Learning to Date Again

One of the reasons I liked being married was that I didn't have to deal with the anxieties of dating. When I became single again, I didn't date for a while. After putting years of blood, sweat, and tears into a relationship and having it fall apart, dating again seemed pointless.

No, not pointless.

Dangerous.

The wounds hadn't yet fully healed, and if they were ripped open again by someone new, I might not be able to recover this time. But as risky as dating seemed, I hated being alone. I hated being alone on a Friday night. Or a Saturday night. Or any night.

It had been over eight years since I'd asked a girl out. The last time I asked a girl out, the world was a different place. Texting didn't really exist back then. Neither did smartphones. Back then, I had a cell phone and a PDA, which I had to remember to sync to my computer. America Online was still huge and most people had dial-up internet connections. Remember life before Facebook? It was a primitive age. Had dating changed? I didn't know.

It's hard to know when you're ready to date again. My rule of thumb for determining whether you're ready to date again is this: if you're looking at lightbulbs at Costco and you start talking to the Hell's Angel biker next to you about your divorce, you're not ready to date. If you start talking to the Hell's Angel biker next to you about your divorce hoping that he'll give you a hug and tell you that everything will be all right and that there's a sweet girl out there just waiting for you to find her, you're really really not ready to start dating again.

When I decided to start dating again, the wounds hadn't yet healed. Maybe they never do. But I got to the point where I was ready to put the past in the . . . well, in the past. In other words, I spotted a hot girl I wanted to ask out. I was at her place of employment (which I won't disclose to protect her identity), making small talk with her, wanting to ask her out, but not knowing how to ask her out. My heart raced. I opened my mouth to ask her out. The words that came out were "Have a nice day."

And I quickly fled Victoria's Secret.

I had forgotten how to ask girls out. How did I do it before I got married? Hadn't I been a ladies' man back in the day? Those of you who know me will undoubtedly say, "Yes, you were the quintessential ladies' man back in the day." Who am I kidding? Nobody will say that. You may find it shocking (but probably not...oh, how the truth hurts) that I never really knew how to ask girls out. Not now, and not back then, either. Back then, my heart would race. Back then, my palms would sweat. Nothing had changed.

I didn't want to face another Friday night alone so I had to try again. I went back to her work. I looked around, trying to find her. Someone asked if they could help me. "No, thank you, I'm just browsing," I replied. That wasn't completely true, because I wasn't there to shop. I scanned the store, looking for her, hoping she was there.

And then I saw her. My heart raced. My palms were sweaty. It was nerve-wracking. I was certain that she'd laugh at me or roll her eyes in disgust or find some way to utterly reject me. But on that fateful day, standing there, looking at her, my heart rate hovering around 240, I asked her out and she said yes.

Despite my nervousness, I played it cool. We made tentative plans. I told her I'd call her. I turned to leave, still trying to play it cool, but wanting to escape before my cool exterior cracked revealing to the world the emotional wreck that I was. As I walked away, she called after me, saying, "Um, don't you want my number?" Oh yeah. That might help.

We went out to eat. Eating is difficult for me on a first date because I don't want to look like a slob. You know those people who get food on their face and they just don't notice it? I never know what to say. Maybe not knowing they have food on their face is their proper punishment for being so oblivious to their slobbery and for never using a napkin. I find it amazing that someone can get through a whole meal and not notice that they have a smear of cheese on their face. But what if that happened to me?

Luckily, the eating part went okay. I took small bites and tried to time my bites for when she wasn't looking, just in case I forgot to close my mouth and the food fell out. I also used my napkin a lot. We talked about something, but I was a little bit distracted by the fact that I'd forgotten her name.

Somehow, though, I survived the date. Since then, I've also survived being rejected. When that happens, I try to remember what the Hell's Angel biker at Costco told me: "Now, now, hush your crying. There's someone special out there just waiting for you."

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Greatest American Heroes

I'm tempted to feel sorry for myself that I don't have my kids with me on this Thanksgiving. But I can't feel sorry for myself, not when I think about people serving in the military a long way from home and family.

I've met Trinidad twice, but I consider him my friend. But that's the way it is with Trin: he's the kind of guy you're lifelong friends with the instant you meet him. He's also the kind of guy who'll knock your lights out if you hurt someone he cares about. I like that about him.

Trin is fighting for his country in a foreign, war-torn land. He's also helping children and moms and dads in a foreign, war-torn land. Meanwhile, his wife and baby wait for him at home, praying that he's safe, counting the days until he's home with them at last.

