The Day I Nearly Ruined and Then Saved Christmas

Christmas is almost here, and once again, I am visited by the ghost of Christmas past.  This year, he’s taken me to the year 2005, when I had just 2 kids and things were… well… a bit quieter around our suburban Phoenix home.  Isaac was 5 and Emily was 3, and while my eldest was dead-set on getting some sort of video game from Santa, Emily asked for a shiny new bicycle.

As these things are prone to happen, Mrs. Claus headed off to the store in search of the children’s prizes without a plan in place to ensure their arrival at our home having been pre-assembled.  Furthermore, Mrs. Claus didn’t tell Santa that it was his job to complete the assembly until the day before his anticipated arrival.  And while nobody truly knows the exact day of Santa’s birth, around our home, it’s common knowledge that the day before Christmas (also known as Benmas) is the birthday of Mr. Dismukes, who had been conscripted to fulfill the duties of the true Mr. Claus.  I had no desire to build anything on my birthday, let alone a bicycle.  So I spent the better part of my morning lamenting the fact that a completely unassembled bicycle awaited me in our garage.  But, as always, one look into the bright blue eyes of my then youngest daughter caused every reservation I had about the daunting task that lay before me to crumble like a stale biscuit.  After all, what kind of Santa would I be if let down this precious little girl.  So I made my way out to the garage and began the monumental task.

As I entered my workshop, I informed Mrs. Claus to keep the kids occupied lest they be tempted to meddle and discover the true identity of their favorite superhero.  I cursed under my breath as I tore open the box that held the millions of microscopic particles that, once fully assembled, would comprise my daughter’s soon-to-be favorite new bicycle.  I dumped everything onto the ground in search of something resembling an instruction manual and found only a single sheet of paper with some Chinese characters in the top margin, followed by a cartoon of a bicycle magically assembling itself.  I rolled my eyes and cursed some more as I started piecing together the bike, frame by frame of the menacing Chinese cartoon.

It’s common knowledge in our family that I am not the most handy person around.  It’s also widely accepted that certain projects, such as installing ceiling fans, putting up sunscreens, hanging crown molding and (thanks to this specific incident) assembling bicycles, are likely to present me with enough frustration to push me beyond my limitations and are likely to be accompanied by loud grumblings and intermittent profanity.  So Mrs. Claus decided to steer clear of the garage on this fine Christmas Eve.  

After several rounds of banging and yelling hailing from Santa’s workshop, Mrs. Claus decided to send one of the elves into the garage to inquire as to what kind of sandwich Santa wanted for lunch, instead of coming herself.  It’s not exactly clear to me now why Mrs. Claus didn’t think through the ramifications of sending an elf into Santa’s workshop where it would be discovered by that same elf that Santa wasn’t actually the one building her present, but this Mr. Claus has never truly been able to understand his Mrs.  Nevertheless, at some point during the construction of the bike, I looked up to see a pair of loving blue eyes, though slightly bewildered, looking at me, followed by a precious little voice that asked, “Daddy, Mommy wants to know if you want ham or turkey.”

Now before you go wringing your hands and assuming that Christmas was ruined for a 3 year old girl, you should consider a couple of things, as I did in the wake of that horrible moment.  First of all, while our eyes could clearly see each other as she stood in the doorway and I sat on the opposite corner of the garage, there were several piles of boxes and assorted junk between us.  So it was entirely possible, as I reasoned in that moment, that she never actually saw what I was building.  Furthermore, this story is about Emily – my most preoccupied child.  Emily has always lived in her own little world.  She’s now 9 and comically refers to her own land of make believe as “Lou-Lou Land” (named after her middle name, Louella), a place she’s frequented since she emerged from the womb.  She has the potential to walk right by an elephant in an otherwise empty room and miss it if her mind is on something else.  So I further reasoned that she was so pre-occupied by turkey or ham that she never thought twice about what I was building beneath the pile of boxes and assorted junk.

I went in to eat lunch.  I glared at Mrs. Claus and sarcastically thanked her for sending Emily, of all people, into the garage to inquire about my lunch order.  She gasped and covered her mouth as the realization of what she had just done smacked her upside the head.  But Emily said nothing or gave any indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

After lunch I finished the bike, and soon it was time to begin the Benmas festivities.  We opened presents, we had cake, but Emily said nothing.  We went out to eat that night at Mr. Claus’s favorite restaurant – Carrabba’s – and still, Emily said nothing.  We came home and began focusing our attention on Christmas itself.  We read the story of Jesus’ birth to the kids and discussed the true meaning of Christmas.  We then spread “reindeer food” out on our front lawn in hopes of giving Santa’s magical creatures a little snack as they paused at our house.  We each opened 1 present and then tucked the kids into bed.  Still, Emily said nothing.

She hadn’t noticed a thing!  Bullet dodged and Christmas saved!

The next morning, we were awakened by 2 very excited children ready to go see what Santa had brought them.  At our house, Mom and Dad have to be roused before anyone is allowed to see what Santa left behind, and for some reason, our kids have never questioned this silly rule.  So we walked to the den as a family, and Emily’s face lit up like the Christmas tree itself when she saw her shiny new bicycle in the middle of the floor.  She ran to it, climbed aboard and began riding all over the house.  She was as happy then as I have ever seen her, not once questioning the bike’s origins.  The kids spent the next 2 hours opening presents, calling relatives and playing with their new toys as Mrs. Claus and I soaked in the moment and eventually prepared a big breakfast for the family.

The excitement of the morning soon waned, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast as a family.  Halfway through our holiday meal, little three year old Emily piped up and said to me as I sipped my coffee, “Daddy, I know that Santa didn’t bring me that bicycle because I saw you building it yesterday.”

Pppppppppppffffffffffffft, went the air out of my Christmas spirit balloon now hanging limp and lifeless over the breakfast table.  

