Scouts Honor

Well, it’s reached that time of year, again, where my wife and I try to over-commit ourselves.  Soccer season is hiding just around the corner, waiting to pounce on us and kick the snot out of our Saturday mornings.  The difficulty is multiplied by the fact that both Griffin and Gage will be playing this season.  Despite the long days ahead, I’m certain they’ll have a wonderful time.

Aside from my wife being tied up with PTO this year, we’ve also added something new to the mix.  Griffin came home from school on Monday completely frantic about how awesome Boy Scouts is.  I’ve got to hand it to whoever did the in-class recruiting; You…Were…Incredible.  He hit me as soon as I walked through the front door, brandishing a colorful sheet of propaganda, showing boys in the midst of various exciting activities.  Usually our quiet one, Griffin continued to jabber all through dinner about the things we would do once we were in Boy Scouts.  “A bit excited are we,” I asked my wife.  “Oh, I’d say so,” she replied.

A good night’s sleep did little to diminish his fervor.  As he sat at the breakfast table on Tuesday, he held an apple in one hand, and his hallowed brochure in the other.  “We’re going to the meeting tonight aren’t we,” he asked.  I told him we would and went about the rest of my morning while he talked of camping, archery, and BB guns.

That evening, I was once again met at the door with questions of when we were going to go.  I told him it would be after dinner, and that’s when he asked me, “So, do we just follow the guy after it’s over?”  I realized right then that he had the wrong idea about what would go down this night.  I think he somehow got it in his head that we’d sign up, walk out the back door of the school cafeteria, hop in a canoe, and paddle toward our campsite.

It’s always a bummer when your expectations get dashed.  He did handle it pretty well, though.  I explained that we were just signing up tonight, and these fun activities were events that would take place throughout the year.

It should have come as no surprise that he’d think this way.  He’s being brought up in a society that’s just not geared to wait for things.  We cook with microwaves, we have the internet at our fingertips, and we have fast food that sometimes just isn’t fast enough.  Our family rarely watches anything on TV that hasn’t been DVR’d.  We don’t have time for commercials!  The kids are completely baffled at what “live TV” is.  We watched a show during Shark Week and they couldn’t fathom why we wouldn’t fast forward through the commercials.  There was just no explaining it to them.

Sure, we’ve made life convenient for ourselves, but it leaves me to wonder what kind of expectations we’re instilling in our children.  Are we making their lives easier, or hurting them in the long run?

The Pecking Order

I’ve touched on the various personality traits of my children before.  Despite the many hours I’ve logged studying the boys, I’m still amazed at the differences in their behavior and attitudes.  I’ve spent time reading about birth order and how it affects a child’s mental growth and the way they interact with each other.  Through all this research and observation, I have to say that Gage confuses the life out of me.

At three years of age, the family has unanimously voted him “Most Likely to Usurp the Head of Household”.  On multiple occasions, he’s called me out, claiming that he, in fact, was the daddy, and he would “spank my hiney”.  This is not an issue that concerns me too much right now, since he’s a skinny little preschooler that I can tote under one arm…but there’s a day coming.

The research I’ve done points out that Gage, as a middle child, should be the peacemaker of the family; working to bridge the gaps between all parties and bringing unity to the household.  HAH!!  Truth be told, my three year old is an opportunist, waiting to slip into any vacuum of power and seize control.  And it doesn’t matter who he has to step on to do it.  I mean that in the most literal sense.

For the longest time, he’s bullied his six year old brother, who is much too kind hearted to do anything about it.  Recently, however, Tamara instituted a new rule that anytime Gage hits Griffin, the older victim gets a free shot on the offending party.  It didn’t take very long to see this new rule blossom into full effect.

Last week, Tamara heard the outside door slam while a wailing three year old stalked to his room.  Upon probing into the situation, Gage stopped crying long enough to exclaim, “HE HIT ME BACK!!”  My wife looked the little one over and asked, “Did you hit Griffin?”  To which Gage replied, “YES, BUT HE HIT ME BACK!”  Walking outside she asked Griffin, “Did you hit your brother.”  My oldest looked up from his playing and said, “Yes, but he hit me first.”  “OK,” she replied, and walked back in.

Oh…things are a changin’!  Since that little incident, Gage has somehow managed to refrain from punching his older brother.  I guess it’s true what they say, some people learn by sight, some by hearing, some by doing, and then there are a select few that just need to have knowledge beaten into them.

Arm crossing technique at age 2

I’m happy to say that we’ve seen other improvements in Gage, as well.  Last Saturday, he got upset about something that the “supposed” leader of the house said.  Quickly, he crossed his arms, declared in a loud voice that he was not happy with me, and stalked off to his room.  Some might see this as impudence, but I see it as progress.  He didn’t throw anything, he didn’t scream, he just used verbal communication to express his feelings on the subject.

