What an amazing weekend we have before us! Thing 2 is graduating from high school and turning 18 the next day. When she turned 6, we went to her favorite Mexican restaurant in town, and we have been back many times since.

When I wrote about her on that birthday I described her as a hard-headed fashionista, a tender-hearted caretaker, way too clever for her own good and knew just enough curse words to laugh when she heard me say one but had the good sense to not unleash many of her own (my how that changed).  I also noted that Hot Mama feared that Thing 2 would be our hard-partying teenage rebel since she was the most social of social butterflies and at home we saw a disrespect for authority, despite her teachers having glowing reports of her exemplary behavior.  

I could never have imagined the course our lives would lead from then until today. She is still a tender-hearted, clever social butterfly. She still has streaks of rebellion but really she is one of the best daughters a parent could hope for. She is an amazing young woman who followed in her big sister’s footsteps to be a source of positive change in her school and the people around her. She has been active in student leadership and projects that fostered an appreciation for helping others. She has so many friends that spend so much time in our home that it feels as if they are part of the family.

When I was on a trip with Hot Mama recently, we were in a piano bar and the performer was playing a Chappell Roan song (Pink Pony Club). The couples we were with were amused that Hot Mama and I knew all of the lyrics and were singing along. I think Chappell Roan is talented but I think I like her music because it makes me think of Thing 1 and how much she loves her music. One artist that Thing 2 introduced me to a few years ago is Noah Kahan. I downloaded his Stick Season album and listened to it in its entirety during a flight. And I continue to listen to it regularly, both because I enjoy the music and because it reminds me of the first time Thing 2 discovered him and how much she loved his work. Hot Mama drove her and one of those quasi-adopted friends to see him in concert six hours away.

One of his songs, Growing Sideways, makes me pause and reflect on Thing 2’s life and remind myself the struggles she courageously goes through every day. The chorus is:

But I ignore things, and I move sideways

Until I forget what I felt in the first place

At the end of the day I know there are worse ways

To stay alive

‘Cause everyone’s growing and everyone’s healthy

I’m terrified that I might never have met me

Oh, if my engine works perfect on empty

I guess I’ll drive

Several years ago, Thing 2 was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. To say our whole life changed would be an understatement. And to have a middle school girl already dealing with middle school girl issues have to add this to her burdens was quite a load. She had to learn a whole new way of life, and we had to discover a whole new level of worry for her well-being.

I wish we would have known back then how well she would make it through life to this point. As time went on, we became more accustomed to rolling with her condition. A couple years ago we had to do some research before we took an extended flight to Hawaii. We bought a USB powered cooler for her insulin. We had to cut our visit to Haleakalā just a little short to head back to the hotel because she forgot to bring enough insulin. And we made everyone wait to eat their lunch we got on the way back because her blood sugar was already too high and she couldn’t eat. But for the most part it wasn’t an issue. Hot Mama had to call our local pharmacy from a beach in Cancun two years ago to address a prescription refill emergency but she got it sorted out. Last summer we went on a cruise and I don’t recall any issues with her health. That’s not to say that nothing went wrong, but we made it through it all enough for me to not have a lasting memory of a problem.

Thing 2 has matured greatly and I cannot be more proud of how far she has come, but the reality is she has a life-threatening condition that requires constant vigilance. As exhausting as it is for us as parents, it seems cruel to think how much of her thoughts are consumed with her well-being. But sometimes she ignores things, and she moves sideways until she forgets what she felt in the first place. Because sometimes its easier to not look at her continuous glucose monitor and insulin pump before she eats a fast-food meal that most other teenage girls could eat without concern. At the end of the day, I know there are worse ways to stay alive. And how unfair it must seem when everyone’s growing and everyone’s healthy. Too often she drives on empty. But she perseveres. And she inspires. And she has spent plenty at Lulu so she’s suffering in style.

Thing 2 didn’t turn out to be the hard-partying teenage rebel. She loves spending time with her friends but, in part due to her condition (and the fact she is underage), she is the sober driver. She has stayed out plenty of late nights, and I have stayed up for most of them, but after dealing with her T1D somehow the simple things like getting home from a night out with friends don’t worry me so much.

Now she is about to embark on a whole new adventure. And we won’t always be right there with her. And a couple of years ago I would have said the thought of that scared the shit out of me. But she has come so far that, while we will worry, we know she can handle it. She is going off to college soon and starting a new life. Thankfully Thing 1 will be there to be a source of support as she figures out life away from home. We can’t wait to see the path she takes and continue to be there for her along the way.

Thing 2, I hope you take care of yourself and have more good days than bad days. I hope you know how much we love you and that we would do anything for you, even if you have to Dial Drunk. It’s nice to know when I call, She Calls Me Back. You may get Home Sick. If you do, Come Over. Call Your Mom. You get All My Love. You’re Gonna Go Far.

Well, the day has finally arrived. Our little 4th Grade Something, the Super-Scholar turned Super-Slacker, is a high school graduate. Hot Mama and I are proud to say that she rebounded nicely from her 4th grade doldrums to become a fine example for her friends, classmates, siblings and all who come into contact with her.