“What?” I asked incredulously, “no, you don’t understand!” I had no idea where I was going, but I had already started going there.  Half panicked and half curious as to how I would salvage the moment, I listened to myself go on, “See, honey, I didn’t want to tell you kids this but… well… Santa and I are friends.  We’ve known each other for years.  And I told him a long time ago if he ever needed any help to just let me know.  And this year, he’s been sick a lot, so he needed some help.  He called me up last week and asked if I wouldn’t mind building your bike for him, and I told him that I had the day off on Christmas Eve and that he could just bring it by the house early…”

I rambled on and on, but amazingly, my little girl hung on every word.  Anyone else would have needed a shovel, but not my Emily.  She wanted so desperately to believe, that she extended me the benefit of the doubt at every turn.  And when my story was complete, Christmas had just been elevated to a whole new place in her eyes.  After all, not every kid could say that their Daddy was friends with the Big Man himself!

Ike the Knife

Just found this post today - it's a blog I wrote earlier in the year, but never posted.  Better late than never.  Enjoy.

A few days ago, I encountered one of those rare Hallmark moments that seem to be reserved only for those fortunate enough to hail from the Dismukes clan.  It was a precious moment that marked the passage of my eldest (and only) son from childhood to adolescence.  It was a moment filled with excitement, confusion, panic and blood - a moment where the cold steel of a knife blade parted his flesh like Moses passing through the Red Sea.  There have been many historic blade wounds throughout the history of mankind – the beheading of Marie Antoinette, the stabbing of Julius Caesar, the emasculation of John Wayne Bobbit – but none had the impact on my life that this particular incident carried.

The night of the wounding began in relative normalcy.  I was at home alone with the kids, while my wife was at a PTO meeting.  I had all the girls in the den, where we were watching a little TV.  Isaac had been playing quietly back in his room, or at least that’s what we thought he was doing.  As we watched Rachel Ray prepare a tasty and healthy meal in 30 minutes or less, we heard a strange noise coming down the hall.  Shhh-klump, shhh-klump, shhh-klump.  Isaac peered around the corner hunched over, grabbing his leg, while mumbling incessantly, “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry, Daddy.  I cut myself, and I’m so sorry.”

“Wait.  What?  Did you say cut?  Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?  If you cut yourself, you’d be crying.  Why aren’t you crying?  What are you so sorry about?  What’s going on here?”  All these thoughts ran through my mind, but I didn’t voice any of them.  I was in process mode, and I was looking for any little bit of information that would help me reach a decision as to what to do next.  The banter continued. “Daddy, I’m so sorry, Mama’s going to be so mad.  I cut myself…” he said as he shhh-klumped his way closer to the couch.  And there it was, the first glimpse of blood – a tiny trickle ran from under his clenched hand down to his ankle, disappearing into his sock.  But he wasn’t crying.  “I’m confused,” I think to myself as I grasp at any straw that smacks of logic.  Fake blood.  The boy has bought a container of fake blood and is doing his worst knife victim impersonation. 

After a cursory round of questioning, I eliminated the possibility of fake blood and moved on to actual injury.  But judging by the volume of blood trickle and the absence of tears, I surmised that we were dealing with a scrape or, at worse, a tiny nick.  Convinced that my son was overreacting, I made him shhh-klump his own way into the kitchen where I could get a better look at his “wound”.  All the while, he’s still mumbling, “I’m so sorry Daddy, I cut myself.  Mama’s gonna be so mad.”

Prepared for nothing but the best, I made him release his death grip on his leg so I could get a better look.  As he moved his hand to the side, he revealed a 5 inch long swath of flesh hanging precariously from his leg.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear I saw it flopping about in the breeze.  A surge of blood gushed from his open wound as his little heart pounded, and as the red goo oozed, I felt my head begin to swim.  I’m not ordinarily bothered by gore, but there’s something about seeing the inside of a body belonging to one of your own.  It’s… well, it’s just not natural.

I immediately called for help with the girls (one of the many benefits of living close by to grandparents) and whisked the boy off to the ER.  After 8 or 9 stitches, the full story emerged.  Isaac was testing the sharpness of his new blade.  While testing to see if it would shave the hairs off his leg, he slipped and sliced his way to serious cut.  Apparently, the blade is plenty sharp enough.

To his credit, the boy handled the hospital visit like a trooper.  No crying - only the kind of gritty toughness that makes a father proud.  And while I had initially questioned his intelligence after hearing his account of the incident, I admired the display of manhood demonstrated in the ER.  After all, life is full of nicks and bruises, but manhood is partly a measure of the way in which one deals with them.  (Or at least it is for men, anyway.  I wouldn’t imagine we would talk about how manly a woman is for not crying while getting stitches… but I digress.)

This milestone was one I hope and pray I never live through again, but having come through it, I’m appreciative of what it revealed – a son who, though he may be prone to mistakes (like all of us), has the resolve to emerge a better man for it.

The Day My Son Officially Went Too Far

I have recently decided that I might be a strong candidate for Anger Management therapy.  I’ve always had a bit of a temper, but in the past few years, it’s become a bit more serious.  If you want to know the severity, please read the blog entitled “Hello Anger, My Old Friend.”  However, I am now consciously aware of the problem, and as they say, that’s (hopefully) at least half the battle.  Nothing made me more aware of the problem like a recent episode involving my 11 year old son.

I should pause here to point out that in his 11 (almost 12) mischief-filled years of living here on Earth, he has never really done anything that has truly shocked me.  Don’t get me wrong, he’s all boy and is constantly pushing every limit and button he knows to push of, and many he’s not aware of, all because that’s what boys do.  And so despite all the outbursts in crowded shopping centers and all the publicly repeated comments meant only for private ears and all the broken precious items that once belonged to family and friends and all the times of outright disobedience, my son has always lived within the boundaries of expectations – that is, until last week.

We were in Phoenix, visiting family.  It had been an especially long day – one in which we had been on the road for 2 hours in what I would call ‘doable traffic’, meaning it wasn’t a bumper to bumper parking lot, but rather a large number of cars barreling down the highway at a speed that is both acceptable and stress-inducing all at the same time.  I know it’s no excuse, but I was a little on edge from the traffic stress and very much tired from having to wake up earlier than I would have preferred, given that I was on vacation - a fact that was lost on no one in the truck at the time.  We were on the interchange between the 101 Loop and the northbound lane of I-17 in north Phoenix.  The ramp is two lanes wide, and since I was aware of the fact that those 2 lanes would soon converge into 1, I legally and conscientiously changed lanes leftward (and by conscientiously, I mean with no intent to impede or inflame any other motorists in the vicinity – a fact that you should hold on to as we plod along the storyline).   All was well until we got to the little stretch of road beyond the merging point where there’s no more dotted line in the center of the road, but the space between the 2 solid white lines is more than enough for just one vehicle, temporarily speaking, of course.  As we hit this space I affectionately call “no man’s land”, the car behind me decided that the view must be better from the front and pulled over to the right to pass me – in no man’s land.

