Throw The Blog A Bone

We have an old dog. Sixteen years old. Refuses to die.

Not that I’m rooting for her to climb the stairs to puppy paradise. I have a heart. Apparently, she has a very good one, too. She’s a little shih-tzu we’ve had longer than two of our teenage children. Her name is Cocoa, because, when we named her as a puppy, she was brownish. Now she’s pretty much just white.

She seems to hate everything about life, except a soft spot to lie down and hot dogs. She can’t see, can’t hear, can’t navigate stairs, can’t jump on or off couches, and can’t hold her water. She hates baths, haircuts, eye drops, fresh breath, dog food, hard wood floors, clean-smelling carpets, walks, and any attempts to pet her.

She pretty much sleeps most of the time, except when she wants something. Then she barks incessantly until someone comes (ahem, usually me, even though there are others living in this house), picks her up, and transports her to one of three places. The food bowl, outside, or the couch. That’s all she wants – one of those three things. Actually, that’s not true. The outside thing is what we want. She could care less whether she’s inside or outside. Makes no difference to her. It’s wishful thinking on our part.

She wasn’t always like this, of course. I remember the good old days when she used to dart out the front door and go poop in the neighbor’s yard, much to their dismay. Or when she used to eat holes in the wall, chew the furniture, or steal our dirty underwear and hide with it under the couch – for what purpose I tried not to imagine. Good times, nonetheless. Ah, but those days are gone.

Christy says Cocoa is only middle-aged. Normally, I’d laugh at that sort of optimism. But Christy also used to pray that her kids wouldn’t grow up. And they’re all under six feet, so she got that wish.

Right now, Cocoa is barking and walking in circles around the dining room table. One of her daily rituals. If I have to put up with sixteen more years of this, I expect I’ll be joining her soon enough. Then I can only hope that when we’re both mumbling and walking in circles around the dining room table, that someone comes and guides us both to a nice soft easy chair, throws her a hot dog, and hands me a Dr. Pepper, then lets us sleep for the next twelve hours.

Given the kids track record on responding to Cocoa’s barks, I’m very worried how they’ll respond to my mumblings. I’d better start looking into old folks’ homes.

Preferably one that will take an old white dog, too.

Attack of the Holiday Traditions!

Tradition!

In our family, holiday traditions are plentiful, sometimes unusual, and laws from which we may not deviate, except in order to add more holiday traditions.  Our children are unforgiving in this regard, ensuring no holiday tradition is ever overlooked or forgotten.  For example, every Christmas Eve since even before the kids were born, we’ve always attended a party at our dear friends the Grahams (whom we only see once a year – on Christmas Eve.) We exchange gifts and eat delicious turkey, ham and pumpkin pie.   On our way home, we drive through the neighborhoods with our lights off to see all the Christmas lights and luminaries lining the streets.  Once home, we gather around the tree and read the Christmas story from Luke 2, and then open one gift selected by mom and dad (well, mostly mom).  Finally, all five kids head upstairs to sleep in the same room until Christmas morning.  That is the order of events, and as I mentioned, we do not deviate.  Tradition. 

When Christmas morning arrives, it is tradition that the kids do not come downstairs, nor do they even dare try, until we play the official game of Christmas Morning Mother-May-I.

“Maya, take one step down.”

“Mother may I?”

“Yes, you may.”

Understand that three of our children are 17 and older, but we still play Mother-May-I.  It’s tradition, and therefore, around here it is law.

Every Easter the kids look forward to the traditional “Easter Basket Hunt,” which over the years more closely resembles a cross between The DaVinci Code and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  In the days leading up to Easter, it’s my task to come up with a series of sequential clues, one leading to another, that eventually brings the children to the Holy Grail, or rather, five Easter baskets meticulously, lovingly, and often quite sweetly filled by Christy.  It’s a simple task really. All I have to do is ensure the clues are challenging, they have an overall theme that is somewhat relevant to recent family events (i.e., a trip to New York or Disneyworld, or a favorite TV show or movie), and that I don’t use hiding places I’ve used before.  Oh, and one more small minor detail – in addition to being difficult to decipher, the clues also have to rhyme.  It’s tradition, and as I said, the children are unforgiving in this matter.

For New Year’s Day every year, we have a fondue dinner that we always look forward to.  This allows us to immediately nip in the bud any resolutions on eating healthy.  And the kids like it because of the elements of danger: hot oil and the occasional blown fuse.  We’ll fondue just about anything.  The usual fare is there – shrimp, beef, chicken, broccoli, zucchini, potatoes, onions, etc.  Then we get clever with stuffed mushrooms, scallops, cheese sticks and pickles.  And for desert, we’ll fry miniature candy bars, and make donuts from canned biscuits – just poke a hole in ‘em!  This is accomplished with a little background music – the top 25 songs we’ve listened to on iTunes the past year – which for I don’t know how many years has always included “Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride” from Lilo and Stitch.  Traditions don’t have to make sense.  They must, however, be repeated without fail.