When she started her freshman year, she was quite shy. She lacked confidence. I’m sure she felt out of place at times. Tonight she graduates as the Senior Class President and Student Council President. Last week she gave a speech at the student council banquet that detailed her metamorphosis from Shy Freshman to Senior Leader. This transition started with being “volun-told” by her parents to enroll in the Leadership Class. And the transition progressed when her older student council friends “volun-told” her to run for office and keep their traditions alive. At the end of this transition she is the mentor urging others, including her little sister, to be leaders in their school and community. During her speech she said “I think that when you love someone, you need to volun-tell them to do the hard things that make them nervous.” As she stood before a cafeteria full of parents, students and teachers delivering her address I sat in wonder at the ease and eloquence with which she spoke. It was a better speech than I could recall from most of the previous banquets I had attended, and that wasn’t just because the speaker was my kid.

This week we had three more end-of-year gatherings to attend: Baccalaureate, the All Sports Banquet, and the Senior Awards Assembly. The Baccalaureate service was at a local church. It was the first time we all got to see the soon-to-be graduates in their regalia. They entered to the customary Pomp and Circumstance melody. Two of her classmates sang songs. A local pastor spoke about the unconventional chain of events that resulted in his current pastoral position and fanning the flames of the gifts of God. While I’m generally happy about our current situation, it was the first time I was briefly sad. I don’t really know why. Maybe seeing her there with her friends in their caps reinforced the reality that our lives are about to change. My sadness quickly gave way to acceptance which in turn gave way to anticipation for what’s to come.

Next was the sports banquet. Thing 1 played sports from the time she was old enough to sign up. During her elementary school years she took part in dance, gymnastics, cheer, soccer, basketball, and softball. By the time she hit high school, dance and softball were the only ones left. She added track for her freshman year and then swapped out for golf her sophomore and junior years. This year only softball remained. And it was a struggle at times. She did well but it wasn’t the super successful season she may have once hoped for. Over the course of her four years on the varsity team, they won 18 games. Half of those were during her freshman year when she didn’t play much. They won three games her senior season. She had ups and downs and frustrations. Her participation in sports helped her see that she can face adversity and become stronger.

When we arrived at the banquet, she soon realized she was the only female senior athlete that showed up. At first she wanted to sit at a table with her parents but eventually her friends convinced her to sit at the head table with the approximately 20 male senior athletes. It was another instance of doing a hard thing that made her nervous. But no one questioned that she had earned her seat at that table along with the boys. She put in the work and deserved to be recognized.

The Senior Awards Assembly was a fun night. It was a joy to see all of the seniors cheer for their classmates when they were recognized for their accomplishments and awards. Thing 1 accepted three scholarships – two from local civic groups and one from the university she is attending in the Fall. She was also named the female Student of the Year. It was nice for her to see that her hard work was recognized by the faculty and it reinforced to her that she is a special individual.

Thing 1 got her moniker on this site due to her early love for Dr. Seuss and The Cat in the Hat. The title of this post comes from another one of his famous books that makes the rounds in graduation gifts this time of year, Oh, the Places You’ll Go! Like in the story, she has “brains in her head” and will “decide where to go.” She’ll “join the high fliers who soar to great heights” – “except when you don’t. Because, sometimes, you won’t.” She will head off to college in the Fall and continue to experience new things. So just as the tale ends, I say to Thing 1, “you’re off the Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So…get on your way!”

Hot Mama and I are still so very proud of Thing 1. She is our first child. She was, and continues to be, the guinea pig for our parental experience. As Hot Mama recently reminded her, we have not ever been the parents of an eighteen year old so this is all new to us. Letting Thing 1 spread her wings and venture out into the world is a hard thing that makes me nervous. But I know that she is ready. And I also know that she will still be around in a different way.

The training wheels are off. We have run alongside her with one hand on her shoulder and another at her back and now she is going her own direction under her own power. Now we have to stand on the sidewalk and watch her pedal away. We will continue offering cheers for her accomplishments and encouragement when she falls off course, just from a little further down the road. It’s just a new experience that we will have to adjust to and enjoy the next stage of metamorphoses in our lives.

Monday nights are generally father-son nights at the Fat Daddy abode. Hot Mama and Things 1 and 2 have a late night at the dance studio so it’s just me and my little guy.

Mondays also allow me to slack off a bit on my role as Cook de Cuisine. Some nights it’s brinner, particularly cheesy eggs and pancakes. Some nights it’s fancy grilled cheese sandwiches with scratch made tomato soup. Sometimes it’s leftovers. One recent Monday Thing 3 had leftover spaghetti. He’s really easy to cook for and is a bit like the Mikey of my youth – he’ll eat anything.

After dinner Thing 3 came to my room with a look of terror on his homemade, tomato-basil spaghetti sauce stained face. “It’s in my tummy,” he said with a groan of despair. After several attempts to get him to clarify what was wrong all I could get from him was “it’s in my tummy.”

Finally he said it was “the thing that lights up.” After some more coaxing he told me it came from my parents’ house and it had a button. I called my mom to try to see if she had any idea what he could be describing. Finally I figured out it was a small laser pointer that Thing 2 brought home from her house.