Trin would probably tell you that in the heat of battle, he's fighting for his buddies to the left and to the right of him, because they're doing the same for him. Their goal is to do their jobs, yes, but really, when the people you helped yesterday are now the people shooting at you today, you're fighting for your buddies, to help get them home.

To their wives and husbands.

To their moms and dads.

To their daughters.

To their sons.

To the families they can't be with on Thanksgiving.

Or birthdays.

Or Sundays.

Thank you Trin, and thank you to everyone who has sacrificed, who has left home and family to put it all on the line because you believe in something bigger than yourself. I fear that too many of us have forgotten the sacrifices that you're making.

I am truly grateful for you. You are heroes. You are in my thoughts today.

Holiday Blues

          For some, the holidays can be a depressing time of year. When your soul feels black and you feel that your life has no meaning and you've been beaten to the ground, the holidays can be tough to get through. Maybe impossible. 

          If you are depressed, it may seem trite, but I think it is worth saying: Your Creator, whatever you conceive Him to be, wants you to be happy. He put you on this earth, at this time, for an important reason. It doesn't matter whether you know the reason or not. You have worth. Your soul has worth. 

          But maybe you don't believe in God, or you believe that God is dead and that you are worthless and that no one cares about you. If you believe nothing else, then believe this: 

          I care. 

          I think you're important. And so do a lot of other people. 

          Treat yourself kindly. Let yourself rest. A lot of problems seem so much worse when you're fatigued. Always, always, remind yourself that tomorrow might be a better day.

          But if tomorrow is too far away or you don't know if you can make it until then, please find someone to talk to. And if you think there is no one you can talk to, you can talk to me. 

          I will be there in an instant. 

          I will listen to you. 

          I will hold your hand.

          Because I think you're important. 

          Pour out your cares, your worries, your fears, your soul. It will be our secret. I'll tell no one. That's my sacred promise to you.

          Because you are beautiful and important and I care about you.

 

.

Ask Mr. Fix-It

As an attorney, I’m expected to know everything, and I do. So I was not surprised when, recently, I was asked how to change a serpentine belt on a car. What surprised me was that most people don’t know how to change a serpentine belt. Because automotive repairs can be expensive and most of us would rather not pay a professional to have the job done correctly, I decided to post a how-to guide in case any of you ever need to make this repair yourself.

You may be asking yourself, “What is a serpentine belt?” As you know, there are no stupid questions, but this question challenges that assertion rather strongly. As everyone else but you knows, a serpentine belt is the belt in your car’s engine that holds the engine together. It needs to be changed when your car stops running and someone looks under the hood and says, “Your serpentine belt came off.”

Now, to replace a serpentine belt, you need the right tools for the job. To change a serpentine belt, you will need:

1. A screwdriver.
2. A hacksaw.
3. A hammer.
3. Some nails.
4. A wrench (optional).

Before we get to the basics of how to replace this most important of belts, a terminology lesson may be useful. First, why is it called a “serpentine” belt? Interestingly enough, the belt got its name from the Greek goddess of combustible engines, Serpentine, who famously wore belts. “Wait a minute,” you ask, "the god of combustible engines was a girl?” Yes, and the babes and I don’t like your sexist tone of voice.

The first thing you need to do when it comes time to change your serpentine belt is to buy a new one at an automotive store. Don’t worry about finding the right belt for your car. Odds are, this repair is going to end in disaster, so it doesn’t really matter which one you get.

Next, you want to dress appropriately for the job. I like to work on my car in the driveway. If it’s summer, I like to take off my shirt so that I can work on getting a healthy tan. Also, I like to favor the ladies with a view of my alabaster legs, so I make sure to wear a short pair of jean cutoffs. You don’t want to overheat, so it’s also best to cool off by pouring a can of Diet Dr. Pepper over your head, smiling at how refreshing it feels. Shake your head back and forth in slow motion refreshment. Next, since you just know that the single girl across the street is probably spying on you through her window, you can make her day by sexily washing your car.

Once you’ve finished sexily washing your car, it might be tempting to wait for the girl across the street to come over and introduce herself. She won’t, because she’s probably playing hard to get, or she’s stuck up, or she has a loser boyfriend who’s no good for her and can’t she just understand that she’d be happier with you but she’d know that if she’d just take the time to get to know you and all of your wonderful qualities but maybe just maybe she’ll fall in love with you if you save her from being hit by a speeding bus by pushing her out of the way in the nick of time.

