Dad and the Girls

I remember when Tricia first became pregnant more than ten years ago everyone assumed I was hoping for a boy. "It doesn't really matter," I'd say. "I'll be happy with either."

I can't say exactly why people would assume this. Is there a general belief that dad's want boys and mom's want girls? If anything, I was probably a bit relieved when I found out we were starting with a girl. I felt I knew what to expect from little boys but a little girl would be something altogether new.

A few years later, while also looking into domestic adoption, Tricia became pregnant again. The question now turned into a statement, "I bet you're hoping for a boy," they'd say. "Otherwise you're going to be surrounded by a house full of women!" Again, I didn't really care. When Ainsley came along I was as thrilled to have two daughters as I would have been to have one of each.

Eight years later, we've since found symmetry - two boys, two girls. It'd be easy to say that parenting boys is different than parenting girls but the fact of the matter is that it's different parenting Harper than it is Ainsley and likewise with both Ty and Muluken. They are all very different, regardless of gender.

One thing that I do notice with the girls is that it's a bit trickier to spend time with them. The boys and I have baseball and backpacking. The girls and I have...well, I 'm not sure. We play games, read books, and wrestle around but I do these same things with the boys as well. I wonder if maybe we shouldn't have something special that's all our own?

A few weeks ago I planned a special day out with the girls. I packed our bikes into the van and told them we were going to head down to the trail that runs along the Congaree River for a bike ride.

"Are there going to be a lot of hills?" Ainsley asked.

"I was going to play at Madeline's," Harper said. "Could you pick me up from there later?" When I did pick her up she didn't necessarily look too happy to be leaving.

Thirty minutes into our ride we already had a bloodied knee, a scraped hand, and a blown out back tire. No one looked to be having any fun at all - with the exception of me as I tried my best to convince them both how much fun this was. We ended the day by taking off our shoes and socks and wading out into the river to rock hop. Being something we do as a family quite often, they giggled as they splashed their way out into the water. While I'm not sure this was enough to make the day all that special, we did at least make it back home without the glum faces.

A few weeks ago I came home to find a big banner the kids had made for my birthday taped to the dining room window. There among the declarations of "I Love You" Harper had written "I Love Backpacking - as long as it's not 80 miles!" I suddenly remembered that I had promised the girls we would go on a backpacking trip together over the summer. I scrambled to put it together.

Backpacking with kids who are not necessarily big fans of heavy packs or doing their business behind a tree is a challenge. It needs to be short. There needs to be water to play in. And the pace needs to be s-l-o-w with plenty of breaks and snacks. I decided to take them to Virginia's Grayson Highlands State Park. We had visited the park for a day trip last summer. GHSP is well-known for the wild ponies that roam the mountains grazing on grass and any other items a nearby hiker may offer. The girls love horses so it seemed like the perfect fit.

We hiked four miles each day and although our only water source turned out to be a dud and I badly sprained an ankle, we had a great time.

Harper measuring out our food for the trip.

The trail was often quite rocky.

This short stretch was nice, soft grass.

There were many rock outcroppings to climb along the way.

A happy hiker.

These were the first of about twenty feral horses we saw.

Ainsley found some flowers for she and I to place in our hair.

Harper logs us in as we head out of the state park and into the National Forest.

A "cave" - the boys will be SO jealous!

Ainsley follows the blazes.

Rocks really kill your feet - and your ankles.

Our destination - Thomas Knob Shelter - was a disappointment. No good water.

We boiled the gross water and backtracked to a nice grassy spot to make camp.

A pretty nice view from the site. Sure beats a crowded campground.

At 60 degrees, the girls were COLD.

Bedtime atop the mountain.

Proof that Harper can, in fact, wake up with a smile on her face!

There were many gates to pass through along the way.

See the white blaze at the top of the wall? Up we climbed.

This was the other side of the that same rock wall.

Excited to be finished. The girls were ready for some indoor plumbing!

Needful Things

A few months ago, when we were just beginning to look into building a home, Tricia and I contacted a builder to see about coming in to ask some questions. Our goal was to see how much it would cost to build a house that would provide shelter for four adults, four children, and one very large dog. The salesman asked us to create a list, before coming in, of the things we needed as well as the things we wanted in a house.

This was hard.

"What does he mean by 'what we need?'" I asked afterward.

"I don't know," Tricia answered.

So we did what we usually do when we're unsure or uneasy about a task - we put it off. Days and days went by. A few times I sat down at the computer and tried to start brainstorming things but to no avail. I didn't know how to get started. I grew up in a series of small two-bedroom apartments and houses. Our living space was fairly tight compared to what most  Americans have come to expect but we still had a kitchen, bathroom, living room, laundry, and bedrooms - the real "needs" of a house. Should we list more than this as something we absolutely had to have? A garage? Playroom? An open floor plan?

The fact was that we certainly didn't need these things to survive...but we did need them to make going through the process of building a new home worthwhile. This was a chance to get a few things right that we failed to think of four-and-a-half years ago when moving into the suburbs of Northeast Columbia. We wanted less dead space. And rather than a sun room we wanted a screened porch that would allow us to eat outside without having to wage war with an endless army of flies.

There were things we really liked about the house we have now that we wanted in a new home as well. Hardwood floors, open spaces, natural light, a big kitchen with plenty of counter space, and a decent sized front porch. These things were, of course, all "wants." There wasn't a legitimate "need" to be found anywhere on the list. But within the context of what we were trying to do they felt a bit like needs.

I really think our concept, as Americans, of needs versus wants is quite skewed. As skewed as our sense of entitlement to many things. Most likely, the two are closely related. I've always thought of myself as a minimalist. I like to joke that if I lived alone I'd probably have bare walls with lots of empty spaces. I  imagine one comfortable chair with a collection of folding lawn furniture surrounding it. Just in case I had company.

The reality, however, is that I have two bikes (mountain and road), a scooter (foot, not motor), and roller blades. One could argue they all serve the same purpose. I also have three guitars (acoustic, classical, and electric). They definitely serve the same purpose. Even my backpacking stuff, which would lead you to think is the ultimate in minimalism, is growing to be quite specialized and expansive. The combination of pack, tent, and gear take up probably half of my closet space with other outdoor paraphernalia stuffed under beds and in corners around the house. I'm definitely not a pack rat (I still wear the same three or four pair of pants and five shirts to school every week and keep very few things for sentimental reasons) but in a global sense I have a lot.

