A Brief Reaction to Newtown, CT

This...this evil...is unfathomable. Children, as pure as the freshly fallen snow...I am certain that this quakes the foundations of all man, as we have been forced to be witness to the iniquity of the wicked and darkened souls.  

But, in these moments, we, as a world, are allowed the brief and rare opportunity to manifest, simultaneously, within each of us the ability to love unconditionally.  That feeling...that lump you have in your chest right now...is proof that you know love for another human being...Children whom you have never met; complete strangers. And right now, at this moment, every person who has seen or heard of these dark acts, is sharing that feeling with you. Regardless of your faith, politics, background, race, sexuality; your love for those children is evident by your feeling of sorrow and your heart is burdened that this kind of evil could exist.

Unfortunately for us, however, this unity is brief and fleeting. And even more unfortunate, is that it takes the destruction of the innocent before we afford ourselves the capacity to see what is truly the way: Love for one another. Over the next few days, the hardened hearts will rear their ugly heads and start the arguments and begin hating each other and the other's ideas about how this could have been prevented and who is to blame and what will be done to stop this in the future. But don't let them fade the knowledge that we all love the same. Hate is conditioned. But love, which we all felt today, is instinctual and natural.

I long with great anticipation the chance to squeeze my children a little tighter than normal. And I can only hope that I can bring more love into their lives every day...

Hug It Out Like A Man!

There is, for all parents, a deep longing for hugs from our children that is hard to describe.  It's more than just a physical contact.  And, perhaps, a hug is different to a dad than it is to a mom.  But regardless of gender, the need is still there.

But there is a transformation that happens in us men long before parenthood that puts us psychologically at odds with the embrace.  For when we were small boys, we clinched our parents out of instinct.  We clamored to our mothers and fathers because we felt inclined to seek out their comfort; A scary dream, a bad bike wreck, a fight with a sibling.  And a father's hug is even more powerful.  Not only does it offer solace, but there is a strength to it that allows for a sense of protection, as if whatever caused us to look for him will now be prevented from happening ever again.   As we grow and mature, though, our fears and pains are still prevalent, but we try to hide these self-perceived "weaknesses" and we stop seeking out the soothing and protective arm wraps, especially from our fathers.  Young men, especially teenagers, are trying so desperately to convince our dads that we are independent males, that we mask our suffering and try to fool the adults in our lives that we can handle this alone.

There are three hugs that I remember receiving from my elders that are more prominent in my memories more than any other: 

The first is any and all embraces from my grandfather, Ralph, on my mom's side.  Now matter how cool you try to be, he will track you down and give you the hardest, longest, and most loving hug that you've ever known.  And when he eventually breaks away, he leans back, grabs both your shoulders, and gives the warmest and most genuine smile in the world.  Pure love. After my wife first met him, she looked at me and said, "Man, that guy can hug!"

The second was from my neighbor in Mexico.  Señora Rivera was an Eighty-something that lived in the row house directly next to mine.  After I first moved in, she took a particular interest in me and my immersion into the local culture.  She helped me build my vocabulary, assisted me in navigating through a foreign grocery store (which, I've found is more important than knowing how to ask for the restroom.  People in any language know when you need to use the restroom.  There is, however, no known "Froot Loop Dance"), and she even taught me some amazing authentic recipes (to which, I believe my wife is eternally grateful).  When it was time for me to move away, she looked at me proudly and was a little choked up.  I wanted to show her that her lessons were not wasted, so I decided to use some Spanish.  I tried to dig from my memory the word for "hug," but couldn't remember it exactly.  I remembered her telling me that a lot of Spanish word sound a lot like English in root form.  So, I conjugated quickly a verb in my head that sounded like "embrace." I extended my arms and loudly proclaimed, "Embarazarme!"  Horrified, she took a step back and looked at me cautiously.  And then, after a second, she started laughing hysterically.  "No, no, no!  ABRAZARME!" Apparently, I, in very poor Spanish, had asked her to "impregnate me."

The third hug I remember most was the day I left for the Army.  My mom and dad waited with me in the morning for my recruiter to come to pick me up.  My dad and I were always close, but not "hugging close." And after my bag was loaded up, I stepped up for the tearful goodbyes.  My mom was a typical mother; crying and smiling and squeezing.  And then my dad stepped in.  It was the biggest, strongest hug I could remember him ever giving.  It was a "dad hug."  The kind of hug that lingers with you.   Since then, embraces have become regular and expected.

I had never understood the desire of hugs myself.  It was a violation of my personal space.  It was touching and intimate and it was odd.  When I offered a hug to someone, it was taken eagerly, because the recipient knew that I didn't often give them willingly.  Hugs were, for all intents and purposes, awkward and uncomfortable.

But then, I became a father.

There is a moment for all fathers that we feel that first hug from an infant.  And it is beautifully new with each individual child that enters our life.  Their head cradled on your shoulder, your cheek nuzzling the top of their head, one arm supporting their weight and the other tapping soothingly on their back.  And then you feel it.  The tiny little fingers grab on to your shirt and pull you in a little tighter.  They may not even realize they are doing it.  But they are...and you know it.  It's at that moment that you realize what your role is...Comforter, protector, provider, fixer....

And it becomes an addictive drug that you want more of.  But unlike any illicit substance, you never build up a tolerance.  Each one is just as powerful as the last.  Unfortunately, though, they will eventually get to point when they stop seeking you out for comfort.  They avoid the contact in public.  You find yourself acting like Pookie in "New Jack City," shaking and twitching and exclaiming, "It be calling me, man!  I just got to go to it!"

But, someday, they will need you...A broken heart, a frightening accident, a fall from grace...And when they do, all you can do is reach out and squeeze. 

Until then, you may have to do what I do:  Hunt them down and bear-hold them like Lenny from "Of Mice and Men" and wait for the kicking and screaming to stop as they realize you won't let them down until they squeeze back...Hey, a hug is a hug!

This Old House

I've had an idea for a project in my home for quite some time.  It's a unique spin on disguising a mounted flat-screen television and a media credenza underneath.  I've got all the schematics, measurements, and steps plotted out.  But, on my latest trip to Home Depot, I came to the sad conclusion that this awesome "would-definitely-be-pinned-by-my-wife" project would have to wait.  You see, with the economy in the state that it has been, gas prices climbing over the summer, and the Eco-friendly legislature that has recently passed, the price of lumber has climbed to new highs.  And frankly, I just can not justify spending that much money on building something as unnecessary as an entertainment center.  But then, I came to the genius conclusion:  Perhaps, I could just eliminate other things that are even more unnecessary and re-purpose the wood from those things into my project. 

So, I have begun creating a list of things in my home that are made from wood and never used.

1.  Bathroom Doors - With a wife and children, the concept of privacy is lost.  These doors have really become decoration and a place behind which to stash the last little bit of clutter before guests arrive.  I've decided that with two bathrooms in the house, they would provide about 60% of the material needed for my project.  And, frankly, when I do actually shut the door, it is only a matter of time before there are knocks and squeals coming from the other side, along with tiny little fingers poking underneath while the handle jiggles.  Someday, I'm sure, they'll finally figure out that I'm not actually doing anything in there, but, rather, just taking a break from the constant barrage of questions, demands, and abuse.  And, to be clear, I mean abuse from the kids, not my wife (She would beat me senseless if I implied to the public that she physically abused me).  Let's face it, as parents, we love our kids unconditionally.  We try to be friends with our kids; playing with them, talking to them, listening to them.  But our kids could care less.  What kind of friend would walk into your bedroom and dump milk right in the middle of your mattress and walk out?  They are mean, rude selfish little people.  Children are the world's worst roommates.  They break your stuff, eat your food, never pick up after themselves, expect rides every where and barge in on you when you're trying to use the bathroom.  But we love them.  And, so, there is very little we can do except just take the abuse and try to find a small hiding place for twenty minutes at a time. 

2.  The Kid's Dresser Drawers - These things are not pointless.  And they are used.  I know they are, because I distinctly remember placing the clothes into the drawers.  But, it seems that a poltergeist has taken over my children's rooms.  If I were to spend an entire weekend reorganizing the drawers and ensuring that every article of clothing is folded perfectly and placed exactly where it belongs, it wouldn't seem to matter.  Twenty minutes after I am finished, the clothes somehow end up strewn about the floor and hanging out of the drawers.  It's as if the furniture piece was out all night on a sweater and t-shirt bender and is now waking up in a pool of it's own sick.  "I promise, I'll never do that again!  I'm going to be clean and sober for ever!  I'm so sorry!"  And, just like the good little enabler that I am, I clean it all up and tell the dresser that everything will be okay and that it's not his fault; that he was just made that way.  The very next day, however, he's right back into his shenanigans and I can hear the retching and the sickly plop of pajama bottoms and blue jeans all through the night.  So, why not an intervention?  And, by "intervention," I mean, "Why not just chop it up into tiny pieces and use it for good instead of evil."