Anyway, you have a car to fix. Later on, you can anonymously send the girl across the street flowers and make hang up calls to her so that she gets the message that someone out there loves her madly and she'll guess it's you, for sure. For now, though, open your car’s hood and take a looksy-daisy. What you’re going to want to find is a spring loaded idler or tensioner. Once you find that, take your wrench and loosen what we in the automotive world call the “doohickey.”

It may be hard to get the doohickey loosened, so be prepared to swear a little. If you can’t find the right combination of invectives to get the doohickey loosened, go grab a hammer. Take the hammer and hit various parts of the engine as hard as you can to punish it for tormenting you.

If you succeed in loosening the doohickey a smidge, you should be able to get the belt on, unless you loosened the wrong doohickey. Perhaps you loosened a sumthinorother, which should be tightened right back up. Once the belt is on, sexily refresh yourself with another Diet Dr. Pepper, but don't bask in the glow of your success too long. You still have a busy day ahead: you need to drive to the store to get some magazines to cut out words for the love letter you're going to send the girl across the street.

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Quicheable Moments

As parents, it is our responsibility to teach our children to be good people, to treat others with respect, and to try to make the world a better place. We must teach our children to respect themselves and to respect their bodies, because they are only given one. For those of us with sons, this obviously means that we must teach them that, under no circumstance, is it okay to eat quiche.

Everyone's heard the phrase, based on a book published in the early eighties, that "real men don't eat quiche." I first heard this as a young boy while watching a sitcom. I was young and impressionable and left alone to turn the dial to any of the four TV channels that we had. I don't know what the show was about, all I remember was hearing the phrase. Like any young boy, I wanted to grow up to be a man. A real man. So I made a solemn promise that I would never eat quiche.

I know that there are plenty of "real men" who eat quiche. Unfortunately, I don't have any data to support that hypothesis, so I'm probably wrong. But like Samson couldn't cut his hair, I couldn't eat quiche. Except that, unlike Samson and his hair, with me, there was no divine commandment involved, unless you argue that television replaced God and, therefore, the commandment was divine. But if television replaced God as god, then television's divinity was replaced by my Atari 2600, which was then replaced by my Commodore 64, which was eventually replaced by my 1972 baby blue Toyota pickup, which was replaced by a string of Mazda RX7s, which were eventually replaced by my first "modern" computer pre-loaded with Windows 95, which was replaced by a series of other computers, cell phones, smartphones, and Louisiana Hot Sauce, which makes everything taste better. Except for ice cream. This is what you get for following logic to its logical conclusion. So you should stop arguing that television replaced God or you'll go to hell, according to this new app on my smartphone.

Back to the point about how I differ from Samson, if at all. Well, for one, I have not killed a lion with my bare hands. But I bet I could. If the lion was weak and had no teeth and was dead and I had a sharp knife and maybe a gun. Also, I'm not sure that I've dated anyone named Delilah. I think I would have remembered that. But the 90s were a crazy time, a time when Kevin Costner was, against all odds and despite a stunning lack of acting ability, a movie star. It was also a time when I decided to wear my hair a little shorter, a decision I've lived with ever since. With so much going on in the 90s, I can't really say whether I've ever dated anyone named Delilah. Nor am I entirely sure whether I dated anyone at all in the 90s. What exactly did I do during that decade? I may have hit the snooze button for a good ten years.

Oh, you want to hear some quiche war stories? Well, as you may have suspected, there have been a couple of close calls with my vow of quiche-abstinence. Let me tell you about the first time I nearly lost my soul to quiche.

I was on a first date with a girl I'd met in college. Naturally, I wanted to impress her, so I took her to a fancy restaurant. I clearly remember standing in the buffet line, eyeballing some exotic food that I'd never seen before. I'm an adventurous fellow, as long as there's no danger involved, so I put a heaping helping of huevos on my plate and returned to our table.

I'll never forget sitting across from my date and looking deeply into her eyes. I had to stare deeply into her eyes because, if I didn't, my eyes would be drawn upward to the large pimple in the middle of her forehead. It was an eye-magnet, that pimple. Little did I know that I'd soon forget all about that pustule of purulent material.

I forked a large bite of mystery food into my mouth. That was when she purred, "I didn't know they had quiche."

I stopped chewing. Through a mouthful of egg, I asked her the obvious question: "Did you just purr?" But then the words she'd spoken hit me like a ton of fritters. My next question, again through a mouthful of egg that was now spilling onto the table in front of me, was: "Am I eating quiche?"

She nodded but, realizing that I'd asked her two questions, I asked, "Yes, you're purring? Or yes, I'm eating quiche?"

"Quiche," she purred.