Immediately I began evaluating the logistics of whether he could actually swallow a laser pointer and his almost four-year-old digestive tract’s ability to shit out said laser pointer. As I recalled, the pointer was a small, metal, bullet-shaped, cat-maddening device. I decided it was plausible he swallowed it but unlikely to make that sharp left turn from the pyloric sphincter to the duodenum.

Thing 3 is a sharp kid who does some dumb things so he could tell by my telephone conversation with my mom that a visit to the ER was in his immediate future and he has been there enough to know he was not interested in the trip.

He started crying and the only words he kept repeating were “I don’t wanna go to the osspital.” He worked himself into such a frenzy he began to cough and then puke. Suddenly I had a crying kid spewing regurgitated spaghetti all over my bedroom carpet.

I’m the father of three children and I have seen a lot so I was unfazed at this occurrence. My first thought was to tell him to go to the bathroom. My second thought was to finger through the warm, slimy, burgundy barf. No laser pointer.

Next I went to check on my patient and found him standing over the toilet with slobber stringing from his chin. First thought, wipe off his face. Second thought, check the bowl. On my knees from cleaning his worried face I peered over the rim of the toilet to inspect his work. I learned that at some point in the evening he had a bowel movement and did not wipe, nor did he flush. I decided I would rather pay the ER copay than do any further investigation.

As we reached the hospital parking lot a mere 1,300 feet from our driveway I gathered some additional intel and finally thought I knew what happened. A Google image search and a photo lineup with Thing 3 confirmed my suspicion. He swallowed the battery from the laser pointer.

It was just a tiny battery, no bigger than a penny. I’ve heard of kids crapping nickels successfully. I’ve seen bigger things come out of my Labrador. Hell, even Hot Mama voluntarily swallowed a camera capsule and shot a little documentary that the doctor said was a little slow at times but ultimately a successful production. But that’s a story for another time.

We breezed through the check-in process since all of our information was still current from other recent trips. If only they had a punch card or frequent flyer program. “Congratulations, with this visit you have earned a free colonoscopy.” We had the waiting room all to ourselves.

Then I made the mistake of Googling “child swallowed battery” and, well, you know how the media likes to report the negative and blow things out of proportion? Did I find any happy stories about Suzy eating a Duracell and then happily waving bye-bye to it later as it went to its watery grave like a pet store goldfish 12-24 hours after its arrival? Nope.

Instead I saw story after story of children killed by battery ingestions. Obviously they can obstruct the airway but Thing 3 was breathing fine. Apparently the human esophagus is a tremendous conductor of electrical current when there is a battery lodged in it and the battery can start to burn a hole. Sometimes they get stuck in the intestines. “Good call coming to the ER, I am a really good parent,“ I thought.

The nurse called his name to which he replied, “how you know my name?” with an impressive blend of wonderment and contempt. I explained to him that literacy is a requirement to pass the NCLEX and she read his name from the chart. On a side note, I don’t know why he would ever wonder how someone knows his name as it is often the first thing he discloses to any and every stranger he meets, regardless of whether they have candy and a cool van.

We met the doctor, we met the X-ray technician, we met the family in the exam room next to ours. He had all kinds of questions about the red crosshairs shining down on his chest in the X-ray room where we obtained photographic confirmation that the battery was in his stomach and not burning a hole through his esophagus.

Surgical removal was an option, and we had already met our health insurance deductible for the year, but the discharge paperwork directed a more conservative approach. Watch for signs of distress and watch for expulsion.

By this time Hot Mama and the elder Things were home and anxious for an update. We worked out how we could collect and inspect the samples. Then came a phone call to the nice woman who watches our little blessing (who I shall hereafter call “Nanny McG”) to make sure she was agreeable with our plan. She unenthusiastically accepted. Hot Mama said she would go get a “nuns cap.” I thought given its function the term seemed sacrilegious. Whenever Junior finished his demonstration of his well-established potty training we would get a call and pick up the package for inspection.

Tuesday morning Hot Mama dropped off the boy, the bowl, and the baggies at daycare. Before they left I suggested a hearty breakfast of Frosted Mini-Wheats and black coffee but there was no time. All day we waited but the call never came. Later that evening he produced a sample and I elected to let Hot Mama put her nursing degree to good use. After a thorough thrice-over we learned the condition persisted.

On Wednesday around lunch time my wife stopped by with a blue plastic baggie containing our son’s latest accomplishment. He got started before they remembered to put the collection plate under him so Nanncy McG had to fish out some of it with a slotted spoon, which she immediately threw away. Hot Mama confirmed through manual palpation (squishing it between her fingers) that the battery was not present in the bag.

Per the doctor’s orders, Hot Mama took Thing 3 to see the X-ray tech for “re-takes” and we were given the all clear. My theory is he stealthily snuck a deuce on Tuesday morning at daycare and his battery elimination went undetected.

Of course we were thankful he was okay. We had a discussion with our son about refraining from placing foreign objects in his mouth and he promised he would never do it again. He broke that promise soon thereafter.

