Nine Wood Derbies

Tonight marked the end of an era.  Evan participated in our final pine wood derby, and he went out in a flash of brilliance, losing both races by close margins, and exiting the double-elimination tournament early enough to where he could simply enjoy the rest of the evening without all the worry as to whether he would win or not.  I mean, who needs all that.  It's not worth it.

So, that made nine pine wood derby races, and only one championship - Alec's magic School Bus back a few years ago.  Ahh, the glory days.

The problem for Justin, Alec and Evan was not a lack of desire.  They wanted to win.  Their problem was that their father was more artist than engineer.  We always knew there were other fathers out there with far better racing design skills - fathers like the Connors, the Zimmermans, and the Peerys.  We admired how they had the aerodynamics down, the fine sanding of both wheel and axel, the countless tubes of graphite, and the exactness of weight.  We accepted the fact that we were most likely not going to win.  (The school bus was obviously a fluke - a mere stroke of luck when all the pine wood derby gods came together and conspired against our competition.)

And so, to hide our inability to get every last bit of speed out of the car, we figured that if we couldn't win, we'd at least look good trying.  Form over function.  Style over substance.  And so we designed cars that we knew no one else would.  Justin had the Darta Racecar, the Rat, and the Wedge of Swiss Cheese.  Ahh, the power of cheese.  They all lost.  Alec had the Police Car, a non-descriptive block of wood (the year he was too sick to race), and The Famous and Beloved Miracle School Bus.  And Evan had Optimus Prime, the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, and this year, our final entry, the Wiimote.  They all lost, too - some more than others.

But every year we walked out with our heads held high.  Because we always took home the prize for Most Creative, or Must Unusual, or Most Obvious Attempt At Hiding Your Inability To Build A Fast Car.  And we were proud of it!  We were all smiles. Because that's who we are.  We're all about appearances!  From pine wood derby entries to pretending we're fine with losing.  It's all just a show.

Because deep down inside, we wanted to win!  We tasted it once and it was sweet!  But now, the last race has been run.  The last block of wood formed into a masterpiece that rolled (just not very quickly.)  And so, tonight, I put away the spray paint, the scroll saw, the fine tipped permanent markers, the sandpaper, the acrylic, and all the fun ideas of what to do with a block of wood and four black wheels.  And we say, farewell pine wood derby.  We gave it our best effort, and we will miss you.

So, Justin, Alec and Evan - I'm sorry I let you down.  I hope you will overcome these childhood setbacks.  At the very least, we have learned one thing for certain.  /For the first time, we can say with confidence, we won't lose next year!

On Becoming A Tarheel

For a while there, we weren't even sure Abbie had successfully submitted her application to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.  Oh, we remember her filling it out, and we remember proofreading her essays.  But we also remember wondering, as we all often do in this day of on-line everything, whether clicking the Submit button actually did anything.  Who's to say where all those bits of data end up, if they go anywhere at all.  And when decision day had come and gone, and Abbie couldn't log in, and I couldn't find the application fee charge on our credit card statement, and we couldn't even find a confirmation email from UNC like we did for other schools, and the deadline for applying was long over, we feared the worst.  The fates had conspired against us to miss a golden opportunity to raise a new Tarheel.

But then, there was a light.  A flicker of hope at first.  The excellent guy on the UNC support line told us we were using the wrong login email address to access the admissions website.  (Why does Abbie need more than one email address?)  And when we still couldn't log in, he explained that the system was having trouble signing people in, and we would probably have to wait until morning before it was fixed.  And then he even called us back later and said that Abbie did indeed have an application on record, and that a decision had been made on her status.  In fact, when we checked the correct email account, there it was, the confirmation email that her application had been received!  At that point, whether she was accepted or not was overshadowed by the relief that we had at least successfully tried!

Then came the dawn, and with it, a working web site, and when Abbie logged in, we quickly and happily learned that despite our inability to remember usernames, passwords, and email addresses, UNC would accept our daughter into the Tarheel family (and likely sign her up for internet remediation courses right away.)

Ahh, the joy that filled this true-blue Tarheel's heart!  Like her father before her, and her Uncle Billy and Aunt Laura, Abbie could, if she so chose, become the newest Martschenko to embrace the Carolina tradition of excellence, to wear the light blue proudly, to hate all things Duke, to pity all things State, to hear the bell tower ring the hour, to raise a cheer at Kenan Stadium or the Dean Dome, to walk the planks of Paul Green, to browse the aisles of Davis, and to know above all, that she was tarheel born, and tarheel bred . . . and so on.

