey for both you and your kids. They are some of the precious moments that we can miss or fail to appreciate if we are too busy, too worried, or just not around enough. They also serve a valuable purpose. The words our kids utter are learned predominantly from Mom and Dad. Having children is a lot like living with a tape recorder. You hear repeated back to you many of the comments and attitudes you, yourself, are expressing. Nothing convicts me and makes me want to change quite so fast as hearing a tiny "damn it" or recognizing something yelled in anger between siblings that I know my kids heard me say to Mommy the night before. Nothing encourages me and makes me feel as awesome as hearing my kids say that they love God, express compassion towards another person, or offer to help one another because that's the example they've learned at home.

So I guess my message is this: Enjoy the words! Be there to hear them and cherish the memories. But LISTEN to the words as well. Not only do they reveal what your kids are learning, they teach you a lot about who you are as a person and what you, as a parent, still need to learn.

JUST A HEADS UP: There will be no new Dadlosophies post next week. I'm taking time off to enjoy the Fourth of July with family. Look for my NEXT POST on MONDAY, JULY 13 first thing in the morning! Have a great holiday!

Atlanta's "Hottest Dad"

2009-06-20T12:33:00.000-07:00

About two weeks ago, my wife, Meredith, entered me in the AtlantaMomslikeme.com HOTTEST DAD in ATLANTA contest. This morning we learned the results. The people have spoken. Atlanta area parents have voted for change they can believe in. Yours truly has been dubbed "Atlanta's hottest dad." From this day forth, the phrase "hot dad" is obviously no longer shackled to a shallow reference to physical appearance. No, we've clearly blown that stereotype right out of the water. After twelve years of marriage, three kids, and more than a few extra pounds, being a "hottie" no longer has anything to do with broad shoulders or rock-hard pecs. Those anatomical niceties might mean a lot to twenty-five-year-old ladies who are still playing the singles game, but if you want to drive a mom wild, just change some diapers, wash some sippy-cups, assume charge of a bath time, and--if you really want to make her swoon--take the little ones to a park for an hour so she can get a nap. Big biceps and a butt you can bounce quarters on might be attractive extras, but nothing says "Don't you want me, Baby!" to a mom like a husband who's just built a Lego tower with his three-year-old and smells of diaper ointment.

To all those who voted for me, I want to say "thank you." It was a tough campaign. I couldn't have won without your support. While I cannot accommodate everyone, I assure you that there will be places in my administration for many of you. I especially want to thank the men who voted for me. Any man willing to risk his male reputation to cast a vote for me or any other guy as "Atlanta's hottest dad," is either a true friend or a little creepy. I choose to believe that the vast majority of you are the former (except for one or two of you whose emails I recognized; to those few I would simply remind you that restraining orders are enforceable by law). If, after humbly answering my wife's call to swallow your male pride and cast a ballot, you feel that you have somehow been violated or could swear that your testicles have shrunk a size since going to the polls, let me assure you that your condition is temporary. Just drink a beer. Smoke a cigar. Watch some sports (not women's golf). Catch a Clint Eastwood movie. Eat some meat. These actions will raise your testosterone levels, and you'll be okay.

All the credit and thanks in the world goes to my beautiful campaign manager: my wife, Meredith. She was the architect behind our great victory. She shamelessly emailed and called friends. She contacted people via Facebook, gmail, cell phone, Morse code, carrier pigeon, that silly thing kids do with two plastic cups and a long piece of string, seance, and any other method she could think of. A tireless warrior, she prodded, persuaded, begged, and perhaps even threatened friends, neighbors, co-workers, family-members, pizza delivery personnel, neighborhood children, unfortunate Jehovah's Witnesses who rang our doorbell, and at least one Nigerian prince who randomly contacted her online to cast their vote. Partly because she wanted me to win and partly because she refused to be outdone by the other wives, my wife pounded the online pavement. When the results finally came in, Meredith sat back with her Saturday morning cup of coffee, smiled the smile of the victorious, and joyously savored her hard-fought victory.

Of course, I cannot help but wonder what doors my newly acquired title will open. Perhaps I'll get my own reality TV show: Atlanta Hot Dad! Addicted viewers can tune in every week to see which one of my obedient children is offered a rose, while watching the disobedient ones get voted off to go spend time with their grandparents. Surely, a professional photographer will be calling any day to schedule my photo shoot for the "Hottest Dads of the South" calendar. I'll no doubt pose in my standard middle-aged dad ensemble of Bermuda shorts and black dress socks. Shirtless, I'm sure they'll want me to throw the camera an alluring look while showing off my sexually enticing I just got done mowing my suburban lawn farmer's tan. And lets not forget the inevitable book deal. I can only imagine how large the crowds will be when admiring parents line up to get their autographed copy of How I Became a Hot Dad: Kindred's Keys to Finding Your Mojo in a Minivan. Yes, the possibilities are endless. If I play my cards right, there is no end to the fame and income this baby could generate. Before I know it, I'm likely to wake up and find that I've built a "hot dad" empire!

In all seriousness, while I find more than a little humor in the idea of me being Atlanta's hottest anything, I am grateful for and proud of the title. Not because I think it means I'm really Atlanta's hottest dad (less than two hundred people entered and, I can assure you, no one is mistaking me for George Clooney when I go out), but because of the thought and sincerity that inspired my wife and friends to support me. The mere fact that Meredith wanted to nominate me was special enough; after all, what better compliment can a husband and father ask for than to have his own wife sing his praises as a great daddy to her children. But to watch the zeal and determination with which she worked to get others to vote for me showed me how much she truly appreciates all I do for her and the kids. In addition, to have so many people respond to Meredith's call with votes, kind words, and compliments was very touching, extremely humbling, and challenged me to work harder to be the father they seem to think I am. To everyone who took a few minutes out of their busy life to hop online, write a comment, and cast a vote, I do offer the sincerest "Thank you."

And so, the lesson I've learned from becoming a "hot dad" is this: As a father, people are noticing even your smallest efforts. Your wife notices. Your neighbors notice. Your friends notice. And, rest assured, your kids notice most of all. What to me is a few moments jumping with my children on the trampoline or helping them learn to ride a bike without training wheels, is to my family the very thing that makes me a real "hottie" and the household hero. Of all the roles we strive to fulfill as men, none is more precious or valuable than those of husband and father. Succeed in every other area but fall short in these and, no matter what your bank account says or what title hangs on your door, you've failed. So keep all the other awards out there. In fact, you can keep hottest dad in Atlanta too, as long as I still get to be the hot dad in my own family. I may never be voted the hottest anything ever again, but that's okay. I don't need to hold some title that says I'm a great dad. I just need to strive each and every day to be worthy of the nomination.

