Conflict Resolution

I have three kids, all very close in age, that are beginning their entry into the "tween" years. Based on my observations so far, this is the stage in development when the Conflicto Gland begins to saturate a young body with Scream-At-Your-Brother hormone.

It's not new, conflict has followed us from wood blocks to cell phones, but the power has recently been cranked up on the conflicto-meter to the point of shrill, ear splitting feedback. I try to impart the techniques of conflict resolution on my kids, sometimes they listen sometimes they.... what am I saying? They never listen!

Our home has also been filled with animals of diverse type, each forced into compulsory and sometimes stressed relationships with their humans and each other. No one asked the mature cat with established turf if she'd like to share her space with a new kitten. The bird did not knowingly sign up to live life in a confined space with predators.

Our home is a complex web of relationships between 13 creatures of various species, many of whom are at each other's throats.  With a little understanding, and some coaching... we manage.  For instance, take this recently witnessed exchange:

BIRD - "When you look at me like that it makes me feel as if you want to eat me."
CAT - "What I hear you saying is... you taste like chicken."

My Tiny Brain

I found a hand written note on a Post-It in my wallet, it was written to me.  The message was cryptic and incomplete, as if the note-leaver assumed I was a mind reader who'd understand its obscure context.  I stared at it... I tried my best to interpret... and then I recognized the writing.  It was mine.

I'm a husband, a father, and a professional in a technical field.  Life is busy and I think the neurons responsible for absorbing new clutter in my brain filled up years ago.  The only way to fit new stuff in is to push some old stuff out but those pesky neurons are sentimental, it seems, and they'd rather hold onto the dusty memories of bad childhood dreams than make room for "pick up milk after work".

To extend my memoronic capabilities I allow certain things to spill out onto little pieces of paper, I write notes to my future self.  While this is a handy and often indispensible tool, it suffers the same drawbacks my brain cells do; gradual accumulation of clutter, and lack of recall.  You see, writing a note to my future self does not guarantee that the future me will read it.  That "me" has to remember there's a note to read!

Here enters technology to save the day.  I recently acquired (quite delinquently) a mobile device that hosts an electronic memory bank for lists and notes.  It is a digital repository for thoughts akin to a physical extension of my neural network.  It's like my brain just knocked out a wall and added a new room that I carry around in my pocket.  With a cheerful little song, and a bit of a wiggle, it even reminds me when I need to remember something (now if I can just remember to take it with me when I leave the house).

Note to self... sell 3M (Post-It) stock and buy Apple shares. 

Truthfully, I've been using computers to augment my brain for quite some time, but this latest addition to my computing arsenal is tiny, really slick, and has me reflecting on cultural trends.  Since the dawn of the Industrial Age we've been offloading tasks to machines, it seems we've come far enough to entrust our very memories to digital devices.  Do we really need our lazy brains to remember anything anymore?

In my experience, men are more likely to acclimate easily to handheld devices that compliment cognition and tote effortlessly in one's pocket.  I believe this is for two reasons; out of sheer necessity (because men have very poor memory), and because men are already quite accustomed to thinking with what is in their pants.

Easy Riders

As parents, Cristy and I do everything we can to ensure our kids don't hit any unexpected bumps in life's road.  Actually, if you extend that analogy a little further... it feels more like we're clearing forest, grading land, and laying down fresh asphalt that is smooth like stretched velvet.

No bump is too small to warrant attention, apparently.  Peaches get peeled, pitted, diced, and served in tiny bowls to avoid the hideously fuzzy skin that would surely kill the children (or so we're lead to believe).  The giant red, not-seedless, grapes purchased accidentally must be cut open, seeds removed, and bagged nicely to qualify for consumption in a school lunch.

The cumulative effect of this mind boggling pampering causes something I call "Smooth Road Syndrome" in which suspensions grow soft and vehicles settle into low-rider profile.  When your chassis rides a hair's breadth from the blacktop you sure look cool!  Until you hit a speed bump.