This victory in anger management, however, was very short lived.  On Sunday afternoon, the youngling and I once again found ourselves at odds.  As I calmly squatted down to correct my son on how he should and should not speak to his father, the little imp walked right up to me and kicked me in the shin.  It really didn’t hurt at all, but an action like that requires immediate correction.  Once again, Gage was not happy with me.

Obviously, we’ve still got a long way to go with this one.

Love Bites

Haven has two teeth.  Well, at least one and a half.  As with any teething baby, she’s been a bit cranky lately.  She’s had the low-grade fever that every doctor will tell you has nothing to do with teething, accompanied by an unappeasable grumpiness that can completely frazzle a parents nerves.

Cranky Baby Look

She has, however, managed to pick up a new trick.  Despite the fact that she only has the two front lowers jutting up from her little gums, she now knows how to bite people.  I’m not quite sure how she does it.  I wouldn’t think that she could exert enough pressure with her bare upper ridge, but the facts don’t lie.  My mother was the first victim.  Carrying Haven through her house last week, she had her cradled belly-side down which gave our darling angel the perfect opportunity to go dental on Mammy’s arm.

I thought this was a bit humorous.  I mean, how often have you wanted to bite your own mother but knew you couldn’t get away with it.  Grandchildren are an entirely different matter.  Mammy will just scream and then say something like, “Oh how cute!  She has sharp little teeth!”

I, however, did not think it was quite so adorable when she latched onto my tender, bare heel whilst I was giving the boys a bath.  She had been jealously watching her brothers splash about in the tub up until the point she disappeared from my sight.  As you can imagine, her reentry into my purview came as a complete shock.

I screamed loudly, yelling, “No, Baby,” prompting my badger-child to release her toothy hold on me and sit up.  “No bite daddy,” I pleaded, entirely sure that she would hit me again the moment I turned my back.  The rest of bath time was spent with me dancing to and fro at the tub, casting nervous glances over my shoulder in fear of her next sortie against my exposed flesh.  Thankfully it never came.

I realize that babies explore the world with their mouth.  Everything goes in the mouth and gets chewed on.  And I mean everything: dead bugs, dog beds, pencil shavings, papers, and apparently nice fleshy appendages.  I just hope that we can curtail this exploratory biting before she hits her toddler years and it becomes a form of communication.  As in, “Hey there, fellow preschooler, you’ve got my favorite toy!” Om-nom-nom-nom.

Back On-Line

I feel as if I owe an explanation to both of you people who still read this blog from time to time.  Things have been…hectic around our house.  In fact, you could say that we’ve been inundated by an overabundance of “First World” problems.  We bought a new house and moved, but a large amount of our time and energy has been spent fixing up the old one and getting it ready to put on the market.  We also ran into legal problems in the midst of trying to sell some land we own, costing us a good deal of money and adding a boatload of stress.

But as I mentioned these are First World problems which differ greatly from Third World problems.  While the stress and pressure we feel at working day in and day out on our old house is real, it pales in comparison to issues like, “Oh, my baby doesn’t have any food or clean water today,” or “Hey, this ruthless dictator is lining me up on a wall in front of a firing squad!”  You see, they just don’t compare.

Even when I woke up a few weeks ago with a 103° temperature and found out I had contracted pneumonia, it wasn’t as serious as it would have been if I were in another country with lesser medical facilities.  That’s not to say it was a walk in the park.  It was a completely unpleasant experience which more or less felt like having my head fed into a steel press while a bunch of roided-out gorillas worked my ribcage over with twelve-pound sledge hammers.  At the lowest point, my doctor gave me a third shot of antibiotics and threatened to put me in the hospital if I didn’t improve in 24 hours.  Thank the Lord, we didn’t have to go that far.

I wasn’t even aware you could get pneumonia in the middle of the summer!  But apparently it is possible to weaponize bacteria hiding in the dirt by running a lawn mower over it and kicking it into the air.  Who knew?  I’ve only been mowing for the last 24 years without it ever happening.  Regardless, it’s a miserable experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

So, with all my excuses out of the way, I just wanted to let you know that there will be more movement on this webpage.  I’m not quite sure how much or how fast, but there will be movement. 

I do appreciate the 3,000+ reads and the visitors I’ve had from countries all around the world.  Thanks for taking time to share the adventure of our life!

-Michael Thomas

Run For Your Life!

I realize that I am quickly entering the period of life in which the things I want to do greatly outnumber the things that I will eventually do.  In light of this fact, I’ve been attempting to take a little better care of myself.  I’ve cut down on the soda and have been trying to follow the C25K running program.  I understand that good diet and exercise isn’t for everyone.  Some take the bent that we will all eventually expire anyway, why not enjoy life while you can.  And I fully agree that health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die, however, there are plenty of things I’d like to stick around and enjoy with my family.  I’d also like to enjoy it while standing on my own two feet and without the aid of a respirator.