The kids do too. I see this when they struggle to figure out where to keep their toys, stuffed animals, and other things. I know they have probably half of what most middle class kids have but still I cringe every Christmas when I think about where all these new pieces of plastic are going to go.

A few days ago my growing sense of "We have too much stuff!!!" came to a head. I was trying to find my shoes in the front closet and found that over the past few weeks and months it had become littered with what seemed like a million pairs of kid shoes. I marched out to the garage where we keep an "overflow" bucket of shoes and drug it back in. Slightly larger than a recycle bin, I dumped the overflow bucket out and began pairing up the shoes and laying them out in the art room floor. I carefully lined up all little girl shoes in one row and little boy shoes in another. I placed all the boots at one end, grouped the tennis and sports shoes in the middle, and put sandals and flip flops at the other end. When I finished with the bucket I returned to the front closet and began emptying it to add to the rows.

"What are you doing?" Muluken asked as he made his way down the stairs.

"We're playing shoe store," I answered. "Everyone gets a shopping bag and shops for only the shoes they really want and need."

"Oh." He headed back to the closet to help.

Pretty soon the rest of the kids came down with Tricia.

"Oh my," Tricia said when she saw that the front room had turned into what appeared to be a shoe stockroom.

"Not my flip flops!" Harper shouted, knowing the game of shoe store only too well. She went running across the room to protect her most prized possession in the whole wide world. "You're not getting rid of my flip flops!"

"I'm not getting rid of anything," I assured her. "You are."

Soon I started pulling out all of my shoes and making a row just for me. Embarrassingly, it stretched almost across the entire room as well. As I finished up my row I noticed that Tricia was beginning to pull out her shoes also. Now, I'm not stupid. I was not about to suggest that Tricia size up her shoe collection against the rest of ours. I was certain this would be seen as an attempt to guilt her into going without a shoe for every occasion. One of the reasons we hardly ever get upset with one another is because we work to avoid pushing each others' buttons. At least most of them.

"Where's the camera," I asked. "I want to take pictures of all these shoes."

"You're going to put this on your blog, aren't you?" Tricia asked, looking as though maybe I was about to push one of those buttons.

"Heck yeah!" I gloated.

I crawled down onto my belly trying to get all those shoes in one shot but it was impossible. I grabbed a piece of paper and had the kids help me tally up everything.

"Now before you write anything," Tricia warned, "I want you to know that I've only bought three pairs of shoes since we moved here."

"Okay," I said. "How many girls shoes are there Harper?"

"Forty-two."

"My gosh!" I exclaimed. "That's a lot. Definitely more than two little girls need!"

"And also," Tricia continued, "I had some of those in a bag in my closet to donate. I do not have nearly as many shoes as most..."

"Tricia, I didn't say a word," I interrupted. "I haven't said anything at all about your shoes; yet,  I feel like I'm on the defensive."

"We have fifteen dad!" shouted Muluken.

"Huh, that's a lot less than forty-two. Perhaps the female fascination with shoes is a learned behavior," I suggested. Because I'm that dumb.

Tricia finished putting her shoes out and said, "Look, I don't have that many more shoes than YOU do!"

She was right. I counted my shoes and saw that I had twelve pair. She had twenty.

"And some of mine were bagged for Goodwill so we probably had about the same amount!" she boasted.

Between the four of us we had eighty-nine pairs of shoes. That's a lot. One could argue that shoes have become a need of our everyday lives. But not eighty-nine pairs. This was ridiculous. From the smallest member of our family to the largest, we all had more than we needed.

"Okay, everyone pull out the shoes they definitely don't want anymore - either because they're too small, too torn up, or you never wear them," I directed. The girls started carrying armloads over to the wall by the stairs. The boys, perhaps too excited by the task, tried to unload just about every pair of shoes they had.

I looked down my row at my twelve sets of shoes. One pair of beat up lawn mowing shoes. Hiking boots. Tennis shoes. "Dress" shoes. Sandals. Crocs for camping. Cycling shoes with a plastic cleat on the bottom. Water shoes. It seemed I had one pair of shoes for just about any activity you could ever want pursue. I pulled out an old pair of hiking boots, an extra pair of sandals, and another pair of shoes I didn't even remember having. I had reduced my shoe count by 25% yet still had nine pair. I wanted to get rid of more but kept convincing myself that I really did NEED all those shoes for one reason or another.

In the end we wound up getting donating about 37 pairs of shoes. Tricia was right. She really didn't have that many shoes. Certainly not as many as just about every woman in her family, and mine.

My mom sat on the outskirts of this little show watching quietly. Muluken asked her at one point if she was going to bring down her shoes.

"OH NO," she was quick to respond. "I'm not putting my shoes into rows!" I suspected she was watching to see if I was going to do or say something stupid. Somehow I hadn't.

After we bagged the old shoes up and put all the keepers neatly away into the closet and bucket my mom disappeared. About half an hour later she reemerged.

"Alright, you guys inspired me to go through my own shoes," she said. "I found a number of shoes I don't need anymore. I put them in a bag and set them by the door with your bags."

"How many did you have?" I asked.

"I'm not telling you," she laughed. "More than twenty!"

We still have far more than we need. But in the end we were able to lighten our loads just a bit and free up some room around the house.  Maybe even enough for a fourth guitar!

Belly Achin'

We were out to dinner a few nights ago at Wild Wings Cafe. We are pretty knowledgeable when it comes to when and where there are "Kids Eat Free" or other special discounts. Our entire family of six can eat for less than $17 at Firehouse Subs on a Wednesday night. Moe's costs us about $25 on a Tuesday night and McCallister's will run about the same on either Sunday or Wednesday.

Our routine is to eat out one night each week. Tricia and I don't eat fast food which means that, by default, neither do the kids. I haven't eaten at a McDonalds in more than nine years and wouldn't even know what Hardee's, Burger King, or Rush's has on the menu beyond the usual burger and fries.