But what about New Year’s Eve?  That’s always been a hit or miss holiday for us.  Because of church callings in past years, we’ve often found one of us chaperoning youth dances on New Year’s Eve, so we never really established a solid New Year’s Eve tradition.  This year, however, because there was no dance on New Year’s Eve, and because Abbie was home from college and we wanted to do something memorable, we came up with a new tradition.  The first ever New Year’s Eve Martschenko Olympic Games.

Seemed like a good enough idea.  Each family member selected a game in which they felt they could beat everyone else.  We then made Gold, Silver and Bronze medals out of candy bars and ribbon.  Abbie and Maya created a crafty scoreboard to track the winners, and we were ready to “Let The Games Begin!”  In theory, it ought to work.  What could possibly go wrong?

To answer that question, you must first understand the competitive nature of the members of our family.  Let’s review.

There’s me, of course, who believes I am the reigning champion in every game we’ve ever played.  As the kids were growing up, I never let them win anything.  Some may call it cruel -- some being Christy, but I have always maintained that it built character, taught valuable lessons in learning from one’s mistakes, and developed a competitive spirit and drive to win.  Now that they’re good enough to beat me, it creates a quandary.  Part of me is proud of them for their achievements, but the other part still hates losing.  I enter these Olympics a conflicted soul.  The event I selected to add to the Olympic schedule of events was a card game called Bang!

Then there’s Christy, who still roots for NC State after all these years.  She’s grown accustomed to losing, so any small victory, even a Bronze medal, would be golden in her eyes.  Christy selected Trivial Pursuit, hoping all the questions would be about celebrity marriages and divorces, or NC State basketball coaches who won the National Championship in the early eighties.

The next competitor is Abbie, who despises losing as much as I do.  (I taught her well.)  She will show no mercy, and when all else fails, she resorts to puppy dog eyes and heartstring pulling.  Do not fall for it.  She is ruthless and will crush you at the first sign of weakness.  Her game was Bananagrams.

On to Alec, who doesn’t care.  Deep inside he’s convinced he was adopted and his real family is out there somewhere sitting around playing on their respective iPhones without having to interact with one another.  But he plays along, just to prove to other inferior beings that you don’t have to care to win.  Alec’s game was Liar’s Dice.

Next is Evan, a self-proclaimed genius and master strategist, quite sure that eleven-year-olds know more than any other age group – at least until next year, when twelve-year-olds will become the dominant species on the planet.  Evan selected the parent-friendly Super Smash Brothers, otherwise known as “Watch the Plumber Beat Up the Princess”, a game neither me nor Christy had ever played.  Perhaps he is a master strategist after all.

Maya is the youngest competitor in these Olympics.  Her strategy is to lay low, and let the others duke it out so she can emerge as the last girl standing.  But her real skill is playing the age card, and subtly encouraging opponents to feel guilty for beating her.  Do not fall for this, either.  If she wins just one gold medal, she will dance a jig in your face with no discernable remorse.  Maya’s chosen game was Apples to Apples.

Finally, there’s Allie, a.k.a. The Wildcard.  Allie is a friend of Abbie’s visiting for the evening, and her competitive tendencies are completely unknown.  We’d have to keep an eye on her.  Word on the street was that she should not be underestimated.  Her chosen event was the card game Phase 10.

With the competitors lined up, the medals awaiting their winners, and all the games in a hat for random order selection, what could possibly go wrong?  It’s just a bunch of games, right?

We drew for the first competition.  It would be the shoot ‘em up spaghetti western game of Bang!  My event.  I smelled Gold.

If you’ve never played the card game Bang!, you must first learn to read and speak Italian words like “Mancato” and “Birra” and then get down to shooting your fellow family members until they are dead on the floor.  It’s great family fun.  For these Olympics, we had to adjust the rules slightly so that there would be three clear medal winners.  To make a long story short, we dropped the roles of Sheriff, Deputy and Outlaw, and everyone was a Renegade!  It was every man, woman and child for themselves!

I knew once the cards were dealt, that folks would be gunning for me.  After all, my family has been known to eliminate me from play without the courtesy of allowing me a single turn.  (They still grin smugly when fondly reminiscing of a certain Risk game at the beach one year.  I raised some cold-hearted kids.)  I was so concerned, I made a rule that no one could be killed off in the first round, as I wanted to at least get one turn.  There was some protest, but since it was my game, I got to pick the rules by which we played, which in itself was a rule I was making up on the fly – one of the fringe benefits of being Dad.