I had never imagined how true-to-life this analogy was until we took the family hiking this summer. The dirt trail through pine woods was scattered with exposed rocks and tree roots and my youngest son, Joey, was wearing his low-rider shoes.  He tripped the whole way up, the whole way down, and made it very clear to everyone on the mountain how displeased he was with the unimproved surface.

Last year, we hiked Green Mountain, a local grass covered foothill popular for its easy trails and city views. On our decent down a trail hewn from rocky hillside, stepping over large rocks and taking care not to slip on patches of gravel, my older son, Garett, said, "Whoever built this place sure hasn't done much with it".

Perhaps our parental paving machine, responsible for such an easy ride, should start shedding parts into the roadway as a way to keep the drivers sharp.  "Watch out for that bolt!".  "Oops, sorry about that wheel stuck in your grill".

Eventually, the big machine which has been leveling ground (and eclipsing the path ahead) will run out of steam or reach the end of its contracted duties.  Hazard signs will go up... and its operators will wave the drivers around.

Good luck kids!

Saving BIG

Years ago when wholesale warehouses were just getting traction in the direct-to-consumer market I lived with a young couple who eagerly signed up to save big. It was summer, we lived in a small house with no air conditioning, and they came home from the warehouse with a 40 pound bag of oranges.

In the absence of proper refrigeration (of which there was none at the required scale in our house) an owner of 40 pounds of oranges has two choices; peel and eat 24 hours a day for 2 weeks straight, or hastily open an Orange Julius.

What came in the door next was equally astounding... a 5o pound bag of flour. I had rented a room from this couple for a few months and never saw baked goods anywhere near the kitchen. Despite this, they were apparently gearing up to open an in-home bakery business... or to become weevil farmers. I didn't stick around long enough to find out, they needed my room for food storage.

Today I am a warehouse shopping member myself, a status I can claim only by association as it was my wife who signed us up. I'll never forget the first day she came home with shampoo.

Samples are plentiful in warehouse-ville. The cavernous store is a veritable buffet of processed, frozen, and re-heated bites individually containerized in plastic cups or skewered on colorful toothpicks. They are prepared and served by minimally paid retirees with sore feet, their wrinkled and awkwardly gloved hands moving morsels into position almost as fast as hungry shoppers eat them.

I always appear to look on the samples with interest, my face poised with an inquisitive gaze as I approach the table. And when the food bit makes it into my mouth I raise my eyebrows a bit and nod approvingly. I'll even spend a moment studying the box and then ask "where are these?" even though my stomach is already at the next stand. In reality, the elderly lady behind the table who lost her savings in the stock market, who was assigned to Hot Pockets on isle 7 this morning, and who is now sweating behind a toaster oven doesn't give a rat's ass what I think.

Shampoo samples would be useful, but you never see those. It's hard to find a place to rinse between pallets on the warehouse floor. I'd pay money to sit outside the store on free shampoo day and watch the patrons exit. "Look kids! That guy's head looks like an anvil".

The shampoo that came home with my wife was not sampled, but I'll get to that in a minute. The hard part was not getting the dolly's wheels over the lip of our shower basin, it was trying to squeeze into the shower myself the next morning. Thankfully, there was a convenient pump on top... almost certainly a suggestion made by the manufacturer's lawyers. Attempting to wrangle a slippery shampoo barrel (while naked!) to ease out a coin sized dab on one's palm would surely be injurious.

Three days later my wife's hair decided it didn't like the new shampoo. Her hair is special, not only does it have body and shine, it also has opinions. My hair is more guy-like, it says "whatever!" to things like beer, axel grease, and fire. So the shampoo was mine... twenty years worth. I had no idea what to do with the matching barrel of conditioner... though an inflatable kiddie-pool and wrestling came to mind.

Right now, I am working my way through a 60 year supply of women's multi-vitamins. My biggest fear is not that I will grow breasts, but that (given the vitamins are already long expired) my new boobs will arrive already wrinkled and saggy.

If these side effects seem unappealing let me remind you that, per unit, we paid half what we would have spent anywhere else. We saved BIG!

Us and Them

I was walking out of a store last week and got blocked by an enormous, testosterone saturated, mass of teenager holding a booklet in his hand. "You wanna support local high-schoo fu'ball?".