A Dozen Years Down, A Lifetime to Go

2009-06-14T17:39:00.000-07:00

I once heard a story about a conversation God had with Adam right before He created Eve. "Adam," God said, "I can see you are lonely. Therefore, I'm going to make you a companion. She will be totally devoted to you. She will wait on your every need. Her whole existence will be centered on making you happy and fulfilled."

"Wow!" exclaimed Adam, "that's awesome!"

"Yes," said God, "but that's not all. She will also never criticize you. She will never try to tell you what to do. And she will never correct you or tell you what you should have done after you make a mistake. She'll always take your suggestions, and she'll never insist that you talk to her when you are tired or just want to be left alone."

"That's incredible!" responded Adam. "But, God, it sounds too good to be true. What is all this going to cost me?"

God paused for a moment, then said, "Adam, I'm not going to lie to you. It's expensive. It's going to cost you an arm and a leg."

"Ooooo," Adam replied. "That is expensive." Adam thought for a minute, then asked, "God, what can I get for a rib?"

I share that story because today Meredith and I celebrate our twelfth wedding anniversary. The years have sure flown by fast. In twelve years of marriage, Meredith and I have lived in two states, four cities, and seven homes. We've seen our best laid plans blow up in our faces, taken unexpected twists and turns, zigged when we should have zagged, and, at times, slipped temporarily into madness. We've lived through the pain and sorrow of three miscarriages, experienced the joy and blessing of three beautiful children, built friendships with people that mean the world to us, and owned one dog. Through highs, lows, career changes, family struggles, the death of old dreams, and the birth of new ones, Meredith and I have held on tight. We've laughed together, cried together, prayed together, and, on many occasions, fought rounds that made the "Thrilla in Manila" look like a game of patty-cake. Still, here we are: a dozen years down, a lifetime to go. Meredith is still my best friend. Even when she does things that leave me ranting unintelligibly or typing the words All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy over and over on my computer, there's still no one else I want to be with. She's still my "Little Rib." She's five-foot-four of sheer passion. (She'll try to tell you that she's 5'4'' and a half, but don't believe her.) There's not a smile on earth that compares to hers, and when she walks in the room, every other woman still pales in comparison in my eyes. Yep, I'm a lucky man. I'm an aluminum ring set with a diamond. I'm a discount beer that somehow wound up on display next to fine champagne. What did I get for a rib? Someone beyond my wildest dreams.

The fact that it is my anniversary got me thinking about how marriage changes once you have kids. Before children arrived, Meredith and I used to talk about movies, politics, current events, our future, religion, our jobs, and so on. Once we became parents, topics of conversation changed drastically. Where to find the best deal on diapers, the consistency of baby bowel movements, Sesame Street’s number of the day, and the state of Meredith’s nipples quickly became the dominant topics of conversation. Make no mistake, once you have children, conversations change drastically.

The concept of a social life also undergoes a major overhaul when you become parents. Before Meredith and I had children, we ate out often and usually hit a couple of movies every month. We actually hung out with friends. With kids, things are different. Going out suddenly becomes a major logistical operation. There are diaper bags, bibs, strollers, and hand wipes involved. There are windows of opportunity that must be considered. Take a baby or small child to a restaurant or store at the wrong time, and you invite a meltdown reminiscent of Chernobyl. Your "relaxing meal out" days are over. No more heading out to eat around 7pm. Now you find yourselves battling senior citizens for the best seats at places that offer early bird specials. In addition, the word buffet takes on a whole new meaning. Buffets mean no waiting. No waiting means less screaming, fewer meltdowns, shorter periods of scrutiny from bothered co-patrons, and less money spent on sedatives to calm your parental nerves. Golden Corral, CiCi’s Pizza, and Ryan’s become a parent’s Ruth’s Chris. They’re fast and as close to convenient as visiting a restaurant gets. If you’re lucky, you can be in and out before the kids ever realize that they’ve missed the opportunity to become a public spectacle.

As a dad, I’ve become a better tipper. Not that I have more money—in fact, just the opposite. But God bless anyone who has to clean up our table once the Howards leave a restaurant. Rarely do we depart an establishment without leaving the floor around our table riddled with Cheerios, food scraps, spilt milk, and broken, restaurant-issue crayons. I can just picture the soon-to-be-pitied bus boy crossing himself and kissing the crucifix around his neck the moment he sees our family escorted to a table. I feel his pain. I live with it at home. Therefore, I try to throw a few extra bucks on the table when we're done. To not do so would be more than inconsiderate, I’m convinced it would be a damnable sin. You just can’t do that to another human being and expect to still find a place in heaven.

One of the biggest areas affected by parenthood is sex. Before children, sex is an event. Women insist on foreplay. There’s romance. Often, there’s a date. You take your time. You connect. The house is all yours. If the headboard’s hitting the wall, who cares? It just means you’re having a good night. If one of you feels inclined to make loud animal noises, you go for it. If you want to don a cowboy hat and play a round of Marshall Dillon meets Miss Kitty, so what—it’s fun. You enjoy the experience. There are no boundaries.

With kids, sex is on a timer. Now your wife says things like, “If we’re gonna do it, we gotta do it now; the baby will wake up in twenty minutes.” It’s like playing a game of double-dutch jump rope; you have to jump in at the right time or you’ll miss your turn. Sexy lingerie gives way to flannel pajama pants and t-shirts that smell of spit-up. Banging and animal calls are muffled by sounds of “shhhhh, you’ll wake the kids!” Even the art of emotionally connecting is cast aside as your wife insists that you hurry up and finish so that she can get some sleep before someone has a nightmare or the next round of breastfeeding begins.

It is essential to remember, dads, that there is no room for male egos in the post-baby sexual scenario. You just have to accept the fact that, nine times out of ten, your wife’s mind is going to be somewhere else. You can’t let it bother you that the idea of a nap is far more likely to send her into a state of bliss than any sexual maneuver you might perform. Not to burst your bubble, but if she’s moaning, it’s probably because she just realized that she forgot to buy wipes at the store rather than because of anything you’re up to. Just suck it up, stud. Don’t let it get to you. You’ve still got it. It's just that she's too tired to want it right now.

But regardless of the changes, parenthood is an amazing blessing when shared by two people who love each other. Sure it totally turns your life upside down, but once you have kids, you realize that upside down is a lot more fun than what you had before. Our talks, social interactions, and romantic lives might be drastically different, but who really cares when you're sitting side-by-side clapping for your daughter at her first dance recital, yelling encouragement to your two-year-old tee baller as he beats the crap out of a tee with his bat (rarely, if ever, touching the ball), or chanting together "Whoop, there it is," after your toddler finally poops in the potty for the first time? Sure parenthood is exhausting sometimes, but when you finally get the kids down and have a moment to sit together amidst the scattered toys, topless markers, and half-eaten graham crackers, you realize that there is absolutely nothing more beautiful or important that you could do with your lives than to have and raise those amazing gifts from God you call your kids.