It didn’t matter, though.  I lasted a few rounds, but was the first one shot dead in cold blood, and the fingerprints were many.  Cold-hearted, indeed.  That was okay , though.  I knew it wasn’t over.  If a certain card came up at the right time, I could get back in the game.  It was a long shot, but it was all I had. 

The game went on without me.  It was a brutal contest that took us all the way through our baked potato dinner.  Eventually, one by one, players dropped, until there were only three remaining – Evan, Abbie and Allie, vying for the Gold, Silver and Bronze.  Allie had never even played the game, and she was still in it.  (I told you she should not be underestimated.)  And then, it happened.  The “Dead Man” card appeared.  In the words of Ak-MOON-rah from Night At The Museum 2, I came “BACK TO LIFE!”  Almost immediately, Evan was killed off, and suddenly, to everyone’s chagrin, I was in medal contention.  This, of course, caused quite a bit of consternation and confusion, and suddenly everyone was BACK TO LIFE and bullets were flying, dynamite was exploding, and heated Italian words were exchanged.  When the dust finally settled, it was determined by a loose coalition of ghostly gunslingers and rule interpreters that Abbie must be awarded the Bronze, I technically, albeit quite undeservedly, won the Silver, and Allie, against all odds, took the Gold.  There were grumbles all around, and the first Olympic event ended with as much fanfare as a half-eaten baked potato hitting the bottom of the kitchen trash can.

The next event drawn was Abbie’s entry – Bananagrams.  Coming off her Bronze in the previous event, she was hungry for a Gold, and was mentally prepared for a quick and decisive victory.  No doubt, Abbie was a formidable competitor in this event, having won many more times than anyone else in our family.  (It’s rumored that she carries Bananagrams in her purse and challenges strangers on the street.)  But, I had beaten her in a pre-Olympic trial match earlier that day, and was determined to do it again.  Neither of us, however, would have predicted what happened next.  As the letters flew, and the seven competitors feverishly tried to make words of them before they all ran out, it was an unfamiliar voice that called out the victorious cry of “Bananas!”  He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Gamed had won!  Alec had stolen the Gold medal!  For a moment, Abbie could not believe it and was speechless.

But only for a moment.

After a quick review of Alec’s words, one came up that caught the attention of the Russian judge (i.e., Abbie.)  The word was “za” and Abbie cried foul.  The crowd went wild and there was great discussion of the validity of this word from both a philosophical and grammatical perspective, with some taking Alec’s side, and others agreeing with Abbie.  Alec claimed that “za” was another word for “pizza” and that it was accepted both by Scrabble and Words With Friends – a very strong argument.  Abbie countered that Bananagrams did not subscribe to the rules of such inferior games, and that “za” was simply an abbreviation, a fast slang word for a fast food, and therefore not allowed according to the ABC (Authentic Bananagrams Consortium.)  Alec did not believe such an organization existed, but he was fighting a losing argument.  Per the made-up rule I had established from the first event, Abbie claimed the right to arbitrate the rules for her event, and Alec, much like the 1972 US Men’s Basketball Team, saw his Gold medal stolen by the Russian judge!

Because of those two little letters, a whole new game had to be played, and, of course, this time Abbie walked away with the Gold, adding to the controversy that will undoubtedly go down in Olympic lore, perhaps even more so than my Silver medal in the previous event.  I again took Silver in this one, and Allie picked up the Bronze.  Alec didn’t medal.  But, as we mentioned earlier, he didn’t seem to really care, either.

Surely, there could be no more drama or controversy.  The next event would be a game of Liar’s Dice.  The rules were simple.  Everyone rolls some dice, keeps them hidden, and then bids on how many of some number there were.  What could possibly go wrong?

The first thing that went wrong was that I didn’t win.  I understood the mathematical odds. I understood that when there are 12 dice on the table, the odds are that there should only be two sixes rolled.  And so when more than that showed up, and I got eliminated from the game, nobody else thought it was unfair when we discovered that Maya was playing with a die that only had twos and sixes on it!  First of all, why do we even have a die like that in our house?  Second of all, it makes a huge difference in the odds!  But, remember, my children are cold-hearted.  Dad was eliminated, and therefore, in their minds, all was right in the universe.  Maya, with her fixed die, took Bronze.  Abbie claimed Silver, and Allie, once again, took the Gold. 

So, three events down, and Christy, Alec and Evan had still not made it to the medal ceremony for any of the events (at least not officially.)  The next game would be Apples to Apples.  A harmless game with very little strategy, and the best you can hope for is to be holding a Fuzz card when the adjective is Fuzzy.  No such luck for me.  The best I could do was put down Earwigs for Romantic, and that was a good round.  There was quite a bit of judge-influencing going on, but that was apparently how the game is supposed to be played.  And so, it’s not surprising that the three most influential people in our family won.  Abbie won the Bronze.  I warned you about those puppy-dog eyes.  Christy won the Silver and it felt like 1983 all over again.  And Maya, the youngest of all, took the Gold!  And then she proceeded to dance a jig in our faces with no discernable remorse.