Thursday morning Hot Mama delivered our son to daycare without the need for any medical equipment in his backpack. Nanny McG was relieved and appreciated the new slotted spoon.

Welcome to the real world I said to she, condescendingly. Take a seat. Take your life. Plot it out in black and white. Well I never lived the dreams of the prom kings and the drama queens. I’d like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve.

As a parent I have to tell you to stay inside the lines, knowing something may be better on the other side.

So the good boys and girls take the so-called right track, faded white hats grabbing credits; maybe transfers. They read all the books but they can’t find the answer. And your parents we’re getting older. Wonder if we’ve wished for anything better? Yes, filling our memories: tiny tragedies.

I don’t want you to run through the halls of your grade school. You shouldn’t scream at the top of your lungs. But you should know there’s no such thing as the real world, just a lie you’ve got to rise above.

You are invincible, as long as you’re alive. I just can’t wait ‘til your 10 year reunion, when you can strut through the double doors. And when you stand in front of your friends who adore you, you will know what all this time was for.

It finally happened. Thing 1 The Super-Scholar has become Thing 1 The Super-Slacker.  She has always been ahead of her peers and school came easy. Fourth grade is taking a toll on her, causing her to question her scholastic aptitude.

The main culprit is busy work. The “doodle in your journal while I count the meal money“ work. The “write your spelling words with blanks where the vowels go” work. The “read a book for twenty minutes and write a summary of what you read on this sheet” work. Never mind that she is very creative, aces the spelling tests and reads above grade level. She runs the risk of being evicted from the gifted program before it even begins because she is not finishing her work.

So we had to have a talk with her. And since I don’t believe in lying to my kids I told her my thoughts. I admitted that some of the work she is supposed to be doing is not doing much to further her learning and may even be a waste of time or not as important as it is being made out. And no one will care what her grades were when she was in the fourth grade.

But that’s not the point. Hot Mama and I let her in on a little secret—meaningless busy work and mundane tasks are a part our lives too. Judges, clients, bosses, customers will sometimes require us to do things that we would rather not do. But we have to do them. Life doesn’t get better, fifth grade will be even worse. And just wait until seventh grade when you have to try to get your school work done while navigating the social hell that is junior high.

She is getting bad grades because she is not conforming to the expectations. And being lazy. See, I wish I could say that she is so enlightened that she already sees through the fluff work and is forging her own path toward accomplishment. But really she is being lazy. Hopefully she understood my explanation that fourth grade laziness, if left unchecked, can turn into tenth grade laziness. And that turns into middle-aged laziness reflecting on how your life is going and wishing you made some better decisions.

My hope is that she can excel for her own ambitions, not just to conform to expectations. I hope she can excel in her own way and be proud of her accomplishments. I hope she can put herself in a position where she never has to do busy work again. Or at least find satisfaction in the busy work while striving for greater things. But this isn’t about my hopes. This is about her hopes and aspirations.

I remember when she was learning to ride a bike. She so wanted to ride that bike but would get discouraged when she was unable to do it without training wheels. There were times she didn’t want to practice when things didn’t immediately go her way. She didn’t want to put in the work to learn to ride on her own. Hot Mama and I spent evenings running beside her along the sidewalk trying to assist in her endeavor. And then one day it clicked. She could suddenly ride her bike anywhere she wanted, by herself.

Parenting is about to become more difficult. She is one of our proudest accomplishments. I don’t want to screw her up. I want her to want to succeed. Ideally her idea of success will be similar to mine, although admittedly my generation’s definition of success is different than that of my parent’s generation. Primarily I want her to achieve whatever it is she wants, even if it doesn’t fit inside my lines. The trick it seems is to run along her with one hand on her shoulder and another at her back until she is going her own direction under her own power. Then it will be a matter of offering cheers for her accomplishments and encouragement when she falls off course.

As summer fades into a crisp autumn day I find myself back in school. A two-day symposium on drug use and mental illness and the specialized court systems available to treat criminals with these issues. So, you know, best time ever.

This summer Hot Mama and I went to Las Vegas for a weekend. As we walked back to our hotel from dinner one night she commented that were a lot of children out late with parents. She wasn’t so sure that it was appropriate for elementary school aged kids to see what they were seeing. I observed that I hadn’t seen anything all that inappropriate. Apparently she was alarmed by the large number of homeless men and women out on the street. I told her I thought it would be a good thing for them to see.

The Things 3 are good kids. Perfect angels they’ve been called. But they are spoiled little shits with serious entitlement issues. I don’t believe I have exceptional children. I understand that most kids have episodes of “I want” when they are out shopping with their parents and the resulting “that’s not fair” when their requests get shot down. In that regard they are not unique.

We are not wealthy. We are not broke. We pay our bills and try to put a little money aside for fun from time to time. Our small community has plenty of poor and impoverished families but no homeless man begging on the street corner.

A couple of weeks after Las Vegas I got to put my theory to the test. My whole family went to Seattle for almost a week. As with any big city there were plenty of homeless men and women milling about. It didn’t take long for my children to spot them.