As I pointed out earlier, we were travelling at a pretty good clip down the highway – I would guess 60 to 65 - so real estate quickly became an issue for us both as we barreled down the ever narrowing stretch of road, side by side.  Caught in a game of chicken I had no intention of playing, I braked hard as the car and its reckless driver swerved in front of me and away from the solid concrete wall on its right.

At this point I, along with everyone else in the vehicle, realized that I officially have an issue with anger.  I said things you wouldn’t expect to hear in a PG-13 movie – good thing my sweet little girls were asleep.  My lovely wife quickly chided me.  I didn’t hear her words of correction, however, because my son had some choice words of his own. His were PG, but the situation swiftly deteriorated from there. 

As I now recount the story, I can see the whole scene unfold in sloth-like motion.  Rest assured, however, the following events happened in such rapid succession that I was unable to think as clearly as I can now.  In a fit of rage, I hastily chose to get even with this numbskull, who had ruined my otherwise perfectly tolerable drive, by pulling up beside him and giving him the look of death.  In moments such as this one, where I’m simply recounting a story with little, if any, emotion other than shame, I well know that glaring at someone does next to nothing to extract revenge.  In fact, my experience tells me that most of my evil looks at other motorists simply go unnoticed, which only makes me madder.  After all, if I’m going to glare at someone, the proper thing for them to do is at least take notice.  But as I said, I wasn’t thinking with my head, but rather with the adrenaline that was coursing through my veins.  So I commenced with operation stare down. 

As my foot hit the accelerator, my son popped off a question, “want me to flip ‘em off, Daddy?”  I promptly answered with a resolute, “yes!”  And before I could correct myself, I caught a glimpse of his little arm flailing about in the window, middle finger extended.  I gasped, “What are you doing?” I then noticed that the “he” who was driving the car was a very much elderly “she”, who gawked back at my son and me as if we were the Manson family.  A wave of nausea hit me like a baseball bat to the groin.  Thoroughly embarrassed, I turned away, hung my head in shame and eased off the accelerator.  I was a monster – not a father.

In all fairness, I truly thought he was joking.  My son has never seen me give anyone the finger.  I know this because for all of my flaws, flipping people off is not one.  I always saw that gesture as being beneath me, somehow.  However, my half-joking, half-angry ‘yes’ was enough license for him to begin gesturing like a drunken sailor at a blue haired, cataract sun-glasses adorned old lady who’s only sin was scaring the bejeepers out of me, a trigger-happy, stressed out driving buffoon.

My wife quickly moved from chiding to outright rebuke, and I can’t blame her in the least.  I may as well have doused the boy with gasoline and given him a lighter to play with.  This is what’s known as an epic fail in the fatherhood department, and I owned up to it. 

Few things have ever truly shocked me.  At the top of my list is the sight of my son flipping off an old lady…  with my permission.

How to Teach Perseverance For Those Who Lack Patience – Part 2 – or Dusting Off Your Old Basketball Injuries

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’m committed to the seemingly endless task of teaching my children the virtue of perseverance, and if things don’t start to click soon, I might throw in the towel.  For those of you that are wondering, I still have all 5 chickens, but they seem a little reluctant to give us any eggs.  I wonder if they can lay at will.  If I were a hen, and I’ve been called that in my younger years (kids will call you anything as long it rhymes with your name), I would definitely not lay eggs for a kid who has trouble remembering when meal times are. 

This fall, my son has decided to be a 2 sport athlete.  Retract that… actually he decided to be a 1 sport athlete and is playing football, but since I agreed to help coach cross country for the school, he was forced into joining the cross country team in addition to his participation in football.  Growing up, I always played sports.  Baseball was my thing, and I have to confess, I always imagined myself to be a pretty good ballplayer – much more so than those around me, including my coaches, apparently.  I could never understand why they didn’t see in me the things I saw myself, but that is likely the subject of another story, meant for another time.  I also played basketball and tennis.  I tell you all this in order to say with some semblance of authority that you can learn a lot from playing a team sport, and perhaps just as much playing an individual sport like tennis.  And whether or not my son is ever skilled enough (in his eyes as well as the eyes of those who ‘matter’) or interested enough to play in high school, or perhaps even beyond, it’s important that he have the experience afforded to him by athletics in these crucial developmental years, thus the reason for my possibly overzealous decision to make cross country mandatory for him.

While football is great, if he decides not to play another year, I’ll be okay with that decision.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching him play.  Seeing him dance around play after play desperately avoiding every player on the field while trying to appear as if he’s interesting in blocking and tackling reminds me of how reluctant I was to get hit at that age.  He plays both cornerback and wide receiver and while on offense, has only had a few balls thrown his way all year.  One of those he caught, but it was one of his misses that made me most proud of him.  His team was playing a team with much bigger athletes, and on this particular play, he went over the middle on a crossing route where he found a perfectly thrown ball headed straight for his chest.  I’m not exactly sure of the timing of events that unfolded, but at some point, all three of these things happened in quick succession.  He reached up, grabbed the ball, and took a suffocating blow to his side by a very large, salivating linebacker who had watched the whole play evolve with the scent of blood in his nostrils.  The ball came loose as quickly as he had ‘caught’ it, and my boy went flying through the air sideways, rib-cage first, with head and feet in tow, until he landed hard on the ground.  I jumped up, thinking his football days had come to an abrupt end, but no sooner had I stood to my feet did I see him bounce back up and run to the huddle.  After the game I bragged on him for taking such a lick and getting back up, to which he replied, “Daddy, I don’t know why, but the referees aren’t calling roughing the catcher today.”

