The girl in the flowers and the boy in the bear suit.

A momentous family celebration is fast approaching our tribe. We have a wedding in the family. As an additional honor, my wife and children have all been asked to serve in the wedding ceremony in some capacity. This is a wonderful time and we were thrilled to play any small part of this couple’s special day. However, the excitement for me quickly wore off. You see, we’ve been down this road before and it most closely resembled a three stooges comedy.


Allow me to rewind the tape a few years, when my son was only 18 months old. He was asked to serve in one of our closest friends wedding as the ring bearer. That time too, we were excited and honored that our son was asked to be a part of the special day, but we quickly learned that giving instructions to a one year old is a little like giving instructions to a cat. They may listen closely and do exactly as you ask. Then again, they may not (in fact, the latter is probably more likely).

The truth is, you don’t ask an 18 month old to serve in your wedding because of their reliability; you ask because they are cute and potentially entertaining. Well, our son was both. He started down the aisle and immediately got distracted by someone he knew in the audience and ambled in that direction. At some point, he realized that a huge crowd of people were staring at him from all sides – he was surrounded! He immediately looked for an escape route and found Daddy in the back and ran back to me. Mission aborted.

Well, now he has an opportunity to redeem himself. We didn’t get off to a good start when he recently saw what he was going to wear. Now the suit was beautiful, so when my wife asked him what was wrong, he said, “It doesn’t look like a bear.” Clearly we had not enunciated our words clearly and he had misunderstood the term ring bear-er for ‘ring bear’. Apparently, he thought he was going to be delivering the ring to the alter in a bear costume. Which, now that I consider it, would have been pretty cute AND entertaining, but may not have tied into the wedding theme very well.

My daughter, who is serving as the flower girl, unfortunately had an even worse response to her dress. When she first saw her dress, she had a serious grimace on her face and yelled, “I no want it!” If you’ve ever tried to make a 2 year old wear something they don’t want to wear, you understand our concern. We assume, like my son, she thought she would be able to wear or play in flowers (playing in the flowers is still a strong possibility). After several introductions to the dress, she finally gave it a hug one night before going to bed. We aren’t totally sure what that means, but we are hoping it’s a good sign.

What should make this event even more interesting is that my wife is also in the wedding. Why is this interesting? Well, that means Daddy has to direct, coordinate, adjust, motivate, and guide two young children. And if I have any parenting weaknesses, they are; directing, coordinating, adjusting, motivating, and guiding. So, this should be really interesting. If nothing else, it should be good for at least another blog, right?

Whose says you can't go home again?

Recently, I took my wife and children to visit my family in Ohio. This is always quite the family adventure as you can imagine spending nearly eight hours in a vehicle with a two year old and a four year old continuously asking, “Are we there yet?” Fortunately, times have changed since my childhood. I remember sitting in the back seat of a van with no air conditioning with my brother and nothing to do other than counting license plates from different states and play with our Star Wars figures. Too often, during a long trip, my brother would fall asleep, lean over and accidentally touch me in some manner, leaving me with only one alternative . . . to punch him in the arm as hard as I possibly could manage. This often led to yelling from the front seat with the clear threat, “Don’t make me pull this car over!” Today, my children have toys like hand-held DVD players and video games, interactive toys, and hard top coloring boards.


During our visit, we experienced the ordinary adventures any sleepover with family would include; boys sleeping in the basement, watching movies and staying up late, going to Bounce World which is filled with bouncy inflatable’s for the children (and maybe the adults) to play in, and the always entertaining trip to my home town.

To return to your home town after many years usually raises a number of emotions. Memories come flooding back as you see familiar places and people and you are always surprised at how different things look and simultaneously, how they haven’t changed at all.

Seeing your family after an extended absence is always an exciting event, but this visit was even more exciting. You see, my brother and I were helping my mother winterize her home and in the process, cleaning out some items that needed to be taken to dump. In the midst of the process, we found some ancient, buried treasures in the attic. A couple of old football helmets we used when we played tackle football in the yard (I can’t believe we didn’t suffer any permanent brain damage . . . although my wife may feel that this would explain a lot) were buried in an old bucket, along with dozens of hard-hat baseball helmets you could win at the local amusement park speed pitch. But the real treasure laid a little deeper in the bucket – a Darth Vader carry case filled with the old Star Wars action figures we played with in that van on the long road trips decades ago. They were in almost the same condition as when we originally put them in that case more than 25 years ago; it was like a time capsule. Only the laser guns and light sabers were missing (which I immediately, as if suddenly returning to my childhood, blamed on my brother).