3.  Cribs and Toddler Beds - While they may look sweet and can really tie the room together, these are probably the most unnecessary items in the house.  I have slept through until morning in James' bed more times than he has.  Seriously.  There have been many a nights when I will fall asleep in his bed while putting him down, only to wake up in the morning by myself.  I will, of course, find him on my side of our bed with his head on my pillow and his drool on my pillow case while being snuggled by his mother.  Honestly, though, I can say that those have been the best nights of sleep I've gotten in the last three years.  Probably, because, I am not awoken by tiny feet tap dancing on my trachea and tiny fists pounding me in the kidneys periodically throughout the night.  I've actually slept in a raccoon's den with hot dogs in my pants before (Don't ask.  It's a long story) and woke up with less physical damage to my body than that little guy provides me on a nightly basis.

4.  The Dining Room Table - Let's face it, a dining room is just a glorified "junk drawer."  If there is a flat surface anywhere in this room, it is probably covered with junk mail and half-finished "projects."  The real dining room is the living room.  My wife and I even have little chairs that are the perfect height for little people to sit at the coffee table to eat their food.  In fact, they are even designing coffee table sets with actual stools that can nest underneath them.

It's as if the manufacturers have hired real-world parents of little children to design their product for practical daily use.  I'm sure it will only be a matter of time before they will come with tiny forks and spoons to make the "family room picnic" complete.


So, I believe that by cutting out these "unnecessary" pieces from my house, I could easily provide the materials needed to build the entertainment center.  And this thought process has kick started other money saving "re-purposing" techniques.  I wonder how my wife would feel about using the soles of her shoes that she hasn't worn since we met as material to re-shingle the garage roof?  Keep your eyes on Pintrest for that little project.  Or maybe the local news.  We'll have to wait and see...

The Tale of a Grade School Cynic

Over the past, I don't know, say 15-18 years, I have been struggling to find a reason for my overwhelming sense of cynicism, self-degradation and low self-esteem; up and down in emotions, regardless of circumstances, and always expecting the worst from myself.  But when I actually come out ahead, it's usually followed by a feeling of grandeur, as if my great mind had willed it so.  I have used this feeling to create distance in relationships and friendships,  walk away from careers, and create a wall to everyone who would attempt to get to know me.  But, don't cry for me, Argentina.  I have also been able to use this strange and powerful brooding to develop myself into, not only a semi-functioning adult with no sense of direction or real depth, but also a hard-nosed jerk that tends to rub people into a weird feeling of alienation and then feels deep, deep sorrow when he finally realizes how poorly he showed in that particular situation.  I am a self-loathing, tragedy-seeking fool with an unending supply of pessimism, sarcasm, neurotic behavior and paranoia.  Simply put, I am Woody Allen, but without all the social graces, good looks or the comedic genius. 

Identifying my own personality has never been the problem.  I've been trying, rather, to figure out when and why I developed this behavior.  Up until recently, I have been able to recall moments in junior high and high school where I exhibited these traits.  But still, no reason.  But this weekend, I realized something deeply soul-shaking and eye-opening about myself: I have always been, since I was first able to communicate, this exact same way.

This weekend, I was cleaning out some old boxes that my mother had dropped off at my house.  Anxious to "de-clutter" our bedroom, I started sorting through the barrage of crap that I had no inclination to hold on to for obvious reasons. (I mean, my old 5th grade science essay, really?  Do I need to prove to future generations that I was a C+ student?  At best?) But then I found a folder containing a slew of writing assignments from 1st - 3rd grade.  And, as I started reading, I slowly began to realize that nothing had happened to me.  I've always been this way!  A tragedian from the start, I wrote some horribly concerning things that, if written today in 3rd grade, would be cause for a meeting with the school representatives, parents and probably some counselors.  But, being that it was the 80's, I was apparently "just another kid."

So, I submit to you, for your entertainment and your crude and personal judgement against me as a person, some samplings from Daddy J as a small child, anxious to begin a writing career that would cause J.D. Salinger, Stephen King, and John Steinbeck to stop and say,"Dude, that's kind of messed up..."

This first story is written in 3rd grade.  We were asked to take part in a collection of short stories.  I submitted "Leprechaun."

Also, in 3rd Grade, we wrote in our daily journals.  Apparently, on this day, I was extremely salty with my mom.

Titled "My Mom is Great"

"My mom is great at yelling.  My mom is great at hitting.  My mom is great at telling me to clean my room.

(song)

Mom! Mom!  You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With words.
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me.

You bake some gross food, you drop the dishes too,
You iron my new shirt and burn a hole right through.

Mom! Mom! You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With your words
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me.

You wake up Erin in the middle of the night
Just turn out the light
Why don't you fix your tuna casserole and scare everyone away, Mom.

Mom! Mom! You're so mean
Mom! Mom! You're not clean
With words
Mom! Mom! You're great at killing me
I'd rather not live with you."

(NOTE:  You can take your hand away from your mouth now, because the very next entry in my journal was about how much I love my mom and all the things I was going to get her for her birthday...Also, my mom was not great at hitting and cursing...She was ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT at it!  Just kidding.  She was a great mother who embraced me with warmth, compassion and support growing up, and she still does to this day.  As I said, I must have been having a "Terrible, Horrible, Not-Good, Very Bad Day.")

But it started even earlier than that.  In 1st grade, I wrote a small novella entitled "Two Fat Cows."

"This is a fat cow with a fat little cow.  The little cow went far from home that he couldn't find his way home.  So he called the police and his mother called the police too.  And his mother was so nervous that she hung up on the police.  The little cow was so nervous that he hung up on the police.  So, they never seen each other again.  THE END"

And there are so many more little pieces of paper out of my "Big Chief" tablet detailing my disdain for fire drills and how I wished that they were real, or how I could never be a Speech Therapist because "I don't speak right," or about the souvenir poster of Billy the Kid's Funeral Announcement that I picked up from the Pony Express Trip in St. Joseph.  After reading these (and laughing hysterically with my wife for the rest of the day), I came to the conclusion, that I am not a victim of some odd circumstance that created a down-trodden and emotionally cursed man from years of misfortunes or a poor environment.  I was made this way!  I have, since my earliest years, been a mildly off-balanced individual with a sick yearning for sadness, poor life choices and dreariness.  I have been the "Fat Little Cow" and "Pat the Leprechaun" and various other characters from my youthful attempts at story-telling throughout my 32 years. I still seek tragedy, subconsciously, and go through my days expecting terrible outcomes every day.  And knowing that I have never changed frightens the neurotic side of me, but, at the same time, satisfies the individual in me. 

Perhaps, though, that is why I strive to be such an involved and present dad and husband.  Because, even with all my fears, preoccupations and anxieties about failing, they are always there to give me the validation that I am a success through their constant love and support.

Gasping Dad

I've come to the conclusion that I will explode soon.  I don't mean emotionally, mentally or financially.  I don't mean, "If you can't get in touch with me, blow me up on facebook."  I mean literally, I am going to explode, with little pieces of Daddy J debris flying through the air. 

"Why?" you may ask. 

You see, as a parent of a small child, it is imperative to teach them day to day functions through repetition and routine.  And, as the parent of a stubborn child, it is imperative to make everything that they don't want to do seem like something that they do want to do.  And that requires trickery.

I know my parents tricked me.  But usually by making me the butt of a joke.  I don't ever recall a point in which they got me to do something, like take a bath, and as I sat in the middle of the Mr. Bubble deluge, thinking, "Hang on a sec!"  No, instead, they would get me to believe things that were completely outrageous and cause me to think, "Either, this is going to be really cool, or I am REALLY dumb."  For example, I remember a time when Dad had put a new stereo in his work truck.  It was the eighties, and I was about 6 or 7.  I had never seen a digital tape deck before then.  It was complete with green illuminated back lighting and smooth turning volume and tuning nobs.  It even beeped as you punched your selection into the number pad that held the stations in it's memory.  Memory!  To me, it was if he had stolen a piece of the USS Enterprise and installed it into his beat-up Silverado.  Anything was possible with this wonderful piece of technological advancement.  So, of course, I didn't think anything of it when Dad started shouting "Change!" at the dash and the stereo would automatically change stations.  It was voice operated!  Amazing!  So, after he demonstrated the unique capabilities of his new stereo, he jumped out of the truck to run into the hardware store real quick.  While he was gone, I sat there in the truck, shouting "Change!" at the truck, but to no avail.  Years later, when I started driving, I finally discovered the SCAN button that is on every digital car stereo...

I don't trick my kids this way.  Mainly, because I don't want them to grow up with the same sense of low self-esteem that I did from years of realizing that I was an idiot for believing crap like that.  I, instead, will trick my kids into thinking something that see as terrible is actually fun and exciting.  Like, bed time, for example.  James, for the most part, hates bed time. And when Gina says, "It's time for bed," he usually protests with angry tears.  In my childhood, that would have been countered with, "Too bad."  But instead, I have turned into the "Gasping Dad."  Gasping Dad is the guy that takes a giant inhale after the suggestion from the mom of anything that the child won't want to do. 