But football is not the sport I am writing about today.  Cross-country - a sport I used to think was for the weaker kids who weren’t talented enough to do anything else - is.  In the past few weeks, my stance on cross-country, if you consider it important enough of an ‘issue’ upon which to take a stance, has changed dramatically.  Those brave enough to participate in cross-country deserve to be called athlete.  Runners are quite possibly the gutsiest of athletes, having whipped their bodies into shape by the sheer force of their resolve.  And as my views have evolved, I’ve come to the conclusion that every child ought to have to run cross country competitively at some point in his or her childhood. 

It goes without saying that distance running is a tremendous way to exercise, which everyone needs, but the beauty of running is that anyone with healthy legs can do it, regardless of ability (as I so astutely, if not rudely, pointed out a few sentences ago).  But it also teaches kids how to compete against themselves, which, when you get down to it, is what 75% of life is about.  The key to success in life, in my view, is knowing how and when to battle and overcome oneself.  And distance running is metaphor for life. 

To us, it is the most sacred of metaphors.  It’s the grid work through which we discipline.  Kids not practicing the piano?  No problem, we’ll just have a conversation about the importance of conditioning yourself for the race, only in this case, the ‘race’ is actually the recital.  (On a side note, you might think piano recitals are more about the expression of art and less about competition, but I think that is utter nonsense.  To me, EVERYTHING is about winning, no matter how seemingly subjective a task.)  Kids fighting and arguing?  We’ll just discuss the value of teamwork while running a race, and before you go there, yes, cross-country is a team sport, as well as an individual one.  The kids encourage and push each other, and that makes them better.  So I simply dust off an analogy of the importance of teamwork in the game of life, asserting that we Dismukes are a team, and if we stick together, we can win at just about anything we set our minds to.  And if the kids are in need of a little old-fashioned punishment, I just make them run an extra mile in order to teach them a lesson.  My rationale is, it hurts more than a spanking does and for a much longer period of time.  And in the end, my kids have not only learned their lesson, they are now more physically fit as well. 

The greatest life lesson, in my opinion, one can take away from running distance, however, is the virtue of perseverance.  When we started, neither of my children could run a mile without stopping to walk every 15 paces.  But I pushed them into embracing the pain brought about by pushing their little bodies beyond their perceived limitations.  How I did this, I’m not sure, but I take full credit for whatever caused them to strive for greatness (only kidding, of course, we Dismukes are born with an inherent desire to achieve greatness and need little external motivation).  And because they did, I now have unlimited opportunities to help translate that experience into solutions for everyday life situations. 

Everything in life worth doing is met with some form of resistance.  The friction created from meeting that resistance almost always results in pain of some kind.  It could be the personal sacrifice of devoting one’s time to a noble cause or the emotional pain of entering into a relationship with another person.  We are almost never unsusceptible to pain.  Winners, as I tell my kids, learn to push through the pain, and Dismukes are winners.

Not all Dismukes are winners enough to push all the way through their pain, however.  This particular Dismukes stopped running just 2 weeks into practice because he enflamed an old basketball knee injury.  However, I will say that there are certain benefits to being legitimately injured.  I now coach from the couch in my den – a fact that has somehow eluded my 2 kids who still listen to everything that I say.  But let’s not waste too much time focusing on that minor detail.   This story is about raising up the next generation of winners (and by the way, in my book, all Dismukes are winners – even the injured ones).

Now comes the part where I brag on my children.  In a matter of just under 2 months, I have seen my kids come to love running.  If you’ve never been in the habit of jogging, you might think this strange, but there comes a point in time where the pain of running actually becomes somewhat addictive (unless, of course, it’s the pain of an old basketball injury – there’s nothing addictive about that).  You actually enjoy the feeling of pushing your body beyond its limitations.  I think my children have started show signs that they’re truly enjoying what started out as a chore.  Both have competed in their first meet, and both did extremely well under the circumstances.  My 9 year old daughter ran against 90 some odd Jr. High girls and finished somewhere around 50^th place – well ahead of anyone else on her team – 2 of them, 7^th graders.  All in all, not bad for a 4^th grader who couldn’t run a third of a mile without stopping just a month and a half ago.  She is so encouraged, she considers cross-country to be “her thing”, and now brags when she can run 2 miles without stopping to walk. 

All of my kids have the potential to be great at whatever they set their minds to, and cross-country has helped highlight that fact.  All they needed was a little perseverance, which I’m thrilled I was able to teach them… at least partially.  And it’s a good thing… I was just about ready to give up.

How to Teach Perseverance For Those Who Lack Patience – Part 1

Isaac, my son, is eleven years old.  And like any good father, I unreasonably expect that he consistently demonstrate the work ethic and perseverance of a canal digger from the 1800’s, only to be shocked, time and time again, as I rediscover that he actually has the attention span and the penchant for daydreaming that all 11 year old boys naturally possess.  Nevertheless, I’m determined to teach him the value of hard work and stick-to-itiveness that I wish I had myself.  My biggest problem, however, is that every time I’ve tried to teach him in the past, I seem to lose interest or give up due to the fact that it proves to be too difficult.  This latest attempt, however, is going to be different.  I know that because the vow I took to ensure it would be different was much louder and more intense than the previous vows I’ve taken.

Part of Isaac’s training is that he has a list of daily chores he must check off before engaging in any activity that could remotely be construed as being “fun”.  The list is short and relatively uncomplicated, although the simplest of tasks can prove to be complicated for an intelligent child prone to weasel out of anything and everything he has no interest in doing.  It includes such things as making up his bed, doing his homework, unloading the dishwasher, etc.  And while few kids these days have such a list, it would be reasonable for me to assume the boy is learning about hard work sufficiently so.  But I was raised by a man who taught me the value of hard work by giving me the impossible task of pulling every weed in a hundred plus acre peanut field, so I’m prone to believe I should pile on.