We took this case to our sons (who are both 4 years old) and opened the treasure as if it was a chest of gold coins. To my surprise, the boys tore into them like they were winning lottery tickets; they loved the playing with Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker almost as much as we did when we first brought them home from the department store.

This trip home was tremendously successful. I got to see my childhood home, visit with family, and take a stroll down memory lane. Even better, I had the experience of watching my son’s face as he excitedly played with my childhood toys and gave them a second life . . . who said you can’t go home again?

Who says customer service is dead?

Many who know me have commented on my impeccable sense of style, particularly my fashionable haircuts (insert sarcastic tone here). Now I know you are asking yourself, where does someone like that go to get his beautiful locks cut? Well, believe it or not, I typically go to whatever local discount chop shop that has the shortest line. For my basic needs, which includes getting out the clippers and going to town, I don’t need a beauty shop or a stylist, a simple barber will do.


So, on a recent trip to visit family in Mississippi (you didn't think I'd criticize a local business did you?), I went to visit just such a haircut establishment. I went to the desk, gave my name and was assigned to Betty's chair for my haircut. Betty was a middle aged woman who immediately explained to me why she was late to work that day. She took full responsibility by explaining that she had locked herself out of her house and had to climb in a window. I'm still unclear why that made her late for work, but when someone has scissors near your scalp, you don't ask a lot of questions.

She immediately began formulating a number of explanations (lies) she would give her supervisor that night to avoid getting in trouble. After coming up with a number of scenarios (one of which included running down an elderly woman in the Wal-Mart parking lot), she settled on a story where she hit a deer on a back road near her home (how she would explain the lack of damage to her vehicle was a detail she clearly had not considered). Once she had settled on that . . . fabrication, she asked me my opinion.

Now normally my advice to anyone in a similar situation would be to take responsibility as truth is the best policy, however, at this point she was trimming my sideburns and the fear of having a mohawk overruled my interest in giving good advice and I confirmed that the dead deer scenario really seemed like a great plan (I assume she is no longer employed there).

Now I've got to tell you, cutting my hair is easy, normally it takes between 4 and 10 minutes. Unfortunately, on this occasion, my haircut along with the development of a cover story for being late, took significantly longer. In fact, at the 30 minute mark, we were only about half way through.

However, I remained optimistic, we had settled on a story and she seemed to feel confident she would be excused, so I thought we'd zip through the last few minutes. Unfortunately, that was simply not the case. My haircut experience was quickly sliding into what any law enforcement professional would classify as a hostage situation. I mean seriously, I was in a chair with a tarp tightly wrapped around my neck and sharp blades circling my head and neck, I was ready to call SWAT.

Fortunately, after another 20 minutes in the chair (my legs had gone numb at this point), we had mutually agreed that she should not marry her boyfriend as he was clearly not putting her needs before his own, and she released me. After refusing an offer to wash my hair (how long would that have taken?), I quickly walked to the counter and paid for my . . . experience. I left my customary tip and she thanked me and closed by saying, "Hey, next time you need a haircut, call first to make sure I'm here. This was very helpful." How was I supposed to respond, “Glad I could help?” Despite all of that and as much as I hate to say it, it was a great haircut. So, who says customer service is dead?

When I returned home, my wife asked what had happened to me and why I was gone so long.  I simply said, "I hit a deer on a back road . . . or was it an elderly woman . . . I can't remember."

Who is the owner and who is the pet?

My dog is a sorry excuse for a dog. If there were a licensing agency for dogs to call themselves dogs, his would be revoked. However, the truth is, we are sorry excuses for owners. We baby and coddle our dog to the point that we have effectively convinced him he is not a dog. So ultimately, we are to blame. We have trained our dog to not be a dog.


To give you some background I bought this dog shortly after my wife and I got engaged. We didn’t want to jump into naming him until we got to know his personality, how he looked and how he acted so that we could find a name that best suited him. Ultimately, we landed on the name “Tucker”.

Since we did not have children at that point in our relationship, Tucker was that child. We took him everywhere, we talked to him, and he slept in the bed with us. Then one day, our son arrived. This meant that Tucker was going to be removed as our only child. In fact, not only did he lose the status of “only child”, but it quickly became apparent to us that in fact, he was not a child at all, but a family pet. We quickly adjusted our lives to treat our son like a child and Tucker like the family dog. Unfortunately, Tucker did not receive that memo. Looking back on the situation, I remember having that conversation with Tucker, but I noticed a far-away gaze in his eyes, almost as if he was ignoring me. Now, four years later, I recognize that he wasn’t ignoring me, he heard me loud and clear, he was simply saying, without words, “Thanks, but no.”

