Category: A Boy’s Life

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My good deed for the day?

top secret Ever since I was forced out of Children’s Church into the “Big Church” with mom, dad and all the other big kids, church has been an exercise in extreme boredom for me. I remember when I was younger, sitting in the second from the front row where all the teens sat (we figured sitting up close with our friends at least got us away from our parents, even if we were then under the watchful eye of the preacher) with my eyes fixated on the pastor as he stomped to and fro on the stage. Sometimes, I remember that I’d stare at him so long and hard that I’d actually get tunnel vision. It became a game in fact–seeing how long and hard I could stare at him without blinking.

Having been in church since I was very young, I’ve heard just about every take on every story in every chapter of the Bible. I’ve heard metaphors made out of Psalms that would make Pythagoras scratch his head. I’ve heard God’s vengeance on Sodom and Gomorrah soliloquized to the point where one could almost hear the screams of the city’s denizens as the fire rained down, and I’ve heard Jesus the Fisherman preached so much that I could almost tell you what his bait of choice was when fishing the Sea of Galilee with his buds.

You preach it, I’ve heard it, and that’s why to this day, church bores the mess outta me. But there are other reasons I go; such as for my kids.

Because we can’t seem to settle down in a church, and because I never see myself  “joining” another church, MLI doesn’t have a bunch of friends at church that he likes to go play with. Previously, any attempts to make him go to children’s church so that mom and dad could watch the service without having to constantly admonish him to be quiet while also fishing crayons off the floor, were met with extreme crying and fit-pitching. But this past Sunday, I was determined to make him go to children’s church if it was the last thing I did.

We actually got there early, thanks to having started getting ready at 7 a.m. We checked the boys in and a nice lady escorted MLI and me upstairs to a “holding area” where they put a lot of kids until all the various teachers show up. As soon as we arrived at his room, he started his act:

  • Hands in his mouth
  • Pulling away from me
  • A slowly rising whine that threatened to embarrass me in public

So, I squatted down and said, “Come here, let’s talk.”

Not quite sure what to make of this odd development that didn’t involve daddy yelling and threatening to spank him, he stopped whining and with his hand still in his mouth, came over to me.

I said, “I’m gonna tell you a little secret, but you have to PROMISE not to tell mommy ok?”
(In my head, George Strait was singing, “…a secret that my daddy said, was just between us…)
He nodded.

In a hushed voice, I told him, “I don’t like church either. It’s kinda boring, and it’s long and stuff. But, mommy likes for us to go and we want you to learn about Jesus and stuff, so that’s why we all go. So do me a favor, and just go in there and try and have fun and before you know it, it will be all over.”

He looked at me with those red eyes and with a bit of a sniff, he turned to face the head lady who was coming towards him, hunched over and with a cow sock-puppet on her hand. As she got near, a spooky voice emanated from the sock puppet, “I’m scared too!”

I wanted to say, “Lady, you’re not helping,” but rather, I took off running down the hall before he could change his mind and come running back to me.

Turned out, he had a great time. They ate lots of junk food, and made rice crispy treats for me and CareerMom. In fact, he was talking about how next time he didn’t want to come in big church with us.

So, mission accomplished.

If so though, why I do I feel kinda crappy about it? At the time, I thought maybe he would appreciate a little “man to man” truth–a secret that was just his and daddy’s. But now I’m not so sure. What if I just colored his religious experience for the rest of his life? What if, rather than being open to what God wants to do in his life, he’s instead just going to go through the motions to make other people happy?

I’m struggling with this, even in the face of apparent success.

What do you think? Did I help, or hurt?

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A Boy's Life Dad Blogs Family Life in these United States

Big Hair, Leg Warmers and a perfect family life. too good to be true?

My childhood was good, don’t get me wrong. I mean, it wasn’t Huxtable-good, but it was alright. The other day I was thinking about how television has changed since we of the “MTV Generation” were kids, and how big a part of my life TV was when I was growing up.  Do you remember it? Do you remember all of those popular family shows that we all used to watch and how those shows portrayed family life?

Family ties For example, one of my favorite shows growing up was Family Ties. Who could forget Alex and Mallory and whatever those other kids’ names were. I think they were the original dual-income family. The mom was some kind of business woman, as was the dad. Did we ever find out what they did for a living? Well, whatever it was, they made enough money to keep the kids in good clothes and to keep whatever out-of-town family member happened to drop by the house in spending cash until they left, usually after making a mess of home life.

Cosby show The Huxtables were a favorite too. I think my parents liked the Cosby Show because it had actors from their own era, but I liked the show because they were well-off (AKA rich!)…and lived like it! Isn’t it funny how, 20 years ago we didn’t even think about race when we were watching that show? Seems like we’ve gone backwards a bit since then doesn’t it?

Growing pains Who am I missing? Oh, man…Growing Pains! How I could I forget Growing Pains? Now this was the ultimate wasn’t it? Dad was a psychiatrist; mom was a…I don’t know what mom did, but she was hot! They lived in a nice ranch house with a basketball goal in the back. It was perfect.