So let me use this week's post to say, "Thank you, Meredith." Thank you for choosing me, when you definitely could have chosen better. Thank you for trusting me with your heart and your future. Thank you for forgiving me for the times when I've forgotten just what you mean to me and have taken you for granted. Thank you for supporting me, loving me, and believing in me when I haven't believed in myself. And thank you for not killing me when you read this post and realize what I've shared about our personal lives. I would not have the incredible life that I have without you. You are my soul mate and closest friend. I will always love you and need you. Most of all, thank you for Emerson, William, and Carson. I don't know what most men feel like they got for a rib, but as for me, I got the only life I would ever want. Happy anniversary, Babe.

2009-06-08T07:53:00.000-07:00

Sorry Everyone, no new Dadlosophies this week. I'm taking a week off to focus on my book and spend extra time with the fam. Look for my NEXT POST MONDAY, JUNE 15th, first thing in the morning.

IF THIS IS YOUR FIRST VISIT, SIMPLY SCROLL DOWN TO READ ALL MY PREVIOUS DADLOSOPHIES!!!

Have a great Week!

Kindred

Little Bubba

2009-06-01T05:37:00.000-07:00

With the return of warm weather comes the chore of mowing my yard. I'm not overly concerned about how my yard looks. As long as the grass stays cut and the bushes are trimmed enough to keep the HOA gestapo satisfied, I'm happy. Once a year, I'll take a weekend to pull the weeds around my house and, perhaps, put down some new mulch. After that, this lawn boy's finished. Sleep easy all you lawn gurus who relish your Yard of the Month kudos and love to bask in the glory of your perfectly displayed flower beds. You'll get no competition from me. As long as I can be confident that the Vietcong aren't hiding in my backyard, I'm good.

Mowing the lawn is definitely a suburban 'daddy task.' If you live in the burbs and have kids, you haven't earned your wings until you've dawned a pair of dirty shoes, thrown on an old t-shirt, and cut the grass on a Saturday morning. I mention mowing my yard because this year marks the first time that my oldest son, William, has wanted to help me. William is one of my best buddies (his sister and brother being the other two). Since the day he was born, he's been my "Little Bubba." He's only 3 1/2 years old, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to help Dad with all the big jobs. He helps me carry out the trash. He'll help me put signs together for my part-time real estate business. And he often accompanies me when I have to inspect a property or show someone a house. I refer to him as my "junior partner." And now, you can add "assistant yard technician" to his list of prestigious titles. As I push my lawnmower along, cutting grass (and weeds), William follows twenty or thirty feet behind, his Fisher-Price lawnmower cranked on full power. Focused and proud--distracted only by the occasional insect or need to urinate--this lawn-manicuring mini-me doesn't miss a spot. He follows in daddy's footsteps, making sure the old man hasn't by-passed a single blade of grass. Like Dad, he wears his sunglasses. Like Dad, he stops half-way through to wipe his forehead, take off his shirt, and grab a quick gulp of cold water. Then, like the shirtless studs we are, William and I complete the task at hand before relaxing on the back patio to survey the terrain we've just conquered. "We did a good job, didn't we Daddy?" asks William. "Yep, Sport," I respond, "We sure did."

Because of William, mowing the yard has gone from a mere chore to a precious opportunity. It allows me to spend time with my son. It offers me the chance to make him feel important and help him feel what I already know is true: He's very special to his daddy, and there is no way his father could ever live without him.

I love my Little Bubba. The things he says and does are enough to keep me entertained continually. Take yesterday at church, for instance. We were in the middle of communion. The ushers were passing the trays. As William sat in Meredith's lap, he imitated me and took a little piece of the cracker that our church uses for bread. As he put it in his mouth, I heard Meredith whisper to him, "This represents the body of Jesus." William put the cracker in his mouth, got a confused look on his face, and then, turning to Meredith ,whispered back, "Jesus' body tastes like Saltines."

The more time I spend with William, the more I love him. But it is also sobering. I see how much he wants to be like me. He doesn't just imitate the way I take communion at church or how I go about mowing the yard. No, he wants to imitate everything. He truly is my mini-me. On one hand, such desire to be like "Dad" makes me feel great. It warms my heart to know that my son looks at me and sees a hero. I know that, one day, posters of sports figures and rock stars will cover the walls of his room instead of pictures he drew for dad at preschool. Sooner than I realize, dad will fall from the heights of "greatest guy ever" to "Dad, you're embarrassing me." I'll become the guy he begs for money and gets mad at for not letting him use the car, rather than the guy he wants to be two-steps behind no matter where I go.

That's all fine. That's the way life goes. I don't want to stop those times from coming, I just want to make sure I make the most of the stage William's at now. I won't get a "do over" with William, so I'd better make these days count. Equally important, I better be conscious of the example I'm setting for "mini-me." What is he learning when he sees how I treat his mom? What is he learning when he sees how I spend my time? Does he see a patient man or a temper? Does he see faith or worry? When he looks at his father, does he see a man who values people, or does he see a man who chases money?

One day, William will live his life largely based on how he's seen me live mine. If I'm too busy with work, chores, bills, and the daily concerns of life to enjoy a quick wrestling match or answer a million and one questions about why birds can fly but doggies can't, then there's a good chance he'll grow up to be just as "busy." I know I can't be a perfect father. I'll have to apologize a lot. But the greatest gift I think I can give my son is the gift of example. In particular, the gift of setting the right priorities. It's not enough to tell people that my kids are the most important thing to me; I have to make my children feel like they're the most important. That doesn't just go for Little Bubba, that goes for his sister, Emerson, and his brother, Carson, too.

One day, I might be replaced with other heroes, but for now, my wife and I are it. Plus, you never know; by pouring time and energy into making our kids feel special today, we dads might just find that long after the LeBron James and Rock'n'Roll posters come down, we've, at some point in our children's early adulthood, been re-elevated to the place of
"greatest guy ever."

Just Another Sunday Morning

2009-05-24T18:27:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday. Like most Sundays, this morning we went to church. As a Christian and someone who knows he has a lot to be grateful for, I want to make sure my family goes to church. I believe church is a place you go to worship God and give to others, not some religious club you drop by as if you're making God's day by showing up or doing Him a favor because you didn't sleep in on Sunday morning. I want my kids to grow up with the conviction that church is important, not as a religious duty, but as a gesture of love and faith. I want them to view church as a place where they go to focus their hearts and minds on Jesus Christ and to encourage other people. I don't want my kids to see church as a place where people go to critique sermons or pass judgment on whether or not the church is doing enough to make their attendance worthwhile. In short, I want my children to understand church the way I believe the Bible presents it: It's about a community of people who love and serve God and each other, not a place to catch up on gossip, judge people who aren't as "righteous", look down on other churches that do things differently, or get attitudes because someone had the audacity to make a decision you don't agree with.