The good news is that Tucker didn’t decide to punish our children for this sudden slide down the family hierarchy. He had a more effective and well-thought out strategy, he became more needy. It wasn’t long after this that Tucker developed allergies. “A dog with allergies?” you may be asking yourself. Well, I too was suspicious, so I asked our vet if it was possible. Yes, says our vet, it’s actually more common than you might think. In the old days, they’d laugh at such silly nonsense. But what do we do? I give Tucker allergy medicine twice a day. I’d say he is pathetic, but I think I am the pathetic one. I don’t give my children medicine twice a day.

Tucker has employed other, more devious and distracting methods of getting our attention. Like recently, he started getting cold at night. “A dog getting cold at night?” you might be asking yourself. Well, I asked myself the same thing, but the vet once again assured me that this too is not that uncommon (is it possible that the vets are in on this little conspiracy?) So, we went out and bought him a pajama top. Yes, I own this humiliating act. But wait, it gets worse. Recently, he became so cold he could not stop shivering until we got him underneath the comforter with us. I awoke the next morning, lying nose to nose with our family dog. He was laying there, head on the pillow, comforter tucked snugly around his torso, eyes looking drowsily into mine. Pathetic.

Well, I am on to these animals. My belief is that these canines are actually intentionally playing on our sympathy and therefore getting our attention by acting needy. So next time you are tempted to read them a bedtime story, or leave the television on while you are out for the day, don’t be fooled, the conspiracy is upon us. I’d tell you more, but Tucker needs his teeth brushed.

Bend it like Beckham . . . or not.

Some friends and I were enjoying our weekly breakfast at one of our local “home cooking” establishments when a small boy, about two years old ran past our table. A young father cut him off before he could make a lap around the entire restaurant. Most of us sitting at the table, young fathers’ ourselves, could understand his challenge and in an effort to comfort the father, one of our group said, “At least he’s fast!”


The father responded, “I just want him to be good at something.”

We all laughed, but at the same time, we all understood. As a father, you simply want your children to be really good at something. Unfortunately, the law of averages suggests that most people are simply . . . well . . . average at most things. But that doesn’t stop us from searching. While we all might be average at most things, ultimately, we are all good at something. So we help our children search to find that thing they are good at.

Our family search recently landed on soccer. We signed my four year old up to play in a local soccer league. He was excited about the opportunity to run and kick, but a little unclear about the fundamentals of the game. The following events sum up his soccer experience.

After scoring his first goal of the game (in the right goal), the coach had placed our son in a defensive position, directly between the other team and the goal. He was excited about this opportunity; however, as the other team brought the ball down the field, our son was distracted by something on his hand. A girl who had an early growth spurt, was quickly approaching, controlling the ball like a seasoned professional, the only thing that could prevent her from scoring was our son. Unfortunately, despite the rising cheers from the parents in the stands, my son stayed focused on his hand and whatever sticky/dirty/gooey/bug had found itself there.

Initially, I thought this was the opportunity for my son to become the breakout soccer star I believed he could be. This was his opportunity to be “good” at something. However, as this girl with the soccer ball down bore down on his position on the field, I began to fear for his safety as the impact with a child twice his side would have been devastating (especially when he never saw it coming). Nonetheless, my son never glanced up and never moved. At the last moment, the girl shifted slightly and blew right by my son, within inches of running him over and scored a goal. Whatever was on my son’s hand must have been really cool, because as she sliced past him, he never flinched. It wasn’t till the cheers of the crowd erupted that he knew something was up and in response; he raised his hands as if he just scored the winning goal. I couldn’t help but laugh and celebrate with him.

When he got to the sideline, I asked him, “What’s on your hand?”

He simply said, “There is nothing on my hand, Daddy!”

Of course there wasn’t, why would I think there was anything on his hand?

So, he won’t bend it like Beckham just yet. But as a father, I need not fear, ALL children are good at something and my son, and the child in the restaurant, will find their something . . . even if it is running laps in a restaurant or finding cool dirt on your hands.

Waiting for Superman . . . still waiting . . . waiting . . .