And yet, I have mixed feelings.  I really do.  The Tarheel in me is proud, because I went to Carolina.  The dad in me is concerned, because I went to Carolina.  To turn a beautful girl loose amidst the overconfident wimps of frat row or the spoiled brats of Granville Towers makes my stomach turn.  And the drama program there may not always select the kind of shows that you might find on the Disney channel.  Do I believe Abbie can take care of herself?  Mostly.  But its the unmostly part that I worry about.  Of course, I would worry about that regardless of where she went.  It's just that I know Carolina too well, and my imagination would be working against me.

She is still awaiting word from BYU-Provo, BYU-Hawaii, and NYU.  Getting accepted to Christy's alma mater, BYU, would force her to choose between mom and dad.  However, oddly enough, her Tarheel dad would probably prefer she went to BYU (for the safety factor) while her Cougar mom would probably prefer she went to UNC (for the close to home factor.)

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, neither mom nor dad will make this call.  Sure, we can offer advice and counsel, especially since we know both schools so well.  And there are some who say, "Hey, the guy paying the tuition should make the call."  But we're not like that as parents.  Kids have to learn to make their own choices in life, and accept the consequences that follow.  Our job is to be here to support them, whichever way they go -- and provide a little coaching along the way.

The good thing about all this is that for now, Abbie is still a senior in high school, and still in our household where we can hold on to her a bit longer.  College is in the future, of that we're now certain.  Where she goes, and how to deal with our missing her are things we can figure out later, and that we don't have to (and don't want to) think about just yet.

Nonetheless, congratulations, Abbie!  You're on your way!  We love you and we're proud of you!

Five Kid Stud

So, what's this "Five Kid Stud" stuff?  True, I have five kids, so at least that part seems accurate.  As for being a "stud", well that's debatable.  There was a time, maybe, when I was a dyed-in-the-wool-black-leather-wearing-Olivia-Newton-John-tell-me-about-it-stud.  But that was, I don't know, at least a year ago.  These days, Christy wonders (aloud at times) what happend to the cool guy she married.

I used to play football.  I was once described on the front page of the Cary News sports section as a "Hun-like warrior."  (I still have the article, if you need proof.)  I was 165 pounds of lean and mean manliness, and a member of the elite 300-lb bench press club.  I looked good in a tank top, and the babes digged me, my abs and my mustache.  But like I said, that was yesterday.  Well, not literally yesterday.  More like a generic non-specific Beatles yesterday.  It was some time ago. 

So, what happened?

Well, isn't it obvious?  It's the five kids.  They did this to me.  It is their unique youthfully hip perspective on the world that has relegated me to the back of the cool line.  I haven't changed.  Well, I lost the mustache.  And I don't play football anymore.  But that's about it.  Well, there's also the thing about not weighing 165 pounds.  And I write poetry now and then, and run a small community theatre on the side.  But I'm still the same tough guy I've always been.  Except I don't go out looking for fights on Saturday night, and I pretty much follow the rules now, and I don't say swear words.  But see, that's because of the kids.  They need my example, and so I must lose some of my coolness in order to live the exemplary life that every child wants to emulate.  I do it for the children.  I must suppress the inner stud, and be . . . a father.

And so, I will wear the badge of uncoolness with pride.  Maybe one day when I'm a grandpa, I'll get to take it off and give it to my children to wear.  Then I'll be cool again, and they'll be lame, and their kids will say, "Hey mom or dad, why can't you be cool like grandpa?"  I look forward to that day, but I'm okay that it's not here yet.

Until then, I won't be the football stud, or the tank top stud, or the babe magnet stud.  I'll be the dad.  The five kid stud.  I do it willingly.  It was my choice to sit at this table.  It's the hand I was dealt.  It's a great hand.  Full house - sons over daughters.  I like my chances.

I'm going all in.

Is There Memory For Another Memory?

The other night, I announced to the kids that I had a family project for them to work on that evening.  As I expected, this was met with rolled eyes, groans and murmurings about how lame a father I was.  But because my kids have compassion on me and all my lameness, they took part.  The mission was to file away some old photos into shoeboxes properly marked with the year they were taken.

Abbie and Christy were the most help.  Alec sort of sat near us, and only took special interest when cute pictures of him as a baby came up.  Evan and Maya wondered why anyone would actually print pictures instead of having them just randomly appear on the family computer screen saver. 

We had boxes for each year of our marriage, dating back to 1989, and even a box full of pictures from before we were married.  I love looking at old pictures, but I'm often amazed at some of the pictures we keep around.  To me, pictures fall into one of three categories:

1.  Great pictures that we will one day put into slideshows to show at our kids wedding receptions.
2.  Pictures that capture a moment in time worth remembering, even if it wasn't the most flattering moment, which we are forced to keep around just so we can pull them out later and make fun of each other.
3.  Pictures that should not be kept because they are a) out of focus, b) full of people we don't recognize, or c) of something that somebody saw once, who at the time thought would be great to capture on film but lacked the forethought to include an actual person in the picture, and so therefore forced us to forever store something that anyone could easily pull up with a simple Google image search.