Still no medals for Evan and Alec, but that would surely change with the next event – Smash Brothers, or Mario Smash Party, or Super Mario Smashing Fun, or whatever it was called.  A video game, during which, I was told by Evan, all I had to do was move my character close to my opponent with the joystick thingy and then just start pressing random buttons on the controller as fast as I could.  I’m sure that’s not a winning strategy, but after he tried to explain how pressing Up, Up, X, Right, Right, B at just the right time would produce some sort of Atomic Superpower Jump and Kick Combination, I told him his first strategy sounded pretty good.

The event was pretty much going to come down to a duel between Evan and Alec, who had undoubtedly logged 500+ hours on the game already.  Abbie and Maya would fight it out for the Bronze.  Christy and I had no chance.  But nothing ever goes according to plan, for at the very moment we began the Smashing Mario Tournament, a couple more of Abbie’s friends just happened to stop by.  We’ll call them both John to protect their identities, and also because they were both named John.  Or maybe one was Jon and the other was John.  It doesn’t matter.  The point is that Abbie pulled a rather bold move that I doubt was sanctioned by the Olympic Committee when she allowed Jon or John (can’t remember which) to play for her in the tournament.  After one match, it was obvious that this Jon or John dude was a Genuine Mario Super Smashing Beast!  He destroyed everyone, including Alec and Evan.  (Perhaps his admittance that he had played this game every hour of every day for the entire summer had something to do with it.)

Once again, Alec felt that his well-deserved Gold medal had been swept away by another of Abbie’s fate-turning decisions.  At first I thought he might show his frustration, which would surely give away the deep dark secret – that he truly cared.   But he held back admirably with a great show of sportsmanship when he exclaimed, only slightly under his breath for all to hear, “Why did Abbie have to invite her STUPID friends!”

So, as it turned out, Jon-John took the Gold.  We couldn’t deny him that – he had earned it.  Evan and Alec shared the Silver, although both claimed they had beaten the other, apparently when no one else was around to witness it.

The evening was getting late, and we knew that we’d soon be turning on Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest.  Perhaps there was time for one more event before the year, and the Olympics, came to a dramatic close.  It would be the Trivial Pursuit game, which turned out to be an American history trivia game.  No time to play a full game, each player would be read the questions from a single card and the one who answered the most would win.  The questions came fast and furious.

“What state is known as the land of the midnight sun?”

“What two NBA teams call Los Angeles home?”  (American history?)

“What is the capital of Nevada?”

On and on they went until Alec had a chance to answer three questions to win the Gold.  He got two of them on his own.  But the third went sort of like this:

Christy:  What state is Lincoln the capital of?

Alec:  Ummm . . .

Me:  Come on, Alec.  Really?

Alec:  I want to say . . . Alabama.

Me:  Alabama?  It’s Nebraska!

Alec:  I didn’t say final answer.  It’s Nebraska.

Christy:  Right!  Alec wins the Gold medal!

Me:  What? . . . Wait . . . but . . . he . . . ah, whatever . . .

Did I mention it was getting late?

So, Alec finally got his Gold medal, in a trivia contest in which he didn’t know the capital of Nebraska, and, as mentioned, he didn’t care.  It was only fitting, considering how the whole evening had gone.  When we tallied up the final scores, giving five points for gold medals, three points for silvers, and one point for bronzes, the winner of the first ever New Year’s Eve Martschenko Olympic Games turned out to not be a Martschenko at all.  That’s right.  Allie won.

Who invited her anyway?  Just wait until next year.

Tradition!

The Unfair Irrelevance of Eleven

Evan turned eleven today.  

ZZZZZZzzzzzz . . . 

Oh, wait, I mean, Happy Birthday, Evan.  Wow.  Eleven years old.  Way to go . . . that’s really . . .

Hey, remember last year when you turned ten!  Now that was a birthday for the ages, wasn’t it?!  A whole decade!  Two whole hands!  Yay for ten!  Good times, good times.  And now you say you’re eleven, huh?  That’s really . . . you know . . . great.  So, here’s a cupcake, kid, go run and play.  Come back next year when you’ll be twelve!  A whole dozen!  Won’t that be something?!  See you then!

What is it with the number eleven?  Stuck between the number upon which all numbers are based and the commercially appealing dozen, it’s so completely under-appreciated.  It’s so insignificant that of all the two-digit numbers it takes the least effort to even write.  A couple of slashes and your’re done.  That’s how much value we place on it.  It’s the “whatever” number.

