Choosing Number Four

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

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

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.

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

Divas in Munchkinland

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

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.

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

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