Gina:  James, it's time for bed.

James:  No!

Me:  (Gasps) We're going to bed?!?  Alright!

Gasping Dad works for just about anything.

"(Gasps) You get to take a bath?  Alright!"
"(Gasps)  You get to eat brocolli?  Alright!"
"(Gasps)  You get to sit on the potty? Alright!"

And every time Gasping Dad makes his appearance, the task in usually completed with minimal or no conflict.  Baths are taken, food is eaten, and beds are slept in.

But, simply because of the sheer amount of things that James hates to do, I spend most of my time sucking in giant gasps of air to convice him otherwise.  By the end of the day, my body is holding more air than an tractor tire.  And this will be what ultimately will cause me to explode...Or, at the very least, light headed and dizzy.

Zoom, Zoom

My wife's car is a pigsty.  All the time.  I can spend hours at the car wash; vacuuming, wiping, shampooing and tossing out trash to give her a clean, organized car.  But within three hours, it will, once again, be cluttered with papers, coffee mugs, toys, and countless other types of litter.  I've often imagined a day when I call A&E and have them conduct a special "Car Hoarders" episode.  In the episode, family members (me) would, in front of the cameras, hold an intervention, full of tears and sobbing the phrase, "You need help!"  To which, my wife would defiantly reply, "I don't have a problem!  I NEED all this stuff in my car!"  And I'm sure that at the end of the episode, across the black screen in courier font, the update would read, "Since the taping of the episode, Gina was able to successfully keep her car clutter free for 48 hours.  But after two days, she relapsed and started hoarding once again.  Justin has begun crying himself to sleep in the garage every night, wondering how it could all be possible..."

And the worst situation, as a man, is when I swap vehicles with her for the day.  My car, for the most part, is fairly "trash-free."  My front seat is passenger ready at any given time, and my trunk is clear and able to haul any grocery store conquest on a moment's notice.  But (and any man can relate) if you give a wife/mother your car for an afternoon, it will come back to you in her own state of chaotic ruins.  It drives us insane.  What did you do today that would constitute leaving this much clutter and junk all over my car? 

It's that question, though, that we never really think about the answer to.  "What did you do today?"  There is a reason why there is everything in your car.  Because they just spent the day doing everything.  I wake up, go to work, drink a cup of coffee on the way, take my cup inside with me, and come home in the evening.  My day's activities involving my car are limited.  My wife, on the other hand, has an average day that goes like this:  Wake up, get the kids fed, get them dressed, load the diaper bag, gather up toys for car ride, take a quick shower, run out the door, drop off at day care, run and pay a bill, grab a McCafe from the drive-thru, work half the day, run home to let the dog out and grab a bite to eat as she runs back out the door, go pay more bills, run copies at front office, go back to her office, meet with youth group kids, run back home to let dog out again, Sonic "Happy Hour,"pick up from daycare, run to the store, collect permission slips for youth group trip, go home and make dinner.  And that's not even including the "at-home" activities.

I don't always remember how much my wife does throughout each day...every day...all day long.  But with all that she executes, there is bound to be some residual clutter left over in her car.  And I have to remind myself that sometimes.  She is an amazing woman.  And if she needs me to clean out her car for her from time to time, that is the least that I can do for her. 

Now, if only I could get her to find some connection between my strong work ethic and the fact that I leave my wet towels on the bedroom floor...

Hit the Road, Jack!

The summer family road trip! A rich family tradition that has been ingrained in the hearts of the American family for nearly 100 years. But, like all traditions, it has been diluted over the last few generations. The rapid advancement of technology over the last 15 years has somewhat tarnished the amazing experience that is a family vacation.




The greatest part of the road trips from my youth was the invention of games. There were no real video games to speak of (a black and white Game Boy with approximately 20 minutes of battery life), and the idea of TVs in cars was something you would only see in JR Ewing's limousine. So, it was up to our own vivid imagination (along with Mom's and Dad's own influences) to create games that could be used to occupy hours upon hours of road time. They always started out wildly creative. Like, the "cow game." You would each count the amount of cows that pass your respective side of the car. If you passed a cemetery on your side, you would start back at zero. And, then, the creativity would start to slow down. Next, came "Car Nintendo." In this game, each person on the car would close one eye, focus on a bug spot on the windshield, and move their head back and forth to move the image of the splattered insect, weaving in and out of the dashed lines on the highway. The only problem with "Car Nintendo" is that, as other travellers pass on the highway, they catch a glimpse of a car full of people with one eye closed, bobbing back and forth, mouths gaped open and ridiculous, delirious laughter...A car full of morons... After that excitement had settled down, the game would change to something a little more simple. This round was usually determined by where you were seated. Growing up, we had the awesome, wood-paneled station wagon. And, being the middle child, but the youngest boy, I would usually end up in the back. For my brothers and sister, it was "The Alphabet Game." But, for me, it would usually end up being a game of "Staring Blankly at Truckers for Thirty Minutes." Such a sad place, the back of the station wagon, all alone. I could hear the laughter of everyone in front as they played "License Plate Bingo," as I sat in the back, reenacting "Being Born" to the family that was stuck behind us in a construction zone. That's where you pull your t-shirt over your head and pull your arms in and pretend that you are a baby, breaching the neck hole of your shirt...So, Mom, THAT'S how all my shirts became so stretched out...




The music of a road trip usually was determined by the person driving. No MP3 players, no laptops....Just the turn dial AM/FM radio that was usually static as you passed along the countryside. And the majority of the songs we heard were the sweet melodies of tunes like, "Get Back Over On Your Side!" and "Why Do I Always Have To Sit On the Hump?" or "We Just Stopped! Why Didn't You Go To The Bathroom Then?" Usually, when it was Dad driving, it was the the classic song, "Wind Whipping Through The Little Triangle Window Because The A/C Eats Up Gas Mileage."




I pass by the minivans on the road today and see the DVD screens in headrests and the headphones jacked in. It's amazing, the docile nature of children in vehicles today; comatose zombies watching Yo Gabba Gabba on a 4.5" screen, slurping down a GoGurt and the parents just humming along to satellite radio with a happy little smile on their face. I couldn't imagine the parents in these cars ever having to hold on to the steering wheel with one hand, keeping one eye on the road while the other eye is in the rear-view mirror and the other hand is frantically trying to find the nearest child to spank. My parents could have been stunt drivers for the movies. They were not just good at punishing us locally...They decided to take their show on the road. And the other parents on the highway never looked at them with disgust. In fact, I saw one guy pass us during one of mom's "High-Speed Spankings." He just looked over with beady eyes and clinched teeth, and I swear I could make out the words "Get 'Em!" pass across his slightly upward pointed lips. And there was an art form to it. Each of my parents had their own style of backseat discipline. My mom was more of a "Mohammed Ali" or "Joe Frazier;" quick, precise movements. Dad, on the other hand, had the wide, broad, powerful sweeps like Butterbean or Foreman. Now, before you even try to judge my parents, you have to know this: We were terrible little kids. We would pinch each other, hit each other, throw each other over the bench and toss each other's toys out of the car window. The day we got the station wagon, we became worse, because we could escape the flying hands of rage by clamouring to the back of the wagon, where our shenanigans would continue.




And we could ride in the back of the station wagon, because there were no seat belt enforcement laws. I always found that the best place to sleep in the car is in the back window, being kissed by the sunlight. I actually saw a child's neck pillow for sale in store recently. A neck pillow! Whatever happened to just sitting on the floor of the car, and laying your head down on the seat. Seat belts were just those things that could launch popsicle sticks like torpedoes and what you would have to cram back into the seats when you were trying to fit for than four people into the backseat.




And now, you can see a lot of the Highway Patrol "Motorist Assist" vehicles on the road. These are the units that scour the freeways, looking for broken down travellers to help. You'll see the officers hunched over, grappling with lug nuts to change a flat as the driver looks on. How are kid supposed to enjoy the exciting entertainment of watching their father change a flat in the pouring rain and swearing under his breath while simultaneously avoiding the the barrage of oncoming interstate traffic and yelling at the children as they make faces at him through the windows?




So, this summer, if you are planning a road trip, do your kids a favor: Plan the entire trip "unplugged." Remove the DVD players, leave the MP3 players at home and ditch the video games. In fact, un-suction the GPS from the dash and get lost and then argue about it. Make the conscience decision to enjoy and hate each other's company all at the same time...like a real family...

James' Anatomy

A Conversation with my Two Year Old, James.  Well, he is babbling and I try to decipher it as best as I can...


Me:  What are you doing, buddy?

James:  I'm building something out of Legos...

Me:  That's cool...What are you making?

James:  A heart...

Me:  Awww!  That's sweet!  Who are you making it for? Mommy?

James:  No.  For Clifford.

Me:  Your stuffed animal, Clifford the Big Red Dog?

James:  Yep.  You see, Clifford's large size has caused his enlarged heart to wear out at an early age.  I am creating a new artificial heart that, with proper and routine maintenance, will actually last longer than the average dog's heart.