Tricia and I used to eat a whole lot of fast food. Taco Bell was our favorite. However, after finding out about ten years ago that Tricia's cholesterol was high, and then later finding out that she was pregnant with Harper, we decided that we better clean up our act. After all this time it's really easy to avoid foods that are greasy and fatty. Our systems are so unaccostomed to them that if we were to stop by and have a burger from, say, Steak 'n Shake our stomachs would scream in protest the rest of the evening and maybe even the next morning.

The kids don't eat this type of food either. A few of them don't mind because: (1) They don't know what they're missing, and (2) They aren't big meat eaters. A couple of the others, though, do miss it - or at least long for it. This divide seems to be framed by gender which may or may not be a coincidence, I don't know. When their grandparents come in town twice each year they'll usually wind up going to a fast food place while Tricia and I are out running an errand, going for a hike, or seeing a movie. They are also allowed to pick the restaurant each year for their birthday dinner. Ty has talked the past few months about going to McDonalds but fears that "dad won't eat anything there." I made the mistake of telling him this. I promised that I would be happy to take him to McDonalds if that's where he really wanted to go but that I'd probably wait to eat when I got back home. I felt bad about this afterward but I'm still not so certain it was all that wrong.

Because we wind up eating at the same small collection of restaurants over and again we sometimes make a conscious effort to find somewhere new or, at least, less frequented. This is where the decision to go to Wild Wings came from. We eat here maybe two or three times each year. It's not great but it's not bad either. The kids love all the TV screens plastered to every wall. There's no sound and all the programming is sports but they don't seem to mind. Generally Ainsley will sit and color on her placemat while the other three allow their eyes to dance indecisively from screen to screen.

When the waiter came over to take our orders the kids took turns telling her what they wanted. Ty tends to choose anything with the words "nuggets" or "dogs" attached to it. Ainsley and Harper seek out the word "chicken." And Muluken often begins by asking if he can order off the adult menu. He has the appetite of a Samoan. Sometimes we let him but often we don't. We have a very well defined budget for eating out and are careful to stay within it's confines.

However, the waitress explained that Tuesdays are dubbed "Two for Tuesdays" which means that if you order six chicken wings you get twelve, order eight you get sixteen, and so on. I asked Muluken if he wanted to split an order of sixteen with me. He began licking his lips and excitedly agreed. Chicken wings, for me, are like donuts. I hardly ever eat them. But each time I do I wind up with a belly ache and a sense of stupidity for doing this to myself. The problem is that after a few months I somehow allow myself to forget all this.

So Muluken and I looked over the menu at all the sauce options. There were all kinds of crazy choices I didn't even recognize or understand - Red Dragon, The General, Colorado Coppers. All-in-all there were thirty-four different sauces to choose from. Not a big fan of too many choices, I keyed in on the top eight or so at the top. They had simplistic, if not boring, names that I could comprehend - Virgin, Medium, Hot, Cherynobl. These were obviously in reference to each sauce's degree of heat. Liking spicy foods to a reasonable degree, I decided I would try the Hot.

I looked over at Muluken and saw that his index finger was sliding down the menu past Hot and Cherynobl to China Syndrome. "Very peppery, very hot, and very good" it read. He then pointed to Habenero Hots: "Something special for the insane." The last one, with a dark - almost black - picture of a pepper next to it, was Braveheart: "So hot you can lose your head over it."

These last three sauces were, according to the pictures of the peppers, the hottest they offered on the menu.

"What are you thinking about getting?" I asked Muluken.

"Habenero Hots," he answered.

"Buddy, those are going to be REALLY hot," I cautioned. "It says they're for the insane."

"I'm not insane!" he replied.

"But maybe if you order those you will be," I said.

He was not to be undeterred. When the waitress made her way over to him he ordered his wings.

"Oh, those are really hot!" she said with a slight look of disapproval.

"I know," he said and she looked down at me as though waiting to see if I'd override his choice.

I did not.

Once the wings came he ate all eight as he eats everything - fast and efficientlt. There was nothing left but a small stack of bare bones piled on his plate. We kept watching for signs of discomfort but he really hadn't even taken many drinks from his water. He reached across the table and accepted two of my mom's wings, with a more forgiving Medium sauce, and devoured those as well.

And then it hit him.

He started by constantly licking his lips as though he were trying to cool them. Then he started in on his water. Small trickles of tears began emerging at the corners of his eyes and he clutched his stomach. After about a minute or two he was beyond tearing up and full-out crying.

"What's wrong Muluken?" we all asked.

"MY STOMACH," he responded. "I DON'T FEEL VERY GOOD!"

'Was it too hot?" I asked.

"No," he argued. "It wasn't too hot." He doubled over and rested his forehead on the table. "I feel like I'm going to throw up!"

This was about the last thing Ainsley wanted to hear. She too began to tear up and hid her face in her arms. As we made our way out the door Muluken let out a very audible burp.

"I feel a little better now," he assured us.

Three burps later and he was soon in the back of the van with Harper laughing and playing again. And swearing off hot wings.

We'll have to make a deal - I'll keep him away from the wings and he can keep me away from the donuts.

Home

Before the snow and ice moved through the midlands of South Carolina last Monday our family had started a new morning routine. Tricia and I were rolling out of bed at 5:25 each morning, heading upstairs to get the kids out of bed, and bringing them back down to exercise with us. Tricia and Ainsley made their way into the sunroom to do Pilates while Muluken, Harper, Ty, and I  bundled up for a run around the neighborhood.

It was dark. And cold. And early. But still the kids popped right out of their beds excited to join us. Starting with just a short one mile jog, we laughed and chatted to pass the time. Muluken and I counted the number of houses that had someone awake. Ty alternated between buzzing ahead of us and then falling behind. Harper lifted her gaze to enjoy the brilliant glow of Venus. We all made plans for extending our runs to a mile-and-a-half or even two miles.

I kept expecting the kids' excitement to peter out. I knew from my own experiences with running, cycling, and swimming that everyone eventually hits a brick wall. It's at this point that you either give up or push through it and make exercising a normal part of your day. It becomes an important part of who you are.

However, that wall is hard to push through. Early on there are many mornings, or evenings, when it'd be easier to stay in bed or watch TV or do absolutely nothing. That's why I kept expecting the kids to ask if they "had" to go. But they didn't. Rather, each night they asked if we were excercising in the morning as though they were afraid we wouldn't. They applauded and cheered when told we would be getting up.