The problem with eleven is that it has nothing to hang its hat on.  We’re number one, two’s company, three’s a crowd, four seasons, five fingers, six-packs, seven days a week, the eight ball, nine planets, a perfect 10! 

What’s eleven got?  There are twelve months and thirteen is lucky.  What does eleven have?  There’s no eleven of anything.  And even if by some horrible mistake you accidently end up with eleven of something and someone asks you how many you have, what do you say?  You don’t say, “I’ve got eleven!”  No, you say, “I don’t know, I’ve got like 10 or 12.”  We’re ashamed to associate ourselves with eleven.  We’re a bunch of numeralists against eleven.  We’re anti-XI.

In Evan’s case, we can attempt to manufacture a bit of excitement by saying, “Hey, guess what?  Your name rhymes with your age!  Isn’t that cool?  Huh?  Huh?”  Nope.  Already been there and done that.  Seven stole eleven’s thunder on that one four years ago.  Eleven’s got nothing new to offer.

It’s so bad that in the LDS church, now that Evan is eleven, we will keep him and others like him off to the side by themselves.  They won’t meet with the Bobcats or the Webelos or the Boy Scouts or any group of boys with a cool name.  No, they’ll meet in a special group we affectionately call “The 11-Year Old Scouts” as if to ensure there is no mistaking them.  They’ll be in that transitionary, awkward no-man’s land between Primary and Young Men when the best thing we can think to do with them is to keep them away from the other boys.  After all, they’re eleven.  We don’t want that rubbing off on anyone.

Now some may say, “Hey, what about 9/11?  Eh?  Eh?  That put eleven on the map.”  I’m sure the number eleven is very grateful to the terrorists for this.  They had thirty-one days to pick from, and they chose eleven.  Like eleven didn’t have enough troubles.  In the words of Miracle Max, “Why don’t you just give me a nice paper cut, and poor lemon juice on it?”  I bet eleven was always picked last when the numbers got together to play.

Face it, who remembers their eleventh birthday?  You remember ten.  You remember twelve.  You remember thirteen because you were a teenager.  You remember sweet sixteen.  But nobody remembers eleven.  Did you have a cake?  Probably not.  You know why?  Candles come in packs of ten, and your mother couldn't bring herself to buy a whole extra pack.  "We'll have a cake next year when it’s a real birthday," she said.  Or if you did have a cake, there were probably ten new candles and that short burnt one she found in the back of the kitchen drawer.  Evan got a dozen donuts this year for his birthday cake - an ironically cruel reminder of eleven's more famous neighbor.  He did have eleven candles, but only because he had a sister that turned nine this year, and the math worked out.  Enjoy it while you can, Evan.  Because years from now when the real birhdays happen, you just won't remember this one.  Poor, poor eleven.

And so, for a whole year now, when people will ask us how old Evan is, will we ashamedly murmur, "I don't know, he's like 10 or 12 or something?"  Or will we have courage and say with pride, "He's eleven!"  Time will tell.  We must learn to fight our own numeralism, and embrace eleven as if it were just like the rest of the numbers (even though we know it isn't.)

Well, as I wrap this up, know that we love you, Evan, despite your age.  We know you will always aspire to be more than eleven.  But for now, you go be eleven and be proud, son.  Happy Birthday!  It's getting late and I need to publish this before your birthday is over or it won't be much of a birthday wish, will it?  You know me, I always do my best work in the eleventh hour.

Hey . . . wait.

Birds, Bees & Other Unmentionables

For the last time, it was that time, again.  I had to have "the talk" with one of my sons.

I had been getting hints from Christy for quite some time, but I kept putting it off.  It's not a comfortable thing.  Very rarely do two such simple words instill such fear in the hearts of men: "the" and "talk."  Really, who came up with this whole idea anyway?  Could anything be any more difficult to explain to an unwitting innocent child?

Of course, I would have put it off further, but we got the letter from school.  The one that you have to sign saying its okay for the school to teach your child about the Reproductive System.  I couldn't send my son into that clinic of giggles and finger pointing without some preparation, some knowledge that would help it all make sense, so that he wouldn't have to ask the teacher for a bucket to get sick in.

You've got to remember what its like to be a fifth grader.  I kind of remember getting "the talk" from my own father.  We were riding in the car and he was trying to drive and explain at the same time while making hand gestures like some sort of wild puppet show from heck.  But I appreciated that father-son moment, I appreciated his effort, as difficult as it must have been for him, and most of all, I didn't ask for a bucket to get sick in.  Of course, like every kid, I already knew all about it by the time my father got around to telling me the facts of life.  In fact, I was giving "the talk" to my friends, all poor unenlightened sons of procrastinating fathers, ever since - well, the fifth grade.  So, at least I had that experience to fall back on.