When I was a kid I wanted to play baseball. Circumstances as they were, I was encouraged to pursue more available (and free) offerings through my public school. Elementary schools, of course, do not have athletic programs and so I found myself engaged in music and theatre.

Direction is sometimes hard to change. By the time my classmates and I were old enough for after-school athletics the ones on the field already had ability and experience. It's good to stick with what you know... and so the music/theatre vector I was on took me all the way through high school.

There was never much overlap between the muscle-bound athletic department and the music/theatre group, half of whom were in the closet looking for an expressive outlet. It was an "us and them" mentality and they had it all; popularity, cheerleaders, abs, and most of all... money!

I went on to college, shed my peforming arts background after one semester (though I loved it), and got a science degree. I learned the value of a good education while studying in the shadow of a State University's behemoth, and generously funded, football program.

So I looked at this mountainous son of Andre the Giant who was eclipsing my escape route, and I said, "Perhaps if you were raising money to buy microscopes for your science class I'd oblige you. Do you have any idea how disproportionately football is funded? You don't need money... what you need is a thick Chemistry textbook and a membership in the Glee Club."

That's when he picked me up with one hand and stuffed me into my locker.

Actually, what I really said was "no, thank you" and then walked briskly to my car... with one eye over my shoulder.

Fledgling Economy

I give my kids play money for doing chores... and they love it! A new currency was recently born in my home and, though it has no real-world value, it is sought after and tightly held. We now operate in a new micro-economy based on (wait for it)... "Covey-Bucks".

A few years ago we started handing out allowance (in US Dollars) as a vehicle; to encourage saving, to teach about making wise purchasing decisions, to manipulate the children into cleaning their rooms, and so we can say "That's what you get allowance for!" when they beg for everything shiny at Wal-Mart.

My kids (now 7, 9, and 9) are learning well and have demonstrated skill in managing their own money. I thought it was time to move beyond the simple save-and-buy model into a broader lesson in basic economics.

Covey-Bucks come in three denominations (1, 5, & 10) and only have value in our home. They are awarded for chores, favors, good grades, and they can be used to purchase goods and services from other family members. Our simple home economy empowers my kids to be sellers, traders, price negotiators, and even employers. It is a free market economy where prices set themselves and anyone can succeed or fail.

Imagine, not having to nag your daughter to clean her room because she pays her little brother a negotiated wage to do it for her... until she runs out of money, at which point the tables may turn.

My title is "Banker" though my role is that of the Treasury. I'll be feeding this economy with a fresh supply of cash and watching Covey-Bucks devalue as the market becomes flush with an oversupply of bills. Perhaps, serving the role of Government, I will need to stabilize the new currency, protecting it from runaway inflation, by imposing a monthly flat tax... or charging fines for bad behavior to reel back in Government over-expenditures.

The rules of our new micro-economy are simple enough:

1. Covey-Bucks only have value in our home. Though they can be cashed in for US Dollars (exchange rate TBD based on market valuation) prior to family vacations.
2. It is a free market economy but is heavily regulated. There are no complex financial instruments like Collateralized Debt Obligations (CDO's) allowed, such dealings are a threat to economic health.
3. The Bank does not loan any money. Don't even ask.
4. There will be no bail-outs. Crying changes nothing.

After a brief introduction to the new economy, my kids were excited about the opportunities of a free market. I believe this will be a valuable lesson in economic concepts, market forces, and the ideals that shaped America into the power it is today.

Apparently, however, they already have an understanding of how money moves in America... within 20 minutes of receiving their "seed money" (40 Covey-Bucks each) the three were conspiring to sue each other.

The Bread Winner

I live with a self-described "food elitist". She makes grocery lists that I am often tasked with filling... the lists say what I should buy but, for the most part, I have to rely on my home-schooling to know what not to buy. I don't always get it right. One week the list said "Hotdog buns (not the bad ones!)". Grocery lists are not supposed to have punctuation.