It's only been a week so I know the moment of truth is coming at some point. This past week we haven't been able to get out for a run because of all the snow and ice covering the streets and sidewalks. Going stir crazy, we've been driving over to the YMCA for a run around the indoor track and a swim in the pool. Harper and Muluken even joined me in the lap lanes for about thirty minutes of lap swimming. Expecting them to just splash around and play, I was very impressed.

I realize we're really lucky to have the YMCA literally right around the corner from our house. We're lucky, too, to live in a place where frigid temperatures and snow accumulation is very rare. We can get outside pretty much year 'round - often times in shorts or t-shirts. Our friends Betsy and Mike moved to International Falls, Minnesota a few years ago. Located near the US/Canada border, it is crazy cold there. Temperatures drop well below zero for weeks at a time and their kids can't stay out more than fifteen minutes at a time for fear of getting frostbite. Their town is also very remote so there are no indoor tracks or swimming pools. It makes me wonder how people in areas such as these get any exercise. Their reality is far beyond snow shovels or snow shoes. Everyone has a snow blower and most have a snowmobile. I can only imagine the amount of time spent watching television or playing video games in places such as this must be far above the national average -which is embarrassingly high  itself.

I find more and more that where you live is really important. We moved here from the Midwest because we wanted warmer temperatures and shorter trips to the ocean. Once here, we found that we love the mountains too. And the forests. And, especially, the trees. Like so many other parts of our new home in South Carolina, they have become a part of who we are.

We're making another move in the coming months. But not so far this time. We've found seven heavily wooded acres that we love in a nearby town. It backs up to a small fifteen acre lake where the kids can swim and splash and kayak. There are trees to climb. Trails to clear. Footbridges to build. Animals to watch.

It was tempting to stay where we are, in suburbia. Our house will be paid off in another fifteen years and our budget is much more forgiving than in years past. We are close to the grocery store and restaurants. Our drives into school each day are less than fifteen minutes. We have a neighborhood pool that becomes our second home in the summertime. But in the end none of those reasons were enough. It is important where you live. We're fortunate enough to be in a position where we can be choosy and seek out a home that matches our interests and lifestyle.

I envision many hours spent outside. We're building a screened porch in the back to escape the spring rains. We'll enjoy the shade of tall trees in summer and then watch their colors change in fall.

And winter, we'll take it as it comes. Hopefully, though, it will still find us waking early each morning for a chilly predawn run. This time through the country.

Parenthood: The Book

From the moment the baby arrived,
it was obvious that he was the boss.
He  put Mom and Dad on a round-the-clock schedule,
with no time off.
And then he set up his office right smack-dab
in the middle of the house.
He made demands.
Many,many demands.
And he was quite particular.
If things
weren't done
to his immediate
satisfaction, 
he had a fit.

So starts The Boss Baby, one of the newest picture books in our classroom. When I first read this book, chuckling to myself after every page, my immediate thought was "Who do I know that's having a baby?" It seemed like the perfect gift.

Of course someone without children probably couldn't fully relate.

He conducted meetings.
Lots and lots of meetings,
many in the middle of the night.

This story is probably much more humorous a few months into parenthood. In fact, maybe it's better suited for a first birthday. In addition to a nice bedtime story it would provide parents with an opportunity to look back and laugh at all they have survived - so far.

There are many books written to help parents do just that. Survive. Tricia and I read a couple. The first was What to Expect When You're Expecting, followed by What to Expect the 1st Year then ...the 2nd year and so on. This series is like the Dr. Spock's Baby and Childcare for this generation. We read the first book on pregnancy. Or, more accurately, Tricia read it and I browsed. It explained what was happening with the development of the baby in each month of pregnancy. It was fun to follow along and know that whatever was lurking in Tricia's stomach now had fingernails. Fingernails!

"It could start clawing it's way out of there at any moment, Tricia."

We also read the second book on the first year with the baby. We were a bit concerned that we didn't really know anything about babies and how to keep them alive. Later we found that keeping them alive was really easy. It was getting them to sleep that was the impossible part. With Harper we just kept picking her up and rocking her. Each time we would lay her down for a nap we'd gently, and ever-so-slowly, set her into her crib and then embark on the five minute scoot across the floor toward the door, trying our best not to step on a squeaky floorboard or to let the door squeak as we walked out. Many times it didn't work out and she awoke again, screaming her head off.

Harper didn't sleep at night either. We'd have to go get her and rock her to sleep on a fairly regular basis. Tricia probably did this more than I did. I hate to fit into a gender stereotype but I was pretty good at staying asleep - or at least pretending to. By the time Ainsley came along I decided we couldn't do the sleepless nights again. We needed help.

We went to the bookstore and picked up a copy to Dr. Ferber's much controversial book Solve Your Child's Sleep Problems. I desperately wanted to know how to teach a baby to sleep through the night. Unfortunately I found that I had to read - or at least skim- four or five whole chapters before I got to the good part. The first hundred pages or so was dedicated to helping us understand babies and their behaviors. This one time in my life I didn't want to understand. I just wanted to be told what to do. In specific terms.

I finally found the right chapter and learned why the book is so controversial. Dr. Ferber teaches that the best way to get a baby to sleep through the night is essentially to allow them to cry it out. The first night you wait maybe ten minutes after they start crying to come in, rub their back (never picking them up), speak softly to them, and walk out again. Each time they cry you wait ten minutes before coming in. The next night it's fifteen minutes, and so on. The idea is that you're reassuring them that you are still there but teaching them to ultimately put themselves back to sleep. We do this as adults. We actually wake up, at least partially, throughout the night and put ourselves back to sleep without even noticing it. Babies can do it too.

It took Harper a year-and-a-half to sleep through the night. After reading Dr. Ferber's book and putting it into practice (you had to wait until the baby was at least six months old or so to do this) Ainsly was "cured" within two nights. I suddenly became a big believer in Dr. Ferber and recommended it to every droopy-eyed parent I knew or met at the playground.