And so, after much scheming and plotting, I devised a plan to put my son to work as a chicken farmer.  We have a lot plenty big enough for the dog, the kids, a garden and a chicken house, and my little hometown doesn't levy unreasonable restrictions against its inhabitants as did my old subdivision in Arizona, which forbade the practice of raising livestock in one's backyard.  As I pondered my ingenious scheme I thought to myself, “that’ll teach him some responsibility.”  I pictured him waking at the crack of dawn every morning, feeding the birds and gathering their eggs in time for breakfast omelets.  I further reasoned that my little “life lesson” would provide my son with enough spending money so as to keep me in the black for years to come.  Then I just got silly, imagining that his improved work ethic would result in his eventual acceptance into Harvard Law School and, with a little luck, perhaps he would even claw his way into the Oval Office, where he would publicly thank his Dad for nudging him in the right direction.  As with any great scheme I've concocted over the years, I once again amazed myself.   

Funny how the little ideas that tend to pop into my head rarely manifest themselves as easily and quickly as they’re conceived, and by now, I should temper my enthusiasm with the memories of “brilliant ideas” of yesteryear.  But given that I’m a slow learner, I set out to create a chicken habitat for the reluctant young entrepreneur anyway.  I cleaned up an old fish house on my property - a little shanty of a building that was previously used for cleaning fish by the former owner – and prepared it to house the new additions to our family.  I fenced in the area around the building, creating a nice little chicken yard and proceeded to order the chicks.  They arrived early on a Saturday morning, several weeks later – all 27 of them – stuffed inside a container roughly the size of a cigar box.  At first, Isaac was excited and welcomed his new business venture with open arms.  But by lunchtime, he had completely lost interest.

And being the task master that I am, I threatened him with every kind of restriction known to man, and he dutifully complied.  A week later, however, he awoke to a grizzly scene of chicken homicide (my wife suggested that I refer to it as an incident of fowl play, but being unwilling to expose myself to the potential humiliation that I was sure would ensue, I opted for the non-pun route, but agreed to give it an honorable mention nevertheless).  Of the 27 chicks that we received from the postmaster, only 15 remained.  The remains of their fallen compatriots, a handful of feathers and few drops of blood, lay eerily on the plywood floor of the coop, and my son instantly re-engaged in his chickens, now fewer in number.  After all, what little boy doesn’t want a good murder mystery to solve, even if the victim is a bird.

Assured that the culprit must be a fox, we shored up our fence and set a trap for the murderer.  A few days later, my son met me at the breakfast table with more bad news: 7 more dead birds and no fox in the trap.  And then there were 8.  He nearly choked on his excitement, which I thought somewhat odd, but not too odd.  After all, he is a red blooded American boy thirsting for adventure and a hint of danger, just like his brethren.  So we reset our trap and moved it to a different location.  For a couple of nights, all was well with our chicks.  A few mornings later, however, my son came bounding through the door with even more excitement than the first 2 times.  “Five!” he screamed.  “There’s only five of ‘em left!” and this time he had the slightest trace of a grin on his face.  Then it hit me.  He wasn’t excited about the mystery surrounding these avian murders.  He was just glad to see this new burden slowly lifting off his shoulders by a hungry fox.

Eventually, we caught and sufficiently punished the chicken slayer, and with a slight tip of the cap to the PETA crowd, I won’t go into detail on this point other than to say that I’m confident his killing days are forever behind him.  Isaac, still reluctant to own up to his responsibility, has to be nudged (sometimes not so gently) to feed and care for his hens, who have returned the favor by withholding their eggs from him.  Nevertheless, the responsibility is firmly his and his alone and will be until the next fox comes along and puts an end to his egg farming days once and for all.

Food is Metaphor for Life

Used to be, if you were really into food, you would be called an epicurean, or perhaps a gourmet.  Such terms evoke images of chandelier-laden French restaurants, stuffy waiters adorned in tuxedos and snobbish patrons sipping Cheval Blanc with their pinkies ajar.  Nowadays, thanks in part to the onslaught of cable TV cooking shows and the widespread use of the internet, both of which have made cooking preparations and techniques accessible to the masses, a subculture of food lovers has emerged – a people who commonly refer to themselves as ‘foodies’.  I’m a foodie, and I make no apologies for it.  I love everything about food.  I love to grow it.  I love to hunt it (although I’m not always very good at it, especially when it comes to shooting birds).  I love to cook it.  I love to watch other people cook it.  But most of all, I love eating it.  There’s something about the whole process that’s just… I don’t know… magical.

So when the creators of this blog asked me to write an article on my food POV (that’s point of view for those who’ve never watched the Food Network), I readily agreed – partly because I hate to turn myself down (it’s not good for my self esteem… on the other hand, I kinda dig the feeling that comes from turning people away – as if I’m a hotter commodity than I have time for – I guess I’m torn on this one).  Anyway, back to the point… my food point of view, that is.  

Last night, my wife and I were inspired to whip up a meal that satisfied our love for great tasting food as well as our sense of culinary adventure.  We were inspired by the most recent winner of ‘The Next Food Network Star’, Jeff Mauro a.k.a. the Sandwich King.  I, for one, have always been intrigued by the sandwich.  The whole idea that I can take food and wrap it up into some type of grain (bread, tortilla, flatbread, pita, etc.) in such a way that it becomes a portable, hand-held meal is just ingenious, in my mind.  So you can imagine my delight when a guy who hails himself as the ‘Sandwich King’ is featured on my favorite channel, with guarantees that he’ll turn any meal into not just a sandwich… but a ‘great sandwich’ at that.  The recipe we attempted, and by all estimations nailed, last night was a Schnitzel sandwich served with cider braised red cabbage and raspberry mayo, served with a side of warm bacon tarragon potato salad.

On a side note, I should probably clarify what a ‘Schnitzel’ is.  It is, first of all, in no way related to the ‘schnauzer’, as I originally thought.  They are two entirely different animals, and when I say animal I mean that in both figurative and literal terms.  In German cuisine, a schnitzel is a cut of meat pounded out thin, breaded and fried.  Doesn’t matter what kind of meat, as long it’s not a schnauzer.  We have schnitzel here in the South, but we call it ‘chicken fried’.  Cider braised red cabbage is a lot like sauerkraut, only more purple, and I love me some sauerkraut - must be my German heritage.