Heroically, I spit the quiche into my napkin. I grinned debonairly and explained, "I don't eat quiche." Needless to say, she was impressed and begged me to go out with her again. Well, she didn't really beg. But we did date exclusively after that. By exclusively, I mean that I am the only one that she dated, other than the football team.

The moral of the story is that you should take a girl to a nice buffet-style restaurant if you want to impress her. And play Division I-A football. Most importantly and, as I think I've convincingly argued, we must teach our sons that they should not eat quiche.

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Dating and Dining

I like to eat. But not while on a date. It's too much pressure, eating while trying to impress the ladies. Too much can go wrong, no matter how awesome you are. Take it from me.

I once went on a date with a vegan, but I didn't know she was a vegan.  (Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against vegans. They're people, too. Allegedly. But we're talking about dating and first impressions, not whether vegans should be ostracized and ridiculed. Nor are we talking about whether they should be incarcerated and sentenced to hard labor, like many of you so fervently believe. Please stop changing the subject.)  I should have picked up on the fact that she was a vegan when she threw red paint on my fur coat and called me a murderer. Instead, the only thing that crossed my mind was, "That's strange."  The other thing that crossed my mind was, "I wonder if she likes me."

I probably would have picked up on her hatred of all things normal if I hadn't been so preoccupied with whether I'd zipped my fly. Thinking about my fly made me think of the old Levi's commercials, you know, the ones with the jingle that goes "Levi's button fly Five-Oh-One jeans. Yeah!"  

Oh, and remember the Cherry 7-Up commercials? "Isn't it cool, in pink? Cherry 7-Up." 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g_OV8jTEbJk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meBh3o7eqJI&NR=1

I liked those commercials for some reason. Maybe because they had this 50's vibe that reminded me of my time at Rydell High, and the summer that I met an Australian girl named Sandy, and how my buddies and I fixed up a junker car and raced it for pinks at Thunder Road. Ah, the good old days.

Wait a minute. We're talking about my fly. So there I stood, not knowing what to do. Should I check it? Probably not while she's looking. On the other hand, I couldn't just stand there like an idiot if my fly was undone. It was a dilemma unlike any I'd ever had. At least, not since the day before, when I had walked across campus, wondering whether I'd forgotten to zip my fly.

Then a plan formed in my head. I said, "Hey, I forgot my wallet. You don't mind paying do you?" She raised her eyebrows, probably impressed at how good looking I was, especially since I was sporting a suit vest without a shirt on underneath it, you know, so I could show off my guns. Anyway, she went in the other room and got her purse, giving me just enough time to check my fly. Thankfully, it wasn't undone. Mission accomplished.

The moral of the story is that once we got to the restaurant, she wasn't impressed that I had ordered steak. She said, "You're like a murderer, eating flesh. Gross."

I told her that I wasn't the one who killed the cow, but since it was already dead, why let it go to waste? "Here, want a bite?" I offered.

Tragically, my hopes and dreams of having a family with this girl, whom I'd known for almost 24 hours, were destroyed. It's kind of sad when you put that kind of time into a relationship and it turns out to be all for nothing. 

Which brings me to my next point:  how you eat is every bit as important as what you eat. Transporting food from your plate to your mouth without getting any of it on your forehead or on your shirt isn't as easy as you'd think. Don't believe me? Try it sometime. 

What's especially embarrassing is when you take a bite that is way too big. As you're sitting there chewing that four ounces of steak, you realize that you just won't be able to chew it enough, and you have to remove it from your mouth (sheepishly) and then cut it up some more. I don't know how many times that's happened, but it's always embarrassing. I've found it's not so bad, though, if I can cast some embarrassment on my date by telling her she's got a booger hanging out of her nose and that it's really disgusting. That way she can't be so judgmental. Who does she think she is, anyway? 

But then, eventually, if you date long enough, you get to the point where you're comfortable eating in front of your girlfriend. I once was in a relationship and we went out to eat. I had done something completely stupid, I don't really remember what it was...something like taking a route to the restaurant that was five minutes longer than the "ideal" route, when, in fact, the "ideal" route wasn't so "ideal" because it was five o'clock traffic and everyone knows what kind of logjam you're going to face on westbound I-84 that time of day.  But I don't really recall. She could have been mad about anything. 

So we're at the restaurant and she's mad at me about something.  I remember thinking that the only way that I was going to make the situation better was if I ate two entrees. Then everything would be okay. Now that I think about it, I don't know why I thought that would get me out of trouble, but it seemed logical at the time. Maybe she had a coupon and wanted to save some money.  I don't know. 