I also had two older sons who got "the talk" but I'm not even sure they remember it.  Some folks tend to block out unpleasant memories, myself included.  I think one was in a fast food restaurant, and one was on a drive somewhere.  (Without the fancy puppet show, of course.  I believe "the talk" was never intended to be a multi-media event.)  Of course, one of my sons claims we never had "the talk,", but I'm sure he's wrong.  I'm equally sure that a lot of dads think they are giving "the talk" when actually, when all is said and done, their sons walk away with no clue what the old man was mumbling about.

And so, the day of reckoning arrived, and I was going to make sure I did it right -- at least once.  I asked my son if he'd like to go on a walk.  His little sister responded first, with much enthusiasm.

"No, you can't come with us, sweetie."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to talk to your brother."
"About what?"
"Uh.  Something.  It's a secret."
"I want to know!  Can you tell me the secret?!"

I was already blowing it and we weren't even out the door yet.  After some promises that her mommy would tell her later (much later), my son and I started off around the neighborhood.  We walked, we small talked, and we walked some more, and all the while I was wondering, where do I begin this conversation that overlays its devilish designs upon mere innocent souls?

Wait, what did he just say? Something about an animal or plant or something.  Birds, bees, flowers.  There's my opening.  I never really thought that would work, but I'll take it.

"So," I said casually, yet with all manliness, "what do you know about how flowers make other flowers."  He knew all about it and gave me a lecture on pollen and chlorophyll and some other stuff, which may or may not have been correct.  I wasn't really listening - I was planning my next move.

"And so, animals are like plants.  They have to make other animals, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"And do you know how they do that?"
"Sure.  Well, maybe.  Uh . . . not really."

At this point, I had my big question ready.  The one I had rehearsed in front of the mirror and that would make it all make sense, that would bring it to a spiritual level and enlighten my son with truth.

"Do you know the one god-like power that Heavenly Father gave us?"
"Ummm . . . repentance?" 

That's my boy.  Go back to the primary basics when you have no idea what the answer is.

"No, not repentance.  He gave us the power to create life, and its inside of me and its inside of you."

I was on a roll now.  From there I explained the power, and its sacredness, and how it was only to be used at a certain time and never before then.  I talked about why boys are attracted to girls and vice versa.  We talked about how boys and girls are different and how bodies change when they get older, and how boys and girls want to be close to each other when they are in love.  It was all starting to make sense, even to me.

And then we got to the part where I had to get into the details.  And that's where I sort of stumbled a bit.

"And so you've heard of this thing called 'sex' right?"
"Oh yeah, I know all about that." 

For a moment I believed him.  What goes around, comes around.  Some other fifth grader had gotten the jump on me.

"Really?  Well what do you know about it?"
"Um, well.  Uh . . . I don't really know about it."
"You hear about it on TV, and probably your friends talk about it, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Well, what it is, is . . ."

And then the moment was upon me.  I had to tell him.  He was going to learn about it sooner or later.  I had worked up to it with all the proper prefaces, all the importance of how it was sacred, and only reserved for married people, and that it was natural and it was okay, and one day it would all make sense.  I had done all I could to prepare him for this revelation, this right of passage.  And so, without any puppet shows, I told him using just plain words.  Then I waited for a response, but received none.  So, I told him again, just to make sure he understood.  He remained silent.  I said, it'll make more sense when you're older.  Still nothing.  I said, you'll actually WANT to do that someday, with an emphasis on the someday being after he was married.  Silence. 

And then, it occurred to me.  It was sinking in.  Innocence was fading before my eyes, but I had succesfully done my duty as a father.  The knowledge of generations was passed on.  We had gotten through it.  My youngest boy was growing up.  Ahh, I had done it, and he had survived unscarred!

After a few moments, as I basked in the glory of a job well done, I sensed he wanted to speak.  What would he say?  Thanks, dad, you're the greatest?  Wow, dad, you've enlightened my soul?  Gosh, dad, never have such challenging thoughts been expressed so eloquently?  What words of newfound wisdom would come forth?

And then he broke the silence.  "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I need a bucket."

All Hail The Mighty Regis

Somewhere out in Hollywood is an Irish punk band called The Mighty Regis.  Before today, none of us had ever heard of them.  Never listened to their music, although I understand they have just released their third album.  And yet, Abbie is now the proud owner of an authentic TMR sweatshirt.  How she came to acquire this unique article of clothing may be akin to one of the band's songs, aptly titled "Walking Around Lucky."