Now, I knew in my heart that television wasn’t real life; but wasn’t there just a little part of all of us that thought that somewhere, life must be like that? And isn’t that view of family life what we all grew up with in our head?

So is it any surprise to us that we’re often dissatisfied with parenting? For certain, I never saw the Keatons getting up several times a night to comfort an inconsolable baby. Or, I don’t remember the Seavers sitting around the kitchen table stressing over whether or not they could afford to get rid of the 10-year old family car and get a new one.

Instead, according to our 80s television hero’s, life was supposed to be something like this:

  • Everyone suddenly shows up downstairs in the kitchen fully dressed and ready for breakfast
  • Dad sits at the table with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and a newspaper in the other
  • Mom busily–yet expeditiously–serves everyone a hearty breakfast, while herself looking perfectly made up and coiffed and ready for her busy day as a working mom
  • Maybe dad works from home and while he does so, mom often pops in and out of the house and they have engaging, meaningful conversations about the family, work and life in general–all the while harmlessly flirting with one another.
  • Whatever dad did for a living, he had a LOT of free time
  • The kids would come home in the afternoon and fix themselves something to eat and disappear…off to do whatever they had to do.
  • Homework miraculously got done, or barring that, if one of those rascally kids got a “D” on their report card, they were mildly admonished while grinning winningly, knowing the parents would never follow through with any kind of lasting punishment.
  • At night, dinner was a family affair. Everyone sat down and ate whatever it was that magically appeared on the table. I don’t think anyone ever ate take-out and they certainly never went out to eat. Beef was good for you!
  • And I don’t think anyone ever went to bed, or if they did, it was after the show went off.
  • Vacations were European affairs, or at the very least, uber-exciting trips cross-country where everyone got along and traffic never hampered the schedule
  • Oh, and nothing ever, ever broke in the house.

Sounds pretty good doesn’t it? Too bad it’s about as far from real-life as you can get. Maybe that’s why Roseanne was such a big hit..it was bawdy and rough, but it was a heck of a lot more like MY childhood than anything Silver Spoons ever televised.

I wonder what my kids are going to glom onto growing up? Right now, I can’t think of any television shows that portrays an “ideal” family life. Maybe that’s a good thing though. Maybe it will help them create their own ideal, and in turn maybe that will help me to remain cognizant of the fact that my actions are the only thing countering the cultural norms today that I don’t agree with.

That’s a tall order.

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A Boy's Life Dad Blogs Family

I’m too sexy for this post…so sexy it hurts!

aerosmith T here are lot of things about a person, physically, that help shape how others view them. And many of us spend out entire lives tweaking our personal presentation through the way we dress, or by the types of exercise we do; and of course, through our hairstyle. But there’s one area of personal attention that I’ve always paid close attention to, and which, I might add, is sadly lacking among young people today. This area is in how a person carries him or herself.

Ages ago, before it was widely recognized that women held talents beyond those of the household variety, young ladies were taught how to walk, how to sit, and generally how to present themselves to company (and young ladies, nothing is less attractive than a woman who slouches all the time. Be proud, be strong, pull your shoulders back and look men in the eye.

Men, on the other hand, have never had formal training; rather, we learned to pattern ourselves after our heroes, and those we thought cool. For a man, a large part of the way he carries himself is in the way he walks.

There’s the “I crap bigger than you” Jack Palance swagger.

There’s the “Hey, you talkin’ ta me” spunky side sway as presented by people like Di Niro and Pacino.

There’s the Peter Parker, “Maybe if I don’t look up, nobody will notice me” walk.

And then there’s my personal favorite, the Obi Wan Kenobi, “…move along, there’s nothing to see here” walk that tells people, “Hey, beneath this calm exterior, lies pain you don’t wanna mess with. Feel free to admire from a distance, but generally leave me alone.”

So, when I was in my early teens, my father and I were walking through the mall together, something we rarely did because he hated shopping. While walking, he casually mentioned to me that I should, “Stop bouncing.”

When I asked what he meant, he explained that I was strutting and that I had a bounce to my walk.

Well, being a short feller, I had been the object of many a bully’s attention. Most times, I’d been able to avert those attentions, sometimes through implied aggression and other times through simple avoidance, but the last thing I wanted, was to draw attention to myself through a bouncy, strutty, “Hey, come take my lunch money!” kind of walk.

So, over the years, I have strived (striven? strove?) to remove all traces of a cocky bounce from my gait, and instead turn it into a smooth stride that says, “Ignore me if you’d like” even if it wasn’t terribly graceful. I like this walk in the gym especially, because, while I’m not a powerhouse, for my size, I use a lot of weight and as I move around, I like the economy of movement it provides, while also making me appear humble, and not like some muscle-bound roid freak! I’ve found that what I’ve strove to achieve, is very much like what Tai Chi teaches about walking, though I never made the connection until recently.

But since my latest back injury, my smooth walk has gone out the window. I’ve become this flat foot landing, leg dragging hunchback instead. What I’m finding now as the pain starts to dissipate, is that my body still wants to walk like this, even though the pain isn’t really there. It’s become my new walk and it IS NOT a graceful thing of beauty. I am not a gazelle!