In college I learned about simple and complex carbohydrates, that starch is essentially a sugar and gets metabolized as such, but it took my wife to convince me that bread made from highly refined wheat is no better than a marshmallow loaf. It seems obvious, I guess... but my adoration for everything bread-like has kept me blinded by love.

I can't imagine life without bread. Heck, I can't even imagine LUNCH without bread! How do you pack a school lunchbox without a sandwich? Mind boggling! My family is fortunate, however, not to struggle with weight or diabetic tendency so bread stays on the menu at my behest.

It can be hard to find the right bread, though. Our grocery store probably stocks 100 (or more) different kinds of bread... and nearly every loaf declares something evil in its' ingredients list like "High Fructose Corn Syrup". Even I am on board with avoiding this industrially invented sweetener.

So there I am, shopping for the right hot dog bun... picking up one package after another and reading ingredient labels, looking for a winner with a focused intensity common to any guilty pleasure. Standing behind me was an older couple for whom my zealous efforts did not go unnoticed. I heard him say to her, "Watch this guy. Whatever he gets... we get".

The Widowmaker

For most of us, reciting the vow "until death do us part" is a romantic and binding gesture of love, but for some it has a more sinister appeal. These are the Gladiators... poised in the marital arena waiting for the Emperor to cry out, "TO THE DEATH!".

My wife, Cristy, works out 6 days a week religiously. She runs on a machine that strengthens her heart, she lifts weights, she can drop and do 100 pushups without breaking a sweat. She emerged from her personal gym one morning with her arm cocked up by her head and said to me, "Look at this bicep!". It was somewhere between Michelle Obama's arms and Lou Ferrigno's thighs.

She eats well too. Organic stuff; no chemicals, no hormones, no cured meats. Her diet lacks the artificial ingredients, fillers, and sweeteners the rest of us call food. She makes "chips" out of Kale (lettucey type stuff) that can only really be appreciated by someone who hasn't had an actual potato chip in years.

Her primary goal, I believe, is to get rid of me. She's too smart to bump me off now, my untimely death would raise suspicion. No... her quest to make herself a widow is a deviously calculated plan to outlive me.

The odds are already stacked in her favor; I am four years further down life's road than Cristy and, as a man, I'm not expected to celebrate birthdays the average woman will. However, she is not taking any chances... her current trajectory should land her in the grave a good 30 years after me.

That's three decades of unattached freedom. Just imagine how many times in all those years the toilet seat won't get left up. And once I'm finally out of the picture she'll be able to relax on her bus rides home from Knitting Club, content in knowing that when she gets back to her small, cat-filled apartment she won't need to worry about washing anyone else's underwear.

Ah, the life of a single gal.

Dear God

Dear God, my dishwasher repairman (known hereafter as "Bill") has informed me that the unit's electronic control panel has been destroyed by an apparent power surge. Now I don't know much about the forces controlling electric power fluctuations, but apparently both Bill and You do... because Bill has fingered You as the culprit.

Unfortunately, the 3 year warranty which covers my dishwasher's electronic control panel excludes damages incurred by You ("Acts of God" in legalese). It seems to me that, with the whole world in Your hands, You'd have more than enough to keep Yourself busy. I understand You have several million children displaced in Darfur who might benefit from an end to the violence there, but I digress.

Why my dishwasher? With all Your power, grace, and love, could You not have found a more constructive outlet for Your destructive Self? I struggle to interpret this message You've delivered via the public electric grid. Could it be....

1. The food bits my dishwasher removes are part of Your creation and so their destruction offends Thee?

2. Cleanliness is next to Godliness and we were just getting too damn close for comfort?

3. You moonlight as a Quality Control technician for KitchenAid and You were just checking to see if they'd installed a fuse or surge protector?

4. My dishwasher has died for my sins?

Regardless of the reason, or the intended message, the dirty dishes are stacking up. If You're not busy later, would You mind? I'll wash and rinse if You would please dry. Thanks.

Your son,

Scott Coveyduck

P.S. - Reimbursement for the repair bill would be appreciated. You probably don't have a checking account, I know banks prefer You to have a mailing address, but we can work something out. Perhaps You could infuse my boss with a little generosity before my next annual review.

