I have a new baby and a new dog. Neither were really my idea, but here I am with two new dependent and intellectually challenged creatures for which I am to some degree responsible. I’ll admit my timing is probably a little off, having two new additions so close together. In spite of it all, I’ve been trying to take life in stride and make the best of things, that is, until today.
Today, my wife and older kids got in the holiday spirit and spent several hours making Christmas cookies. As I haven’t the ability to witness patiently children ‘helping in the kitchen,’ I wasn’t home when all this baking frenzy occurred; I tend to remove myself from the scene for everyone’s benefit. Besides, it is amazingly satisfying to come into a freshly cleaned kitchen, shiny kids, and fresh baked cookies without having to see all the mess that happened in the middle. Well, this time, when I sensed it was safe, I sauntered into the kitchen to survey the newly baked delectables as well as the damage left in the wake of kids in the kitchen. This time, though, I was pleasantly surprised: everything was in order, the kids were quietly at play, and the scent of freshly baked cookies filled the air. However, there was something oddly absent, and it was an essential ingredient, the essential ingredient. Where were the cookies? On the cooling rack, were four golden brown sugar cookies. But only four? All that work for only four cookies seemed quite puzzling. After I left the kitchen, I met my wife in the living room, where she blankly stated that they had baked nearly three dozen cookies, and the dog had thoughtfully left us four.
Apparently, the dog considered all the holiday cheer and industry were for his benefit. Why not spread peace on earth and good will to all…dogs? For one, they often come to dinner early and uninvited. In this instance, it was dessert, but the point is the same. The clueless beast considered them doggie treats disguised as Christmas cookies. “What a plan,” thought the beast. “Such thoughtful owners I have and leaving them right here on the kitchen counter for me to snack them at will. I love the holidays!”
Well, the dog is presently in the dog house, but with some time he’ll be released for a repeat performance. Little does he realize that if he doesn’t learn some table manners quickly, he’ll find his days of catching scraps from our table numbered. As for the other new addition, he is a certain keeper; lucky for us, with some time and attention, he’ll most likely learn good manners, exceedingly better than the dog’s.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Friday, November 11, 2005
Introduction to the Blog
I would like to tell you my story. It is a story full of adventure and intrigue. It is a story of super human determination against a well connected worldwide network of corruption and self indulgence. However, if I told you this story, it wouldn’t be mine. I’ve watched with interest many James Bond movies: his great escapes, his suave ways, and his world of tuxedoed gentlemen of international influence. (I’ve even made my own attempts at James Bond suave on my beautiful wife, with admittedly varying success.) I’ve watched in admiration as Van Damme’s cool, compassionate, fighting characters display virility and versatility in dire situations. For better or for worse, my story is not nearly as exciting.
No, I will not be picking up any high end sports cars or gadgets from a guy with a one letter name anytime soon. The closest explosion I’ve witnessed wasn’t a building, car, or even a small bomb; it was a blown out diaper.
You see, I am one of the many middle aged guys out there, who have courageously put off the dreams of their youth for the realities and demands of their present mission, responsible fathering. A mission, which at any given moment could require the ability to administer justice swiftly and fairly in a cluttered courtroom filled with self interest and complicated politics. A mission which could require amazing physical maneuvers like navigating a toy room scattered with noise-making, light-generating, and otherwise booby trapped devices in the middle of the night during a power outage. It could also require high-level, moment’s notice special operations like the swift delivery of coveted edibles or search and rescue of recently misplaced but highly valued toys to despairing young innocents. You see, I am a Mini-Van-Dad, not a mini-van Damme, and although my surroundings are humble and my tools are unrefined, I am a hero. One of many unsung heroes who have sacrificed prestige, position, respect, even a hot shower and two moments of uninterrupted silence to raise a small part of the next generation.
Being a Mini-Van-Dad was something I never imagined, that is, until I bought my first minivan. It was quite the experience for a young twenty something, coming to terms, once and for all, with the practical, useful, and boring. It was that unavoidable moment of responsibility, urging me nearer to the precipice of adulthood. I was being drawn into a whole new realm of far-sightedness and keenness for the practical. Besides, when I test drove the minivan, I was mildly impressed. Shortly before the purchase and the arrival of our second child, I had clearly stated to my father, that I had looked at many cars, trucks, SUVs and was uncertain which I would buy, but I was absolutely certain it would not be a minivan. Those station wagons of the nineties were not for me, for my dad’s son. This made it all the sweeter for my father when he came to visit a few weeks later as I pulled up to the airport passenger pickup area in our brand new base model American Minivan. It seats seven in a pinch, so I brought the whole family to the airport to get him and my mother.
His smile spoke a thousand words as he relished the moment. His look also communicated a fondness for a son who was willing to put aside his stubbornness and sense of style for the sake of his family. My dad had nobly put these aside, and much more, years before to raise and support his own little ones. Almost eight years later, I still have the same minivan, same wife, and though I occasionally wonder, I am mostly sure I still have the same kids, and I am a better man for it.
Welcome to the blog.
No, I will not be picking up any high end sports cars or gadgets from a guy with a one letter name anytime soon. The closest explosion I’ve witnessed wasn’t a building, car, or even a small bomb; it was a blown out diaper.
You see, I am one of the many middle aged guys out there, who have courageously put off the dreams of their youth for the realities and demands of their present mission, responsible fathering. A mission, which at any given moment could require the ability to administer justice swiftly and fairly in a cluttered courtroom filled with self interest and complicated politics. A mission which could require amazing physical maneuvers like navigating a toy room scattered with noise-making, light-generating, and otherwise booby trapped devices in the middle of the night during a power outage. It could also require high-level, moment’s notice special operations like the swift delivery of coveted edibles or search and rescue of recently misplaced but highly valued toys to despairing young innocents. You see, I am a Mini-Van-Dad, not a mini-van Damme, and although my surroundings are humble and my tools are unrefined, I am a hero. One of many unsung heroes who have sacrificed prestige, position, respect, even a hot shower and two moments of uninterrupted silence to raise a small part of the next generation.
Being a Mini-Van-Dad was something I never imagined, that is, until I bought my first minivan. It was quite the experience for a young twenty something, coming to terms, once and for all, with the practical, useful, and boring. It was that unavoidable moment of responsibility, urging me nearer to the precipice of adulthood. I was being drawn into a whole new realm of far-sightedness and keenness for the practical. Besides, when I test drove the minivan, I was mildly impressed. Shortly before the purchase and the arrival of our second child, I had clearly stated to my father, that I had looked at many cars, trucks, SUVs and was uncertain which I would buy, but I was absolutely certain it would not be a minivan. Those station wagons of the nineties were not for me, for my dad’s son. This made it all the sweeter for my father when he came to visit a few weeks later as I pulled up to the airport passenger pickup area in our brand new base model American Minivan. It seats seven in a pinch, so I brought the whole family to the airport to get him and my mother.
His smile spoke a thousand words as he relished the moment. His look also communicated a fondness for a son who was willing to put aside his stubbornness and sense of style for the sake of his family. My dad had nobly put these aside, and much more, years before to raise and support his own little ones. Almost eight years later, I still have the same minivan, same wife, and though I occasionally wonder, I am mostly sure I still have the same kids, and I am a better man for it.
Welcome to the blog.
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