Overall, I would say this was a meal fit for the Kaiser, himself.  Who can deny the allure of fried meat?  There’s something about pork with a crunch that just… I don’t know… does it for me.  Throw in a tangy bite of sauerkraut and the creamy sweetness of raspberry mayo (which is just raspberry jam mixed with mayo), and you have a near perfect balance of savory, sour and sweet.  The warm potato salad with tarragon, bacon and grainy mustard, was the perfect side dish rounding out my Bavarian dinner.  But why go through all the trouble?  After all, wouldn’t it have been easier just to eat a burger, or perhaps a bowl of Cheerios?  Ah, but to think in such terms is against my food POV.  (See, you thought I had strayed from my original plan to reveal the POV – oh ye of little faith!)

Obviously, we need to eat in order to survive.  Everyone knows that, except for anorexics, and I’m not exactly trying to appeal to the anorexic crowd.  They probably lost interest in this blog when they saw the picture at the top.  But I believe food is about way more than mere survival.  I’m convinced that God gave us taste buds for a reason.  I’m sure that the Darwinian crowd would try to tell us that taste buds evolved as a means of survival, so that we could taste such harmful things as poison or tainted meat, which is total hogwash given the fact that all who tasted the poison would still die and therefore not procreate.  The reason, however, that we were given the thousands of little bumps on our tongue was so that we could enjoy the 3 plus times a day we’re allowed to stuff our mouths with nourishment.  And I, for one, am not about to let a good thing go to waste.  Every time I sit down to eat, I appreciate the enjoyment I derive from the very thing designed to impart life to my body.

To that end, I believe that the consumption of food should be an experience of appreciation for the things God has given us to eat and enjoy.  My philosophy on food, therefore, is simply this: life is way too short to eat the same ol’ stuff over and over.  Eating is partly about adventure with me, and while you won’t catch me eating dinner with Andrew Zimmern (you know, the guy that eats all the nasty stuff on the travel channel), I’m willing to try pretty much anything I consider to be reasonable (i.e. no bugs) once.  If it’s good enough, I’ll probably eat it again, but not too often, so as to avoid getting myself into a culinary rut.  My personal belief about life, and it’s apparent in the way I approach food, is that there’s way too much beauty in the world for me to try to limit myself to the same ol’ same ol’ day in and day out.  (In case my mother in law is reading, don’t worry, I’m not talking about my wife here… I’m just as committed to her now as I was the day I married her.)  I believe there are experiences I’ll never have if I choose not to brave the unknown.  Likewise, there are people whose company I’ll enjoy as long as I’m willing to take a chance.  There are also views I’ll enjoy so long as I’m willing to stray from the beaten path.  And there are food memories waiting to be created if only I’ll allow myself to go beyond the familiar. 

Food, in my humble opinion, is a metaphor for life.  You can tell a lot about a person by watching them eat.  I think tonight I’ll eat Chinese… or maybe Italian.

Don't Mess With Me, Daddy

Four o'clock is the best time of day for me.  It's that magical hour when the grind of working in the hustle and bustle of a small town community bank with one branch and no ATM comes to a merciful halt and I head for the refuge of my house, where the 5 most amazing people in all the world eagerly await my arrival.  Yes sir, 4:00 is my 5:00 (did I mention the grind?).

Today, as I stepped foot into my back door, instead of being greeted by a chorus of, "Daddy's Home!" followed by the ever dependable ensuing barrage of hugs from my beloved children, I was instead slapped in the face by a stark, "don't mess with me, Daddy, I have things to do."  This harsh sentiment emanated from the mouth of my precocious 4 year old, who recently informed me that she's no longer to be called 'Abby', opting instead for the nickname of 'Tiddlywinks'.  Shocked and slightly annoyed that my daughter would reject my efforts to play with her before they even manifested, I asked her to repeat herself.  (Ever wonder why we do this?  The most awful news is almost always greeted with a request that it be repeated.  Seems like we would be content to hear the negative stuff once.)  Anyway, Abb... er, Tiddlywinks... then delivered the same message, but this time with a noticeable air of irritation, as if I were taking up too much of her time (seems my children enjoy pretending they have a grind as well).  

"What kind of 'things to do' do you have to do?" I asked, complete with air quote hand gestures.  

"I have homework," she replied with a furrowed brow and a sigh that suggested that life's demands were cramping her style.

"What kind of homework do they give in pre-school?" I asked.

"I have to trace my hand.  I just don't have time to play."

Incidentally, 5 minutes later, she was running around the house with her baby sister.

My Norwegian Adventure

Just a few weeks ago, my wife was given the chance of a lifetime to embark on a ‘some expense paid, 1 week trip’ to beautiful Norway, land of the midnight sun.  Her sister, who apparently is a pretty big deal at Vandalay Industries (name changed on account of the fact that I was threatened by the goons at her company... something about national security), was given a work assignment in Norway (who goes to Norway on business… honestly?), and my mother in law thought it would be a great idea to make me stay home with 4 of the rowdiest kids east of the Mississippi, so she offered to take Heather along on an all girls excursion to Scandinavia.  And given that I had no say in the matter whatsoever, I readily agreed.  (In all seriousness, I was extremely glad to give Heather a much needed vacation from our children, but deep down, I trembled over the thought of being left alone with them.)

Leading up to the day of departure, I handled myself pretty well.  In retrospect, I was probably either in denial, or just eager to get the whole thing over with – kinda like when you were a kid and you knew you were eventually going to have to eat your green beans, so you just manned up and choked them down quickly so as not to ruin the rest of your dinner.  I kissed my wife good-bye, feeling up to the task at hand.  Thirty minutes later (I kid you not), a cold chill went up my spine and I reached for the phone.  As my wife answered on the other end, I confessed, “I just now realized what I’ve agreed to… is it too late to change my mind?”  It was.

That first night wasn’t so bad – mostly because 2 of my girls spent the night off with family.  The next day was much the same.  The fewer the number of children in the house, the easier it is on everybody.  My week started in earnest on Sunday, and I have to say, I aced my first test.  By 6:30 Sunday night, the kids were fed (well, mind you - chicken scallopini over pasta with peas), the baby had been bathed and ready for bed, the kitchen was clean, the older girls were in the shower, and everybody’s lunches for the following day were packed and in the fridge.  Oh, and just to make things challenging, I had planted a row of broccoli and a row of swiss chard in our garden.  Granted, I think I was trying to prove something to myself (either that I was the best Dad and husband ever, or that I could handle any amount of pain heaped upon me by my tormentors), but thus far, my week alone with the children had been a blistering success.