Determination Wins

Last spring we rescued a box turtle from the middle of a two lane country road, his name was Speedbump.

Speedbump was more than a box turtle and he was more than a slow and gentle friend, he was a seed. He planted the notion that dogs and cats do not define the boundaries of pet ownership in our home, he demonstrated that parents are sometimes willing to adopt, and despite his plodding nature he inspired ideas that raced wildly behind conspiring young eyes.

Every parent of young kids knows, all things in nature must be owned and named. Turtle ownership set precedent and a whining frenzy ensued... I began to think my kids were planning in earnest for a great flood.

Like any good parent would do, I offered them an impossible promise for an impossible price if they would just leave me alone. "One year!", I said. "You each take sole responsibility for one pet we already own... feed it, clean up after it, ensure it is well cared for, and I will allow you each to buy your own pet with your own money next year". They bit the hook.

There was a time early on that I thought our dog, cat, and turtle might unite and go on strike against the diminished quality of their care. Things got better, mostly. Joey and Speedbump dropped out of the race early and Speedbump was returned to the Missouri woods he came from (off the road this time). Molly and Garett pressed on, swapping pets half way through the year to avert exhaustion.

One year later... we have two new pets; a Cockatiel, and a Bearded Dragon Lizard. Both bought and paid for (cages too) with allowance saved. The lizard gets live prey, crickets and meal worms kept in-house, so Garett is also tasked with feeding the food. In fact, we now own an entire food chain... that we regularly leave alone in the house together.

I thought I had been clever.
I thought I had capitalized on naive underestimation.
As it turns out, my kids were thinking the same thing.

House sitters wanted.

Give Your Kid a Camera

Each of my 3 kids has their own digital camera. They are not cheap cameras made for kids with disposable quality and very low image resolution... I bought each one second-hand through CraigsList and they're the real deal. In fact, my daughter's 30 dollar, 6 Megapixel camera with a gigabyte of memory is better than my own!

While on vacation recently, we ended each day with a memory dump of images (and movies) from everyone's cameras. We would gather around the computer each night for a sort of 21st century slide show of the day's events. That's 4 cameras total... and 4 unique perspectives on the day.

I've often wished I could be a fly on the wall in my kids' classrooms or when they are off on their own playing. Pictures and movies from their cameras are about as close to a fly's-eye-view as one can hope to get. All images are, of course, taken from a lower position than an adult's would be (it is interesting to see yourself from this perspective), are of subjects many adults would pass over, and speak volumes about the person who took them and how they experienced the day.

The first night on vacation I pulled files from cameras and found images dating back to Thanksgiving on my son Joey's camera. He likes to take pictures of people and his results are impressive. The collection included portraits of friends and family and even our waitress the last time we went out to eat (last year).

There is something about Joey that is irresistible and you can see it in the faces of his subjects. His pictures are of people with their guard down, of warm and friendly faces adorned with genuine smiles. It makes me happy to see how the world looks to my 7 year old son... and touched to see how the world looks back.

You can see a few portraits taken by Joey here.

Cat Calls

Molly, my 9 year old daughter, feeds the family cat twice a day. She recently decided that it would be of some benefit to have a way to call the cat, Jingle, at will. Like, for instance, if Jingle is outside in the yard and it's getting dark... we should have a way to bring her in without a chase.

The chosen method involves a long, flexible, accordion-like tube. With pursed lips and a good strong blow, you can use the tube to make a sound like an elephant. Aside from the possible confusion for our neighbors, I had concern that if Jingle found herself alone on the Savanna... she might charge a herd of trumpeting elephants.

The training method involves feeding and trumpeting is strictly prohibited unless there is food in the cat's dish. Molly hopes Jingle will eventually realize the association and VIOLA!... a cat-call will be born.

Molly is executing her strategy with impressive consistency and twice daily she heralds the cat with a call that echos through our home. As the cat-call theory has been put into practice, and Molly's trumpeting skills are tested, my Savanna concerns have been curtailed. At most, I believe Jingle's risk is to someday charge hungrily into a herd of gassy elephants. That doesn't seem as dangerous to me.