One evening I walked alone to the original Starbucks store near the Pike Place Market. I had a few souvenirs in a bag and a big cup of overpriced milk and ice with a little bit of coffee splashed in. As I rounded a corner and started walking up the hill there was a man standing on the sidewalk. He was clearly not on his way to a fancy apartment. Upon seeing my drink he told me “I could go for one of those, can I have it?” I smiled and kept walking. He continued, “naw, I’m just kidding, unless you want to let me have it. But I’d rather have a beer.” It made me laugh. I paused and turned back. I pulled a fiver out of my pocket and handed it over. I’m sure he enjoyed his beer.

The next day we were walking along the waterfront when we came across a homeless man with a plastic cup on the end of a string affixed to a small pole, holding a sign that read, “Fishing for Kindness.” Thing 2 had a few dollars of her own and asked me if it was okay for her to give it to him. I said yes and she walked over, dropped her cash in the cup and skipped away with a smile.

We returned home to our comfortable lives. The children were not magically transformed by the experience. They are, however, more aware now. They have seen real poverty up close and personal. When they act like entitled little shits they at least have a frame of reference when we point out there are others who have so little and we should appreciate what we have.

This seminar has been a similar experience for me. There has been a lot of discussion about trauma and its effect on behavior. It’s easy to see a client walk in my office (or more likely walk into the interview room at the jail) with another drug charge and wonder why that person can’t get their shit together. I don’t understand. I can’t relate. I am not an illicit drug user with mental illness brought upon by traumatic events. I don’t want to become a drug addict any more than I want my daughter to become homeless. But in both cases I think it is important to know those worlds exist and appreciate that, while we may pass through those places sometimes, we don’t have to live there.

]]> http://fatdaddyesq.com/2014/05/08/eating-potting-benches/ Thu, 08 May 2014 15:30:05 +0000 http://fatdaddyesq.com/?p=1363

When I was 12 years old I had a career path scoped out. I grew up playing sports and going to sporting events, mostly baseball games. My family traveled the country following a particular college baseball team. We also went to many professional baseball games. Aside from the game, I seemed to always notice the stadium.

Eventually I bought graph paper, drafting pencils and an architect’s scale. I began designing my own baseball stadiums, on 8 1/2″ x 11″ graph paper and to a rough scale. I would usually start by laying out home plate and the infield. It made sense to me as, by rule, first base is always 90 feet from home and the pitcher’s rubber is 60 feet 6 inches from the plate. Then I would decide on the outfield fence dimensions and other field boundaries, then the bullpen location. All of these items dictated where the seating began. I laid out the seating and aisles. I colored the drawing and designated different levels of ticket classifications.

This was fun, but it wasn’t enough. I knew that real architects created models of their projects so that was what I would do as well. My first order of business was to create the field. I mixed and poured plaster of Paris into a custom built wooden craft stick formwork and let it cure. Once dried I painted the plaster green, several dirt-brown areas, a white pentagon, three white squares, one small white rectangle and two small white lines extending from the points of the pentagon; all to scale, of course.  A playing surface was born. That roughly 576 square inch baseball field sat in my parents’ basement for years.

In my mind at the time it was an amazing accomplishment. Later, my older eyes were less than impressed. I never began construction of the stadium around the field. Somewhere along the way I stopped designing stadiums and when it came time to declare a major in college the architecture path somehow seemed less appealing.

In college and law school I began watching the New Yankee Workshop with Norm Abram. He made woodworking seem accessible. I was hooked. The garage in our law school townhouse became my intermittent workshop. I purchased a 10″ Delta Shopmaster Bench Saw and got to work. One of my first projects was a potting bench for my wife. Some twelve years later that potting bench still sits in our backyard, sagging and weathered. It needs to become firewood or compost. I plan to build a replacement. But I don’t want to get rid of it just yet. Not until Potting Bench 2.0 is ready for use.

Today I have a cabinet table saw, a planer, a jointer, a router table with several routers and multiple router bits, a dust collection vacuum, a shop vac, several power sanders and power drills, a dovetail jig, a dado blade set, not to mention all of the run of the mill tools one might expect a generally competent handyman to possess. And I seldom get to use them.

My tools are stored in my garage which also houses a minivan and ten years’ worth of accumulated crap. It is such a hassle to make room to work the work rarely begins. From time to time I am able to plan a project (often times with graph paper and an architect’s scale), gather the materials and tools, and in the end produce something that previously did not exist. When we moved into our house I built a custom entertainment center for our television. Most recently I built a bench for Thing 1 for her dance competition.

Another memory from my time as a preteen is learning to make scrambled eggs. My mom explained to me how to select the cooking vessel, crack the eggs and stir the curds. It was cool to see raw ingredients transform into something edible. And as a fat kid, I loved to eat.

I still make some really good scrambled eggs; my kids love my “cheesy eggs” and I can hold my own with any omelet bar buffet chef. During college I really began to expand my game and now I am the executive chef at Fat Daddy’s Home Kitchen (not a real establishment, any similarity to an actual restaurant or eatery is purely coincidental and the use of the term chef is not meant to ruffle the feathers of those who don’t believe you can call yourself a chef unless you have studied at an esteemed culinary institute). This was partially by necessity. Hot Mama owns a dance studio and since most small town elementary school aged children are in school from 8:00 a.m. until 3:00 p.m. her classes take place in the evening. I could either wait for her to come home and cook something, which is certainly in her wheelhouse but would be served near bedtime; or one of us could pick up fast food, which isn’t very good for our health and is counterproductive to my quest to be less fat; or I can cook dinner for us.