So I ate two entrées and afterwards my stomach was so full that I thought it was going to explode. It was awful. It was so bad that, for the first time in my life, I made myself throw up. But back to my initial premise about the kind of commitment that I bring to a relationship: I bring nothing less than the willingness to eat two incredibly delicious entrées at one sitting if I think it will make a girl happy. But never on a first date. I'm not that kind of guy.

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The Sound of Silence

I am often asked why I started this blog.  That’s not true.  I’m never asked why I started this blog.  But since you asked, the reason I started this blog was to keep myself busy when I don’t have my kids.  My house was always full of noise and commotion and activity and life.  It’s still that way when the kids are there, but when they’re away, the house is silent.  Lonely. 

Coming home after work to a dark, lifeless house isn’t something I enjoy.  I turn on the lights.  I see reminders of my kids…pictures they’ve drawn, messes they’ve made, toys left out.

Photographs of my children are scattered on my desk.  Some are recent.  Some are older.  I last saw my boys only yesterday, but I miss them.  I stand at the sink, doing dishes, and the house is silent.  It is physically painful to be separated from my sons.  But it’s more than that. It feels like a piece of my soul has been amputated.

I finish the dishes and try not to think.  Thinking doesn’t help.  I go into the living room.  It’s a disaster.  Charlie likes to pull the cushions off the couches.  It’s a serious endeavor for him, like it’s his job.  As soon as I replace the cushions and leave the room, he’s removing them again.  And now, in the half-lit, silent house, I look at the cushions on the floor.  Charlie had them stacked for some reason.  I feel a lump in my throat.  I put the cushions back on the couches.

Laundry.  I have to do the laundry.  It’s a good thing the boys aren’t here, because I have so much cleaning to do.  This thought tastes bitter.  It makes me stop in my tracks.  It is a lie.   It is never a good thing when the boys aren’t here. 

I try to breathe. 

I try not to hyperventilate.  

I miss my boys. 

I go into the laundry room and start the laundry.  I go to the toy room.  It’s a disaster.  I find socks on the floor and take them to the laundry room.  I return to the toy room.  Toys are scattered everywhere.  I can’t clean it.  Not tonight.  I turn off the light and leave the room.

My phone rings.  I look at the incoming number.  It’s my ex’s number.  I answer it and hear Jackson’s voice.  He’s excitedly telling me about what he did today.  I hear his mom in the background telling him to tell me where they went and what they did next.  Ethan gets on the phone.  “Love you, Dad.  Poop.”  He’s a man of few words.  Charlie talks.  I hear his mom tell him to say “Love you.  Miss you.”  Hearing my sons’ voices brings tears to my eyes, but it is a gift, and I am grateful for it.   


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My Children's Mother

Being a single parent can be challenging, but I know I have it pretty good.  Yes, we ran out of syrup this morning (again).  Maybe we have pancakes too often,  I don’t know.  It doesn’t help that the boys insist on putting the syrup on their pancakes by themselves.  Is half a bottle of syrup for two pancakes too much? I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it is. When your kids are drinking their syrup through a straw, it’s a pretty safe bet that you should rethink the issue of who’s in charge of syruping the pancakes.  (I think I’ll put that piece of advice in my forthcoming book “Super Daddy.”)

My challenges, I know, are minor, and I really have no complaints.  It’s not like my children and I are stranded far from home and family.  Nor is my former spouse on the other side of the world, unable to help.  She is, in fact, about a block away, we have shared custody, and she is always willing to help, if need be.  We don’t always see eye to eye, though.  Probably because I’m taller, by about half an inch.

As you might expect, the fact that I towered over my ex created a certain amount of marital discord.  I used to call her “Half Pint” and “Shorty Shorty Shorty Short Short.”  Sometimes, she would try talking to me and I’d pretend that I couldn’t see her for a few . . . hours.  Then I’d look down and say, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there, Smurfette.”  Then we’d both have a good laugh, except that she wasn’t laughing.  So I guess it was just me laughing.

While my ex and I don’t always agree on things, we both love our children, and they love us.  Or at least they say they do.  Sometimes it’s really hard to tell whether they’re telling the truth about how they feel about us or whether they’re scheming to get sweets.  We’ll see how much they love us when the Halloween candy runs out.

My ex has taken the lead in getting the boys ready for their upcoming sports seasons.  I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that she wants Jackson to play football.  Maybe it’s because she knows that girls like football stars.  I don’t think Jackson will need to play football for girls to be interested in him, though.  Not if he’s anything like his old man.  I remember going on at least one date in high school, and I didn’t play football. 