Me:  Wow!  That's impressive...Wait, where did get the steak knife?

James:  It's a scalpel...And how did you think I wad going to complete a successful transplant?  Now, I am making a four inch horizontal incision along the sternum ...

Me:  I don't think you should be doing this...

James: Quiet in my OR!  If you distract me, we could lose him!

Me:  I'm sorry, I just think you might be playing-

James:  BP is dropping! We're losing stuffing! Get me some cotton, stat! ...You will not die on me today, Clifford! Do you hear me? Don't you dare die on me!

Me: James, you're making a mess!  There's stuffing everywhere!

James: I'm almost there...Got it!...Vital signs are levelling off...Back to normal...Welcome back, Clifford...

Me:  I knew this day would come, but I had thought it was something else to play "doctor."

James:  Doctor?  Surgeon, please...Now, close him up.  I've got a 3:15 tee time to get to...

Me:  I think you've watched too much "Grey's Anatomy" with your mother...

James the Super Hero

Corpus call-"awesome"!

(NOTE:  I had an amazing post about Father's Day all lined up a few days ago, but then, just as I was ready to hit the "post" button, my system rebooted unexpectedly and I lost everything.  And with all the commotion in my home, I could not even begin to think of rebuilding the train of thought I was on.  Suffice it to say, I was pampered with a trip to an amusement park with my kids and wife and it was a spectacular Father's Day. 

So, I missed posting about Dad's Day...Oh, well...Frankly, I am so awesome in my home, that every day is Father's Day, anyways...)

I have always known something about marriage, but I have to, every so often, put myself into a situation to reaffirm that I have been right all this time.  Men are not allowed to make decision regarding home decor, whatsoever.  Never.  We can be "included" in the decision making process. Meaning, we will be given an opportunity to voice our opinion about three predetermined choices.  Our opinion is heard, but very seldom is in the right one.  But, we are never allowed to make decisions alone and unsupervised. 

And this is not a negative thing about women.  It's the whole corpus callosum thing.  The corpus callosum is the tissue that separates the two hemispheres of the brain.  It allows communication between the two sides.  Science has shown that men have a thinner corpus callosum and women's are wider.  The wider the corpus callosum, the more "cross-talk" that can happen between the two sides.  This is a scientific explanation for "women's intuition."  This also is why women are able to multi-task and make emotional connections to things that men would seem to see as only inanimate objects.

For example, if a man is walking through a store and sees, let's say, a candle, and he likes the way the candle looks and smells, he will buy the candle.  That's because he sees what he likes and assumes that if he likes it, his wife will like it, too.  Our thin corpus callosum doesn't relay the emotional connection of "wife" to the non-emotional connection of "candle."  A woman, however, will have to think about every possible way that the candle will change her existence as a person before making the $7.99 purchase.  The decision to buy a candle could last days, weeks, or even possibly months.  She will send pictures to her mom and friends to get their input.  It has to "speak" to her personally.  And if the man buys the candle, his wife will most likely not agree with desicion.  Not only because it was the wrong candle to begin with, but also because he made the decision without her and that turns the purchase of a simple, centuries-long form of lighting into an emotional runaway train ride that stops peridocially at phrases like, "Don't you know me at all?" and "You never really pay attention to me, do you?," and "Can't you see what I've been trying to do in this house for the last year?"

And it's the last one that, I believe, really hits it on the head.  Women's wide corpus callosum allows them to, essentially, see into the future.  They can plan fifteen months in advance for the redecoration of one room.  All the way down to the tiniest details of candle selection.  Every single thing that they do will eventually cause the room to come full circle.  Men cannot do this.  That's why, when I was single, every piece of furniture in my apartment was completely mismatched.  I had a pea-green dresser in my bedroom!  But, when I saw it, I thought, "Hmmm...I need a dresser...and it's free...Yep, I'll take it!"  (And I must say that the green really complimented the Burgundy chester I had already procured from the old neighbor who didn't want to move it.) 

So, men, the next time you are strolling solo down the picture frame aisle at Target (And you know you will...It's impossible to not be hypnotized by their selection of frames), and you see a brushed nickel frame in a sunburst design and you think, "She said we needed a mirror for the hallway," just walk on by.  The possibility that you can randomly pick the one thing that she had in mind for that one particular spot in that one specific room is a million to one.  And if you do, by chance, happen to succeed in your decision, run out immediately and buy a lotto ticket...or a cigar and a 30 year old scotch, because you'll want to celebrate that impossible feat like real man!

I want it now!

I've become extremely selfish since kids and marriage.  Ask any man in that phase of their life and they will probably tell you the same.  And it they don't, they are lying to you.  All married men with children are selfish.  But you would never know it by looking at them.  That's because we are so giving.  Confused, yet?  Let me explain.

As husbands and fathers, we men spend our days giving and doing and buying and thinking for our families.  We will spend an hour untangling the string on a yo-yo.  We have taken countless trips to the store for feminine hygiene products.  We will sit and listen for what seems like hours to pointless stories that have no bearing on our survival as a person, whatsoever.  But, when we are by ourselves, in independent cirmustances, we will suck every opportunity for what It's worth.

But because of our aforementioned duties, we have learned to do it stealthily.

For instance, my wife and I eat ice cream together almost every night.  It's our "mini-date" for the evening.  I've always scooped the ice cream into the bowls, because my wife says that I make "perfect balls."  And I don't have any problem with it...regardless of how long or hard I've worked, whether or not I'm ill, or even if I have a physical ailment that prevents normal mobility...I always do it.  Because I'm a great husband, and that's what we do.  What she has never known, though, is that as I'm scooping in the kitchen, I always put more in my bowl.  It's just my little way to think of myself ahead of others.

Have you ever seen that guy at a store or the movies or any service industry setting at all?  You know, the guy with the wedding ring on, and no self-awareness of his terrible selection in clothing (dads have given up creating any real sense of style) and the heavy amount of grey hair for only being in his early thirties?  He is the first person that will completely lose his mind when something goes awry with his order.  He can't help it!  He spends every waking moment trying to please everyone in his life that he cannot hold himself back when it's his time to be served.

So, the next time you ladies see your man taking all of the unbroken Doritos out of the bag, leaving nothing but the little cool ranch flavored shards that can only be eaten out of the palm your hand, quietly let him have it.  And when he starts to raise his voice to the flight attendant because Sprite is NOT Sierra Mist, just look the other way.  And on the occasion that he puts only his clothes in the first load of laundry and leaves yours in a finely separated pile in the corner of the bedroom, knowing there may not be any chance of finishing yours by day's end...Okay, I'll admit...That's just being a jerk...

"Buffalo Dan"

It's cute when kids get to the point in their speech development when they begin repeating phrases that you continually say.  You can really see who they are taking after, mom or dad, as these little phrases begin to reflect their personality.  Yesterday, my son, James, said "Crap!"at the dinner table after my wife had realized that she forgotten to finish something for work.  My daughter, Ana started saying "Oh, come on!  Really?"  after having spent a lot of morning traffic sessions with me in the car. 

But, sometimes, these can cause a lot of concern in the eyes of people from the outside looking in. 

When my oldest, Danny, was about two years old, he was really picking up phrases really well.  He could repeat whole blocks of dialogue from his favorite movies and sing entire songs.  These of course, were from constant repetition.  Another thing that he would hear repeatedly, from the time he was born, was something I would say after bath time.  While drying him off and doing the after-bath lotion rub down, I would always say, in my best, creepy Ted Levine voice, "It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again."  I know, I know...That's just wrong.  But at the time, I thought it was kind of funny.  For over two years, I would do this almost every day.  Until, one day....

The apartment complex that my ex-wife and I lived in at the time was always full of the in and out residents.  Almost every night, we could hear music, laughing and the occasional domestic fight.  One particular night, it seems that the downstairs neighbor had had enough of her other-half's shenanigans. There was a lot of screaming and apparently he started bleeding at one point.  The next morning, as I was getting Danny ready for the day, there was a loud knock on the door.  I stopped what I was doing and opened the door to two uniformed police officers. 

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, sir.  We were called last night to a domestic dispute downstairs.  We are asking all the neighbors if they heard anything that might help shed some light."

"Honestly, Officer, I can't think of -"

And that's when it happened.  Danny comes running from out of the hallway, completely naked, lotion bottle in hand.  He looks right at the police and says, in that little kid voice, "It puts lotion on skin, or else it gets hose again."

"What did he just say?"  The two officers looked at each other, and then back at me with an eyebrow raised.

I couldn't help but start laughing nervously (And those of you who know me personally know how creepy I look when I laugh nervously) "Oh - That?  He...Ha!...He's just being silly!"

At this pont, Danny has approached the officers, extending the bottle out to them, saying louder and angrier "It puts lotion on skin!  It does this whenever it's told!"

The only thing that could have made this even worse is if Q Lazzarus' "Goodbye Horses" was playing in the backgroud and Danny had a mouth full of poorly applied lipstick...I just looked at the officers (who at this point had begun smirking), dropped my head, and closed the door.