Of course, we keep that last category.  After all we paid for it to be developed.  We can't throw it away.  Besides, with the digital age in full swing now, we don't have to worry about having to develop and store such pictures anymore.  We can just delete those bad pictuers off the computer without it costing us anything, right?  Right?  Can't we?

Kid:  "Dad, what are you doing?"
Dad:  "I'm deleting these bad pictures off the computer."
Kid:  "Don't!!  Stop!  Mom, Dad's deleting pictures again!"
Dad:  "But, it's just a blurry, fuzzy, poorly lit hint of somebody who's name we can't even recall."
Kid:  "It's a MEMORY!  Don't delete it!"
Dad:  "Yes, and it's taking up 3MB of MEMORY!"
Kid:  "Buy a bigger disk!  MOM!"

So, my life is spent sneaking down to the computer in the middle of the night and deleting pictures under cover of darkness.  The only problem is they're taking them faster than I can delete them, and so, like the multiple shoeboxes full of photos, both good and bad, that already consume an entire closet in our house, my new 1 Terabyte hard drive is already 3/4 full of blurry tree branches, somebody's toy, or the tail end of what looks to be a dog that we may or may not own.  I'm fighting the battle 3MB at a time.  It's a lonely fight, and it's also one wrought with guilt each time I press Delete.  Because I know - it's a memory.  But I'm paying for that memory.  And so, I ask myself -- will it ever show up in wedding reception video?  No?  Can I use it as bribe in the future?  No?  Is it something I can't find in a Google search?  No?

Deleted.  For a brief moment, there's a slight pang of guilt.  Then I think - three megabytes saved.  Ahhh. Already I feel better.

Christy and Dan, Five Kids and a Van

When I told the kids I was starting a blog about our family, they were at first impressed, then slightly concerned, and finally a bit horrified.  What if their friends were to see it?  What would dad write about?  This could be embarrassing!

I assured them that no one would read it.  There's not really anyone out there that interested in us.  But they still have their doubts, and will be watching what I write with at least one raised eybrow.

Our youngest, Maya, of the iCarly generation, had no problem with it.  If she could have her way, she'd have a webcam on her every move, mood, and up close facial expression 24 hours a day.  (No, she really would.)  In fact, she came up with her own poetic name for the blog: "Christy and Dan, Five Kids and a Van."  Not bad for an eight year old (although I wonder if she plagiarized it from a Disney show somewhere.)

I didn't like it enough to rename the blog.  I had already spent too much time creating the "Five Kid Stud" graphic at the top of this page, and wasn't about to start over.  But thank you, Maya.  You have a great future in creative writing and we all look forward to the day you have your own blog, complete with up to the minute videos of your latest smile!

Truth be told, her title is much more accurate than Five Kid Stud, but that's another story for another day . . .

Christy's Suggestion

As with most things I do, I do it at her suggestion.  Her being my wife, Christy.  Write a Christmas poem, call your mother, drive safely, and now, start a blog.  All great suggestions, by the way, just not things I would think to do on my own.  And so it has been for twenty-one years of marriage, five children, and several houses and animals.  What I've become is the product of what I have done.  And much of what I've done is largely what she has suggested I do.

Of course, that's not to say I've done everything she's suggested.  Far from it.  Very far.  In fact, it's a long way from here to there, but we don't have time go into all that.  Let's just say that when I've taken her suggestion, good things usually happen.

Now, it's important to note here that Christy never asks me to do anything, nor does she tell me what to do.  She's not a nag.  She merely suggests, and I have found over the years that suggestions are stronger than requests or demands.  You know the old saying about sugar attracting more bees than vinegar, right?  Well, if you know Christy, you know she's well acquainted with sugar.  You may not know, though, that sugar and suggestion both originate from the root word sug (pronounced shug) which dates back to ancient times when Cleopatra told Antony, "Now, shug, here's what you're gonna do."

Suggestions are, in esssence, a mere hint of an action that has the potential to increase the affection and admiration of one who already loves you.  And so, needing all the affection and admiration I can get, I listen, I consider, and more often than not (but less often than always) I do.  I find that life is sweeter that way.  Sweet as sugar.

Now that I've done it, what will I do with it?  I expect it will become a cross between news of the family, and some of my own musings - sometimes one in the same.  Christy has suggested I post all of my poetry, especially the Christmas poems from the past decade or so.  And so, depending on how much admiration and affection I'm craving, you'll see whether or not that happens.  If it does, you'll have to decide whether they are worth reading, all I have to do is copy and paste.

Between me and you, though, Christy suggests you come back often.