As the kids grow older I find we don't really ever seek out these types of books anymore. We've learned to trust ourselves and to watch and listen to others we respect and admire. And, of course, much of what we do as parents was modeled for us by our own parents who succeeded in not raising us to be pychopaths or even Republicans (a little joke for Tricia's dad).

I did, however, recently come upon a book on raising older children that I really love. Of all places, it was already on our bookshelf. Titled Raising Children: A Guide to Raising Children, by Children, it was written for me nine years ago by my fifth grade students at New City School. After Harper was born I took a six week paternity leave. When I returned my students had created, on their own, a book to teach me all I needed to know about being a parent.

It is organized into various sections:

The Rules About Kids
You don't have to tell us we look like rag muffins when we go to school.
We will shut up as long as we are eating.
We will always love you. 
We are only kids. 

School Days
Always pick a school where both you and your child feel welcome.

The Top 10 Things That Kids Hate That Parents Do
Hanging up underwear when we have friends over.
Think that the ugly clothes that are cheaper look "exactly" the same as the brand name ones.
Show naked baby pictures. 


Interests
Your kid has his or her own interests. They may not be the same as yours but support them fully. Encourage your kids to do fun after school activities...That will give them a chance to do more of what they love.
Also try to share your kids interests. Maybe they could teach you a thing or two. 
Always remember that they will explore new things and may like something for a while and then stop liking it. But don't ever force your child to do something that they don't feel comfortable with. Have fun!


Top Five Things that Kids Like Their Parents to Do
5. Let us see PG-13 movies when we are at least 10 years old.
4. Let us get our ears pierced whenever we want.
3. When we don't get such a good grade encourage us instead of ripping our heads off.
2. Buy us things.

and the most important...

1. Love us. 

Now that's sound advice.

Winter Falls

 

Poor, poor Palmetto tree. For the second year in a row we received a surprise snow storm here in the Columbia area. The snow, a couple of inches at most, mercilessly weighed down the fronds of our not so tropical looking tree. Amazingly it will survive. I, on the other hand, may not.

The kids of course loved it. They were quick to run out the door in the morning. We no longer have all the winter gear we once did when living in the Midwest so the kids went out with what they had. Ainsley was all bundled up whereas Ty didn't even wear a coat - or socks. He was eager to try out the new Keen sandals he got for Christmas. They were actually intended for stomping through streams and creeks in spring, summer, and fall, not a winter snow storm. He lasted all of about ten minutes before realizing his error in judgment. That was sooner than I would have guessed. 

They tried to make a snowman in the front. However, all the dead grass rolled into the snow making for the hairiest balls of snow you have ever seen. He looked shady - like the type of snowman you might expect to find in a dark alley.                                                                                                                                           Tess liked the snow too. She ran around the backyard waiting for someone to throw her a ball. When we were still living in St. Louis our old German Shepard, Cosmo, used to lay out in the snow for hours at a time. Because of an eternally clogged drain we had a large pool of water that would collect in the middle of our driveway. It sat there for weeks at a time freezing, melting, and then refreezing. When the air temperature would venture above 32 degrees Cosmo would lay right in the middle of the frigid water. It's amazing how well adapted to cold weather animals can be. I am not.   

I make it out to be worse than it is, though. I don't really so much hate winter. It's just not my favorite season. I was reminded of why during our nearly week-long visit in St. Louis. In our six days there we never once saw the sun. When we lived there I remember this happening for much of December, January, and February. This was why my favorite day of the year was March 1st -not Christmas, Thanksgiving, or even the first day of summer.  Because in my mind flipping the calendar to March meant the return of the sun and warmer temperatures. Of course this wasn't always true. There were occassional March snowstorms and stretches below freezing. This would drive me mad. I'd bundle up and walk the kids to the zoo all the same but it with a defeated spirit.

Surprisingly Tricia and I got married in winter. December 31st to be exact. Tricia's grandmother warned "No one will come!" 

"That's okay," I assured her. We would be there.

It was on a Tuesday night at 7:00pm and people did show up. It was an unseasonably warm 40 degrees outside and there was no snow. Now each year when we go out to celebrate our anniversary, yesterday was our fourteenth, not only do we have to avoid jacked up New Year's Eve pricing but the weather as well.

This year we decided to make the best of a winter anniversary getaway and visited Asheville, North Carolina. On the drive up we stopped in Brevard to hike out to a couple of waterfalls. Despite the fact that is was in the 50's and dry at home the mountains were chilly and snowy. Not too chilly, though. Always ultra-concerned with packing light, I chose not to bring my hiking boots along. I figured we'd only be out for a couple of miles at most and I could make due with my tennis shoes. It was a mistake. The paths were very snowy and icy and I had to ginger-foot my way through a number of sections. Tricia joked that I was walking like an old man - all hunched over and shuffling my feet a few inches at a time. She, on the other hand, was wearing her earwarmers and could not hear most of what I said to her. "WHAT?" she'd yell when I had said something. We were quite the site I am sure.

The first falls we saw was Hooker Falls. Despite it's name there was no gathering of prostitutes. In fact, we were the only ones there.                                             Hooker Falls constitutes the fourth falls in a short stretch of the Little River. It was really beautiful. While not too tall, maybe twenty feet at most, it more than made up for it's short stature with it's respectable width and massive water flow. The snow and ice wrapped around the falling water making for quite a show. I pulled out my camera, snapped one shot, and the battery died. Luckily I had a second camera. Pulling it from my backpack, I soon found that its battery was dead as well. It's worth pointing out that I quit the Boy Scouts after only a few months. I'll blame that for having come unprepared.

From Hooker Falls we hiked on to see Triple Falls, High Falls, and then Bridal Veil Falls. We had seen the first two in summer conditions so it was fun to have the opportunity to see them in winter. Triple Falls are a series of stair-stacked falls. High Falls is a large-drop falls that, while beautiful to see, doesn't photograph too easily. Bridal Veil Falls, a new one to us, was largely a rock slide.  All-in-all we wound up hiking about six miles for the day.

The next day my mom and the kids came up to join us. We walked around the eclectic shops of Asheville and had a New Year's Dinner at a really cool Indian restaurant. The next morning we woke up early in hopes of finding a few more falls before heading back home. The weather was mild but rainy.  As we pulled off the interstate we made our way along a windy road. I was amazed to see that there was little to no snow given all the snow Tricia and I had seen just two days earlier. We found a very unofficial looking parking pull-off and set off walking across a small grassy field. Within a hundred yards or so we saw our trail branch off to the left into some high grasses and thorny plants.