I sometimes wonder if "speech therapy" is really a term used for the therapy that parents require while their kids develop speech...

Fun With Numbers

A converstaion with James, my two year old...Okay.  Really, he just babbles and I translate it into English...

James:  ...Okay, carry the 7...and divide by...

Me:  What are you working on?

James:  Just finishing some statistics.

Me:  Statistics? About what?

James:  Just odd things that I've noticed.

Me:  Such as?

James:  Such as....Were you aware that 73.23% of your day at home is spent with a talking animal of some sort on the TV?

Me:  Really?

James:  Yep. And also that 4 out of 7 of my nap times are actually spent awake, making shadow puppets on the wall that resemble various objects that share the shape of an arm? Like a snake or an eel or the Washington monument or an arm....

Me:  What?

James:  Oh, here's a fun one! 26.29% of the people that meet you think that you smell like rice pudding.

Me:  I can't remember the last time I even had rice pudding!

James:  Hmmm. I would definitely check into that...And 33.33% of your children don't think you're funny....

Me:  Who?

James:  I'm just reporting the facts...This one is fairly odd. When asked, the average baby in this house would rather eat a dead skunk's back thigh than to ever eat that stuff you try to pass off as tuna noodle casserole...(mouthing words) It's really bad...

Me: That's weird. Your mom says it's bad too...

James: How interesting! Because I have also learned that 97.87% of the time, Mom is right and you are wrong.

Me: Well, here's a statistic for you, Baby Einstein. 50% of the people in this room have poop in their pants.

James: ...That's just mean

Dumb and Dumber

I firmly believe that parents maintain a slow decent into stupidity.  As your kids get older and learn more, the dumber your own thoughts become.  Perhaps this is why teenagers believe emphatically that their parents are "so dumb."  Because they are so dumb.  Because YOU made them that way!  Over sixteen years, the task of raising you has sucked any possibility of logical and rational thoughts from their brain. 

Before children, I read novels.  I went to museums.  I enjoyed independent films and music.  I used to watch the History Channel and offer deep insight during debates about U.S. foreign policies...
But, over the last ten years, my reading list has removed the classics such as "Great Expectations," "Of Mice and Men," and "Dirty Jokes and Beer" (It's still funny even after watching Drew Carey's professional self-destruction by hosting The Price Is Right).  And in their stead, I have been reduced to anything published by Scholastic.  The closest thing I've come to as far as an art museum since my oldest was born is the display of scribbles on any piece of paper that little hands can reach in my house.  Which makes it difficult to conduct any personal business at all.  "Yes, sir, my insurance policy number is 581ZA-duck-pony-sailboat...(deep sigh)...I'll have to call you back..."  And the only music or movies I enjoy during waking hours of the day involve talking animals or cars or shoes or houses or really just about anything that shouldn't talk.  The only news broadcast that I have the pleasure of hearing is the weather.  And that's only to know how to dress the kids for the day. 

And, so, it is only natural that we will slowly digress into childish thinking.  Words escape us.   Logic is incomprehensible.  Even our taste in food slides backwards.  I have gotten to the point where Froot Loops are my preferred breakfast cereal in the morning.  And with this devolution, I have caught myself thinking the dumbest thoughts I've ever thought.  Thoughts that I would have had when I was still very young and developing.  It's endearing in a small child.  But it's frightening in adults. 

Let me explain.  Today, while I was driving to pick the kids up from school, I passed a restaurant. And immediately upon reading the name, I thought to myself, "That sounds either extremely disgusting, or fantastically delicious." And I continued to dwell on this for about two blocks before I realized that "Spin! Neapolitan Pizza" probably didn't mean "chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla pizza." Seriously, that was a sincere thought that entertained my brain for more than five minutes.

As you look back at your own parents and some of the things they did or said, just remember...You made them that way.  Did you ever catch your dad grilling hot dogs, wearing nothing but a bath robe and a pair of boots in the middle of winter?  Perhaps, he was diminished to that level from the years of the insufferable Barney.  Remember the time that you saw your mom putting scratch'n'sniff Rainbow Bright stickers on the wall of the coat closet?  Ever hear them talk about the rise of the Ottoman Empire and how comfortable it must have been?  That's all you, baby!  Not enough proof?  Think back to your mid-twenties.  Were your parents not so much more normal once you had been out of the house for a few years.  Of course!  They had time to re-mature back into adults.

So, don't fret.  Even though you catch yourself looking at Nickelodeon as a major television network or hear yourself saying "I like to fill my bathtub with gumballs and pretend that it's a race car," just know that soon, in the next few years, you too will be able to become a fully-functioning member of society again.

Happy Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day; the day we designate for the women in our lives who have given us life, or life to those whom we hold dear.  And even though this blog is about being a husband and a father, I think it's important to pay tribute to the moms.  Because without them, we men would not be fathers...or sons...or anything for that matter...We would LITERALLY be nothing without the moms of the world...In fact, I dare to say, that without my mother, I wouldn't be where I am today...

So, to make this Mother's Day special, I have decided to bring in a "guest blogger."  My two year old, James, has been bugging me over and over to have a crack at a post, and I figured what better day than this.  So, without further ado, I am proud to release this Daddy J and Baby J exclusive:


Let me start by saying, I love my dad.  He's funny and hard working and has blessed me with his intimidatingly handsome looks.  But, he's no mom.  I mean, he tries...He really does...But there's somethings that only Mom can do. 


I poop my pants.  A lot.  I've maintained my amateur status thus far, but only because I prefer to stay true to the art and not get sucked into the commercialism of the pros.  And no matter what I eat, and no matter how much it has "peculated," Dad cannot control his gagging.  Every time he changes me, it's as if he's never seen poop before.  "Oh, Sweet Humberto!  Bah!  It's so bad!  I think I can taste it.  It's smell is so terrible that I can feel it moving through my skull and melting my eyes from the inside!"...What a drama queen...Mom, on the other hand, keeps me honest to my wok by keeping a stone face, no matter what I throw at her.  Not only is she my biggest critic, she's also my biggest fan.  "Good Job!" she will always exclaim every time she unfastens the adhesive strips covering Elmo's face.  (And, for all the parents out there, just remember:  Dirty diapers are like the New Radicals song..."You always get what you give.")


And Mom cooks better than Dad.  Well, it's not that  Dad's culinary skills are poor.  It's just the SAME THING day after day.  I know when he says that he's cooking, I can count on spaghetti, mac 'n' cheese, or chicken nuggets.  And even though I love those things, a little variety would be nice.  But trying something new is not Dad's strongest point.  A creature of habit, Dad is more predictable that a third-season episode of the A-Team.  My mom is always willing to try something new.  She's constantly buying cookbooks, re-pinning recipes and watching Food Network for ideas.  And the crock-pot!  When that crock-pot gets fired up, I'm like Pavlov's dog; just slobbering all over the house.  They should change the name to "Crack-Pot," because I just can't stop eating anything she makes in that thing. 


But, the biggest difference between the two is my mom's ability to put me down to sleep.  Dad creates shadow puppets, has my stuffed animals talking to each other and makes funny faces while we're laying down.  I wish he would get the hint that all of that is fun, but it's not going to get me to sleep any faster.  Mom can get me down in no time, flat.  She sings me to sleep with the "Hail, Mary!" song.  She caresses my face and hair.  She kisses me gently.  And, let me tell you, there is nothing more soothing than the feeling that you are truly and sweetly loved, eternally.  How could you not fall asleep to that?  I mean, when you know that someone is there, making sure that you are always taken care of and would do anything to keep you happy and safe, it's the most relaxing thing in the world.

I love my dad, but I am forever a "Mama's Boy."  I will never love anyone the way that I love you, Mom.  And I can't wait to show you everything that you have taught me as I grow up.  I'm going to make you as proud of me as I am of you.  And, when you get really old, I'll even change your diaper without gagging...Happy Mother's Day, Mama!

- James "Mijjy" Sallman

Date Night!

I look forward to my little "date nights" with my wife.  A quiet dinner alone, a movie, an afternoon at the museum...Anything as an escape from the day to day life.

But, even though we call them "dates," they're not really the same as the dates we used to have.  For instance, we used to be that couple that would annoy the wait staff at a restaurant.  "Oh, we're sorry!  We've just been sitting here talking for twenty minutes and haven't even picked up the menu..."  Now, we have heard almost everything that we have to say.  And, frankly, we are just so excited to eat a meal without the usual child interruptions (spilled chocolate milk, arguments about who gets to use what color crayon to help the "pirate through the maze to find the treasure chest full of chicken nuggets," or the littlest one with the constant desire to move from the high chair to the "big boy chair" and back).  We just want to get our food and eat in silence.  Newly dating couples want someone to talk to because they are always alone, and married couples just want a meal where everyone will just shut the hell up.  And, of course, to people who are not married in the restaurant, we sound like we are fighting.  But in reality, that's just how married couples learn to communicate; in loud, quick statements. 