I always fancied myself as a modern day Superman. I believed I could be a hero. Unfortunately, I have learned I am more closely related to a modern day Clark Kent. I wear glasses, I’m somewhat awkward, a little nerdy, and not the picture of a modern day hero. Fortunately for my dream, there is always a phone booth around the corner. (Writers note; “a phone booth around the corner” is a phrase used to make a connection between my heroic opportunities and the original Superman, who changed into his outfit in a phone booth when heroic opportunities presented themselves. However, since the increased usage of cellular phones, there are actually very few phone booths available anywhere. In fact, the last one I saw was in Washington D.C. and I wouldn’t want to get into that thing to make a call, much less, strip off my clothes and get into tights and a cape, but I digress.)


Recently, I turned the corner and found my phone booth. My wife was driving home from a meeting and gave me a call. The tire on her car had blown and was flat and she was stuck on the side of the road and needed help . . . a hero’s help. This was my moment, where was my cape?!?!

What was my heroic response? I said, in a most loving tone, “I don’t have time for this!”

What did you expect? I told you I was more like Clark Kent. In my effort to be a hero, when a heroic opportunity knocked at my door, I stumbled all over myself trying to find a phone booth. “Stumbled all over myself,” probably isn’t the right term. I yelled, “I’m not home!” when opportunity knocked at my door. Superman never left a damsel in distress, I left my wife waiting on the side of the road for her Superman. Pretty sad, eh? Well, the good news is, I redeemed myself (or at least I tried), when shortly after my less-than supportive comments on the phone, I rushed out the door and changed the tire in record time.

Later that same week, I came down with a stomach virus and laid in bed for two days. Superman had kryptonite. I had a microscopic virus. During this same time, my wife was fighting what seemed to be the same virus. The difference, you ask? I laid in bed, my wife cleaned the house, cared for the kids, and took care of her Superman (who moaned and groaned about how awful he felt).

In review, it was not my most heroic week. In fact, in comparison to my wife, it was downright pathetic. However, there was a lesson in the events of this week. Everyone can be a hero, some of us do it by taking care of a family, some of us change tires, and some of us run to a phone booth and change into tights and a cape (a legal note; it is probably not wise to change clothes in a public place, particularly if you are wearing tights and a cape).

The Closest I came to American Idol

I have engaged in an on-going debate with our family’s digital camera. Apparently, this mischievous piece of technological equipment enjoys antagonizing me by taking a picture of me and replacing my picture with an unattractive, fat guy in my spot. Every time I see my picture, I am shocked and insulted by what I see.


“I don’t look like that!” I yell at this expensive paper weight only to be met by with an antagonistic silence which sounds like a shrill, evil laugh in my mind (don’t question my sanity, my wife is a licensed professional counselor and she only has mild concerns about my mental health).

I had a similar experience in high school. My senior year, I had the opportunity to take a few elective courses and because the choices were limited, one of those classes was our school choir. The choir director was excited to have me as she did not have many boys in the choir. I was excited because I fancied myself as a budding rock-n-roll star and thought that this might be the experience that launched my career into stardom.

As I excitedly participated in the first couple days of class, I realized that there was much more to joining a choir than belting out my favorite songs. I had to read and understand music and deliver lyrics in tune. After the third day of class, the teacher asked me to stay over. I was excited as I thought she must have recognized my talent and might be prepared to offer me the lead in the upcoming musical or at least a solo in the next choir event.

“Matt, I have been listening closely and evaluating your singing techniques and skill and . . .”

“You want to give me the lead?!?!” I interrupted.

“Well, no,” she responded, “actually, I was wondering if you could not sing.”

I was confused, “Not sing the solo?”

She was sheepish and clearly a little embarrassed about making her request, “Well, no, I mean . . . just not sing at all.”

I was devastated. “Not sing at all? What do you want me to do?”

“Can you just mouth the words, but not actually sing?” she asked.

“But this is choir, I am supposed to sing.” I argued.

“That is what makes this conversation so hard, please don’t sing.” She repeated. “If I can’t sing, can’t you teach me, you’re the ‘teacher’?” I begged.

“I am sorry Matt, you are beyond help.”

As you might expect, that was my last day in choir.

I have a good friend here in town who explains this as the ‘American Idol Syndrome’. If you’ve ever watched the first few weeks of this reality show, you will see a number of contestants who come on the show to try out for a chance to go to Hollywood, only to be met with brutal honesty that they are simply terrible singers and should not do it in public. The significance of understanding this “syndrome” is to help us realize that most of us have an inconsistent understanding of how the world sees us (not just in singing ability, but in general), or better stated, a lack of self-awareness. Knowing that our perception of ourselves may be inconsistent with that of the world makes us more self-aware . . . or I can just stomp out the evil laughter coming from our current digital camera and buy a better one.