Cats and Dogs Living Together

Everyone knows dogs and cats have an adversarial relationship, as if they've been bred to oppose each other in some grand scheme to create domestic balance. When talking about dogs or cats we often frame them each against a backdrop of the other, like Red and Blue states whose stark common borders are defined so clearly by the very character of their intense contrast with each other.

It's not really true, however, that canine and feline are natural born enemies, they just get their signals crossed. When a cat is feeling friendly she holds her tail high, almost vertical. To a dog, a high tail signals aggressive dominance. A dog lowers his ears when he's frightened or submissive but cats lower their ears when angered. When hunting, a cat holds her tail low which is doggy language for "submissive". Imagine the poor friendly dog's surprise when he gets a nose full of claws... he learns quickly to mistrust those moody and unpredictable cats!

Forced to live together, a dog can learn to read his feline companion's body language, allowing the two to cohabitate in relative peace despite the communicative disconnect that underlies their relationship. I witnessed this recently as our cat (Jingle) and our dog (Sally) peacefully shared a small square of sunshine on the kitchen floor. Theirs is a friendship born of claws and fury, but with time they are growing to understand each other.

A couple days ago I was sharing this information (gleaned from an NPR Podcast) with my wife of 15 years, Cristy, and we both had a good chuckle as we related it to our own experience as pet owners. Then Cristy broke with a contemplative pause and after a moment she said, "Yeah, I'm a cat".

Just like you would expect from any typical dog... I have no idea how I should interpret that.

Homework Is Fun

I have an aesthetically challenged commuter car that has seen better days. He has one job... to ensure I get to work and back in a timely manner, a job he does reliably. However, a couple times a week I let him work from home. Transporting me to my home office allows him to remain in the comfort of his own garage without so much as lifting a piston. But, just between you and me, he doesn't really get much done at home.

Lately he has had company, the Brat-Mobile sitting idly along-side. When weather permits, Cristy rides her bike to work (2 miles to the local Middle School) so neither of our gas-burning, globe-warming, hunks-of-foreign-made-metal ever sees daylight. At the end of the day this contributes to our feeling of modern cultural and environmental responsibility, a prideful bit of satisfaction as we sit down to our evening meal of locally grown produce and free range chicken.

It all sounds so progressive, conscientious, and (dare I say) political. The truth is less profound; I'm guided mostly by my taste buds and my couch-potatoiness. Not to mention that it's great fun to stand in the driveway in the morning sun, wave to my wife and three kids riding off on their bikes, and say "Have a great day at school!".

Then I'm off to work... saving the planet in my pajamas.

Lessons Lost

Like good modern consumers we "recycle"; paper products, aluminum, steel, glass... whatever our curb-side recycler will haul away. We also "reduce" and "re-use" wherever possible, completing the 3R's triad. This leaves us feeling like responsible citizens and parents, setting a strong example for our children to follow into their adulthood as they inherit an ecologically stressed world.

Spring is in full swing and our lawn's rich green hue has hit its annual peak. Standing in stark contrast, however, are the intermixed golden-brown patches of dog ownership, worn by the lawn like badges of dishonor. Washing the soil and over-seeding are rites of Spring in our yard and I recently completed the task while taking care to be conscientious and resourceful.

I was busy scattering grass seed on bare patches when my assumption that our children had been observing and learning from their parents' example began to unravel. The idea of "Re-use" should not be a foreign one, or confusing, I thought. "Re-use" was such a simple and well demonstrated practice in our home... I thought.

Not one, but TWO of my kids (I'm not naming names) approached me while I worked and asked... why was I sprinkling Parmesan Cheese on the grass.

I won't say who it was. But surprisingly enough, neither of them was blond.

Bearly Time

My youngest son, Joey, had very recently graduated from the "Terrible 2's" to the "Terrifying 3's". His older siblings were in half-day pre-school and I was Mr. Mom for the day. "Half-day" is a misnomer... it was about 2½ hours and Joey and I had a lot to do. Outside of the typical male bonding you'd expect from such an arrangement we had chores; cleaning up, laundry, and grocery shopping.