"Get the shrimp!  'Cause I'm getting the steak!" 
"I am getting the shrimp!"
"Okay!"

And what we do is also so different from when we were dating.  Movie selection is not as compromising as it once was.  I used to walk into a chick flick without hesitation while holding her hand.  From our courting process to even early into our marriage, I saw "Sex and The City," "Valentine's Day," and "He's Just Not That Into You."  She also went to see "Smoking Aces," "True Grit" and "Shoot 'Em Up."  We didn't care what we saw just as long as we were together.  Going to the movie now takes too much time and preparation to plead your case on why your selection is better that theirs.  It seems now we don't go to the movies as much, anyways.  Probably, because we don't want to sit alone in different theatres...

Movies are an easy date for married couples with children, though.  Two hours, in and out.  Get home, pay the babysitter, put them to bed, date's over.  Time is a huge factor.  You can't go to anything over two hours, for fear that the babysitter will call with the message that a child is sick...or the dog is on fire...or that the police were very polite.  So, that eliminates a lot of concerts, amusement parks, and dancing at night clubs (however, that last one is completely okay with Gina after she witnessed my latest performance on "Just Dance" for the Wii.  It's nice to be able to see what you look like while dancing to Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold" before taking it out to dance floor).

Really, anything without kids can turn into your own little mini-date.  The fifteen minutes alone before they wake up as you drink a cup of coffee together.  The three minutes that they are in the bathroom and you can hold hands on the sofa.  Or the twenty seconds that you get when your kids are "hiding" behind the curtain in the next room while you just look at each other with a half-delirious, half-numb gaze.  Basically, any period of time at all without the children in the room with your spouse is a "date."  Or at least you have to tell yourselves that, or else you may go months without having one.

It's not that I don't love my kids.  I love them unconditionally.  I would jump in front of a bullet for them.  And they love me and my wife just as much as we love them.  They just don't realize that the way that they show it is really annoying!  And it destroys our stability a little bit each day, every day, all day long.  And, so, if you don't take little, tiny breaks from them, you'll eventually snap.  You'll have that moment when your six year old daughter won't eat dinner and you'll explode into saying, "You will eat what I made!  Because eating is one of the basic fundamentals of living.  So, if you don't eat, you will die!  And I am not explaining to SRS that you died because you don't like red peppers in your spaghetti! They will put me in jail!"

So, tonight, is date night with Gina.  As is every night after the tiny people in our house fall asleep.  And our date night is:  ice cream, a syndicated episode of the office, and her falling asleep on my lap as I play "Angry Birds."  And I know what you're thinking: "You could cut the romance in the air with a knife..."  But I love our married "date" nights even more than our dating years.  Because, unlike those dates, I know that I don't have to worry about screwing up and her never calling again.  I  will always have a girl who will call me.  And that makes me the luckiest "dater" I know.

The Most Embarrassing Story From My Childhood

When I was seven years old, my family took the all-American road trip from Kansas City to Disneyland in California.  My parents loaded up the beige station wagon's luggage rack, piled in all four kids, and we set out west.  It was the Sallman's own personal "Manifest Destiny."  It was to be a magical trip.  They routed the trip carefully, in order to see as many sights and visit as many family and friends as possible. 

(NOTE:  There are endless amounts of stories and anecdotes that came from this trip.  But for the sake of this particular post, I am going to focus on one particular leg of the trip.)

On our way through the the Southwest, we stopped in Phoenix to visit my dad's friend and his family.  It became a bit of a pit stop for us, and it was a welcome change from sleeping in the back of the station wagon or on the ground at some random roadside campsite.  And the family was very hospitable to the large number that was invading their home. 

During our stay, the patriarch of the house invited us out to a nearby forest to explore some local caves.  I remember being excited, as I had just begun a rock collection and knew I could round up some interesting additions to my newly formed habit.  We crawled in through a tight opening and once in we were able to stand and explore.  It was very exciting for a seven year old.  But the cold air, and the road trip food and walking around apparently hit me all at once.  As we exited the cave, the rest of the group went to start a fire and prepare a meal for the night.  I, however, needed to find a clear place to squat to relieve the agony that was brewing inside of me. 

I grabbed my dad and asked "Where should I go poop?"

"Oh, well, come here," he proudly proclaimed.  We trekked up the wooded hill about twenty yards and found a tree that forked low to the ground.  As we approached the tree, he found a smooth, long, flat rock and wedged it in tree's fork.  "There," he gleamed.  "Just drop 'trou' and sit on the rock like it's a bench and hang your butt off the other side," and continued down the hill again.

Now, remember, I'm seven when this happening.  I have reached the age where there is actually shame.  Until age six, little boys have no problem using anything as a personal toilet.  Why, just the day, I saw a little kid get out of a car in a parking lot and pee on a light post that was on the main aisle of the shopping center.  He just smiled and waived at all the honking cars.  His mom came out of the store just as he was finishing, screaming "What the hell is the matter with you?!?"   But after age six, we begin to process what is acceptable or not, and are easily embarrassed when we are caught doing these things in public.

I began studying the rock.  I pushed on it to make sure it wouldn't fall.  I checked the angle of the tree to ensure that no dropping could fall onto me or my clothes.  I even licked my finger and tested the direction and speed of the wind to make sure that I didn't catch any back splash.  After playing every scenario of embarrassment through my head, I took a deep breath, pulled my pants down and hoisted myself onto the rock.  A cringe of terror took hold of me for a second as the rock settled into place under the weight of my 65 pound frame.  But then, to my amazement, I began taking care of business.   The realization of the phrase "nature's call" rushed over me as I felt like one with the wild...A caveman.  A undomesticated, feral beast.  I almost began howling in delight with my small white butt hanging off a limestone rock...

...Until, it became abundantly clear that I had completely missed one big calculation in my "preventative checks."  I had been so careful to make sure that I wouldn't fall into or soil myself or clothes with my own waste that I overlooked one major embarrassment factor.  But before I had a chance to correct it, it was too late.  I heard the loud voice from the campsite below.

"TURN AROUND!  NOBODY WANTS TO SEE THAT!"

But, alas, I couldn't turn around.  No seven year old has the ability to pinch and stand and turn around...

And THAT is the most embarrassing story from my childhood.

My Two year old's "Hail Mary!"

When we pray at night, this is what we hear from James, the two year old:

"Hair Mawy, fur of glades,
The Load is with three,
Bless it arm now
Among lemons,
And bless it is the flute
Of thy room, Jesus.

Holy Mawy
Moth or of Got
Play for us sitters
Now, and at the arm of breath.

Almond."

A Quick Question and Answer Session

A Quick Question and Answer Session

Q: "Justin, how did you become such a great father and husband?  Surely, you must have a natural insight into psychology and sociology?  Or, perhaps, you are a modern-day prophet, receiving messages from up high to spread to the common people of this land, in order to create a more peaceful, just and verdant world."

A:  No, voices in my head, I'm not!  I am in no way, shape or form a great father or husband.  I have simply learned what seems to work in my particular situation.  If these tips work for you, then so be it.


Q:  Justin, what's your take on spanking? 

A:  Listen, I believe that there are a lot of good parents who spank their kids.  I also believe that great parents don't ever have to spank.  That's because standing on the dining room table, waving a semi-automatic handgun above your head and shouting expletives that you've just made up out of blind anger will get the point across even better.


Q:  I want to teach my kids life lessons and teach them about day to day behaviors.  Should I wait for the opportunity to present itself, or should I sit them down and have a actual lesson?

A:  I've learned that the best way to teach anything to small children is to use props and costumes.  But be careful.  Some can be more detrimental than helpful.  For example:

Good Idea:  Dress up in a giant tooth superhero costume named "Molar Man" to explain the importance to proper dental hygiene.

Bad Idea:  Dressing like a clown and tapping on their bedroom window in the middle of the night to explain a fire evacuation route.


Good Idea:  Using stuffed animals to demonstrate how bullies are not friends.

Bad Idea:  Using stuffed animals to explain how meat packing plants work.


Q:  When you are faced with a parenting or marriage challenge, and you and your wife have different points of view, how do you handle it as a team?

A:  Excellent question!  It's important to realize that you and your spouse may not always see eye to eye on everything.  You must handle the problem maturely and politely; like adults.  For instance, I usually just walk around the house mimicking my wife, using the high-pitched "wife" voice until she resigns to  the fact that I am right.  Or until she puts me in time out...Whichever comes first...


Q:   When do you have "the talk" with your kids?

A:  Immediately.  As soon as they start comprehending words and sentences.  It's never too early to talk to your kids about the risks and the social and moral repercussions of falling into the world of carnival workers or "Carnies."  Wait!  What "talk" are you talking about? 


Q:  Is it true that you can open a beer can with your pinkie toe?

A:  Yes.


Q:  How do you keep the fire lit between you and your wife?