All that being said, getting to church on Sunday mornings is, for our family, often difficult. Gone are the days when it was just Meredith and I. Before kids, we'd get up and enjoy a relaxing cup of coffee before getting dressed and heading out the door. No longer! Now getting to church by 10am is a logistical operation that requires D-day like planning. Quiet cups of coffee have been replaced by shots of caffeine quickly gulped down in between shouts of, "Finish your breakfast"; "Hurry and brush your teeth"; and "Get your hands out of the toilet!"

Of course, I'm just a field commander. The general in this weekly mission is my wife. After doing more than her fair share to get the Howard crowd up and moving in the morning (she makes the breakfasts, lays out the clothes, changes the baby, gets the kids out of bed, and so on), my wife starts delegating so that she can get herself ready for church. Like George S. Patton standing before an American flag, Meredith shouts directives with authoritative specificity: "Emerson, finish eating and get upstairs! William, outta those pee-pee drenched pull-ups! Carson, take Daddy's underwear off your head and put Mommy's tampons back in the box! Daddy, get 'em dressed while I'm in the shower! We're going to church, so move, move, move!" Then, like a dutiful soldier, I attempt to carry out my assignment.

The only problem is, the troops under my command don't possess the same appreciation for military discipline (nor fear of Mommy) that I do. While General Patton takes a shower and does her hair, I'm chasing naked fannies up and down the hall, desperately trying to apply diapers and Incredible Hulk underwear to my two boys. Meanwhile, my daughter drags herself down the hall at zombie-like speed moaning, "Daddy, I'm so tired," and "Daddy, why do we have to go to church?"

Finally, after cornering and clothing my sons, it's on to the teeth brushing. This is a delicate and often gross undertaking that takes time and experience to master. Standing my oldest son, William, on a stool in front of the mirror, I try to hold his chin with my left hand while attempting to brush his teeth with my right. Then commences a series of head-bobs and neck turns not seen since Muhammed Ali retired from boxing. For a while the head-bobs work, leading me to apply toothpaste to every part of William's face except his teeth. Finally, over shouts of "Daddy, no!" and "Daddy, my eye!" I finally insert the toothbrush into William's mouth. I barely touch a tooth before the entire upstairs rings with screams of, "I have to spit! I have to spit!" At last, I get paste to enamel and brush like there's no tomorrow. All the while, William stands in front of the mirror, foam running down his chin like a rabid dog. Once Cujo's done, it's on to Carson. Now I'm done play'n around. I pick little man up like a football and hold him tightly under my arm. Applying paste to his brush as he screams and kicks, I quickly brush his teeth too. I totally ignore his cries for mercy, my heart hardened by the naked fanny chase and Cujo's foaming.

Eventually, we get the kids and ourselves dressed and in the van. After buckling in the kids, Meredith situates herself and secures her to-go cup of coffee. I take a moment to get the nervous tic in my eye under control. Then the real fun begins: the 45 minute ride to church. Sure, there are closer churches, but the people we know and have a history with are at a church 45 minutes away. Plus, the Bible says that Christians are supposed to suffer. That being the case, what better way to affirm my religious devotion than a long ride in a mini-van with three small kids first thing on Sunday morning?

After nearly an hour of hearing Carson scream because he's dropped his milk and refereeing arguments between William and Emerson over whether or not William is a big boy or a baby, we finally arrive at church. Praying the communion planners have replaced the grape juice with actual wine, my wife and I herd our tiny Howards inside, do our best to keep them from getting restless through the first few hymns, and wait anxiously for the speaker to announce that the kids are, "dismissed to go to class." Then, along with about a hundred other parents who've been desperately awaiting the same green light, we rush our kids off to kids' church. When Emerson was a baby, it was hard to leave her in the nursery. It tore our hearts out to see her crying and reaching for us. We'd linger in the hall a few moments, then peek our heads around the corner to make sure she was okay. Now, it's almost like the drop box at Blockbuster. Just drop 'em and go! Get 'em in, and get out! If they're not dying, they're okay. Like prisoners let out of their cells for a few precious moments in the yard, we rush back to the sanctuary for some needed encouragement and adult fellowship. Repenting of the numerous curse words that crossed my mind and, perhaps, my lips earlier in the morning, I settle in for the preacher's sermon and to pray for strength to endure the ride home.

I have great kids. The trials of Sunday morning are just part of parenthood reality. Why do Meredith and I put ourselves through the ordeal of getting out the door to church every Sunday morning when we could stay home? Why do we opt for yet one more hectic morning in a week already packed with them? Because we believe God is real. We believe He created us and He loves us. And we believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and that he died for our sins (and trust me, I have a lot of sins). More than that, I want my kids to grow to believe it too. Is going to church the only way you teach my kids how much God loves them? No. In fact, it's probably not even the best way. The best way is to model God's love for them on a daily basis, showing them the same unconditional love and acceptance that God shows me. But I believe God teaches us about His love as we love and help each other. I believe the church is supposed to be the number one place where we see that love lived out.

I also believe that parents need help. What better place to find help and good role models for my kids than among people who sincerely love God and want to follow Christ? More than that, what better place for me to find the kind of friends who will help me be the man I need to be for my kids. I need to be around men who have faith. I need to be around men who are as serious about loving and being faithful to their wives as I am. And I need to be around men who are working just as hard as I am to raise kids who'll love God.

When all is said and done, it won't be the church that decides whether or not my kids become Christians, as much as it will be what they see in me. When my children look at me, will they see a religious hypocrite who just plays the church game, or will they see a man who finds peace and happiness, even in the tough times, because he really believes God loves him and will always be with him? Will they dismiss faith after seeing a man who merely allows religion to be a part of his life, or will they want to be like the father for whom God is the center of his life?

No, I don't go to church because I feel it's a requirement. I load up the ole mini-van and go each week because I know my family and I need it. So next Sunday, I'll chase the naked fannies and struggle to brush Muhammed Ali's teeth again. I'll make sure my kids are in church on Sundays. My hope is that my kids will believe God is real because their dad lives like He is. Church can't take the place of a sincere faith modeled by a father for his kids. But I hope that by making church a priority, I'll be better equipped to be that living model each and every day of my life.

Windows

2009-05-18T01:23:00.000-07:00

It's just after 4 a.m. I'm the only one in the house awake. I've found that I can get some of my best work done between four and seven in the morning. Of course, getting up at 4 a.m. usually means being in bed by 9 p.m. the night before. That's usually not a problem. My kids see to it that I'm pretty exhausted by that time anyway. Yes, I've become like one of those old people you see on the local news who, when asked how they've lived so long, responds that they go to bed every night at sunset and arise the next morning before dawn. Only I'm not as sure that my schedule will result in personal longevity. Right now, it's just a matter of survival. A starving man eats when he can, not when he wants. An ugly guy dates any girl who will go out with him, he doesn't hold out for a super model. (Unless he's a rock star or a multi-billionaire--just ask that really homely guy from The Cars who looks like he gave up being a cadaver to pursue his musical career.) And, to be sure, a dad can't sleep or work whenever he wants. No, you do it when you can. The best time for me to work? Start early before the little ones wake up. The best time to sleep? Whenever they do.