Monday night, however, came quickly – more quickly than I had anticipated.  And, as everyone knows, Mondays just plain ol’ suck – there’s just no other way of saying it, and this was a Monday for the books. It all started that afternoon, when I picked up Gracie from the sitter, while talking to Heather on the phone.  Gracie loved hearing Mama’s voice, but was beside herself when we hung up and Mama all of sudden disappeared.  She screamed the entire ride home (a 10 minute drive). Abby, our 4 year old, was so mad over the screaming, she lectured me for half of that ride for letting the baby talk to Mom.  (Mom had been known as ‘the M word’ up to that moment, because just the mere mention of the name ‘Mama’ made Gracie cry).  I don’t know if you’ve ever been trapped in close quarters with a screaming baby AND a precocious 4 year old who thinks it’s her place to lecture you, but it’s not what I would call a peaceful experience.  In fact, I would liken it more to a prostate exam (for those of you who are wondering, yes I have had one and no I most certainly did NOT enjoy it or the incredibly anxious moments leading up to it).  By the time we arrived at Isaac’s and Emily’s school, both the screaming and the scolding had come to a halt, mercifully.  However, the fun was just beginning.

As my son, now in the 6^th grade, climbed into the truck, he informed me that: a) he got a zero on his project (what project?!!) because I didn’t remind him to do it and b) I would have to take him to his Grandaddy's tonight so he could do research and print out ‘stuff’ on the computer so he could finish his project tonight and turn it in the next day for a merciful upgrade from his zero (we don’t have a functional printer at our house, probably because we have so many kids), and c) I was to stop at the store and buy him poster board and markers. I yelled at him for letter a, refused to entertain the idea of letter b, and dutifully complied with letter c.   I then asked when this project had been assigned.  “Um… Friday I think,” he said, and if it sounds a bit suspicious to you now, imagine how I felt as I heard his mouth form the words, complete with fishy sounding pauses.  And just as my Mom did to me thousands of times when I was young and ‘forgetful’, I gave him an earful on the way home and took away TV and video game rights for 1 week. Once we got home, I made him call his teacher to apologize and beg for more time (no way in heck I was spending the night at my Dad’s with 4 kids when there was so much to do at home… geez that sounded an awful lot like my wife!).  

As my son called a left a message for his teacher, I began cooking dinner – it probably would have been a good idea to either skip dinner or order out, but I’m a lean, mean cooking machine, and I relish the peace that comes with firing up the stove and creating something to eat.  I knew I would have to hurry, as I was scheduled to call in to a school board meeting.  I was supposed to attend, but the board chair had mercy on me and told me I could just call in since my hands were full with no one to help out at home.  As our stir fry was in full flame, the phone rang.  It was Isaac’s teacher.  Turns out the project was assigned 2 weeks ago and not on Friday as I had been told.  As dinner began burning, she gracefully gave me an extension on my… I mean Isaac’s project, and I promised that he would spend the next few days in her class after school until the stupid project was done.  I actually think I said the word ‘stupid’, but it’s okay, she understood.  After hanging up, I took the burned stir fry off the stove and quickly informed my son that his restriction was now for 2 weeks.  Fearing that the point had not been made well enough, I proceeded to lecture the heck out of him once more. 

As the burnt dinner cooled a bit, I reached for the phone to call in to the board meeting.  As soon as the board chair picked up the phone, all hell broke loose.  Gracie started screaming again… loudly… in the phone… as she clung to my leg with all of her strength.  I picked her up and calmed her down just in time for my other 2 girls to start screaming from the back of the house.  As I turned to see what was going on, Abby came running towards me shouting at the top of her lungs, “Daddy, daddy, come quick.  Emily’s stomach is hurt, but it wasn’t me!”  I prematurely exited the board meeting and went to the girls' room where my 9-year old, Emily, was in a heap on the floor, crying hysterically.  Now, you should know that Emily has the pain threshold of a porcelain doll.  Everything hurts her… extremely.  And we’ve learned to deal with it in our own special way – by tuning it out.  But, as I was unsuccessful in my first attempt to ignore the situation, I delved deeper and discovered that she had been popped by the hook on the end of a bungee cord on her arm and again in her stomach.  Bungee chord injuries can be quite serious, so I had mercy.  Her arm was instantly bruised, and it took several minutes to ease the suffering brought on by her stomach injury.  Once I did, the accusations started flying like bird poo after a car wash.  Emily blamed Abby, and Abby blamed Emily, and all of my interrogation techniques got me no closer to the truth.  At one point, I almost had to separate the girls from each other as they hurled accusations at one another and tempers flared.  Desperate for some wisdom, I offered up a frantic prayer.  The Lord had mercy.  Having had enough of Monday already, I offered up this simple solution in a voice that was… well, raised to say the least.  “You girls have GOT to learn to tell the truth.  I asked a simple question… which one of you is responsible for this (pointing to Emily’s injuries)?  And all I get are lies from one of you.  Well, I’ve had enough.  In my house, as long as you’re lying, you don’t eat.  And since I don’t know who’s lying, neither one of you will eat until I know the truth!”  Actually, at this point, I should probably confess that I vaguely remember saying that liars go to hell, although I was immediately shocked and repentant over such a monstrous suggestion (believe me, I was desperate enough to try ANYTHING to get the truth out of them and go on with the evening).  But the whole idea of withholding dinner until the truth came out was Solomonic in grandeur.  I then fed the baby the slightly burnt dinner very slowly and very enticingly.  Abby finally gave way to her hunger and told me the whole truth.  It went something like this, “Daddy… well, I just remembered something… well… actually… AFTER Emily was swinging the bungee chord (which she had previously maintained was the cause of the injury), I was swinging it really hard… and I think… yes… I think… it might have… no… it did… it did hit Emily on the arm and then again in the stomach.”  Victory!  The truth was out in the open.  Another scolding.  I was quickly growing weary of the scoldings.  