I’ll never forget that date.  We watched “Dances with Wolves.”  It was magical.  My favorite part was when that one Native American said:

Dances With Wolves.  I am Wind In His Hair.  Do you see that I am your friend?  Can you see that you will always be my friend? 

That really moved me.  And then I noticed that my date had eaten all of the Mike and Ike’s. We went out again, but as they say, Once bitten, twice shy.  But the point is, what kind of name is Wind In His Hair?  That seems like a pretty easy name to earn.  I think I’d like my name to be Kills Bear With One Punch So You Better Watch Out If You Know What’s Good For You But No Fear Ladies I’ll Treat You Right What Are You Doing After The Rain Dance.  Just by telling a girl my name, I could impress her with my prowess and ask her out at the same time.   

My ex is a good mother.  She may be short (5’7 ½” ha ha ha ha), but she’s a good mother to my children, and I appreciate that.  So if you’re not nice to the mother of my children, just remember, my name is Kills Bear With One Punch So You Better Watch Out If You Know What’s Good For You.


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Living Through My Sons

I don't want my kids to feel pressure to make the cover of Sports Illustrated.  But it would be nice, you know?  And I'm obviously not talking about the kind of covers involving scandals or Heisman trophy winners who turned out to be busts.  I'm talking about Sportsman of the Year covers.  No pressure, though.  I'll still love them if, during their entire professional athletic careers, they never appear on the cover of Sports Illustrated.  Would I be disappointed if they didn't make the cover?  What parent wouldn't?  But I'm fully aware that my children won't have editorial control of who goes on the cover.  No, all they can do is train harder, practice longer, and simply be the kind of athletes who deserve the cover.

I used to think that I'd someday make an SI cover.  But that dream was destroyed at the age of 30 when I realized that I did not then, nor did I ever have, any athletic ability whatsoever.  While it's still too early to tell, unfortunately for my kids, they may have inherited my athletic (in)abilities.  Anyone who has ever suffered with me as a teammate would agree that the gene that controls my athletic ineptitude is most likely a dominant gene, and a damn dominant gene, at that.  Stellar athletes do not--and I repeat DO NOT--try to catch a baseball with their teeth.  Stellar basketball players do not miss 99% of their shots.  There may be unfriendly rims, but they're usually unfriendly to everyone, not just you.

Earlier this year, when Jackson played his first season of soccer, I was pretty excited to see how he'd do.  His coach was a girl, which I was okay with because I'm a modern sort of guy and, besides, she was cute.  Jackson did pretty well when he wasn't distracted by the coach's daughter.  But when he was distracted, the ball would roll right past him and he had no idea it was there--he was too busy making silly faces, trying to impress the coach's daughter.  That's what someone told me, anyway.  I didn't notice because I was too busy making silly faces, trying to impress the coach.

Jackson will be playing football soon, and Ethan will be playing T-ball.  Charlie is only two, so he'll naturally be busy trying to run onto the field to play with his brothers.  I'm happy that they'll be involved in sports soon because there are so many important life lessons that sports teach children, such as the value of hard work, the value of teamwork, and how to talk trash.  

But what happens if my sons hate sports and their interests are elsewhere?  As I was about to answer that question, I checked on my boys (it's night, and they're sleeping).  Jackson was on the edge of his bed, about to fall off.  I slid him towards the center of his bed and he yelled "Time out!"  I have a feeling he'll play sports.

But what if they hate sports?  I am, quite simply, my sons' biggest fan.  There are times that they misbehave and get in trouble, and when that happens, I do my best to correct their behavior.  In my heart, though, they can do no wrong.  So as long as my sons are true to who they are and pursue their dreams unrepentantly, my heart will rejoice and I will feel that I have succeeded as a father.  Sports Illustrated can keep its Sportsman of the Year.

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Hawaii Five-0

It's Saturday night.  And being the swinging bachelor that I am, I'm at home.  The boys are in bed and asleep.  It was a good day.  The plan initially was to meet up at Grandma and Grandpa's house to watch BSU trounce Hawai'i (please note the proper spelling...I have it on good authority that it is "Hawai'i" and not "Hawaii."  The apostrophe between last two letters was the result of Hawai'i's state legislature taking action to make it clear to the world that the name of their beautiful state was pronounced huh-wahy-ee, and NOT tuh-hee-tee.)

Anyhoo...The plan was to watch Bois'e State (note the new spelling) trounce Tahiti.  I mean Hawai'i.  So we loaded up and went to Grandma and Grandpa's.  Two of my sisters and their children showed up, Grandpa had the grill going, so all in all, it was a party in the making.  