Having kids is like life on caffeine. It's active--fast-paced. If you only have one or two small children, there's a chance you might get them down for a nap at the same time and find at least a few moments of peace and quiet. But with three or more, peace and quiet happens almost as often as meeting Bigfoot or hearing Donald Trump talk about his feelings. With two you can play man-to-man defense. With three, you're a man down. Your kids have got a power play that lasts until someone goes to college. Forget scoring goals, you just don't want to fall too far behind. You and your wife just do what you can to hold it all together.

The epicenter of life's craziness is our house. Our oldest, Emerson, is only six, so none of our kids are old enough yet to just turn lose in the neighborhood. If they're not at school or a friends house, they're usually in the house or the backyard. All that kiddie energy is consistently unleashed within the confines of our humble abode. Sometimes, when I come home from work, I just sit for a moment in the driveway, staring in fear at the front door, not knowing what awaits me on the other side. Sometimes, I'll lean the seat back in my car and try to steal a fifteen minute nap before I go inside. But that can be risky. If your distraught wife who has been eagerly awaiting your arrival catches you sleeping in the car when she desperately needs you inside to help with the kids, you could find yourself on the receiving end of a verbal lashing and in real danger of physical harm. I've found it's safer if I pull into the parking lot at the community clubhouse for some quick Zs.

Eventually though, there's no getting around it, you have to go inside. Before we had kids, my wife used to greet me with words like, "Hi Honey, how was your day." Now "Thank God!" tends to be the standard welcome. Often, it's accompanied by a take your child or die expression that leads me to believe that, when she hasn't been chasing after the kids, my wife has spent much of the day thinking of ways to hurt me for giving her three kids, then leaving her alone with them while I escape to a world where people don't watch Sesame Street and grown-ups take showers before leaving the house.

Yes, our home is a different universe. It's a world where Cheerios crunch under every step. It's a place where even adult conversations revolve around topics like poo-poo, boo-boos, Spiderman, and Hannah Montana. Laundry multiplies like a virus, engulfing our home in a pandemic of dirty underwear, spit-up on shirts, and food-stained trousers. Toys seemingly drag themselves into the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, my bed... Shoes need marriage counseling, refusing to live in pairs even after you go through great lengths to find them and get them back together. Then there's the food: Half-eaten sandwiches left on the couch; Goldfish between the recliner cushions; partially-licked lollipops plastered to the kitchen table; and my son Carson's favorite game--Find my banana before it rots and stinks up the whole freak'n house! It's challenging, especially if you're a clean freak. In fact, if you're obsessive compulsive, it's enough to cause a conniption. It's especially tough when you have kids Carson's age. He wears and catapults as much food as he eats. Once, I walked into the kitchen to find a group of ants encircling his highchair, bowing before it, and chanting "We're not worthy, we're not worthy..."

It's a crazy world... a messy world... a challenging, and often sleepless world. But it's a world I'm glad to live in. As a parent, you just have to learn that life is about windows of opportunity. There are windows when you can work. There are windows when you can sleep. And there are windows when your wife might kill you if you don't realize it's time to take the kids and give her a break. But there are other windows as well. There are only certain periods in life when your kids will want to rush you, jump on you, and bombard you with "Daddy, play with me...," or, "Daddy, come see...," as soon as you walk in the door. One day soon, you won't hear yourself walking on Cheerios. One day soon, there will be no toys to avoid stepping on, shoes to match, or bananas to race against time in search of. Is it hard sometimes? Yep. Do you and your wife need those times when you take a few moments to let chaos reign so you can just sit together on the couch and talk to each other? Definitely. Does the occasional beer or glass of wine help? In my case, sure. But one day, you'll miss it. Like everything else, this stage of life is a window. So take it for what it is: the good, the challenging, and the exhausting. Enjoy it! Pretty soon, it'll be just too darn quiet behind that front door.

More Precious than Jewels

2009-05-10T18:27:00.000-07:00

Today is Mother's Day. It's a special day on which moms are deservedly praised for the incredible gifts of God that they are. After all, if it weren't for mom's wisdom and warnings, who knows how many of us would have run with scissors to our death, lived our lives disfigured with pupils that froze cross-eyed, or endured the emotional trauma of being pulled from the burning wreckage of a near-death accident, only to have it discovered that we weren't wearing clean underwear. It was mom who'd lie down in our beds at night to make us feel safe after a nightmare. It was mom who'd pick us up and comfort us after we fell and skinned our knee or scraped our elbow. And, of course, it was mom who intervened to make sure that dad didn't kill us when he arrived home from work to discover the car covered in graffiti or find the garage on fire. Who can count the number of times mom did her best to make a hamburger "just like" the one at McDonalds, only to be met with the thankless weeping of a small child yelling in anguish, "That doesn't look like a Big Mac!!!" Even today, as a forty-year-old man, I'm often accused of being a "mamma's boy." All I can say is, yes, I am! I do have a deep sense of loyalty and attachment to my mother. But what can I tell you, she earned it.

Now that I'm married and have kids, I get to appreciate mothers from a whole new perspective. As a kid, you have no idea how hard your mother worked or how much she really loved you. You simply enjoyed the end result of mom's love and affection. It's like going to a movie and watching the released cut. You sit there and enjoy your bucket of buttered popcorn, never giving a second thought to all of the behind-the-scenes work. You just have fun watching explosions, car chases, high-powered gun fights, and the occasional Jedi vs. Sith showdown. Of course, if you're married or have a girlfriend, you also have to watch more than your fair share of romantic chick-flicks, a number of which now qualify as torture under the Obama administration. But that's another topic for another time. The point is, you don't think about all the hours of editing, filming, writing, takes and retakes that the people making the movie endured. No, you just watch and critique the film.

When you're married to a mom, it's like being on the set. I see how hard Meredith works to make our house a great home. I've witnessed the late nights when every bone in her tired body is aching to go to bed, but instead she sits up hours after the kids have fallen asleep to make sure that the invitations to their party look just the way they hoped they would. I know how hard she works to pull off play dates, sleepovers, birthday parties, or just the daily efforts she makes to ensure that the kids feel special and loved. It may be many years before my children understand just how lucky they are to have Meredith for a mom, but rest assured, I'm well aware of it.