Our destination was Bradley Falls. Bradley Falls has a very high drop and is seemingly in the middle of nowhere. We hiked and hiked and hiked without seeing a single soul. About half a mile in we came to a creek crossing. While the water was not incredibly high, it was incredibly cold. Fortunately we packed in our sandals which made wading across much easier. A few seconds into my crossing I was surprised to find that the water wasn't nearly as cold as I had anticipated. However, about ten seconds later my perspective had significantly changed. My immersed feet and ankles were so cold I thought I might die (perhaps a slight exaggeration). It was incredibly painful.    

Our trail quickly rose about a hundred feet above the creek and within twenty minutes or so we could hear the roar of the falls below us. We found a side trail that scrambled down the mountain side to a rock overlooking the falls. The rock was scary in that it wasn't all that large and there was no gentle slope down to the falls and creek. Rather, it was a sheer drop off of around sixty or seventy feet. I told the kids they were not allowed to stand and that noone could go near the edge. It was very nerve wracking. Still, Bradley Falls was very cool. It was pretty far away and partially obstructed by a tree so the photography wasn't all that great but being there was. 

The hike back was quick. Just as my mom made her second crossing of the creek in sandals, as the rest of us carefully scrambled across rocks to avoid the water, it began to rain. We hurried back to the van and drove home. As we got closer and closer to home the temperatures soared. It was about 70 degrees at home. Now that's a nice winter temperature!

Ainsley

The first thing Ainsley does each morning when she comes down for breakfast is to come over and wrap her arms around my waist to give me a big, tight hug. She’s very tender-hearted. Over the course of a day she’s likely to give out a dozen or more hugs, kisses, and “I love yous” to her family and teachers. While other kids might feel a bit embarrassed by a hug or kiss in front of other kids Ainsley still seeks them out. I often wonder if she knows that this is no longer the social norm for a second grader or if she realizes that she’s  a bit more affectionate than most seven year olds but doesn’t care.

She’s sensitive, too. A few nights ago Tricia and Ainsley were alone in the car on their way home from running an errand together. As they passed a nearby school Ainsley looked out the window and asked, “Mommy, is that a high school?”

“Yes, Ainsley” Tricia answered.

“Is high school where you sleep at school?” she asked.

Tricia thought a moment, trying to figure out what Ainsley was talking about.

“No sweetie. You don’t sleep at school in high school,” she answered. “That’s college you’re thinking of.”

“Oh.”

Ainsley became very quiet. After a few moments she spoke again - this time her tiny voice beginning to quiver.

“I don’t want to go to college.”

“Why not,” Tricia asked.

Ainsley began to cry.

“Because I don’t want to leave my family,” she sobbed.

Tricia gave her a moment to calm down.

“I want to be a cashier when I grow up,” Ainsley said. “Grandma said you don’t have to go to college to be a cashier.”

“That’s true,” Tricia answered. “But you still might want to go to college.”

“No, not to be a cashier,” she said. “I want to be a cashier at Publix. Because that’s where you shop.”

After a few more moments of whimpering and thinking about all this Ainsley said, “Mommy, could you not tell anyone I cried?”

There was a time when Harper used to constantly tell us “I love my family!” She still asks to sit in our laps after dinner and gives out the occasional hug. However, she’s getting older and trying to find a balance between being our little girl and acting like the older kids she sees at school and in movies and television shows. She's now careful to avoid kisses on the mouth and often fails to acknowledge a good night peck on top of the head while reading in bed. She has a number of really close friends and can go whole weekends barely seeing either of us.

Ainsley is just two years behind Harper and I wonder if our days of being the most important people in the whole wide world will soon draw to a close. I wonder if we'll have to go looking for those hugs and kisses. Looking at Ainsley right now, it’s hard to imagine that could be true.

Fatherhood

The other morning the kids and I were pulling into school when out of nowhere Muluken asked, “Dad, were there toothbrushes when you were a kid?”

“Uhh….what?” I asked.

“Were there toothbrushes when you were little?”

I twisted up my face and playfully glared at him through the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Muluken,” I assured him. “There were toothbrushes when I was little.”

“Oh,” he said. “But how about dentists?”

Muluken knows how old I am. Of that I am positive. What I’m not so sure about, though, is how old he thinks thirty-six is. My dad was thirty-six years old when I was in the sixth grade. He seemed old to me then. Not grandfatherly-old, but worldly-wise-old. Like so many kids, I thought he knew everything. I assumed he had learned all there was to know about life and that being a father was as natural and easy for him as taking a jog around the block.

Yet now that it’s me I’ve learned that parenting is anything but natural. It sometimes shocks me that I’m old enough to even be a father. Certainly, I’m not worldly wise. In fact there are many times, when parenting, that I find myself simply making things up on the spot and then bluffing as though it’s the only logical answer or decision.

“Dad, can we play water guns at Stevens?” the kids will ask.

“Uhh……yeah, but only if you’re just getting each other wet. No pretending to kill one another.”

“What’s the difference?” they ask.

“Oh, there’s a difference all right!”

I think.

“Dad, can I get on the computer?” they ask.

“Sure but that means no movie later tonight,” I answer.

“The computer is the same as watching a movie?”

“Sure it is.”

As a kid I may have disagreed with these types of decisions but I always assumed they were rooted in some age-old wisdom. That some knowledge had been handed down many generations allowing my father to do and say what was right. Come to find out, though, he was probably just making it all up too.

That’s not to say he wasn’t a great role model. He was. My first lessons in fatherhood came from my dad. I learned the value of being patient. Only once - when I was out playing in the neighborhood with some friends and failed to make it back home before nightfall - can I ever remember him being angry with me. This made quite an impression. And while I can’t say I’m the world’s most patient father, I’m certainly a patient teacher.

I also learned the importance of making time for your children. Every night my dad came home tired and smelling of a tar plant. At least I would assume he was tired; but truthfully, he never showed it. He always seemed to be in good spirits and each night he took the time to play a game of catch with me in the yard. Or watch movies with me. Or wrestle around on the floor.