Cooking is another creative outlet for me. Much like building a potting bench, I enjoy planning the project, acquiring the materials, using my skills and tools to transform the materials, and finally enjoying the end result and sharing it with others. Of course the end result does not usually sit in our backyard for over a decade.

Today I have an assortment of knives, an enameled dutch oven, a cast iron skillet, a cast iron griddle, a food processor, a blender, a stand mixer, a dehydrator, an immersion blender, a vacuum sealer, an immersion sous vide circulator, not to mention all of the run of the mill tools one might expect a generally competent home cook to possess.

Sadly Norm’s show is no longer on the air, although his website still houses great content. Now much of my how-to television viewing includes Alton, Christopher, Rick, Guy, or the suffering souls competitively churning out time constrained mystery ingredient comprised epiphanies.

We don’t have a minivan parked in our kitchen and the counters rarely accumulate more than several days worth of crap. Every day I can get out my graph paper and sketch out a menu, go to my pantry for materials, get out my tools and create a delicious project. Not every project is heirloom quality. Not every project is made of mahogany. Sometimes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich suffices. Last night was a sous vide ribeye finished on the outdoor grill alongside fire grilled asparagus and grilled pineapple slices with a honey-lime glaze. I am not a total food snob but there are few restaurants we frequent that best my crab cakes. And while I will happily eat almost any pizza my homemade version is a house favorite.

I may never build a baseball stadium, I may rarely build a table, but several times per week I can build a meal with wholesome ingredients that nourishes my family’s need for food and my need for creativity.

Once upon a time Hot Mama and I lived a carefree newlywed life where we could stay up late; sleep until noon; and walk around our clean house in the nude, not that I ever did for obvious reasons and sadly she didn’t nearly enough. Nowadays we may stay up too late from time to time but we pay for it in the morning. We can’t remember the last time we slept past 9:00 AM on a weekend morning. Our house is so dirty that it’s hard to walk around regardless of our level of dress. I still refrain from horrifying any onlookers and she goes au naturel even less than before.

What has changed? Things 1, 2, and 3. And just like their Seussian namesakes they prance around doing just as they please leaving destruction and despair in their mischievous wake. Now that they are on the scene Hot Mama and I don’t stay up late because we are passed out from exhaustion at 10:30. It’s hard to sleep in when there is a toddler sticking his feet in your face while groping his mother’s milk bar while his older sisters are professing their hatred towards each other at the top of their lungs. And we gave up on having our home featured in anything other than Cluttered Homes and Weeds magazine a long time ago.

Toys and clothes scatter the floors while arts and crafts litter every horizontal surface available and three sides of the refrigerator. Dirty towels lay on the water soaked bath rug after once again the bath water mysteriously couldn’t contain itself in the tub. Food wrappers pile up under the bed because the wastebasket across the room is just too far of a trek.

It’s not like we don’t care. It’s not like we don’t try. But with school and work, dinner and homework throughout the week it piles up. Saturday morning has become the time for cleaning up the accumulated mess. No big deal, we’re a family of five, we can knock this out in no time. Right? Wrong. For some reason when Hot Mama or I ask them to help clean the house the older two seem to hear “we are going to slowly tear off your fingernails with rusty pliers while we waterboard you.” That’s right, cleaning up is tantamount to torture. Thing 3 is starting to pick up on his sisters’ protestations and is realizing the magnitude of unfairness he soon faces.

We’ve tried being nice, we’ve tried being mean. We’ve tried taking away privileges. We’ve tried taking away electronics. During our last clean your room battle royale I threatened to take away every item but their mattress from their room and explained it would be like being in jail. They finished cleaning their room late Saturday night to escape their jail sentence. By Tuesday the room looked worse than it did Saturday morning.

Which is why it thoroughly pisses me off when I get a report from friends, family and teachers who interact with our children. We have seen how they can suck the fun out of a room as they fight, whine and thumb their nose at authority and respect so we kind of cringe when we ask how the kids were while they were out of our presence. And then we get the report that they were “perfect angels.” A kid that doesn’t listen at home gets glowing reviews at the parent teacher conference. A kid that won’t pick up a single dirty sock in her room helped tidy up her friend’s living room after a sleepover. A kid that screams and cries for mommy when it’s just me around goes to sleep without a hitch for the babysitter.

I suppose we should be proud that we have such well-behaved, thoughtful children. We should be happy that they get these glowing reviews from others. It’s as if the kids are allergic to their parents. We bring out the worst in them. Or maybe we just spend a lot more time with them.