I hurriedly carried bags in from the car with an eye on my watch, our time was almost up and I still had to put the groceries away. It didn't matter what the clock said or didn't say, Joey knew only one unit of time and it was measured in birthday parties.

"Daddy... will you pretend to be a bear?", Joey said irresistibly.

"rrrrRRRAAAAAAHHHHRRG!", I roared, fingers curled into giant claws above my head.

Joey giggle-screamed at full volume and ran out of the kitchen as quick as his stubby little legs would take him. I put away the ice cream.

What followed was a satisfying break from my previously undivided attention on Joey... short though it was because I had obviously not followed through and lived up to the boy's expectations.

Joey bounced back into the kitchen, "Daddy... will you pretend to be a bear?"

"rrrrRRRAAAAAAHHHHRRG!", I bellowed louder than the time before.

Joey giggle-screamed at full volume again and raced out of the kitchen. I put away the Macaroni & Cheese.

This cycle repeated a few times, each time Joey would exit the kitchen with an anticipatory squeal only to return moments later with a re-established intent to draw me out.

Until it stopped. Joey broke the rhythm. After one giant growl he did not return on queue for another disappointing round of "Daddy Bear Is Busy". There was an extended pause... and then Joey walked slowly back into the kitchen with a more serious demeanor.

"Daddy... will you pretend to be a good Daddy?"

Setting Course

When my son, Garett, was about 18 months old I asked him a question, not because I expected an answer, but just to stave off the quiet. He surprised me with a response that was immediate and confident, as if he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to ask.

"So, Garett... what do you want to be when you grow up?"

"I be Lah-Lah-Lah" he said, and then broke into song; ♫ "lah--LAH--lah!" ♫

We're older now but the question never really goes away for a kid, they get asked all the time by friends, relatives, and people they've just met. It's an intimate question that cuts straight to the meat of who they are; what are their dreams, values, and expectations for themselves. It's a tough question that many of us grown-ups are still asking ourselves.

Molly, my 9 year old daughter, already has it figured out. Her chosen career path is the result of a seed planted by Disney and nurtured into realistic ambition by stories rolling in from the Somali coast. She has an adventurer's heart and seeks life's great treasures.

She is also a realist. Molly recognizes that her goals may be difficult to achieve and so she has a backup plan in place. Her top two career choices are:

Choice #1 - Pirate
Choice #2 - Vampire

I am tempted to tell her she could satisfy both of her career aspirations with a single occupation, but that's the last thing the world needs... another lawyer.

Chasing Dreams

I joke that when we went dog shopping I took along a carpet sample. We came home with Sally; more than a simple source of hair in our house, she is an adorable Golden Retriever who completes our family.

Her bloodline is that of a hunter, but she's a house pet. It's like keeping a race car in the city, she can rev her engine to red-line but never feels the thrill of open road. I throw balls in the house... they often bounce around a corner and disappear, which is exactly what she does in hot pursuit. Often, she returns not with the ball but with one of her many stuffed ducks.

Before Sally, I had never met a dog that would look you straight in the eyes and not break her gaze. It was a dominance thing, I thought, that dogs would look away rather that maintain extended eye contact with you. But I don't think Sally knows she's a dog, she communicates with those big brown eyes and she can read minds with them too.

I was headed out the front door recently to shovel the walk after a heavy Spring snow and Sally stopped me at the door. "Can I go, can I go? Huh, huh?", her eyes pleaded, and so we went out together. The way she bounced across the yard made me wonder if that white stuff weren't flubber.

With some effort I cleared a path to the street and stopped to rest. It was snowing giant, heavy flakes of frozen Spring in total silence. There was no wind, no traffic, no people, just utter stillness buffered by a thick coat of pillowy white.

Down the hill I caught sight of the neighborhood duck (another story) flying low, up the middle of the un-tracked street, her wing tips clipping snow on the ground with every down-beat. I watched as she flew right past me, not six feet away, in complete silence... it was both beautiful and captivating.