Not long before my dad died I graduated from college and started my career as a teacher. I loved everything about it from the very start and was lucky enough to teach that first year with a guy named Joe. He was ten years older than me and quickly became one of my very best friends and mentors. What I didn’t learn about being a father from my own dad I learned from Joe.

Joe and his wife were very much the type of parents - the type of family, really - that Tricia and I aspired to be even before the topic of children ever came up. Their kids ate really healthy, rarely ever watched television, didn’t play video games, and spent lots of time outside running around and playing. Their weekends were spent visiting the zoo, hiking, or playing at the park. They were very concerned about how their kids viewed the world and how they treated others. Their house was always a hub of commotion as they regularly had neighborhood kids running in and out of their door.

I’m sure there have been countless other influences. In the end, though, I guess we each create our own version of fatherhood. Like music there are many influences to be found - traces of those who have come before us - but we take each of those and make them our own. For better or worse.

While there are many moments where I fail to shine as a parent, I know that on the whole I do better than okay. I like to joke that other than parenting and teaching I’m chronically mediocre at most things in life. That’s okay, though, because if I were going to choose just two things to do well parenting and teaching would be my first choices, by a long shot.

Being a good father isn’t something kids necessarily brag about to their friends. They’re often more interested in tangible things. Things that are big, strong, fast, or valuable. It makes me wonder what my kids say about me to their friends. I’m already beginning to think that a few of them are starting to notice my limitations. Muluken was sharing a story with me not too long ago about how his swim goggles came to be broken.

“Jacob’s dad was throwing us into the pool and they broke,” he explained.

“Who’s Jacob?” I asked.

“He’s a friend I know from first grade that I sometimes see at the pool. His dad is a lot bigger than you.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, and a lot stronger too,” he explained.

“Hmmm.”

“Yeah,” he went on. “He can throw us a lot higher in the air than you can.”

So maybe part of the spell is beginning to break. Perhaps the day is soon approaching when the kids will no longer think I know everything or can do anything. Maybe they’ll see I’m not really the world’s best Othello player or know everything there is to know about the proper baseball swing. But I hope they’ll know I’m a good father. Because thanks to some wonderful role models I’ve learned to make them feel special. And to love them.

There’s one other role model I didn’t mention. And while he might not be real he’s made no less an impact on me as a father. When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird in the seventh grade I fell in love with the children, Jem and Scout. When I read it again in high school I fell in love with mystery of Boo Radley and cried over the unjust death of TomRobinson. But when I read it a third time, as an adult, it was Atticus Finch that moved me. He was as ideal of a father as any imperfect man could be. He was kind, thoughtful, calm, loving, and fair. That’s not a bad start.

To end, I’m going to include some excerpts from one of my favorite chapters. Amidst all the elements and storylines of this monumental novel, I think it’s this small story of the rabid dog coming down the alley that sums up Atticus, and the kind of gentle and humble man we should all aspire to be.

-----------------------

Atticus was feeble: he was nearly fifty. When Jem and I asked him why he was so old, he said he got started late, which we felt reflected upon his abilities and manliness. He was much older than the parents of our school contemporaries, and there was nothing Jem or I could say about him when our classmates said, "My father -"

Jem was football crazy. Atticus was never too tired to play keep-away, but when Jem wanted to tackle him Atticus would say, "I'm too old for that, son."

Our father didn't do anything. He worked in an office, not in a drugstore. Atticus did not drive a dump-trunk for the county, he was not the sheriff, he did not farm, work in a garage, or do anything that could possibly arouse the admiration of anyone.

Besides that, he wore glasses. He was nearly blind in his left eye, and said left eyes were the tribal curse of the Finches. Whenever he wanted to see something well, he turned his head and looked from his right eye.

He did not do the things our schoolmates' fathers did: he never went hunting, he did not play poker or fish or drink or smoke. He sat in the living room and read.

---------

Tim Johnson (the rabid dog) reached the side street that ran in front of the Radley Place, and what remained of his poor mind made him pause and seem to consider which road he would take. He made a few hesitant steps and stopped in front of the Radly gate; then he tried to turn around, but was having difficulty.

Atticus said, "He's within range, Heck. You better get him now before he goes down the side street- Lord knows who's around the corner. Go inside, Cal."

Calpurnia opened the screen door, latched it behind her, then unlatched it and held onto the hook. She tried to block Jem and me with her body, but we looked out from beneath her arms.

"Take him, Mr. Finch." Mr. Tate handed the rifle to Atticus; Jem and I nearly fainted.

"Don't waste time, Heck," said Atticus. "Go on."

"Mr. Finch, this is a one-shot job."

Atticus shook his head vehemently; "Don't just stand there, Heck! He won't wait all day for you -"

"For God's sake, Mr. Finch, look where he is! Miss and you'll go straight into the Radley house! I can't shoot that well and you know it!"

"I haven't shot a gun in thirty years -"

Mr. Tate almost threw the rifle at Atticus. "I'd feel mighty comfortable if you did now," he said.

In a fog, Jem and I watched our father take the gun and walk out into the middle of the street. He walked quickly, but I thought he moved like an underwater swimmer: time had slowed to a nauseating crawl.

When Atticus raised his glasses Calpurnia murmered, "Sweet Jesus help him," and put her hands to her cheeks.

Atticus pushed his glasses to his forehead; they slipped down, and he dropped them in the street. In the silence, I heard them crack. Atticus rubbed his eyes and chin; we saw him blink hard.

In front of the Radley gate, Tim Johnson had made up what was left of his mind. He had finally turned himself around, to pursue his original course up our street. He made two steps forward, then stopped and raised his head. We saw his body go rigid.
With movements so swift they seemed simultaneous, Atticus's hand yanked a ball-tipped lever as he brought the gun to his shoulder.

The rifle cracked. Tim Johnson leaped, flopped over and crumpled on the sidewalk in a brown-and-white heap. He didn't know what hit him.

Mr. Tate jumped off the porch and ran to the Radley Place. He stopped in front of the dog, squatted, turned around and tapped his finger on his forehead above his left eye. "You were a little to the right, Mr. Finch," he called.