A:  Never speak to each other.  You see, when you are first dating someone, you're always NOT talking.  Movies, clubs, concerts...And you're all "puppy dogs and ice cream" with each other...I try to speak to my wife as little as possible to make sure she never realizes how boring I am or how many repressed issues I have shoved deep, deep into my psyche and drowned with booze.  So, when she says, "You're still the same man I met all those years ago,"  she means it!



Q:  Which one of your kids is your favorite?

A:  There is no way I can answer that!  Besides, they know who they are...

I love the 80's

I have learned that your kids will develop into whatever you mold them to be.  Usually, they will reflect the personality traits you exhibit.  But I believe that, if you are awesome enough, you will also subconsciously shape them into the greatest mash-up cast for a 80's television show ever.

My oldest, Danny, is a perfect cross between MacGyver, Lieutenant Templeton "Face" Peck, and Mork from Ork.  MacGyver is a good description of Danny for two simple reasons:  He loves to tinker with things and make them work and he will wait forever before getting his hair cut and will inevitably end up with "hockey hair" every three months or so.  Danny is also the "Face" of my squad of children.  He is quick to approach anyone, he's handsome, and he knows what to say to get things done.  Also, I've seen him in the back yard with his toy rifle, and I have to believe that, just like the rest of the A-Team, he wouldn't be able to hit the broad side of a barn...But, there's a third side to him.  The goofy, unexplainable and genuinely funny side.  I once walked by his room and he was standing on the edge of the bed, flapping his arms and hooting like an owl.  I asked what he was doing, and he replied "Just practicing..."  I couldn't even imagine for what he was practicing, so I just kept walking, shaking my head.  Another time, he came up to me walking like a robot and asked in a mechanical voice, "What is the recipe for peanut butter?"

Ana is a tricky one.  She has a complexity that is hard to identify, so I have had to dig deep for this.  You see, Ana had a timidness to her that keeps her from taking a lot of chance.  This comes probably from her brothers being so over-the-top.  But when she is alone or in a comfort zone, she has a creativity that is impressive.  When in front of a authority figure, she sometimes becomes Vicki from "Small Wonder."  She needs prompting for everything she needs to do, and is very slow and mechanical and precise in all her movements.  When in this mode, she also takes everything extremely literally.  "Could you put that bucket on the porch," is a quick way to find her climbing the trellis to place a bucket on the roof of the porch.  Other times, she is sucked into the tomboy role as she is surrounded by two brothers.  This is when she transforms into Louise McCloud from "The Young Riders." (I told you that I had to dig deep!)  She plays "Soldiers" with Danny, digs in the sand box with James, and will settle for comic book movies instead of anything marketed towards young girls.  But deep down, she is Blair from "The Facts of Life."  Very pretty and very aware of it.  She LOVES getting her hair done, and loves even more when people compliment her on it.  She's not vain or egocentric.  She just likes the attention occasionally pulled from her very "present" brothers and be placed on her.  Ultimately, however, she seems to play the "female partner" of any 80's show.  She is Mrs. King, Jennifer Hart, and Daisy Duke;  able to keep up with the boys and usually the straight-laced one of the bunch.

James...Ah, James!  He is the wild man.  Imagine the insanity of Capt. H.M. "Howling Mad" Murdock, the tenacity of Sgt. Bosco "B.A." Baracus, and the unconventional leadership and disguises of  Col. John "Hannibal" Smith all rolled into a 2' 6" package.  He will drag anyone into his world, put on a cowboy hat and goggles, and physically push them into a game of "I pity the fool who don't play hide and seek with me," in which he will put the person in a place to hide and then spend about ten minutes "looking" for them.  James also has hair of Jack Tripper and the coy looks of Remington Steele.  He is a handsome boy, as well, and gets just about anything he wants, like Ricky Stratton.  With his talking cars, his tendencies for large jumps and the uncontrollable desire to slide across the hood of my car, I also believe he is part Michael Knight.  Although he doesn't have the chest full of "man mane," I have seen him destroy a cheeseburger while rolling on the floor and babbling unintelligibly, as well.

But, even though this sounds like a terrific cameo-rich episode of the Love Boat, there's more.  They turn into dynamite teams when they're together.  They play off of each other's strengths to form an unlikely alliance.  Danny is the Bruce Banner to James' Hulk.  Ana is the Larry Appleton to Danny's Balki Bartokomous.  And James is the JR Ewing to...well...Everyone...

My children are who I make them.  Everything I do, every word I speak, every gesture I make is a small nudge from me to them to who they will become.  And, frankly, I am proud of who they are now and who they will become.  And, anyways...I'm the 6 Million dollar Man, "Hawkeye" Pierce and The Fall Guy....Just Saying...

Celery...Broccoli...Gotta be...

When you first become a parent, you understand that your life will change.  But you never fully understand to what degree until you are in the middle of an auditorium, surrounded by 1000 squealing children and large singing, dancing vegetables staring down at you from stage from behind concert lights.

All three of my children have gone through the "Veggietales" phase.  But none as much as my youngest, James, is right now. 

A couple of months ago, we received some of the silly vegetable videos as a gift, and since then, tomatoes and cucumbers have taken over our lives.  They even have their own place in our nightly prayers..."God bless Daddy, God bless Mama, God bless Bob, God bless Larry..."  In fact, anytime we go to the grocery store, we cannot pass through the produce section without an atomic toddler meltdown if he can't get a armful of fresh vegetable to take as new toys.  I have found these "toys" strewn about the house later, as he will inevitably retrieve them from their slumber out of the refrigerator.  Some are half eaten by the dog, others are drawn on with pens and crayons, while the rest usually fall behind furniture and my wife and I are sent on a "find Archibald the Asparagus before he starts to rot and cause the house you smell like old urine" mission.  I used to like eating vegetables.  Now I love to eat them.  Because in my mind, I am silencing the Silly Songs in my head.  I feel like the Hannibal Lector of produce:  "Can you still hear the Vegetables Singing, Clarice?" 

Don't get me wrong.  The Veggietales are fun videos with a positive message about God's love.  But, just like any other children's show, it can definitely wear on the sanity of a parent after the six-hundredth viewing.  Just like Dora the Explorer.  I have dreamt a many a night the day when the grumpy old troll fills her backpack full of rocks and tosses her into the river while creating a stuffed mantle piece out of the talking monkey. 

Wednesday night, I took all three kids to see "Veggietales" Live...by myself...for the first time.  Gina had youth group and this was a one-night-only event.  It was obvious to the veteran parents around me that this was my first kids' show on my own.  The mother of three in the row directly in front of us kept turning to me and smiling a sweet, compassionate smile as James was screaming in her ear because he wanted to run down the stairs and onto the stage to dance with Larry.  And when the squash came out, he stepped down, grabbed her face and did that thing that kids do.  You know: teeth clenched, grunting loudly and shaking as if he were a phone set to vibrate. 

There was a song in which all the cast members invited the kids in the audience to dance in front of the stage.  Now, I have seen clips of The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show or tweens watching the Jonas Brothers exiting a limo, but I never thought I would ever see that kind of reaction from hundreds of tiny children.  In one riotous movement, the seats were emptied and the front of the stage was swarmed with miniature hands sticking up, trying to catch a touch of the giant stuffed tomato costume.  Luckily, security was blocking the way.  Yes, security.  The same black shirts with yellow writing you would see at a rock concert were standing (or kneeling, rather) with their arms outstretched, trying to prevent any breach that could possibly endanger the cast or disrupt the performance.  The only thing that made me cringe at this sight was the idea that it would be my son that they would have to heave back into the crowd or drag away to the back of house while he was kicking and shouting obscenities.

Ultimately, we survived.  The show ended, we picked up some souvenirs, and we left.  But on the way home, I started thinking, "So, this is it?"

Over the last few years, I have started to feel my age and my position as a father.  And it's not a bad thing; just different.  When I was young, I loved concerts and live theatre.  I took every opportunity to enjoy all kinds of genres in a variety of venues.  When I was 16, my friends Mike and Robert and I snuck away on a road trip to Kansas City from Concordia to see Lollapalooza.  After that, outdoor music festivals became a fixture for me.  "Edgefest" in Omaha, "Jayhawk Fest" in Lawrence, and many others...Later, as I became of age to enter bars and clubs, I started seeking out smaller venues  (The Beaumont, The Granada, The Uptown) to see musicians and acts that inspired me.  B.B. King at the Lied Center, Band of Horses at City Market, Ingrid Michaelson at Knuckleheads...

But the other night, I realized where I was in life.  It started with Jiggle Jam at Crown Center.  A music festival for kids.  Mr. Stinky Feet and They Might Be Giants headlined with arts and crafts and bubble station all around the grounds.  We returned sunburned and exhausted, much like the music festivals of my youth.  And then, for a "Grown-Up Date Night," I scored tickets to see Green Day at the Sprint Center a couple years ago.  It was that night that I realized that I wasn't the hip, young guy I once was.  My wife and I spent the entire show standing, trying to hear music from behind a group of screaming twenty-somethings, complaining that it was too loud and that our feet hurt.  We tried again last fall, when we went to see Better Than Ezra at Power and Light.  This was a lot more relaxed and laid back.  Much more our style as of late.  And given the era of popularity for this group, we were surrounded by a lot of like-minded people.