To tell you the truth, I just don't know how moms do it. I deeply love my children too. But there are times when I just can't take it anymore: the noise, the mess, the smells, the bodily fluids, and, worst of all, the sleep deprivation. Somehow, Meredith can go a whole week of being up all night and still keep on going. Deny me a good night's rest more than one or two nights in a row, and there's a real chance the police will find me running down the street naked at 5 a.m. yelling, "I'm Batman!!"

Let's face it, when it comes to parenting, women are just tougher. In fact, I have long held to the theory that if men had the babies, everyone would be an only child. Most guys would be arrogant enough to think that we could handle pregnancy once. But about the time we faced that first bout of morning sickness or noticed our ankles swelling up like softballs, we’d be begging God to kill us and swearing never again! While women suck it up and go, barely even complaining—only asking for the occasional back-rub or troubling us for the once-a-week late night run to the grocery store—we men would be reminding every soul within moaning distance of the walk through hell we were enduring. Let’s not even talk about contractions. Heck, if I eat a steak I’m in the bathroom groaning for twenty minutes. Second child? I think not. We men would have one kid, rush to get vasectomies faster than you can say "Supercuts," then gather at our favorite bar to outdo one another with labor stories rivaling our granddad’s account of the Korean War.

Every so often, it's good to have an experience that reminds you just how grateful you should be for your wife. This past week afforded me just such an opportunity. Meredith asked me if I would mind her taking off to Daytona Beach for a few days to hang out with a couple of friends. Knowing how hard Meredith works, I just couldn't say no. She departed last Monday morning, leaving me to play single dad for a few days. The experience was kind of like going off to boot camp at Paris Island. You know it won't be easy, but until you're actually being screamed at and denied rest as you try to master tasks you have absolutely no idea how to accomplish, you really can't understand what you're about to get into. I had to do it all: breakfasts, prepare lunches for school, tend to the baby's every need, make sure William got to his doctor's appointment, see to it Emerson didn't forget the gift for her friend's birthday party, handle dinner, bath times, housework, make sure the soccer uniforms were clean... and accomplish all of it while constantly being reminded, "That's not how Mommy does it."

Fortunately, my kids are pretty well behaved. But at ages six, three, and nineteen months, even well-behaved children are a handful. Throw in the occasional kiddie meltdown, and the week was, to say the least, challenging. It felt like a domestic version of Survivor, only with no hope of being voted off the island. Meredith finally came walking through the door four days later to find her unshowered, unshaven husband crouched defensively in a corner, the words "all work and no play make Jack a dull boy" running over and over again in my mind. Simultaneously, my children rushed across the toy-cluttered room to embrace her with a joy not seen since General MacArthur returned to liberate the Philippines.

That's not to say I didn't appreciate the week. In addition to making me very grateful for my wife, it also allowed me extra time with my kids. Emerson, God bless her, did what she could to help. She tutored me on how to handle many of Mommy's daily tasks. William and I got to play a few more games of basketball and wrestle more than usual. And Carson, well, I think he just enjoyed having Daddy around to play and climb on while we watched Barney on PBS. The fact is, I wouldn't trade the week for anything. I don't intend to ever let Meredith leave town again without taking either me or the kids with her, mind you; but still, I wouldn't trade the week.

The Bible says that a wife of noble character is more precious than jewels. I'd have to say that's true. Meredith is a great wife and an amazing mother. One day a year to honor her is certainly less than she deserves. Instead, I want to get better at reminding her daily just how much I appreciate and need her. As dads, we need to remember that one of the greatest gifts we can give our children is making sure they know how much we love and are grateful for their mommy. It takes more than words; it requires action. They need to see it in the way we help mommy, look at mommy, and how often we hug and kiss mommy. They need to hear it in the way we talk to mommy and in the things that we say. When we blow it, lose our temper, or treat mommy in a way that is hurtful, our kids need to hear us apologize and have a front row seat to witness our humility. Our sons are watching us to see how a man treats a woman. Our daughters are watching us to learn how they should expect to be treated one day as wives. The best way to make sure your little girl never marries a jerk? Show her daily that her mom certainly didn't settle for one. The best way to raise secure kids? Show them a loving marriage.

Yep, an awesome wife is more precious than jewels. So this Mother's Day, I hope we didn't just give our wives a nice gift and a day off. I hope that, in addition, we reminded them (and will remind them again, tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...) that they, themselves, are the gift that God has given us.

Re-Thinking the Meaning of Dad

2009-05-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

Parenthood is awesome! I wouldn't trade being a dad for anything in the world. It's an adventure. Not that the adventure always takes the turns you want it to. Parental life's a series of ups and downs. One minute your kids are saying and doing things that convince you they must be angels straight from heaven. The next they're saying and doing things that make you envious of species that eat their own young. Fatherhood's not easy, but I can tell you from experience, it's better than the alternative.

Being a dad is full of special moments. They're not the things that make for great headlines or that necessarily translate into interesting stories at parties. But, as a father, you understand that they're the moments God made life for. Take, for instance, this past weekend. William had his normal soccer game. This week, his team had a much-anticipated confrontation with the dreaded Purple People Eaters. If you ask me, a name like Purple People Eaters seems a little intense for three-year-old soccer. I guess their coach figured that if they couldn't beat the other teams, at least they could give them nightmares. Well, as I helped William get ready for the big game, I happened to mention that today he was going to face the Purple People Eaters. Immediately, I knew I'd said too much. His eyes grew wide with terror. His lip began to quiver. Then, despite his best efforts to muster his courage, he burst into tears and cried, "Daddy! Please don't make me see the purple peter eaters!" Biting my lip so as not to laugh, I quickly dropped to one knee, pulled my little man close, hugged him, and assured him that I was not about to send him off to be devoured by the "peter eaters." For a moment he just held on tight, squeezing my neck so hard that my head almost popped off my shoulders. A moment or two later, I had him laughing and relatively convinced that he was not going to encounter cannibals on the soccer field. It's doubtful that William will remember that moment very long. I'll never forget it.

The trick to fatherhood is learning to slow down so that you don't miss it. As dad's, we feel the pressure and responsibility of providing for our families. Our American culture drums into our male psyche pretty early that we are going to be judged by how much of a material success we're perceived to be. It's easy to find ourselves consumed with living up to the image of success that society has set for us. We end up chasing what the world around us tells us we need, rather than stepping back, surveying what's personally important to us, and setting our own course based on our own priorities. Before you know it, we've allowed the concerns of work, bills, planning for the future, and a whole host of other things to overflow and drown out the special, daily moments with our wives and kids that are just waiting to be enjoyed. Oh sure, we say that the most important thing to us is our family. But how often do we stop and listen to what our wives and kids are telling us they really need. If we're not careful, we'll find that we've used the old excuse of "providing for my family" to justify our own agenda at the expense of the very family we claim to be looking out for. We'll realize all too late that we've spent years pursuing our culture's image of a successful man, only to find that when we cross that desert, the oasis we thought we were headed for turned out to be a mirage. Tragically, for many dads, by the time they realize they've been chasing the wrong things, their wife has long since given up on intimacy and their kids are far too busy with college or their first job to notice that dad has finally figured it out.