It’s taking me real effort to attempt to walk normally, because somewhere in my head, my brain is telling my legs and feet that if they try and take a full step, and if they try to land heel to toe, it’s gonna hurt. And while the pain isn’t all gone, it’s certainly not like it was.

So if you see someone walking down the road and your mind vacillates back and forth over whether he looks like Quasimodo or a really cool martial arts dude that could probably kick your butt, it might be me (but I probably could not kick your butt).

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A Boy's Life Dad Blogs Family Life in these United States

We’re Rolling Back Prices on Shin Splints!

cart.jpg When you’re young–and I’m talking a teenager here–you don’t always think about what you’re doing in terms of how it reflects on you personally. No teen ever asked him or herself whether flipping burgers was a noble endeavor, or whether or not when, years from now and they’re running for office, if anyone will look back and go, “Him? Seriously? Man, that dude was THE WORST fry cook we ever had. I wouldn’t vote for him.”

No, most teenagers are just working to put gas in their car and date money in their pocket. Well, boys are anyway. I have no idea what teenage girls do with their money other than buy more makeup and too-tight jeans. But anyway…

When I was a teen, I held a number of jobs. At 15, I worked in a plant nursery. We did everything from putting the tiny little plants in pots, to rolling out football-field lengths of black plastic in the Alabama summer, and then later moving the plants in various stages of growth from one end of the field to another; an effort I never quite fathomed the reason for. It was tolerable if only because of the Black-Widow spider killing contests we had amongst ourselves (they LOVE tropical humidity in greenhouses!) and the hour-long lunch break we all took lying under the shade trees eating our crappy lunch while listening to Aerosmith on the little transistor radio.

That job, while probably the most honorable one I had as a teen, was thankfully only a summer job. I got a great tan from working shirtless, but it was backbreaking work. From there I moved on to a Catfish restaurant, where I started out as–what else–a dishwasher, and eventually informally ran the kitchen on the weekends. Finally tiring of smelling like fried seafood all the time, I got a job with the local Wal-Mart.

Now, let me explain that a job a Wal-Mart then, at least for a teen-age boy, was like manna from heaven. The hours were decent; you didn’t have to do any really dirty work, and you got to watch hot schoolgirls (then, MILFs weren’t on my radar) come shopping with mom on the weekends. Hoping to score a job working inside the store as an “Associate” (that’s what Wal-Mart called ALL employees then), I instead got probably the lowliest job in the whole place next to the guy who has to clean out the toilets. I became a “stockman.”

A sexist name to be sure, but there weren’t too many girls who could do that job. We did everything from keeping the floors clean using brooms and vacuums, to taking out the garbage, to running the layaway items up and down two flights of stairs to and from storage (this was a killer leading up to Christmas). Oh, and did I mention we also had to corral the buggies?

Buggy patrol was a blessing and a curse. The blessing part was that you were able to get out of the store—out from under the thumb of the bossman—and get some fresh air out in the parking lot. And if you saw a few good looking ladies driving around the parking lot with their skirts hiked up in the car where they thought nobody could see them, well, that was just extra. The bad side was, those daggum buggies are heavy. And if it’s cold outside, those buggies got cold. If it was raining, they were wet. It was also mind-numbingly boring and sometimes I’d see how many buggies I could safely push in an effort at getting at least some exercise out of the whole thing. For this, I developed shin splints which made my next job–boot camp–horribly painful. All that to say, that there was really nothing inherently good about buggies per-se, but the duty was something I viewed with mixed emotions.

But back to my original idea about doing things as a teen that you might later look back on with regret…

One of my local supermarkets here, employs “mentally challenged” individuals—whether out of some real desire to help them out, or because they think it will score points with the shoppers, I don’t know. I do know that they sometimes creep me out though and the whole time I’m sitting there waiting to pay for my groceries, I’m emotionally at war over whether or not to look at them and perhaps say something (the urge to give them a Jim Carrey-like thumbs up comes over me most times) or whether to just ignore them completely. Usually I take the easy way out and just pretend as if they aren’t there.

But what is perhaps the biggest slap in the face, is that one of their primary jobs is–Yep, you guessed it: Buggy Patrol!

Looking back, I’ll admit that I’m more than only mildly insulted that adults deemed me worthy of pretty much the same job that they now give to the mentally handicapped. I mean, what does that say about my interviewing skills as a teen? Did I even form a coherent sentence when I talked to the manager about the job? Was I so slovenly that they took one look at me and knew that there was no way I could possibly straighten an endcap?

I don’t know. But it does make me wonder what it’ll be like in another 20 years. Will some mental midget be sitting here at a computer banging out marketing concepts just as I’m doing now? Maybe computers will be so smart by then that they can subsidize any missing brain capacity of the user and corporations will employ that sector of our society, rather than us college folk, and pay them a pittance in return for catchy phrases like, “Where’s the Beef?”

May-be, but until then, I own this job, and right now, there’s a pot of coffee that isn’t gonna make itself. Take THAT Sam Walton!