Some Assembly Required... Noooooooo!

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

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)

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

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?

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

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

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.