I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. We are very proud of our kids. We cannot imagine a life without them and are constantly amazed at their intelligence, ingenuity and compassion. They excel at many activities and can be very loving towards their parents and each other. For all of their slobby, lazy, shitty behavior there are plenty of times when they are truly delightful. Sure most of that time occurs between 11:00 PM and 5:30 AM and they are unconscious, but to watch them sleep you would agree they are perfect angels.

photo credit: National Library of Ireland

Thing 2, my beautiful 6 year old daughter, spent the past week talking about pumpkin pie. Not turkey, not dressing, not cranberry sauce. Pumpkin pie was her sole focus. Oh, and whipped cream.

Thanksgiving day arrived and the pumpkin pie talk went into overdrive. Our family gathered for lunch at a local event space large enough to accommodate our crew and then moved the party to my aunt and uncle’s house for football and dessert.

When we arrived at the house we were greeted with a large spread of sweets. Pecan pie, chocolate cake, apple pie, pineapple cream pie, cheesecake, and a particularly tasty bread pudding with bourbon sauce. But no pumpkin pie. I looked around the kitchen to see if the holiday staple was waiting in the wings. No luck.

I do not try to spare my children from any and all disappointment and pain. They have heard me tell them life isn’t fair more than once. But this injustice could not stand. My daughter wanted pumpkin pie and pumpkin pie she would have.

I got in my car and headed to the local Walmart. Just earlier that day I had negatively remarked about another Walmart that was open on Thanksgiving. Now I was thankful to see those doors sliding ajar. I hit the bakery department and spotted an orange custardy pie gleaming on the shelf. Thanksgiving was saved. Just before I triumphantly removed the pie from the rack I noticed the disappointing label. Sweet potato. The bakery shelves were otherwise decimated by the holiday shoppers.

Plan B sprung into action. Time to gather the ingredients and as my soon to be three year old, Thing 3, says “I do it me-self.” I hadn’t grabbed a cart because I thought I was just getting a pie. I found a few remaining cans pumpkin pie filling and located a can of evaporated milk. Next was a six pack of eggs. a box of pre-made pie crusts and a can of whipped cream. Then I made my way through the gathering shoppers to the home furnishings section for a pie pan. The pie filling can called for an hour of baking time for a standard pie. We did not have that kind of time. Instead I opted for two mini cupcake pans to minimize cooking time. Just as I was about to find the round cookie cutters to complete my list, the can of whipped cream fell out of my arms and went rolling down the aisle. At least it wasn’t the eggs. I picked it up and cautiously walked to the front, trying not to drop anything else. The cashier did not seem particularly troubled to be working on a holiday and I made sure to thank him profusely for scanning and bagging my eight items and pushing the credit card button on his computer.

I drove back to the house, ready to complete the mini pumpkin pie project and save the day, and found Thing 2 joyfully eating pumpkin pie. Apparently shortly after I left on my hero’s journey, my aunt arrived home and retrieved a pumpkin pie from the back of her commercial sized refrigerator. It wasn’t entirely a wasted trip. Thing 2 was excited to make the desserts and said they tasted great. She appreciated my efforts and thoughtfulness. Although she would have appreciated it more if it weren’t for that damn pumpkin pie hiding in the back of the cooler.

“Help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered.” So said the coolest game show host of my youth, Bob Barker. Hot Mama and I had many talks and decided that we didn’t want any more puppies. We had grown tired of cleaning up their messes. And it’s difficult to take a long weekend vacation without finding someone to watch them. Sure they’re great, but they are undoubtedly a lot of work and commitment.

The day finally came and we drove to the clinic. After a short wait we found ourselves in the doctor’s operating room and soon thereafter I found myself sitting on the table trying to reassure the patient. A few Valium seemed to be aiding the process as well. Hot Mama sat in the corner and watched, anxious over the trauma her little guy was about to endure.

The doctor entered the room and went right to work. For a split second I considered telling him “you’re going to feel a little prick down there” but thankfully my Valium-clouded judgment was still adequate to prevent making the doctor laugh while he held sharp instruments near my scrotum. He did his best to warm the prep solution before application but to no avail. The second he started spreading it around things started shrinking faster than George Constanza could say “I was in the pool.”

I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. And there were plenty of thoughts. First and foremost was the realization that this is really happening. Like, “holy shit I can’t believe that I am laying naked on a table while some guy I just met is grabbing my balls while his assistant, who I also just met, looks on.” And “I know I said I don’t want any more kids but this shit is permanent.” And then there was “I’m glad I didn’t get a boner when he started because that would be awkward.”

After a few minutes of fondling for the spot, he injected lava into my vas as I bit down on my molars and contemplated how I would get my pants back if I ran for the exit. A brief period of discomfort and the sound of scissors snipping came next. Then more fondling and lava on the other side. More thoughts of seeking dental attention in case I crack a molar and then giving in to the situation like a dog zapped of his fight by the shock collar around his defeated neck. More discomfort, more snips, all done.

The doctor told me I could get dressed and gave me some after-care instructions. Hot Mama is a nurse so I usually let her listen to a doctor’s medical mumbo jumbo. He said no sex for ten days, and I was so proud of her when she asked him if that just meant intercourse or meant all sexual activity. Even though he said he meant no action, I thought it was pretty cool that she was trying to find a loophole for me.