I'm a freelance writer by profession. I'll write anything: professional memos, creative projects, biographies, you name it. I've even authored a number of social studies books used by public schools. But being a freelance writer means that if I ain't writing, I ain't getting paid. When I'm not writing for a client, my job is to find work! The upside is that I can work my own schedule. It allows me to spend time with my wife and kids. The downside is the insecurity that often accompanies self-employment. The scary part is, if I'm not on guard for it, I can become so focused on the downside that, before I know it, I've allowed all my worry and uncertainty to totally destroy the upside. What good is the time to spend with my wife and kids if I'm too anxious to enjoy it? The bottom line is, I don't want to be so focused on trying to provide my kids with all the material things I think they're going to need in the future that I neglect to give them all of the time, energy, and encouragement they need from me today. I don't want to look back and find that I missed all the little moments I could have been laughing with, playing with, drawing with, and reading to my kids because, mentally or physically, I was somewhere else.

Last Friday night, I was feeling those pangs of anxiety. I was nearing the end of a writing contract and realizing that my next decent payday was well over a month away. "I should get on the computer and start running down some leads," I thought. I heard Meredith and the kids in the backyard. Emerson and William were arguing over a lone watergun that they both wanted to play with. Suddenly, I got an idea. I remembered a couple of all-but-forgotten super soakers in the garage. As William and Emerson continued to play tug-of-war (Meredith was looking after Carson and too tired to play referree) I bolted through the door, both guns blazing! Little munchkins were scattered in every direction, screaming as dad doused them with water. The screams quickly turned to laughter and, before you knew it, I had allowed William and Emerson to wrestle the guns away and turn them on me. In moments, a water fight had broken out that soaked the whole family. About a half hour later, we made our way inside, dripping water all over the floor as we headed upstairs to dry off and get the kids ready for bed. As I tucked Emerson into bed that night, she looked up at me with a huge smile and said, "Daddy, this sure was a fun night." I smiled and kissed her. "Yes, Sugarbear," I said, "It sure was."

I still don't know who my next big client will be. I still have college educations, monthly bills, a mortgage, and a long list of other things I could choose to worry about. But, at the end of the day, I know that twenty years from now, I won't care about most of the things that, today, battle to dominate my thoughts and schedule. I will, however, think about that water fight and smile. Even more important, so will my children. So maybe it's time we re-think the meaning of Dad. Yes, we are providers. But what should we be most concerned with providing? Sure, do your best to take care of all of the financial responsibilities that come with parenting. But never ever forget, your kids need you there to assure them that no "purple peter eater" can mess with them while dad's around. And be assured, there's a water fight with your name on it waiting to be fought in the backyard.

Where Cheerios and Goldfish Go to Die!

2009-04-27T05:51:00.001-07:00

I have a mini-van. That's not surprising given that I have three small kids. The fact of the matter is, once you have a third child, you have to drive a mini-van. Parents with one or two kids can possibly get away with an SUV or a sedan. But once number three rolls around, it's mini-van or bust. Don't even think about trying to have a cool ride. Cool is no longer an option in your life. Practicality has beaten it into submission. That's why you see dads wearing some of the most ungodly combinations of clothing imaginable. It's not that we woke up one day and suddenly thought black dress socks look awesome with a pair of striped bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that reads, "Back Hair Makes Better Luv'n". No, we just don't care anymore. If its kinda clean, doesn't smell too bad, and is within arms length, then screw it! That's the day's ensemble. It's practical. It gets the job done. And that, my friend, is all we have the time or energy for. In the same way, when you have small kids, you don't enjoy the luxury of worrying about how you look driving a car. You're only concern is survival. Just get there! Thus, mini-vans are an essential part of multi-kid world. They keep travel manageable. They get the fam from A to B.

My mini-van is the Bermuda Triangle of baby stuff. Baby stuff goes in, but it doesn't come out! It's the place where Cheerios and Goldfish go to die. Some are eaten. Most are lost forever in the abyss of my kids car seats or the darkness of a world that exists below the mats of my floorboard. The UN could feed a small Vietnamese village with the Cheerios hibernating within the crevices of my van. In fact, there are probably several breakfast cereals that consider my vehicle a sacred burial ground. I think a few of them even require an annual pilgrimage. Not to mention the toys that haven't been seen since the early days of the Bush administration; the aroma of souring milk trapped in sippy-cups yet unfound; partially consumed juice boxes; discarded lollipops stuck to the back of the driver's seat; dried snot rags that actually crack when touched; and things so disgusting that you would have offered the gross kid in elementary school a dollar to lick them.

While the mini-van is certainly key to parental survival on a day-to-day basis, it takes on a whole new meaning during the course of a long trip. It's a blessing and curse. Vans make the trip possible. You just can't expect to make long drives in a cramped car with small kids. Oh, you could try it. But most insurance plans don't cover the drugs and therapy needed afterwards. On the other hand, long trips in a mini-van also mean being trapped in a tube with squirming, impatient little people for hours on end. As a father, nothing screams "VASECTOMY" quite like seven hours of screaming, crying, and whining over who ate the last graham cracker or who is touching who when the first who doesn't want to be touched by the second who. Throw in a flailing one-year-old who's pooped in his diaper and is mad as hell because he's dropped his cookie in the one spot neither parent can reach, and you've got a real funfest on your hands.

I write this post one day after returning from just such a trip. My wife, Meredith, and I loaded the kids into the "Bermuda Triangle" last Friday and drove over six hours to Charleston, SC. It was a worthwhile cause; my cousin, Benjamin, was getting married. Still, worthwhile or not, fourteen hours in a van for a visit that lasted less than forty-eight hours was, to say the least, challenging. I won't say that six plus hours in a van with anxious children is the equivalent of hell, but it's close enough to scare you into wanting to be a better Christian. We were only an hour or so into the drive when cries of, "Daddy, William called me a butt crack!" and "Daddy, Emerson called me a poopy head!" began ringing from the back seat. That's when, as a father, you find yourself yelling some of the dumbest stuff you've ever said in your life. Phrases like "William, your sister is not a butt crack!" actually passed my lips. In addition, I think I issued a decree that no one in the family is allowed to ever talk again, ever touch anyone else in the family again, or ever compare another family member to a part of the human anatomy again. At one point, out of utter frustration, I yelled something that, quite honestly, was unintelligible even to me. Finally, with nerves fried, drool running down my chin, and the words, "Go to your happy place, Kindred; Go to your happy place...." running over and over again in my mind, we reached our destination.