When my sweet niece, Alexandra, found out that I was trying to get ready for a 5K, she invited me to run one with her.  I cautioned her that I was fairly certain we wouldn’t get first place, but if she was OK with that, I’d try.  She said that wasn’t a problem, and so I began to use the ensuing weeks to prepare for our run.  Well, that’s not entirely true.   A lot of life happened in those few months, and I found myself going for weeks at a time without making it to the gym.  I didn’t completely give up on my training, however, and was approaching a 35 minute 5K.  I was actually feeling pretty good about myself until about a week before the race when my brother-in-law called.  “Did I tell you what Alex did the other day,” he asked in the middle of the conversation.  “She ran a 20 minute 5K!”

“Are you serious,” I asked, fervently hoping I had misheard him.  “Yes,” he said, “twenty minutes.”

This was not a good thing, in my estimation.  If current figures held, that would place me about the halfway point when she should be crossing the finish line.  I didn’t want to hold her back like that, so I explained the reality of the situation to her.  Yet, she still wanted me to come up and do the run.

So…a week later I found myself in northwest Arkansas, heading to the starting line.  During that short walk, I noticed that a lot of the runners were wearing the same shirts.  I made a comment about it and found out that I was actually going to be in a ‘Girls On The Run’ event.  I would like to be able to say that I’m a mature man, completely comfortable with my abilities, leaving no room for prideful ego to get the better of me.  I would like to say that, but I can’t.  Up to this point, I had satisfied myself with the goal of not coming in last place.  Now that I knew it was an all girls event, and for 3^rd through 5^th graders no less, I was absolutely terrified of coming in last place.  How would a 35 year old man recover from that kind of shame and humiliation?  I could almost see a small pack of girl scouts dragging my lifeless body across the finish line.

Despite my fears, we got on the track, stretched, sang the National Anthem, and the gun fired.  We were off!  I kept a decent pace with Alex for about a half mile, which would have been great if this were not a 3.1 mile course.  It was at this point where I began a run/walk routine that would dictate our speed for the rest of the race.  Alex was very gracious and refused to leave my side.  She was encouraging and coached me for the remainder of the time.  It was extremely helpful.

What was not helpful was every third lady shouting “Let’s Go Girls!” every time they passed us.  I don’t know, it might have helped Alex, it just twisted the knife in my ego.  What really got to me, though was that one chick who kept saying, “Come on!  You can do it,” as she sprinted by us on her bicycle.  “Of course I could do it…*huff huff*…if I had a bicycle too…*huff huff*,” I said between gasps of air.  I fully intended to closthline the woman and steal her ride if she came peddling by again…she never did.

On we went, and with little less than a quarter of a mile to go, I finally convinced Alex to leave me and sprint for the finish line.  We did not come in last, in fact, we were probably in the top 25%, and completed the race in a little over 37 minutes.

I was glad that I did it, but even more glad that it was over.  Like any other intense physical activity, the real pain did not come for a day or so.  But when it did, it was in heaping bucket loads.  I swung my legs over the side of the bed that next morning and wept.  It’s an event that I’ll remember for a long, long time {the run, not the weeping}. =P

Why I Don't Sleep Late On Saturdays

Saturday used to be such a lazy day.  When we were in college and for nearly five years after, we could sleep till 10 or 11 o’clock in the morning.  With the advent of children, that has drastically changed.  No matter how late we go to bed at night, I’m assured to be woken up around 6 a.m.  It does wear on you after a while.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t at least kind of tired.

Why don’t I just tell the kids not to bother me on Saturday morning?  Well we haven’t quite reached the point in their development where that is feasible.  You see, toddler time runs differently than adult time.  If Gage has been awake for more than 10 minutes, he feels as though if half the day is already gone.  Griffin is starting to get the hang of it, but occasionally still thinks everything that happened in the past actually took place yesterday.

So, when I tell my boys to play quietly in their room until we get up, this is what happens:

6:03 a.m.

Two pairs of feet tip-toe up to my side of the bed

Griffin:  “Daddy, can I watch something on TV?

Me (groggily):  “You woke me up to ask about TV?  No.  Go to your room.”

Gage:  “I want some Eggo waffles.”

Me (growing irritated):  “Go play in your room, I’ll feed you in a little bit.”

6:07 a.m.

I am violently ripped from my slumber as one of the children dump a large container of Die Cast Matchbox cars on their bedroom floor…with their door opened.  I get out of bed, tromp through the hall and tell them, in no uncertain terms, that they are to keep their door closed and play quietly.  Then, I go back to bed.

6:23 a.m.