"Always was," answered Atticus.

-------------------

Miss Maudie grinned wickedly. "Well now, Miss Jean Louise," she said, "still think your father can't do anything? Still ashamed of him?"

"Nome," I said meekly.

"Forgot to tell you the other day that besides playing the Jew's Harp, Atticus Finch was the deadest shot in Maycomb County in his time."

"Dead shot..." echoed Jem.

"That's what I said, Jem Finch. Guess you'll change your tune now. The very idea, didn't you know his nickname was Ol' One-Shot when he was a boy? Why, down at the Landing when he was coming up, if he shot fifteen times and hit fourteen doves he'd complain about wasting ammunition."

"He never said anything about that," Jem muttered.

"Never said anything about it, did he?"

"No, ma'am."

"Wonder why he never goes huntin' now," I said.

"Maybe I can tell you," said Miss Maudie. "If your father's anthing, he's civilized in his heart. Marksmanship's a gift of God, a talent - oh, you have to practice to make it perfect, but shootin's different from playing the piano or the like. I think maybe he put his gun down when he realized that God had given him an unfair advantage over most living things. I guess he decided he wouldn't shoot till he had to, and he had to today."

"Looks like he'd be proud of it," I said.

"People in their right minds never take pride in their talents," said Miss Maudie.

-------------------

"Don't say anything about it, Scout," Jem said.

"What? I certainly am. Ain't everybody's daddy the deadest shot in Maycomb County."
Jem said, "I reckon if he'd wanted us to know it, he'da told us. If he was proud of it, he'da told us."

"Maybe it just slipped his mind," I said.

"Naw, Scout, it's something you wouldn't understand. Atticus is real old, but I wouldn't care if he couldn't do anything - I wouldn't care if he coudn't do a blessed thing."

Jem picked up a rock and threw it jubilantly at the carhouse. Running after it, he called back: "Atticus is a gentleman, just like me!"

Bookworms

Just yesterday, Muluken and I finished the Harry Potter series. Seven books. Thousands of pages. More than a million words. It was quite an experience. And an accomplishment.

Tricia started it all about a year ago when she read the first (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets) and second (Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone) books to Harper and Muluken. I had already read the first book years ago during my first year teaching. Although I loved the book I resisted reading more due to the overwhelming popularity the young series was enjoying. It became a craze that I didn't care to become a part of.

However, after more than ten years the opportunity arose to give it a second chance - Harper and Muluken wanted me to read them the third book (Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban). Trying to read aloud a 448-page book half an hour at a time is a rather slow process. It seemed to take months but, in reality, probably took five or six weeks.

When summer rolled around we all made a trip to the library to pick up four copies of the fourth book (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). The four of us read separately and together, as well as listened to a significant portion while in the van on vacation. Ainsley put in her earphones when the story became too dark or scary and Ty even cried near the end. We figured out not to listen too close to bedtime. By the time we returned from vacation there were only a few chapters left to read and everyone finished nearly as soon as we got home.

Muluken and I then went to the library to get the fifth book (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix). At 870 pages it felt as though we were carrying around dictionaries. Still, we each finished it within a couple of weeks. There were days when Muluken spent three or four hours reading. I remember seeing him sit and read as those around him played video games, watched television, and threw toy airplanes. Certainly there's far more to life than reading a book but I have to admit that it was awfully fun to see him so engrossed.

It would have been nice to discuss the book but it seemed as though we were forever a hundred pages ahead or behind one another and fearful of learning something we shouldn't know yet. We both finished on the same night - staying up later than we probably should have - and were excited to finally talk freely about favorite parts the next morning.

Around this time we returned home from another of our summer trips and went back to the library for the sixth book (Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince). We were taking our final trip of the summer (the Appalachian Trail hike) and used our time in the van to push toward that inevitable end - the final book. If we could have fit the massive books into our backpacks during the hike I'm sure we would have. Once home we dug back in and finished the book within a week. Muluken was now reading for about two hours every night before bed and then waking up and reading another hour or so before coming down for breakfast. I struggled to keep up. I found that with preparations for the quickly approaching school year I had to steal as many small moments for reading as I could. While brushing my teeth. While eating lunch.  While waiting for the kids to get their shoes on to go somewhere. Soon we had finished and I wondered if we might just take a break.

The next day I was told that Tricia had requested the seventh book for Muluken (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows). I was hesitant to begin the book because school was starting, I had a graduate course set to begin, and there were a number of teaching texts I wanted to read. Time for recreational reading (beyond the newspaper and blogs) was scarce. Still, I couldn't see coming all this way - four books in four-and-a-half months, and then letting Muluken finish alone. So I started to read from Muluken's book after he had fallen asleep. Realizing there was no way I was going to keep up, I checked out my own copy from our school library last Friday. How in the world we were able to finish the book in these past seven days I do not know but I can say that the mere fact we wanted to is quite a credit to JK Rowling. Every chapter, every page made you feel as though you were mere moments from finding some secret or clue. You felt as though you were just a paragraph or two from a crucial confrontation. There was a night or two when Tricia fell asleep and I kept telling myself "Just one more chapter!"

While I would not say that Harry Potter is the best children's book(s) of all time I'm more than comforable stating that it's the most important. Thousands upon thousands of kids have learned to love reading because of Harry Potter - many of whom were not ready for such a challenging text but, driven by the engaging story and characters, persevered so that they too could find out how it would all turn out.

Muluken was not ready for this challenging of a text. Not completely. He knew all the  names and understood the majority of the storyline. He made predictions as to what he thought would happen next and developed a strong affection, as well as hatred, for certain characters. Still, the vocabulary was tough and there were many parts where he failed to pick up on smaller storylines. He missed the meaning of a few parts. But this I know...it was worth every minute, every page he spent reading because he loved it. And because we were able to share it together.

I don't know that there will be another series that can so deeply consume the both of us - that will bring us together in this unique way. Time will tell. But in the meantime I can be thankful for Harry Potter. Because despite trips to the Virginia highlands and St. Louis, fifty miles on the Appalachian Trail, and a wonderful birthday trip to Lake Jocassee, my most lasting memory of this past summer just might be "The Boy Who Lived" and how he was able to weave an entire summer together for us.