But being a dad is fun.  And seeing the look at enjoyment on my kids' faces during and after a show in which a girl dressed up as a monkey performs cartwheels around the stage while giant vegetables serenade makes it all worth it.  Let the young people have their mainstream shows.  Because someday, it will be them echoing the phrase, "I can't believe I am saying this, but I am excited to see Toy Story on Ice."

Say, What?

One of the beautiful things about being a parent is the opportunity to construct sentences you would otherwise never be able to say...

"Hey!  If you want to watch Veggietales, get the disc...Don't try to shove a cucumber into the DVD player!"

"Yes, you're right.  A T-Rex could probably beat Spiderman in a fight..unless he teamed up with the Hulk...Wait!  Are we talking 'prison rules'?"

"The dog does NOT need a mustache..."

"Get out of the washing machine!"

"Look what's for breakfast! Green eggs and Ham!

"Who put Mater in the toilet?"

"Fine!  Just go ahead and try to fit in between the banister rails.  But don't get mad when I have to
grease your head up to get it out!"

"Can you wait a second?  I can't change your diaper while frying bacon...You'll get burned!"

"I don't know why sometimes I cry while drinking my 'special' coffee in the morning..."

"Yeah, man, I would like to come out with you guys tonight to see the Violent Femmes, but I just warmed up some Spongebob shaped Chef Boyardi and getting ready to snuggle up n the counch to the latest Pixar DVD...OOOH! Great Idea! Why don't you come over here instead?"

"What in the hell is Totoro?"

"What are you doing?  You can't eat frozen juice concentrate from the can with a spoon!..."  (Note:  This is sentence was actually spoken to my son using my wife as a proxy while she was pregnant.)

"I don't care if she's my daughter and I don't care how much shes set her heart on it, I am her father and I am NOT dressing up like a kitty cat for Halloween...Fine!  But I'm not wearing the tights!...What?  Tights, too?...Okay, fine!"

"I guess daddy IS as pretty as a princess..."

"Transformers are NOT going to blow up your school....Now, go back to sleep..."

"I think the 'Diary of a Wimpy Kid' movies are the best films that have come out in the last few years."

"Well, babies don't start out eating baby food.  They start by drinking milk...from the mommy...Well...You know how cows feed the calves?....Yes, that's right with their 'sprayers'...."

I'm a "Dork!"

I am now, officially, in the words of my two oldest children, "a dork."  And, even though it stings a bit to hear that piece of nomenclature drivel out of my kids' mouths, I am kind of okay with it.  I'm sure, there will be a lot more names thrown my way by them in the next ten years.

I've always been close with my children, and they have always appreciated my ability to act their age.  But the school years have hit and they have begun to slowly get consumed by their peers' and the elementary culture's belief that they must "fit in."  You can see it in their faces, especially Danny, that it's confusing.  They act silly at home; pretending to be dinosaurs in the living room.  But when they are waiting with their classmates in the pick-up line in front of their school, they are cracking jokes and sharing secret handshakes.  When it's time to climb in the car, they have a "cool kid" walk, as if they have to show their friends that the only reason they are leaving is because they have to...

I find it humorous now.  But I'm sure, as the years go by, it will become exponentially worse.  Eye rolling, sighs and "whatevers" are in the visible future.

I know we are supposed to tell our kids, "Be yourself."  And that's true.  We don't want our children to hide behind false images, as it could stifle personal growth and the possibilities of their future.  Also, I want my children to have the integrity to stand up for what they believe in. 

But for now, a little while longer, there are times when I definitely do not want them to be themselves.  If kids under the age of 12 were themselves all the time, the rate of alcoholic parents would increase 1200%.  Could you imagine, boys just peeing on trees...in the lobby of the bank?  Or a large group of girls just standing in a circle having a contest to see who could shriek longer and louder?  And the constant need to do impersonations of their favorite anime martial arts characters all day...every day...

Fitting in is a hopeless pursuit, anyways.  Like trying to get a cat to look at itself in the mirror.  We work so hard our entire self-aware life to be a piece of the intricate clockwork of society, only to realize years after its too late that we are just as awkward (if not more) than we were at the beginning.  I remember my school years were filled with deciding what clothes would be acceptable, what activities to participate in that would not get me ridiculed and what kind of accessories could make my car look cooler.  Ultimately, I was a "theatre geek" who drove a Chevy Celebrity and wore cartoon t-shirts under flannel shirts.  Suffice it to say, I never really achieved the "fitting in" status. 

So, perhaps that's why we insist on telling our kids to be themselves.  We are afraid of reliving our own bumbling, awkward, and trivial attempts to fit in vicariously through our children.  And, of course, in the eyes of the young, parents don't get it. So, the kids will continue to attempt to fit in and, ultimately, put themselves into embarrassing situations.

But there is a threshold that must be passed by our kids before we, as parents, should really encourage them to be themselves.  I guess it's when they hit the age when "themselves" isn't annoying.  And that is the day that we become annoying to them.  And we are called "dorks." 

But can a dork recite all of the scrolling text from all of the Star Wars movies?  Or would a dork know that you can sing Emily Dickinson's "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" to the tune of "Gilligan's Island".  (I know you're doing it on your head right now).  Or is a dork someone who can make himself laugh at an elephant fart joke?

...Well, yes...

But a dork to children is just an adult who is being himself.

Kids are not nerdy enough

I fear for our youth.  And I'm not talking about a deep fear of social destruction or drugs and alcohol or even the collapse of financial institutions.  These are, of course, something to worry about.  No, I'm referring to the fear that our children will not be "nerdy" enough to make an impact on the world as they mature.

Star Wars.  When I was growing up, Star Wars was in our blood.  We had the action figures, the blankets, even the underoos.  We battled with light sabers (cardboard tubes) in the living room.  The neighborhood kids would ride their bikes in a perfect X-Wing formation down the street, blasting any tie-fighters (neighborhood animals and girls) we could lock our sights on.  Flashlights could be used to display a hologram on the wall to warn rebel sympathizers of an oncoming attack from the Empire. ("Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi.  You're my only hope.")  The two-seater swing with loop handles on the metal swing set in  the back yard made a perfect 74-Z Speeder Bike from the forest moon of Endor chase scene in The Return of the Jedi.  And of course, I was always Han Solo and our dog, Odie, was Chewbaca and we would sit underneath the picnic table on the patio and we would make "special modifications."  Sure, she didn't look like much, but she would make "point five past light speed." 

As my generation grew up, we started seeing these things slowly coming to a mild reality for us.  Touch-screen tablets that were obviously replicas of the control panel from an Imperial Cruiser.  Blue tooth technology became a communicator device that was a viable tool for our generation.  Laser scalpels in the O.R. are a nod to the preferred weapon of the Jedi knight.  And robots vacuuming your house?  I mean, come on!  Even the GPS in my car has taken on the role of droid navigator in my Millennium Falcon (Okay, it's a silver KIA, but I still like to pretend).

Note:  The only problem with my GPS is the fact that I don't listen to it.  Probably, because it has a woman's voice.  "I know you want me to turn left, Karen, but I know a short cut.  So, why don't you just sit right there, suction-cupped to my dash, and continue to sound adorable."  And I can't get over the attitude she gives when I ignore her.  "Recalculating."  I can almost hear the eye-rolling and a subtle "jackass" under her breath.

Vampires. pirates and wizards.  I can't think of any more humiliating genres for kids to have for mental and social provocation.  I can understand, slightly, the allure of pirates, as it can prepare children for an post-apocalyptic world in which they will be forced to loot and fight for survival.  And a lot of wizard story lines have included the science behind the mysticism, so there might be an opportunity for young minds to explore the possibility of what now seems like magic into some sort of substantial break-throughs.  When you think about it, centuries ago, the ability to conduct simple physics-based parlor tricks was perceived as witchcraft. 

But everything about these genres creates a dreary, morose look at life.  I guess that says a lot about the outlook of today's youth.  "Emo" is not only accepted, but actually a mainstream identity for lots of kids.  I remember when these kids were the social outcasts and seen as misfits.  All black clothes, dyed hair, and a attitude filled with so much apathy that it could suck the life force out of Richard Simmons.  "Nothing matters."  The un-dead, the cold, stone castle schools, and rickety sailing vessels wandering the unknown earth filled with criminals and miscreants...Even with the oppression of the Empire, we still had the possibility of "A New Hope."

Now don't get me wrong.  The Nerds of my day were not seen as mainstream, either.  But we had a direction with the fantasy of possibilities.  We saw cool things that were yet to be created, and we made them.  The true technological revolution was made by the wide-eyed kids from thirty years ago watching the scrolling text fly across the screen and imagining the day when these things could be a real life occurrence. 

Now, if only I could get a set of Gamorrean guards to walk with my daughter when she enters the teen years...