The weekend then proceeded to be packed with all the normal wedding stuff. Friday night we got the kids dressed and headed off to the rehearsal dinner. While most attending adults conversated and enjoyed the social atmosphere of the evening, those of us with small kids looked like a local police force concerned with riot control. We chose a spot in one corner of the room, then formed a perimeter. As far as anything that happened inside the perimeter, as long as there was no blood and no cracking sounds, we let it go. But the minute one of the midgets tried to break our line of defense, boom! We tossed their little butt right back into the mix. Occassionally, one of the munchkins made a successful break for it. It's always a touching moment when the father of the groom is trying to deliver a toast to the happy couple while you run by in front of him chasing a three-year-old who's yelling "I have to pee, I have to pee!" Even more challenging is trying to corral said three-year-old with one hand while holding your very much wanted (and arguably needed) beer in the other.

The next day was the wedding. Meredith took our crying one-year-old outside. I remained with William and Emerson. Emerson was interested in the wedding. William chose the Lord's prayer to announce that he was bored and to ask if my cousin and his bride were ever going to be done getting married. Then it was off to the reception. Once again, we parents formed our perimeter. Again, there was the occassional prison break. On one occassion I had to pull my youngest, Carson, out of the wishing fountain. Somewhere in the midst of the craziness, I managed to drink three Scotch and waters: one for each child.

On Sunday, it was back in the car and back on the road. More whining, more flailing, more nerve-rattled babbling from dad. The trip did have a lot of nice moments though. After all, I dearly love my family and my kids, despite the challenges they often throw at me, are great. We had fun at the beach. I dug holes with my sons (no real objective, just dig). I jumped over breaking waves holding hands with Emerson (seeing her have fun and laugh made the trip all wothwhile in and of itself). I got to see Mom and Dad dance together two days before their forty-sixth wedding anniversary. And on the drive home, we took an hour to play giant checkers at Cracker Barrell and have a nice meal.

Are trips challenging? Oh yeah! Do I sometimes feel embarassed by the state of my mini-van, dreading to see what long-lost object or missing body might fall out when some poor, unfortunate teacher opens the door in car-line at my daughter's school? You bet. But I'm grateful for the little people in my life who make the mini-van necessary. I try to remember that for every petrified Cheerio and funky odor that calls my vehicle home, there's a multitude of special moments I've already experienced with my kids, and I pray there will be countless more. So we'll keep driving the "Bermuda Triangle," struggling to keep perspective and remain grateful. After all, there's a lot of people out there who would gladly trade their Lexus for the love and memories found in one, messy mini-van.

Pacers Look Better Over Time

2009-04-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

A couple of months before I turned sixteen, my father came home and surprised me with the news that every teenage boy longs to hear. "Come with me, son," he said, "let's go check out the car I just bought you." YES! My own car! I couldn't believe it. Already I enjoyed the advantage of being a few months older than most of my friends. I'd be getting my license before any of the other guys. Now, thanks to dad's unexpected benevolence, I would have a car. I was psyched! "No stopping me now," I thought. Life is sweet!

After allowing dad a few minutes to dump the jacket and tie he'd worn to work, my father and I piled into his car and headed off to claim my prize. I don't remember much of what we talked about on the way. I'm sure he was probably lecturing me on the responsibilities of owning a car and bombarding me with the importance of driver safety. But all I heard was "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah..." My mind was already fastforwarding to me and the guys cruising up and down Fayetteville Street. Finally, my days of standing at the mall exit, pathetically waiting for my mom or one of my friend's parents to pick me up were over. No more watching every girl I remotely liked climb into an older guy's car and head off for a night of dating fun while I headed home or to a friend's house to play ping-pong. Nope, soon it would be my time. Unleash the testosterone! Let the good times roll!

A short time later, we pulled up to a house I'd never been to before. It was then that my heart fell to the floorboard of my dad's car. There, in front of the house, with a big SOLD sign on the windshield, was a freshley washed, shiney red, Pacer. I don't know if you're aware of what a Pacer looks like. But picture a giant, pregnant rollerskate, and you've pretty much nailed it. Not only that, but the thing is 90% glass. If you don't want to drive it, you can just park it out back and use it as a greenhouse. It's also round. I swear on my life, it's a round car! "God help me if I ever flip it," I mumbled, "the thing will roll through four counties before it finally stops."

"Well, what do you think?" Dad asked. I didn't know what to say. I was torn. On one hand, I appreciated dad's willingness to buy me a car. On the other, I was horrified. I could feel the icey grip of high school celibacy tightening around me. Cold, clammy sweat poured out of my adolescent body. Everything in me wanted to yell, "What do I think? I'll tell you what I think! I think you've insured that I'll never have sex! I think the only girls who'll be seen with me are the ones who wear head gear and pluck their unibrow for special occassions! I think that once word of this gets out, my soon-to-be ex-friends will exhaust themselves finding ways to make my life a living hell! And I think that the moment I drive up to Asheboro High School in this thing, kids in the band will kick my ass!" Despite my inner panic, I bit my lip, kept my emotions in check, and forced a subdued "Thanks, Dad."

For two weeks I drove the Pacer; or, as my friends came to call it, the "eternally-a-virgin mobile." Since I only had a learner's permit, Dad was beside me most of the time. He kept giving me pointers and showering me with directions. But all I could think was how I looked like I was driving a fish bowl. Look everybody, it's the boy in the plastic bubble! Finally, the humiliation became too much. I got up my courage and told my dad that I just couldn't drive the Pacer. To my dad's credit, he was pretty cool about it. I guess he remembered how precious cool points are when you're sixteen. You don't have money. Your reputation is the only currency you've got. He sold the car and, after my birthday, I bought my brother's old clunker for $350.

To this day, I would love to know what the guy who okayed the Pacer was thinking. Think about it. At some point, some high-paid exec in Detroit looked at the first Pacer that rolled off the line and thought, "Oh yeah, that baby'll sell!"

But I digress. The point I want to make is this: Time greatly changes your perspective. When I was a teenager, all I saw was an ugly car. Now that I'm a grown man, I don't look back and see my dad's failed attempt to buy me a cool automobile. All I really think about is how much he loved me and cared to want to give me what he thought I wanted. I once heard it said that almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. Other than that, intentions don't get you very far. But you know what, when it comes to fatherhood, that's not necessarily true. Intentions might not carry the day at the time. But as the years pass, kids see less and less of whatever went wrong, upset them, or caused them embarassment, and a whole lot more of the love and intention behind the parental gesture. So keep on giving dads. We might not always get it right. If you're like me, your cool points were exhausted long ago. We'll likely fall short as we try to relate to our kids. Perhaps our efforts to spend time with them or take an active part in their lives will even seem, at times, embarassing or like a nuisance. But hang in there. Your best efforts might look like a Pacer today. But one day, they'll be an important reminder to your kids of how much you've always loved them and just how lucky they are to have you for a dad. So thanks for the car, Pop! And this time, I really mean it.