A nagging, drumming sound coaxes me from my precious 15 minutes respite.  Something’s not right.  That drumming sound is getting louder.  I trudge out into the living room where the boys have dismantled their plastic alligator see-saw.  At current, they are using the handles to mercilessly beat the lifeless alligator.  How this hasn’t awakened sister, I do not understand, but the troublesome two are sent back to their bedroom amid protests of boredom and hunger.

6:37 a.m.

A wail like an air raid siren rattles me from the bed.  We are either being invaded or Gage is hurt.  It turns out to be the latter.  Passing by the nursery, I sourly note that sister is now awake and powering toward full steam.  The boys have taken fixing breakfast into their own hands.  Griffin is toasting Eggo waffles and eating them dry.  Amid watching his brother, while perched upon a laundry basket, Gage has fallen onto the tile floor.

At this point, the chances of nabbing a little extra shut-eye have dwindled to nothing.  Maybe if we get some breakfast fixed, and if we don’t have anywhere else to go, and if there’s not too many chores to get done around the house, and if all the children take a nap about the same time, then we might be able to sneak in a little nap too.

I realize that there’s a whole lot of ‘If’ coming off of that plan…but maybe we'll get lucky.

(*Shakes Magic 8-ball*) – “Outlook not so good”

Boys Will Be Boys

I’m sure that at some point in your life, you’ve heard the phrase “He’s all boy” or maybe “Boys will be boys”.  But have you ever wondered exactly what that means?  Surely it doesn’t mean that the little tow-headed urchin running around the house is only half boy.  And furthermore, if boys aren’t boys, what else could they be?

I assure you that these phrases have meaning that goes far beyond their face value.  For a deeper explanation, let’s consider the goings on around my house a week or so ago:

Getting Ready for a Cave Tour

Saturday mornings are generally a quiet time.  On this particular morning, I was on my way to the sink to brush my teeth when I noticed some odd patches of discoloration in the bathtub.  I leaned down to get a closer look at said patches and was immediately hit by the strong smell of ammonia.  “Griffin,” I yelled.  “Get in here!”  My eldest came bounding into our bathroom, “What is it, Daddy?”  I looked at my brilliant, straight A student and calmly asked, “Did you pee in my bathtub?”  A wave of emotions played over his face as he struggled to figure out what the right answer would be.  Finally he decided to just go with the truth and said, “Yes.”  “Why did you do that,” I asked him.  His reply…”Well, I just wanted to.”  That was good enough for me; everyone knows boys will be boys.  “Clean it up and don’t do that again,” I said.  There was no need for any harsher correction, after all, I can still remember when I was a little boy and thought it would be a most excellent idea to pee in my parent’s metal trashcan instead of the toilet.  Ah, good times…

But the day didn’t end there.  When I went outside to mow the lawn, I came across a strange monument in the backyard.  Someone had taken almost every decorative stone in our back flowerbed and pitched them into the grass.  For those of you who don’t shoulder the responsibility of maintaining the yard, it’s fairly common knowledge that lawnmower blades do NOT like decorative stones.  As my Troy Built clinked and sputtered in death throes, I yelled out to my children, “Boys, get over here!”  They rather sheepishly made their way from the swing set to where I was standing.  “Why are these rocks in the yard,” I asked.  “We didn’t mean to throw them out here,” the elder spokesman stated.  “Umm, yes you did,” I replied, “or they wouldn’t be out here instead of the flowerbed.”  They shuffled from foot to foot as I passed judgment, “Pick ‘em up and put ‘em back.  Every last one of them.”  Why did they hurl them with wild abandon in the first place?  No doubt they were protecting themselves from tigers or sharks or maybe tiger sharks.  Those are the kind of games boys play…and both of them are all boy.

The very next day was Sunday.  I only mention that because it’s important to note that the boys are dressed in their Sunday best.  Somehow, they managed to elude the watchful eyes of every adult at my parent’s house and make it outside.  Upon hearing five or so minutes of unnatural silence, we began to fervently try to locate the children.  When I found them, they were standing ankle deep in a mud puddle, preparing to spread their chosen medium across the canvass of the driveway.  Griffin had thought far enough ahead to roll up his pant legs…we weren’t so lucky with Gage.  They were tremendously proud of the grimy foot prints they had artfully put on display, and why shouldn’t they be?  That’s the type of thing that boys do.

So, you see, these phrases serve as gentle reminders that if little boys aren’t watched like hawks, they’re likely to do some off the wall things.  In fact, just the other night, I overheard them plotting something to do with the dog’s hiney.  I don’t know if they were going to sniff it, or poke at it, or what, but it’s just another example of boys being boys.  An interesting idea strikes them, and they immediately execute it with little regard to whether or not they should.  It definitely keeps things interesting.