Looking right, I saw Sally standing next to me. Her eyes locked on mine, they were the size of silver dollars, and they said to me "OMG!! Did you see the size of that stuffed duck?!". I smiled and she took off in a cloud of snow. The duck made a left at the corner, which is exactly what Sally did in hot pursuit.

When Sally sleeps in front of the fire she talks in muffled barks and her paws race against the sleep that binds them. She was bred to hunt and I knew right then what she's been chasing in her head. Not everyone finds the thing they were born to do, or comes face to face with their dreams.

Run Sally, run!

Resession Proof

I went grocery shopping early this morning when shelves are stocked and traffic is light. Our budget is tight, we're under a self-imposed "spending freeze" in an attempt to re-balance our personal finances set off-kilter recently by a changing economy. It's not that we're making less money, but we're definitely worth less and are anxious about where things are headed. We're under strict fiscal lock-down (guided by my wife, the bookkeeper) to regain our footing in advance of what might come.

The store's floral department is just inside the front door and greets all customers. Today, I'm guessing, the Tulip truck broke down out back and unloaded its entire cargo. The sea of color and dizzying variety stopped me in my tracks. Tulips are my wife's favorite... and it's not uncommon for me to arrive home with a carload of groceries and a fist full of flowers. A beautiful bouquet of 20 Tulips (did I mention they are Cristy's favorite) was only $9.99.

She was very surprised. When I arrived home I said, "Dear... I did two wonderful things for you today and I want to tell you about them both. The first is that I picked out a gorgeous bouquet of Tulips, the most incredible you've ever seen, at the store for you."

"That's wonderful", she replied! "You're such a thoughtful and loving husband. What's the other thing you did for me?"

"I didn't buy them", I said.

My Reflection

I am going to be 40 in 4 months. Milestones lend themselves well as reason for reflection and this impending giant has me looking both forward and back. Sadly, the margins of my life look pretty equidistant from where I stand. So I guess I'd better start planning my mid-life crisis.

The rhythm of a person's life falls into patterns. Like marbles on a shaking table settle into a uniform plain, or like water molecules arrange into crystals as they freeze, our day-to-day routines trend toward simple structure. You probably shampoo your hair the exact same way every time you wash. The food you eat, and when you eat it, likely falls into some narrow constraints regulated by "what you always eat".

As I take stock of my life I have begun to notice the patterns. Like when I stared too long at the flowered wallpaper in my Grandmother's bathroom, eventually the repeat of pattern became very clear and I could no longer see the walls the same way. With the illusion of variation lifted, suddenly the interesting became mundane and predictable.

So too is life. How long can I continue to mark the days of my life in a steady drum beat of "same-old-s**t" day after day? Today is the day things change! Today I embark in a different direction, on a new journey to break free from the rigid ties of monotony! TODAY!

So today I parted my hair on the other side.

I'm not sure I like it.

Dings and Things

When the kids were born I had to trade in my sporty SUV for a mini-van. A white one. I love my wife... and I love my kids... no problem.

The van (affectionately dubbed the "Brat-mobile") is driven primarily by my wife, Cristy. She had not driven such a large vehicle previously and she's doing a bang up job. Truly... I mean it! The van is really banged up.

She turned right into the side of another car while I was out of town. She backed out of the driveway into her Mother's car. She has hit other things she never noticed or refuses to identify. Each of the van's 4 corners bear evidence of abuse; long black scratches etched on white like war paint streaked on a weathered warrior's face.

Scars give the Brat-mobile character. In seas of white mini-vans at amusement parks, zoos, and little-league games we rarely mistake another for our own. When wandering down isles of van after van after van at the end of an exhausting family adventure, with three wiped-out kids in tow, the sight of our banged up back bumper peeking out past the Caravan next to it is enough to make a grown man cry.

The scratches don't matter. Flawless appearance isn't worth much... it's what's inside [the van] that counts. We try to convey meaningful lessons to our kids; don't judge a book by its cover, be kind whenever possible, leave a note on the other car's window, and don't throw apple sauce at your sister. But most importantly... when your bumpers look like ours do it's a LOT easier to merge in traffic.