Then, something occurred to me.  The game was going to be broadcast on ESPNU, but my parents didn't have ESPNU.  That was when I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong and that my parents didn't intend for us to leave alive.  


I rushed to the door and tried to open it, but it was too late.  The doors were locked from the outside.  We were trapped.  We pounded on the doors.  We screamed.  Grandma and Grandpa just laughed maniacally and said that nobody could hear our pitiful screams, because Grandpa had soundproofed the walls.  "It's delightful to have you FOR dinner," Grandma cackled as she sharpened her butcher knife.


Okay, I made up the last two paragraphs.  I'm sure it's going to make my mom very angry because she hates it when I portray her as a cannibal who eats her own children.  She likes to be portrayed in a more "positive" light.  It's called literary license, ma!  The truth of the matter, however, is that my parents had a beautiful assortment of food--fruits, veggies, bratwursts, you name it.


Now where was I before taking that detour down macabre lane?  Oh yeah, no ESPNU at my parents' house.  Luckily, my sister Mollie has ESPNU at her house.  So she said, "Hey y'all, let's head down yonder t'my place.  I got ESPNU fer sher."  That's not really how she talks, but I have a lousy ear for dialog.   


Since the grill was already going, we ate before caravaning to Mollie's house, where we caught the rest of the game.  The cousins got to play with each other, and there was food and laughter.  Among the adults, there was also laughter, as well as some tears, some cross words, a few punches thrown, more laughter, and a brief intervention by law enforcement.  In other words, it was a typical family get together.

Now, at home, I wonder what the get togethers will be like when my kids are grown. Looking at my boys, asleep, I'm amazed at how much they've already grown.  I kiss each of them on the cheek and whisper to them that I love them.  In my mind's eye, they are newborn babies.  It seems like yesterday that I held them, fed them bottles, and rocked them at night, singing:

                              Rock-a-bye, Say goodnight

                              Daddy loves you, Rock-a-bye.

Charlie is the only one who'll let me sing that to him anymore.  Jackson and Ethan are "big boys" now and don't want me to sing baby songs to them.  Soon (too soon), Charlie won't let me sing it to him, either.  But looking at my sleeping boys tonight, no matter what, they will always be my babies.

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Dating and the Pistol Offense

When you’re single with a child (or three as the case may be), dating takes a back seat to parenthood, or at least it should.  Other single parents get that.  Those without children say they understand, and I hope they do, because I don’t know how many dates I’ve broken because something came up with my kids.  (I’m not looking for a show of hands, by the way.) 

I feel bad when I break a date or don’t call or text or e-mail or snail mail or telegram or smoke signal or whatever, but when your child needs you, you have this irrepressible urge to rush to him.  Unless you have a daughter, which, in that case, you’d have an irrepressible urge to rush to her.  (Why do I get so caught up in which pronoun gender to use?  I don’t know.  I really hate using “they” as a gender neutral pronoun when I’m only referring to a single person and using “him” to refer to either a male or a female just does not seem appropriate anymore.  It’s a quandary, a Gordian Knot for which I have no sword.  But I digress.) 

Logistics aside, who to date is a tad bit more complicated when you have kids.  You don't want to bring just anyone around your children.  Before I had kids, who I dated was simply a matter of:

1.      Is she hot?

2.      Can I tolerate her annoying habits?

3.      Is she interested in me?

If the answers to all three were in the affirmative, I was in a relationship, my friends.  But now that I have three sons, the questions are:

1.      Is she hot?

2.      Can I tolerate her annoying habits?

3.      Is she interested in me?

4.      Would my children like her if I gave her the opportunity to meet them? (she will obviously like them, unless she’s a complete idiot), and

5.      Can she intelligently discuss the merits and general history of the pistol formation?

Why must she understand the pistol offense?  Did I not mention that I have three sons?


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Dad, I Want to Be Like You

          It's a weird feeling when your child tells you he wants to be like you when he grows up.  Who does he think I am, anyway?  Apparently, Jackson, my five-year-old, thinks I shoot a lot of bad guys.  I've never told him that I shoot anyone (but if I did shoot people, I would prefer that they be bad guys), but he's told his friend that a bad guy tried to kidnap him and that "my dad shot him with his two guns."  I really do not recall the incident in question, so I'm guessing he made it up to impress his friend.