Well, maybe it wasn't the luck of the Irish so much. In fact, if we trace it back far enough, it all began with a very unfortunate and tragic event - the most unfortunate event imaginable.  Several years ago, the life of a young and energetic Cary High School student named Kassel Smit was tragically cut short at the tender age of 16.  In his memory, his parents established the Kassel Smit Make A Difference Scholarship, to award Cary High Students who, in their opinion, helped to make a difference in other people's lives, and who exemplified the characteristics that made up Kassel's personality.  Ths list of characteristics are long: creativity, sensitivity, respect, inquisition, exploration, fairness, giving, leadership, learning, fun, humor and love.  I'm humbled by his parents willingness to turn heartache into charity, and sadness into triumph.

We are taught that pride is a root cause of great deal of evil in the world, and so I try to avoid it when I can.  But does that mean parents can't be proud of their children?  I don't claim any credit for my children's accomplishments, but I am so happy for them when their accomplishments are recognized.  But what makes me happiest of all is when someone recognizes my child, not for what they've done, but for who they've become.

Abbie was awarded the Kassel Smit scholarship at Cary High this year.  To me, this was far more significant than any leading role in a play, any solo in a concert, and any recognition for being the best at doing something.  They saw her for who she truly is, a kindred spirit of Kassel himself, possessing all the qualities that make up a loving, hard-working and charitable individual.

Today is Kassel's 24th birthday.  We attended the annual picnic in his honor, which helps to raise the funding necessary to continue the scholarship.  There were over a hundred people in attendance.  As part of the evening, Kassel's parents gave out door prizes by drawing random tickets purchased at the door.  Prize after prize was given away - gift certificates to local restaurants, coffee mugs, loaves of gourmet bread, t-shirts, hats, etc.  We knew that we had already won the best prize of all, and were not concerned about winning anything further.  But when Mr. Smit held up one of the final items -- a warm looking sweatshirt, Abbie became a bit interested, as she had long winters to look forward to at BYU.

The sweatshirt had been donated by The Mighty Regis, along with CD's, t-shirts and a hat.  How is it The Mighty Regis has an interest in the Kassel Smit Scholarship?  Very simple. Kassel's older brother is a member of the band.

When Abbie's ticket number was pulled to win the sweatshirt, Mr. Smit recognized her as the recipient of the scholarship, and simply said, "Perfect."  Sometimes, who you are is enough to bring great blessings, and sometimes, its good just to be "Walking Around Lucky."  Abbie has both on her side.

We wish success to her at BYU, to the Smit family in their continued charity, and of course, to The Mighty Regis!

146 Years

Justin turned 20 years old last month.  So, on his birthday, I went out and bought Christy twenty roses.  She's the one who did all the work twenty years ago.  Justin sort of just had to show up and be baby-like.  Pretty easy gig for a baby.

Nothing against Justin, of course.  He was a great first baby, and will always hold that place of honor in our hearts.  While he was cutting his teeth on us, we were sort of cutting our teeth on him, and he probably suffered the most because of it.  But he's also the only of our five children who ever received our undivided attention - even if it was for only two years until Abbie showed up -- again, with Christy doing all the work.  Christy always does all the work.

But twenty years is a milestone for any parent.  In fact, the way I see it, we reached the 20 year mark many years ago.  You see, each kid is different and requires a completely separate set of parenting skills, and so parenting as a father is different from parenting as a mother.  So, by my calculations, our combined years of experience in raising our five children is now 20 years each for Justin, 18 years each for Abbie, 16 years each for Alec, 10 years each for Evan and 9 years each for Maya.  Add that up, and its 146 years -- almost a century and a half of parenting between the two of us.

And what have we learned in those 146 years?  Let me share a few observations:

• Children hold secret meetings to share best practices in confusing their parents, and part of their strategy is to ensure that any effective parenting techniques are immediately identified, quarantined, and strategically neutralized against further parental success.
• Children have the unique mental capacity to alter their own memories, erasing any neurological evidence of wrongdoing.  This accounts for their ability to create convincing and plausible stories, even in the face of eye-witnesses and video surveillance.
• If you ever think you're doing a good job as a parent, just wait a few minutes.
• Children today are capable of successfully texting their friends, watching TV, listening to iTunes, monitoring Facebook, and doing homework all at the same time.  But as soon as a parent speaks, they miraculously lose their ability to focus.
• The child in its natural habitat will demonstrate strong aversions to laundry detergent, bringing in groceries without being asked, turning off lights, and tightening caps on soda bottles.
• A child's potential is indirectly proportional to his or her high score in Angry Birds.
• No matter how bad children may act, and despite the myriad of poor decisions they may make, when it comes down to it, you wouldn't trade your kids for anybody else's.  Besides, my research has determined that child-trading is frowned upon in most societies.