After dinner, I couldn't get anything done in the house, because Gracie was clinging to me like a leech... literally... I couldn't peel her off - she's very strong.  So I gave in to her demands and cuddled her on our couch, and she repayed the favor by pooping nasty acidic poo.  It burned her, and she screamed again… loudly.  I changed her and she had bad rash.  The kids scoured the house for butt paste and came up with baby powder and some other cream stuff.  She winced when I put the baby powder on and then looked at me like I had no idea what I was doing.  After all, Mom never uses the powder stuff.  Then I squirted the cream on her, and she giggled - the first ray of sunshine of the evening.  I then went to put her to bed only to realize that her sheets, which had been washed that morning due to the fact that she had wet them the night before, had not yet been dried.  So I popped them into the dryer and went back to the couch for another round of cuddling.  Eventually everyone made it to bed, and all I could do was just lay on the couch, pining away for my wife and the good ol’ days when there were 2 adults in the house.

Relatively speaking, the next couple of days were uneventful.  No more phone calls to Mom for the baby.  No more forgotten projects.  No more call in board meetings, and no more bungee chord injury cover ups.  And by Friday morning, I was convinced that I had survived the most dangerous mission I had ever embarked on.  And then… I got… the call.

There are moments that have forever been etched into the very core of my conscious awareness.  The very mention of these scenarios provoke memories of every little detail surrounding said moments.  Such occurences include:  the Reagan assassination attempt, the day the Challenger blew up, September 11, 2001 and now among these tragedies is the moment I’m about to describe.

The voice on the other end of the line was that of our kids’ school secretary.  “You’re going to have to come pick up Emily,” she said awkwardly, “she has… lice.”  Immediately, I went into denial.  My mind went crazy.  “Did she say rice?  I sent them to school with pizza.  Was Emily the victim of some horrible lunchroom trade?” All these thoughts raced through my mind as the wheels of my brain started smoking from the dangerously high rpm’s.  All that came out, however, was a very eloquent, “wha…?”  

As I raced to the school, I thought of the gravity of the moment.  “What if I have to shave my head,” I thought to myself.  “I’d look terrible bald.  My head is flat in the back and I’d probably look like a skinny Joe Rockhead, Fred Flinstone’s bald next door neighbor (opposite side from the Rubbles).”  Then I came to my senses and directed all of my mental attention towards dealing with the problem.  As I opened the door of the school, Emily was sitting at the front desk in tears.  These weren’t hysterical tears, however.  There were tears of shame and embarrassment, and with no Mom around, I knew I would have to muster up every bit of nurturing I could possibly muster.  I hugged her hard and told her everything was going to be okay.  I assured her that there was absolutely nothing wrong with her or dirty about her.  And on the inside, I prayed hard that I wouldn’t get lice from clinging to my little girl.  As we drove home, I wondered who else among us would get or already had lice.  As I did, my head began to itch.

Turns out, the 2 older girls had it, but nobody else did.  I stripped them and put them into the tub.  Then I began the very long, drawn out treatment.  I lathered up their hair with the recommended shampoo, then they sat there in the tub for at least 15 minutes (per the instructions) while the pesticides did their worst on those creepy looking bugs.  Meanwhile, my Mom, who had taken pity on me and had come over to help out, began stripping the kids’ bedding and bagging up all their clothes and stuffed animals.  As the girls sat there awaiting the rest of the treatment, my wife called… from Norway.  You remember… she’s away on a pleasure tour of the fjords and… the… other stuff they have in Norway, while I’m at home dealing with screaming kids and miniature bugs that look like prehistoric, flesh eating lobsters.  I answered with a chipper, “you have no idea what my day has been like, while you’ve been off gallivanting around Europe!”  I think I ended the conversation with a “I hope you appreciate what I’ve done for you!”

After the phone call, I began the rinsing and combing through process.  Holy cow!  The stinking bugs weren’t dying.  They were still alive and crawling as I picked them out one by one with the little plastic nit comb (I now know where the phrase ‘nit-picking’ comes from, and I wish I didn’t).  I panicked.  Now what?  I googled.  Turns out lice are becoming immune to the pesticides we used to treat our kids.  

Huh?  Who knew?  

So I quickly began to look for an alternative treatment.  I learned that olive oil is a natural lice killer.  It suffocates both the bugs and their demonic little eggs.  So, I coated the girls’ heads with olive oil, popped a shower cap on them, and let them sit in front of the tv on old beach towels for the next couple of hours.  Afterwards, I picked through their hair again like an obsessive little red-bottomed baboon.  This time, however, I was picking out dead bugs – by the handful.  It was one of the grosser things I’ve done in my life.  In the end, I think I picked about a hundred bugs out of my precious little girls’ hair.

The remainder of my time alone with the children was spent reapplying olive oil, combing through every strand of hair one by one, shampooing and rinsing the kids’ hair about 3 more times.  When it was all said and done, I think I logged about 5 hours of nit-picking time, which was definitely an experience I’ll always remember.  In the end, however, I won and the lice lost.  Even better, however, was the return of my wife that next night.  I hugged her long and hard and haven’t lifted a finger to help out with the kids since.  Ha!  Actually, that’s not even remotely true.  (read on – I promise you’re almost done!)

My week alone with my kids was a gift from the Lord, lice and all.  I would not trade that time with my kids for all the riches in the world.  All the anxiety of Monday, as well as the day I call ‘battle lice’, proved to be an experience I will always remember with fondness.  It was a week I share with my kids and my kids alone, and no one can ever take that away from us.  My wife is the greatest treasure of my life, aside from the treasure I have in my relationship with the Lord.  She deserved her time away from me and the children, and I would readily consent for another week.  She deserved the time with her Mom and her sister, and I know that they, too, built memories that they’ll carry with them for the rest of their lives.  The Lord taught me a lot during this week – about what I’m capable of when I put my mind to it, about how much my wife means to me and our family, but most of all, He taught me that nothing replaces the time we spend with the ones we love.  I relish the time I’ve been given with those I love the most.  God help me to live each day with them as if it were my last.