Next we are standing in the hallway and the nurse hands me a plastic bag while explaining the process for testing my infertility. I looked at the bag and began to smile. I looked at Hot Mama and could see that she knew something inappropriate was welling up in my sarcastic, smart-ass brain. She knows me so well, after all we have known each other since kindergarten. As the nurse talked about returning my sample I looked at the 4 ounce specimen cup and asked “do I have to fill it up?” People are much more forgiving when they think you are still mildly sedated. She just explained that while the doctor does need “enough to test” I do not have to  fill it to the brim. “Well that’s good because I’m not a boar,” I thought, proud of my knowledge of porcine reproduction. I later told Hot Mama I had an even more inappropriate question that I managed to suppress and she assured me she would have slapped me in the face had I uttered it to the nurse. And no, it did not involve my knowledge of porcine reproduction.

My chauffeur delivered me to my door and I limped into the house while she went to pick up my medication and frozen peas. The rest of the weekend consisted of laying around the house watching football and catching up on recorded programs on the DVR. Really the only difference between this weekend and other weekends has been the frequent application of frozen produce to my crotch.

I love being a parent. We love the kids we have. But the time was right to say enough is enough. We have no aspirations for reality show stardom. Soon the hard work begins. Research shows as more “releases”  occur more of the residual swimmers are flushed from the system. The statistics vary but it appears the magic number is somewhere between 15 and 30. Hot Mama says she wants to help me with my recovery. I have six weeks until my infertility test. I have always been somewhat of an overachiever and this is another test I intend to pass.

photo credit: dsearls via photopin cc

Yesterday I went to the car wash to make my vehicle more presentable for the evening. Hot Mama and I were going out with friends to celebrate our 12th wedding anniversary. As I was spraying down the car with the power washer it made me think of the first summer she and I were together.

I worked at our ranch and she was a lifeguard at the local pool. I would get up before dawn to go work in the heat all day and my vehicle always got dirty from driving down dirt (or muddy) roads, across shallow creeks and through cow shit covered pastures. By the time that I got back to town in the evenings, my Jeep was a mess. So before I would drive to the public pool, I would stop at the car wash. I went through a lot of quarters that summer in an effort to have a clean ride for my lady friend. I would pick her up and we would spend time together late into the night before we would have to return home and prepare to do it all over again the next day.

We’ve known each other since kindergarten but our relationship didn’t really get serious until the end of our senior year of high school. She was always a very pretty girl and from an early age she caught my eye. I remember sitting behind her in fifth grade. I remember talking to her on my Swatch phone as she listened to the New Kids on the Block. I remember one baseball season that our brothers were on the same team that I made sure to not miss a game in hopes she would be there. When I went to Japan in junior high, I brought her back a hand fan. She was friends with my friends and even when she had other romantic interest, we kept in contact.

She had a boyfriend from another town so things didn’t look too promising for me. Then towards the end of our senior year, a glorious day occurred. It was “Senior Skip Day” and a large group of the seniors blew off school and went to the lake. I was there. She was there. By the end of the night we ended up alone in my Jeep. We talked about a lot of different things, including reminiscing over the short period of time a few summers before when we dated. She rode home in another friend’s car but I followed to make sure that she got home safely.

Graduation soon followed and after the ceremony we ended up at my car where I gave her a graduation gift. I went home to see my family. She came too. She said she wanted to come over to thank my parents for the graduation gift that they had given her. I later learned that her boyfriend and family were sitting at her house waiting on her to appear while she was with me. We had a graduation party that night and despite the events of the past week she was with her boyfriend and I passed the time with my friends.

A few days later she had a small graduation party at her house. I was going to be out of town and didn’t know I if I would be able to make it. I went to a college baseball regional tournament a few hours away. After the first game of the doubleheader I decided to drive back home for the party. I was the last person to leave that party. She didn’t seem to mind. But I did have to go home to do some chores and invited her to join me. She said yes. I took her home around 4:oo in the morning after hours of playing pool, watching movies, making out, and most importantly, talking.

Soon thereafter she broke up with her boyfriend and we saw each other a few more times. She went to Cancun with her friends and sent me a postcard. I picked her up from the airport. We have been together ever since.

That summer soon ended and we moved to college, separated by 65 miles of asphalt. We spent four wonderful years seeing each other on weekends and breaks and using every minute our cell phones plans would allow. One night I couldn’t wait any longer to give her the diamond ring I bought for her and without any of the grandiose storybook gestures of modern proposals I asked her to marry me. She said yes.

Twelve years ago we said “I do” and it has been a wild ride ever since. We have shared many moments together, mostly happy but some sad. We now have three wonderful kids who we would not trade for the world, despite their impressively shitty behavior from time to time. We have three dogs and a cat. We have lived in our home town and traveled the world. We have a mortgage and credit card payments. We have jobs and responsibilities. We have old aches and new wrinkles. And most importantly we have each other.

We are each other’s biggest cheerleaders and toughest critics. We are each other’s best friends and lovers. She has played a large role in where I am today and I look forward to the years to come to see where this adventure takes us next.

Image: Travis Nep Smith