This November after Evan and Alec age up a year, we will reach our 150-year milestone as parents.  While it would be reasonable to expect our children to celebrate this historic and momentous occasion with us, I expect that they will instead focus on more important things, like birthday cake and ice cream that they did not bring in from the car, Facebook postings and text messages about the latest KASP (Kids Against Successful Parenting) meeting, the new version of Angry Birds Gone Wild, and a good story as to why the kitchen light is on and the cap is off the Sprite.

But, we still won't trade them.  They make cute Christmas card pictures.  And, we do love them, after all.

Happy belated birthday, Justin!

Xylophones Played In The Distance

I'm not what you'd call a normal father.  To me, a normal father is more like my own father.  He got up every morning, shaved, drank his coffee, put on his white dress shirt and tie and went to work.  Then he came home, took off his tie, sat at the head of our dinner table, drank his coffee, and talked about serious worky kind of things.  We were all kind of afraid of him, because his word was law, and we either obeyed or paid the hefty consequences.

I'm not that kind of father.  I work out of the house, shave when I have to, never drink coffee, and only put on the dress shirt when I venture out into the cold cruel world.  We don't have a head at our table, and I hardly ever talk about work during dinner.  And as for my word, it's not really the law.  Maybe more of a local ordinance.  Kind of like the one way lanes in the mall parking lot.  Folks only pay attention when its convenient.

My kids don't look at me and say to their friends, "There goes my father.  I respect him deeply."  Instead, they say, "There goes that weird guy who lives with us.  Let's try to avoid him."  That's what they say when their friends are around.  But when it's just us, they secretly like me the way I am.  I bring an element of fun, comic relief and creativity to family life.

For example, when Abbie was younger, we would pass the time away playing several improv games.  We would talk with funny accents and carry on imaginary conversations.

DAD:  "Hiya, Abbie.  What's ya doings?"
ABBIE:  "Milking a cow, daddy.  What're yer doing?"
DAD:  "Hunting squirrels.  There's one. DIE, SQUIRREL, DIE!"

Uplifting things like that.  Sometimes Alec would be with us, but Alec wouldn't participate.  He would just sit there and wish he were somewhere else.  He's so strange.

One of our favorite games was the alphabet game.  In the alphabet game, one of us would pick a letter of the alphabet, and the other would then have to begin a story in which the first word began with that letter.  We'd then move to the next letter, and the next person would continue the story.  It'd go something like this.

ABBIE:  Let's start with U.
DAD:  Unable to put it off any longer, Charlie bundled up in his blanket, and headed out into the cold night.
ABBIE: Very cold and wet, he searched in the darkness for a pair of glowing eyes.
DAD:  Within a few minutes, while the cold crept into his bones, he saw the eyes staring at him from the edge of the forest.
ABBIE: Xylophones played in the distance . . .

Xylophones playing in the distance were a favorite dramatic motif of ours, and found their way into all of our stories.  (What else are you going to do with X?)  We would continue until we had used all the letters and wrapped up the story in a neat little package.  Now, because Alec never played along, to this day, he is still unable to alphabetize his conversations on the fly.

Abbie and I have no problem with this.  Because, as I've explained, we've had so many years of practice.  Creativity now comes easily to Abbie, as evidenced by her many artistic skills.  Drama, music, painting, writing, snowcraft, marshmallow sculptures, and soap carving are just a few.  Eventually, we expect her creative skills to lift her to unimagined heights, or maybe just a brief stint as the first female Blue Man Group member.  For what its worth, that's actually not a bad idea.  Girls should be allowed to be Blue Men, don't you think?  How in the world can we teach our daughters to aspire to greatness when there are artificial ceilings within the BMG hierarchy?  I think she should actually start the first Blue Woman Group.  Just sort of go for it, you know.  Keep the same sort of shtick, but with a female flair.  Lose the blue, maybe, and go with pink or teal.  Maybe some would say that's sort of sexist, but I'm just picking random colors out of the air.  No need to take offense.  Of course, any color would do, except for white, because people might confuse WWG with a wrestling federation, and that wouldn't do.  Perhaps, though, I should get back on topic.  Quietly and somewhat irresponsibly, I've allowed this blog entry to meander and drift into meaningless babble.  Rather than continue in this non-sensical vein, I suggest we somehow try to make sense of all this.  So many times, we tend to go to great lengths to make a point.  Then we realize, that all this talk of blue men and wrestling and snow art was just a side show - a distraction from the true intent of our discussion.  Unless I stop now, though, I think I'm going to disprove my original theory - that years of playing the alphabet game has somehow allowed me to pull off an alphabetic conversation like this one, and that you'd never notice until I pointed it out to you.  Veal, yummm.  Well, on that very sad note, there's only one thing left to say.

Xylophones played in the distance.

Yeah.  Zorry about that.