          But does he want to grow up to shoot bad guys?  He's oddly obsessed with that.  Or deer.  He's stated on more than one occasion that he'd like to be an Army guy who shoots a lot of deer.  I'm not sure the Army has that kind of job.  I'll check into it, but since that's not quite my job description (I'm an attorney who doesn't shoot anyone, though in a blackout state I may or may not have used two guns to shoot a bad guy who was trying to kidnap my son), I don't think he's talking about what I do for a living.  

          He sees me through his child's eyes and, because I'm his dad, he sees an ideal.  That realization brings with it a little bit of pressure, because you don't want to disappoint your child.

          Driving home one night with the children, a police officer turned on his overhead lights and pulled me over.  I was more worried about what my children were going to think than what the officer was pulling me over for.  But then I started worrying about whether I'd put the current insurance cards in the glove compartment and how would that look to my children if I completely screwed that up?

          The officer asked his standard questions, asked if I was completely not paying attention to the speed limit signs, and then I think he saw my three boys in the back.  Yeah, I was going 8 miles per hour over the speed limit, and sometimes I drive 10 miles per hour under the speed limit.  There is something about answering a litany of questions about bears and whether they'll eat us if they catch us and why would or wouldn't they eat us if they caught us and maybe we could just shoot the bear with our guns if he tried to eat us that will occasionally divert my full and complete attention from the precise speed I am traveling.  

         The officer kindly let me go without a citation.  Jackson and Ethan, of course, wanted to know why the officer didn't arrest me and take me to jail.  I tried to explain, and Jackson kindly informed me that when he's a police officer and he catches me speeding, he'll arrest me.  Ethan agreed that that would be the proper course of action.

         Despite my run in with the law, Jackson still wants to be like me when he grows up.  Ethan just wants to be a bad guy when he grows up, so I don't know if that means he wants to be like me or not.  One thing I do know is that all of my sons will be better than me when they grow up.  And that's a damn tall order.

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Juggling Act

I never realized how challenging it is to be a single parent, not until I became one earlier this year.  It was an incredible adjustment, mostly because you realize that you have no backup.  Sure, you can call a friend or a relative if you really need help, and heaven knows I have.  But it’s the day-to-day mundane things that you take for granted when there are two parents in the house that aren’t so easy when it’s just you. 

When it’s just you and the kids, and they’re hungry and ready to eat, there’s no one there to watch them while you make a quick trip to the grocery store because you forgot eggs or milk or hot dog buns.  And taking the kids when they’re tired or hungry is the kind of pain you don’t want.  Anyone who’s ever had a child throw a fit at the store can appreciate how fun that experience is.

So, when planning fails, and it WILL occasionally fail, improvisation becomes a skill and the children learn new food combinations (or lack of combinations as the case may be).  Tacos made with no taco seasoning.   Hamburgers served on hot dog buns.  Spaghetti with a side of peaches.  Pancakes without syrup.  NO SYRUP??  WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SYRUP?? 

“Maybe a monster ate it and then went poop,” four-year-old Ethan says, and laughs.  His favorite jokes center around poop.  Like:
           “Knock knock.” 
           “Who’s there?”
           “Poop.”
           “Poop who?” 
           “Poop on your head!” 
           His eyes dance as he laughs at his poop jokes and I don’t dare rob him of his joy simply because I’m not a fan of the word “poop.”  He is happy and beautiful and that is enough.  It will always be enough.

 “I think maybe you forgot to buy syrup at the store, Dad,” five-year-old Jackson says.  “I even told you to buy it.”

“You didn’t tell me to buy it,” I reply.

“Yes I did!  I always tell you to buy things and you never do!”
          He does tell me to buy things, but most of his suggestions revolve around toys.  Rarely do his suggestions have anything to do with food, so I’m pretty sure he never mentioned anything about buying syrup. 

And then there’s trying to take a shower. How do you make sure that your kids don’t kill themselves or each other while you’re in the shower?  What if the five-year-old unlocks the front door and they wander off? 
          Wait, did someone say something?  Oh, I should install childproof locks?  Thanks for the advice, buddy.  Wait, you don’t have kids, do you?  Shut up, then. 
          Or, what if, while you’re showering, one of the kids starts running around the house with pens in his hands, surely destined to trip and gouge his eyes out?  What kind of lousy parent are you if you dare to shower? 
          Wait, more advice from the guy who has no kids?  Telling me to take a shower before the kids wake up?  Or keep every conceivable dangerous implement under lock and key?  Go have some kids, stay awake all night when one of them is sick, finally succeed in getting him to go to sleep and just as you’re finally dozing off at 5:30 am, your oldest wakes up because he’s an early riser and wants you to go downstairs to play with him.  Do all that, and then we’ll talk about your bright ideas.


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